by Gloria Watts
The sun threw honeyed beams through the small barred window onto the hard floor. Jim wanted to be outside walking in the fresh air not banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But then he deserved it, or so the Judge had said.
‘You have committed a despicable crime, young man.’
The white wig had wobbled as the wagging finger pointed straight at him. Jim had almost laughed, would have, if the harsh voice hadn’t added, ‘Two years hard labour.’
Now stuck in jail, all he could do was think of Molly. Her fault, of course, her nagging had done it, got him worked up, driven him to do the deed. She liked the Seascape picture; she wanted it.
‘Get if for me, Jim, just one last job.’
He’d told her No how many times? But she went on and on. What a nag.
Forgot his torch, and then couldn’t release the door latch, so he had to break the window — damn glass everywhere. Cut his hand and then slid — won’t say it — landed on his you-know-what. Glass stuck... and it hurt. What a mess. Cops came when he pushed the alarm; he needed help, the poor sod.
Now, that Seascape, that picture that Molly wanted; he’d heard young George had got it for her. Worth a fortune it was, so she wouldn’t be visiting him jail, no way. Molly was sunning it on the Rivera — lucky girl is Molly.
Copyright © 2008 by Gloria Watts