What, indeed? I’m sure we’ve all asked ourselves this question before when an outcome seemed all but ensured, only to have the fates twist our expectations in ways we dared not dread. It is such an underside occurrence to flip the script in strange and even terrible ways.
Tell us in the comments how your expectations were turned on their head, switching from “what could possibly happen?” to “how do these things always happen to me?!”
In other news, but equally underside, I recently discovered that 3 of my poems had been simultaneously published. I am choosing to consider this the reverse—“How did that go right?”—instead of focusing on the negative, that I didn’t know for a solid month! Anyway, read them here, if you wish, but don’t forget to read the story after the break!
What Could Go Wrong?
by Reshma Patricia Crawford
Nathan Ailes took leave of the cramped flat—and the wife that had been the bane of his existence for twenty-eight years, along with her “well-cooked meal” of par-broiled cabbage and beets—to head for the stairwell. Her harsh voice chased after him, rattling in the hallway.
“And I don’t want to hear a thing about your ‘hunger pains’ when you get back, you hear me? Leaving a well-cooked meal hot from the stove for some cheap snacks at the pub, my goodness! Never heard such nonsense in my life—”
Normally, his march downwards would fill him with a sense of dread and unease, knowing the sojourn to the local pub would only be a temporary break from the nagging and smothering back home. The blinking lights and askew lettering throughout the hallways did nothing to assuage the feeling that Nathan was in fact living in hell on earth.
Tonight, however, there was a certain pep in his step. Nathan Ailes knew he would return home from a good night of football and beer no longer burdened by his wife and the crummy little life they’d barely built up together.
And a big reason for that assurance was walking his way just as he launched off the stairs.
“Mr. Ailes.”
She hardly had to do a thing with her appearance or gait to look as sexy as ever. The small smile on her painted lips and the slight nod of her sculpted chin slowed him in his tracks. Nathan couldn’t stop himself from grinning wide and brushing his hand against her long coat, stopping them both in their tracks.
“Come now, Tori,” Nathan said to her just above a whisper. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll hardly need such formalities.”
Tori blushed in that cute way she couldn’t help and averted her big brown eyes toward the floor.
“I know. It’s just—”
A moment of silence, then Nathan felt himself effortlessly guided outside and to a grassy spot away from the building, untouched by the streetlamp. Nathan liked that about Tori—mostly quiet and demure, but damn could she have her way when she felt like it. And Nathan was more than happy to oblige the girl who’d made him feel more alive than in all his fifty years.
“You’re sure it’s all set? There’s no way it could go wrong?”
Nathan stopped himself from ravishing his lover’s neck at her less-than-quiet queries.
“Yes, my dear. The man—I assume it’s a man, but I suppose one ever knows these days—knows the building, the floor and the number. I’ve even made a small symbol, a star, on the directory out front, just to be extra cautious. That there’s no way a mistake could be made if he goes off that.”
Tori went quiet, but with a look of relief and confidence on her youthful face. She pulled Nathan in for a tight, brief hug, sighing as she did so.
“I shall play something on the record player then, to stifle any sound. I don’t like Mrs. Ailes, but I can’t quite bear to hear her being—”
“Never you mind that, love. I’ve been assured it’ll be a quick job on the Missus. All you need do is sit with a cup of tea in your hand, listen to some telly or music, as you said, and act just as shocked as the rest of ‘em when the news breaks in a few hours. Think you can manage that for me?”
Tori nodded emphatically so that her long, fluffy hair bobbed in unison. Of course, she would be able to act the part of the concerned and upset neighbour. It was her commendable acting at the local theatre that had attracted Nathan to her in the first place, along with her amiability and support for Nathan’s own secret creative endeavours—endeavours which the current Mrs. Ailes had not only denigrated but actively forbade in favour of Nathan’s managerial job at the corner shop.
There had always been a fire within him waiting to be set free. And it had taken the young Tori, with all her love, youth and vigour, for Nathan to finally set it alight. A year ago, he’d have dared not dream of anything more than his waste of a life. Now, he’d used the better part of his savings to hire a man—or woman, or person unknown—to take care of what should have been handled long ago.
