Old Mr Bitterman: Criminally Insane Read online

the war mongers, the peaceniks, the top dogs, the middlemen and the bottom feeders. He did not discriminate. He despised them one and all. But if there was one trait in people he hated more than any other, it was inconsideration. So this train may not have been her train, but couldn't she have spared a thought for those people behind her whose train it just might have been? And not least for Bitterman whose train it most definitely was?

  The escalator carried them slowly to its conclusion, and no sooner had Bitterman set foot on solid ground than the last of the commuters slipped narrowly through the train's closing doors and it departed from the now vacant platform.

  Bitterman remained calm. He calmly walked to the platform opposite and calmly waited there among the other commuters. Not too far from him, oblivious to his ill intentions, stood a stout-ish woman with damp, medium length wavy hair, fading at the roots and splitting at the ends, carrying no less than ten unnecessary shopping bags, five in either hand.

  Day and night he would trail them and tail them, lurking and skulking till he knew their every move. He would find out where they lived, how they lived, who they lived with; where they worked, what they did, what and where they ate; he would learn their names (from nameplates on doors, or more devious endeavours); He would determine how popular they were and how soon, therefore, they might be missed. Then, he would choose a suitable venue - in this case, her favourite patisserie - where the initial overtures could be made and a relationship begun (albeit a very short one), before he would finish the job at the first opportunity, and move on.

  Bitterman tentatively fingered his moustache. Patisserie, indeed! With its gingham tablecloths and counterfeit quaint! In his day it would have been a simple cafe. And none the worse for that. From his table in the window he perused its clientele. This was where the idle bland came to while away their retirement, sipping tea, nibbling at cakes and expounding upon their ailments; when they weren't out shopping or playing golf. The waitress brought him his coffee. There was nary a whit of warmth in her industry-standard pleasantries, and the dainty little cup on its dainty little saucer might have been set a sight more respectfully in front of him. And as he added the milk and no sugar, Bitterman found himself wondering if it mightn't be a bad idea just to flip that sign on the door from 'hi, we are open' to 'sorry, we're closed' and off the whole sapless lot of them in one bold stroke.

  He stirred his coffee and awaited her arrival, looking, he hoped, like nothing so much as some lonely old widower with time to kill, just sitting and watching the world go by.

  Time to kill. Bitterman scoffed inwardly. He had precious little time for anything else these days, it seemed. And to what end? Despite his best efforts to rid it of every conceivable type of miscreant, society was no better now than ever it had been. Worse, if anything! Crime on the rise, morality on the wane. It was getting so you weren't safe in your bed at night, never mind walking the streets. And don't get him started on manners! What, he set to pondering, was the point of it all? But, in the midst of his musings, the cafe door opened, agitating the wind chime, and Mrs Irma Joan Reiniger, 53, of 32 Langside Gardens, a tireless and dedicated care worker whose loss will be deeply felt throughout the community, took a table near the counter and breezily ordered her usual noonday pick-me-up. Bitterman's passion was ignited anew.

  Bitterman caught the attention of the waitress and politely requested his bill. He also politely enquired - sotto voce now, surreptitiously indicating the widow Reiniger - whether he mightn't be permitted to pay for the lady's coffee as well. A disinterested shrug was all the response the waitress could muster and she ambled back to the cash register to unwittingly aid and abett him in step one of his strategy.

  Mrs Reiniger delicately drained her cup to the dregs and set it back down on its saucer. She dab-dab-dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and, catching the eye of the waitress, wrote a short note in thin air with an invisible pen. Bitterman watched as the waitress informed her that the bill had already been paid.

  "Really?" She asked, inquisitively scanning the room. "By who?"

  "By that elderly gentleman over there," the waitress replied.

  Bitterman bristled. Was the 'elderly' really necessary? And had she not learned by now, this girl, that it was rude to point?

  If he had been wearing a hat, Bitterman would have doffed it at this juncture. As it was, he forged a timid half-smile and made his way humbly to Mrs Reiniger's table.

  "Forgive me," he began. "I hope I have not offended you."

  She was regarding him with the utmost scepticism. They always did. Do someone a good turn and that's the thanks you get. Everyone's got their guard up nowadays. Trust, it seems, is a thing of the past.

  "It's just that, well, I'm an admirer of sorts," he continued.

  "An admirer!" She exclaimed, brightening a little despite herself.

  "Of sorts," he confirmed."From afar, you might say."

  "Is that so? And just what is it that you 'admire' about me?" she enquired.

  "Ah, let me count the ways," charmed Bitterman. "That, I fear, is a question that could take quite some time to answer."

  He indicated the empty chair at her table.

  "May I?" he asked.

  She eyed him now thoroughly from top to toe. That scepticism again. Bitterman tracked her eyes with his own. She took in the blazer, and its brass buttons, and the perfectly pressed trousers, and the polished shoes. Bitterman watched and waited. She took in the blazer again, and the pocket handkerchief, and... There! Any trace of coldness still left in her expression dissipated instantaneously; she had just now noticed the egg yolk on his tie.

  "May I?" He repeated opportunely.

  Mrs Reiniger, Irma, leaned back in her chair and smiled a sympathetic smile.

  "Okay, Mr...?"

  "Bitterman. Harold Bitterman."

  "Okay, Mr Bitterman," she shrugged. "I'm sure I could spare a minute or two. What have I got to lose?"

  End

  About the author:

  Max Frick is originally from Scotland. He currently lives in Prague, Czech Republic with his wife and three children. He is very grateful to anyone who takes and makes respectively the time and effort to read his stories.

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