Twist Short Story Competition - Winner

Mark woke with his head pounding, the taste of his mouth disgusting. He felt his stomach spasm, and barely made it to the toilet in time, retching out yellow bile. He could not remember eating anything for days now, in fact could not remember much about anything for days.
He washed his mouth out with water, searched his pockets and found his baccy. Just enough for a roll-up now and a joint afterwards to tune him out while he got everything together. But after that the party really was over. He was overdrawn to the limit, had even swapped his phone for some good stuff. He shrugged. His dad would get him a new one when he picked him up tomorrow. Or maybe not after he mentioned about having to retake. But some sob-story about corona stressing him out would get him onside. He would make sure he was in a good state when he came, packed and dutiful.
There was a knock on the door. He ignored it. It came again. He kicked clothing out of the way and opened it.
His father stood there.
Mark gaped at him.
‘You’re a day early!’
‘You said to come Friday lunchtime.’ ‘It’s Thursday.’
‘It’s Friday. And you’re not packed, you stink of alcohol and pot, and you’ve got vomit down your shirt. An end of year party?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘The smell of pot had better not be from you. Get your results?’ He was too messed up to lie.
‘Yeah, not good though.’
‘How not good?’
‘Some retakes.’
‘How many?’
‘All of them.’ He remembered the corona story. ‘Fact is the whole covid thing got to me a bit.’ ‘So you partied instead of revising?’
It was no effort to start the tears, the way he felt. Things were shimmering, a voice talking randomly in his head.
‘Took some stuff, stupid I know, might have messed me up a bit. But it was the stress. So I like, didn’t actually do the exams as such.’
His father sighed.
‘Well, that’s only half of them. You got through the January exams OK.’
‘Actually no, I didn’t do those either. I don’t think it was really the right course for me -’
He saw his father’s expression change. He followed the direction of his eyes and saw the almost empty clear bag next to his baccy.
‘So you’ve spent a year getting high. Well, you won’t be getting any more money from me then.
I’m not paying for you to do drugs.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to the car park. Be there in one hour with your stuff or make your own way home.’
He just made it.
His mother was more understanding, so after a couple of row filled days at his father’s he spent most of the summer at her house. She fed him, bought him a phone and gave him enough to go out, enough even to buy a bit of weed, but not enough. His bitterness built. He wished his father’s heart problem had killed him, but they had sorted that with a pacemaker. He would probably live another thirty years, if not more, knowing his luck. A thought came to him and he did some research online. He brooded more, then got his hair cut, did some shopping and begged a new interview suit from his mother. He was ready.
‘Dad, it’s Mark. Just wanted to talk.’
‘OK. Come round.’
Mark arrived to find his father just finishing washing his car. He cared for it more than him,
Mark thought. He envisaged scratching it or throwing paint-stripper on it as he approached, but forced a smile.
‘Well, you’ve certainly smartened up a bit! Come on in.’
He led the way into the house. ‘Now, what do you have to say? Found a job?’
‘Dad, I’ve just been to see a lawyer. He thinks there is a good case that you have to support me through uni.’
It was easy to work his dad up, his face reddening as his voice rose.
‘Dad, I don’t want to argue!’
Mark went towards his father and embraced him. The magnetic field of the necklace beneath his shirt did its job. His father pushed him away, yet more furious.
‘What the hell—’ he grimaced, clutched his chest, sat down abruptly. ‘Help me.’
‘Best lie down, Dad.’ Mark looked concerned as he helped him lie down on the sofa, pushing a second necklace, this one flattened to a square, under the small of his back. ‘Just lie still.’
His father stared at him. ‘Help!’ he gasped, his face grey.
‘I’ll get help.’ He took out his phone.
‘Ambulance please. 14 Jasmine Close. It’s my father – I think he is having a heart attack – he has a pacemaker. Yes. I’ll hold.’
