Sunday, 9 August 2009


She had a stripe of white hair that ran from her crown to her fringe, standing starkly in comparison to her otherwise raven-black hair. Her hair was long and she put it up into a loose bun under her tricorn hat, but when she let it loose, as she had done now, it fell down the back of her neck like a mountain cataract and swirled around her shoulders like the whirlpools of legendary Charybdis.
She was stood on the bonnet of the car, dressed from head to toe in tight-fitting black leather and had a black opera cape with red lining pinned tightly at her throat. She looked for all the world like the lead in a modern werewolf movie. She was casually pointed a loaded gun at the windscreen, and conversing with the driver.
"Your money or your wife," she said, and laughed pleasantly. The driver looked a little stunned.
"She's not my wife," he said. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
"Oh dear," said the highwaywoman. "Then it looks like it has to be your money, doesn't it?"
"You can have her!" The driver was shaking, and the much younger blonde in the passenger seat looked unimpressed.
"Oi!" she squawked. "You can't give me away like tha--"
She was silenced by the highwaywoman stamping on the windscreen over her face and shattering it.
"Your money," she said, firmly, gesturing with the gun. The driver slowly, hesitantly, reached for his pockets, where presumably his wallet was. He pulled it out, and his hands were shaking.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have...?" he said, making one last attempt at keeping hold of his cash.
"Get out," said the highwaywoman, sighing. He and the woman in the passenger seat unbuckled their seatbelts, opened their doors, and climbed out. The highwaywoman shot the pair of them cleanly in the head, and jumped down off the car.
I left her rifling through their pockets, and headed off across country. I needed to get word out that Rebecca Turpin was on the loose once more.

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