“Nathan…I just can’t believe it’s actually tonight. We’ve waited so long—”
Nathan pressed a lingering kiss to Tori’s forehead, caring less and less by the moment if anyone saw their embrace. Damn this hiding in the shadows—within six months, Tori would be the new, improved Mrs. Ailes!
“You’re a good girl, Miss Timm. And I adore you very much.” With that, Nathan pushed gently away and bowed his head as they reentered the light. Tori looked as radiant as ever, and Nathan couldn’t help but add, “See you in a few hours, Victoria.”
Nathan Ailes made his way down to the nearest pub—not his favourite, but any would do on an eventful night like tonight. He was so giddy that he could hardly contain himself. The small talk, the football game that dragged on and on, the less-than-palatable alcohol—it seemed nothing could bring Nathan down as he slowly sipped his beer and waited for the inevitable phone call. Yes, someone in the building would need to report the ruckus, and when they’d find the door open—a fact that Nathan emphasised would be needed, to make it look like a proper burglary—there would be the ambulance, the police and then finally a call to poor Mr. Ailes to convey the tragedy which had befallen his wife. There was no way, in Nathan’s mind, that things could go awry. He’d paid an awful lot for the top-end of this particular industry—these were professionals who knew their worth. And with Mrs. Ailes six feet under, Nathan would be free to pursue the dreams he’d kept buried for so long, free to pursue Tori and make her a proper wife, free to leave that crummy, cheap building where they couldn’t even spell the full names of its tenants—
“Lookin’ fer a Mr. Ailes? There’s a call!”
Nathan jumped rather too quickly to his feet and made his way to the bar, where a less-than friendly oaf of a man thrust the phone into Nathan’s hands. Clearing his throat and calming his nerves, Nathan uttered a small “Yes?” into the receiver, expecting to hear the gruff voice of a policeman on the other end.
Instead, he heard the rough tones of his wife.
“Nathan! You damnable fool! Leave that nonsense at the pub and get back here right now. There’s been an horrible accident!”
Nathan’s brain short-circuited for a few seconds before he answered.
“Accident, love? Did something happen? To you?”
“Well, I can tell you my nerves wouldn’t have been so shot if you’d’ve been here! For all the bloody help you are in an emergency—”
“Please, dear, speak slowly. What’s happened?”
It was hard to tell over the phone, but it was almost like Mrs. Ailes was grinning wickedly, taking a moment to revel in her news.
“That tart across the hall. She’s been done in, she has. There’s coppers and all sort here, sayin’ it’s a right mess in her flat—with her being the biggest of all! Serves her right, I say. Those actor types are only ever asking for trouble—”
The phone had barely fallen from its cord before Nathan was out the door and rushing like a madman back to the flats. His mind raced a mile a minute, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. He’d been assured these people were the best in the business, and Nathan himself had been more than clear in his instructions. After all, he had provided the exact building, floor and flat number—and yes, sometimes the building was so crummy that a 6 could look like a 9, as had been the cause of confusion many times with mail and the like. But surely the little star next to Nathan’s name on the directory at the front should have been ample fallback…
They were loading a bloodied lump out by the time Nathan approached the building, as if this was just another senseless death in this detestable part of London. The detective sergeant on duty barely gave Nathan a second glance as he approached, his heart caught in his throat.
“You live here?”
No “sir,” Nathan noted. Then, with a shaky hand, he pointed out his name on the directory, which indeed had a small, inconspicuous star drawn next to “Nat. Ailes.”
And only then did Nathan realise, in horror, that just below his own name was another, more obvious one—especially to someone hired to commit murder. The name of his lover.
Vic. Timm.
Meet the author:
As an emerging biracial, queer, and neurodivergent genre storyteller who strives to give all her written works unexpected twists and unsettling endings, Reshma Patricia Crawford feels that she has sought the “underside” for much of her life. She has an MFA in Screenwriting from Hollins University and a BA in Visual Arts from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County (UMBC)—her fiction work has been published twice in UMBC’s Bartleby Literary Arts Journal. Professionally, Reshma has a decade’s worth of experience both in non-fiction television—specifically the true-crime genre—and freelance writing music reviews and crime / investigation articles.
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