Mark watched as his father stopped breathing. He called the ambulance for real five minutes later. It came quickly, arriving only after only twenty minutes. By then both necklaces were in his pocket. His father was pronounced dead at the scene. He broke the necklaces into their constituent beads, dropping the magnetite cubes into random drains on the way back to his mothers. He had expected her to be pleased, but she wept. He supposed it was for the money she would no longer get. Mark quite enjoyed the sobs of his sister when he called her. He only wished that she would not be getting half the money. After a minute or two he handed the phone to his mother and went out, leaving them to cry at each other. He needed to chill. It took him almost an hour to find his old pusher from school.
‘How much do you want?’
‘Well, I’ve got a bit of a cashflow problem. Any chance of credit? I’ve got money coming.’ ‘You? No chance.’
‘Not even if you heard my dad had snuffed it? He was rolling. And I’ll be getting half.’ ‘Might make a difference. How much you looking for?’
‘Enough to see out the summer in style – you know that it takes ages for them to hand out the dosh from a will.’
‘And now much would that be?’
‘5K?’
‘Should be doable. For a price. Let me make a call.’
He turned away, muttered into a phone.
Mark waited.
‘OK. No cash, but 5K credit with me – 8K back on October 1st. The boss said don’t be late paying.’
Mark was in a fragile state when his sister, Sarah, arrived the next day, her voice even more penetrating and whiny than usual, drilling into his head. She was the executor of course.
‘So what happens with the will, then? How does that work?’
‘He always said we get half each. I’ve made an appointment this afternoon at his solicitors, so we’ll know soon enough.’
The solicitor started off talking about the procedures to Sarah. Mark tuned out until he saw him produce a long envelope.
‘This is the latest will of your father, made only recently.’
Recently? Mark felt a sudden deep fear. Surely his father would not have changed anything.
The solicitor started reading.
‘Your father has only two legatees, your two selves.’
Mark sighed with relief. Party time. And no mention of his mother, something else he had feared. ‘To you, Mark, he leaves one thousand pounds, and the hope that you will not spend it on illegal substances. To you, Sarah, he leaves the remainder of the estate, including his house and car.’ Sarah looked at him.
‘It’s best for you, you know.’ But there was more triumph than pity in her voice.
Mark sat back, his mind spinning. She would have to be next. How to do it? The solicitor started droning on to his sister about legal stuff again. He interrupted.
‘Can I have the thousand now?’
‘We can advance that, certainly.’
He took it in cash and went to a different pusher. The other would find out soon enough. He needed to find a way of creating a convincing accident before Sarah left his mother’s, but first he needed something to make him feel better, to help him think.
‘This is good stuff. Go easy with it though, it’s pretty strong. Don’t want to lose a customer.’
They always said that, he thought. He handed over cash, walked away to the park, sat down and made the joint. The stuff looked different. Looked like dried herbs with something shimmery on it. Spice, he thought. Still, it would do the job.
He pulled out his lighter and lit the joint, took a deep pull. God it was strong. He could feel it hitting him, his head swimming with it. A woman with two toddlers walked past and looked at him, seeming to loom, to grimace, and he was suddenly frightened of her, of the two toddlers who looked weirdly at him with big eyes. His breathing accelerated, and his heart thumped. He took another long drag. Three more children ran past, their laughter terrifying, echoing in his head, his heart, his head pounding. An old woman on the next bench looked at him, her face filling his vision, wrinkled and sinister, almost a skull. Pain suddenly in his arm. He gasped, held it, massaging it, the joint falling unnoticed. The pain in his chest now, tightening, his chest jumping oddly, then a terrible pressure on it. So much pain, the park darkening around him, the sound of his gasps fading.
On the next bench the old lady saw him slide off the bench, and pointed him out to a passing young woman. He might have been lucky. She did all the right things. She asked him if he was all right, shook him, pinched his ear with no response, and then, realising he was not breathing, that his heart had stopped, called an ambulance. Then she started artificial respiration, but it did not do any good.
He had inherited something from his father after all.