Rich Mrs Griffin

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
When you brag about your riches, don't be surprised when someone comes knocking.

Submitted: July 26, 2013

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Submitted: July 26, 2013



The Citroen relay van pulled up outside a white-painted semi-detached house, outside a flaking yellow wooden gate, and the driver glared at the passenger.

"Right, this is it. You better hadn’t screw this up"

"Look, I know, you’ve been over and over this"

"Well, I need you to get it right. She musn’t suspect a thing."

"I know what to do, let’s just do it".

"Oi, don’t be over eager. That’s why you teenagers get criminal records. You think you know it all, and what happens? you get caught don’t you? get bloody tagged like animals and it serves you right as well. I’ve got no sympathy. Always have to learn the hard way. I was the same when I was your age, thought I was the business, thought I knew it all. Well guess what? it turns out you don’t know everything, and when you’re my age you’ll look back and say, you know what! Sharpie was right. I wish I’d taken his advice".

"Advice? What advice? How to rip off the benefits system. How to con old men out of their life-savings. What a role model you are, and what are we doing here? Oh yes, stealing an old lady’s


"Sorry, didn’t you volunteer for this? Won’t be complaining if we come out with a fortune will you?" The youth was quiet for a few seconds then said:

"Well go on then," The older man smiled, and got out of the vehicle.

Wayne Dougherty was 17, and was on an unstable fine line between crime and going straight. He was thin, and most of the time wore tracksuits of the more expensive range.

Neal Sharpe, who was 46 had found himself a kind of mentor to him, himself on the criminal side of the line, having had dalliances with the police before. The temptation to steal was just too much, and it had paid well. Yet, he was never quite satisfied. There were things even out of his reach which made him nothing more than a petty miscreant without the intelligence to make it as a gangster.

A gangster needs brains to stay out of jail. Neal deluded himself by thinking he was something more than he was, his ego fed by his successes, his rolex watch and gold necklace.

"Do I look the part?" he said, standing on the pavement in a navy blue overall with a low slung utility belt, tools protruding from it.

"Bang on," said Wayne, sarcastically, "A proper plumber. You can come round to mine and fix my taps anytime"

"It’ll cost you" Neal said, walking across to the gate.

He was soon ringing the doorbell, false identification knocked up in photoshop in hand.

A few moments later, the door was answered by a woman who looked to be in her late 50s, early sixties. They only opened it a few inches, peering out with apprehension.

"Sorry to bother you," he said. "I’m Derek Hall, plumber",

He showed her the ID, but only for around two seconds. He didn’t want her to look too closely at it.

"There’ve been a lot of leaks lately in this area. We’ve had several complaints and some have had their water cut-off. I need to check your taps and pipes to make sure you’re not at risk. I need to know if they’re strong enough, that they’re not going to burst at any moment, and while I’m here I’ll just tighten them, free of charge. I’m doing to the whole area. Can I just come in? I’ll only be five minutes?"

"No," she said, "The water’s fine"

"I need to check,"

"The water’s fine," she repeated.

"Sorry, but I need to check them by law". The woman was silent for a few moments, then opened the door, and Neal stepped inside.

In the van, with one foot on the dashboard, Wayne couldn’t see the house because of a high privet hedge. The house which was supposed to contain riches because of Mrs Griffins flamboyancy, flaunting her wealth around the small town, arrogant in manner, gaining a reputation, a reputation that had filtered down to small-time criminals who could not resist the lure of wealth.

After a few minutes, Neal was on his hands and knees in the kitchen beneath the sink, staring at the pipes.

"Yes", he said, "These could do with tightening. The tool I need is in the van. I’ll just be two seconds," he said, standing up. She just smiled at him as he went back out into the hallway. He was soon opening the drivers side door of the van. His voice was lower in the off-chance she heard him.

"Come on you," he said gesturing for Wayne to get out, which he did. He picked up a wrench from the dash-board.

Neal was soon back walking down the path. When he entered the house, he closed the door over, but left it open by a few millimetres. He went back into the kitchen to see her looking down at the open cupboard, and the pipes within.

"Are they dangerous?" she asked. "Would I have needed them doing?"

"Yes," said Neal, "You would have, but if you had have sprung a leak, it would have cost you a lot of money to have them fixed".

As they talked, Wayne slipped into the hallway. He rushed up the stairs and took from his pocket a carrier-bag for the valuables, and a knife incase he had to confront somebody. He opened the door to the back room and found it was basically a storage room. An old dustladen sofa was against one wall. In a corner was a television that dated from the seventies, worth nothing. There was a broken chest of drawers and several old catalogues spilled on the floor. Light forced its way through the dusty windows. Wayne knew he didn’t need to bother searching it, there was nothing of any value there. He went back out onto the landing and into the front bedroom. He could see it was lived in and looked around to see where he could begin his search. A chest of drawers was immediately in front of him and he quickly pulled them open and rifled through them, finding only clothes. Nothing valuable. He turned and stepped across to a bedside table, but halted, as he looked at the bed.

At first, he could not comprehend what he was looking at, but slowly it sank in.

The bed was occupied.

Somebody lay there, beneath a thin duvet, a duvet splattered with blood. The occupant had had their head blasted, by what must have been a powerful weapon. Blood, brains, and pieces of skull had blown into the pillow and onto the headboard behind. Light glinted from the crimson which was still trickling.

Suddenly from downstairs he heard a bang. Seconds later somebody came up the stairs. He saw a shadow on the wall first, then the woman appeared carrying a Brazilian militia ranger shotgun which she pointed at the youth.

"I see you have found Mrs Griffin," she said, gesturing to the bed.

"If you brag about your riches, sooner or later somebody is going to come and take it, and that someone is me. Sorry, but I was here first". She pulled the trigger, and Wayne’s head splattered across the wall.

She had already looted the house, and was about to leave when they had come knocking. She rifled though his pockets and found a few coins, then turned and walked back down the stairs, walked back into the kitchen where her two bags of jewellery and valuable items had been zipped up and placed by the back door, unnoticed by Neal who now lay prone, his head having been blown apart beneath the sink. A rifle through his pockets revealed a bundle of ten-pound notes wrapped in an elastic band.

Putting the shotgun in the bag she was soon leaving through the front door, closing it behind her and walking to her own car which had been parked across the road. Putting the bags on the back seat, she got into the drivers seat, slammed the door, and never looked back as she drove away.

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