Ten Little Indians

“What’s your impression then?” asked Keith Jackson.

“My impression?” I replied.  “Ooh, Betty, the cat’s done a whoopsy on the table...  No?  Okay, how about, get off your horse and drink some milk...”

“Yeah well, I suppose that makes more sense than your fucking opinion.”

 

We were stuck in Lawwell’s country house, locked in and in the presence of a maniac who was knocking off the great and the good of the SFA and Celtic which come to think of it, are the same thing these days, and we were down to ten of us, hiding in the kitchen with not one of us unconcerned about the amount of steak knives to hand.

 

There was me and Tom who had been providing the entertainment before the killings began, Lawwell and Keith Jackson eyeing each other with suspicion, Souness who was in the house somewhere unknown, Albertz, Campbell Ogilvie who seemed to be in a daze over the fact that he’d survived this long in such hostile company, Jim Ballantyne, Angela Haggerty who’d surfaced from beneath a rock and Tom Devine who it turned out hadn’t been a victim of our killer but had just been trussed up the way he likes it by Haggerty before we’d rudely interrupted them.  Ten of us wondering who was next to be bumped off, seven of us scared out of our wits with Souness, Albertz and Lawwell not seeming to give a damn.  They’re the kind of people who thrive in these conditions; who live in this kind of world.  Well it’s not the world for me and I told everyone that but was told to shut it as Albertz listened at the dumb waiter.

 

“It’s moving,” he whispered.  “It’s coming down from upstairs – someone’s operating it!”

“Well if it arrives at our floor, for fuck’s sake don’t open it” whimpered Jackson and then as the sound of the squeaking pulleys got louder, we all sat in silence, watching the doors of the dumb waiter with mounting horror.  Squeak, squeak, squeak...  It got closer and I could feel a bead of sweat running down my neck.  Squeak, squeak, squeak...  Haggerty tugged at my sleeve.  “Where’s Jim Ballantyne gone?” she asked.  Squeak squeak squeak, and then it stopped with a dull finality at our floor.  Everyone backed away from the doors except Albertz who walked up to them.  He turned to look at us all and we were shaking our heads in silent protest – don’t open the doors, our eyes screamed at him but he winked and turned and slid the hatches open and there was a lidded silver platter sitting inside.  “Anyone hungry?” asked Albertz and lifted it out, bringing it over to a worktop and placing in front of us.

“Don’t open that thing,” warned Jackson.

“Please don’t open it,” whined Haggerty.

“If you don’t open it I fucking will,” barked Lawwell so Albertz put his hand on the silver lid and looked at us all one by one.

“Are you sure you want me to open this?” he asked and we all shook our heads but he ignored us and lifted the lid slowly and peeked under.  “Ooh, what a way to go,” he laughed and lifted the lid off fully to reveal Jim Ballantyne’s head on the platter.

“Damn!" exclaimed Lawwell.  "Wish I’d thought of that one!”