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In the Absence of Evil

By Michael Hulme

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The heavy-set, spectacled journalist and the freckled photographer ambled across the metropolis, through streams of carefree pedestrians walking unafraid. They stopped outside a bar; the journalist checked his watch and pushed thick-framed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

"No point being early, Peter. Quick drink?"

"Why not," the photographer replied.

It was cool and dark inside, gunfighters and bulls drawn in earthy shades on the walls. Two crossed swords were mounted above the bar. Flamenco music drifted on the fanned air.

"My friends!" The black-haired barman with pencil-thin moustache looked up from his lemon slicing. He clutched a knife in his hand. "What brings you here?"

"Press conference," Peter said.

"Ah," the barman said. "I understand." He sliced the head off the beers with a flash of the knife, then slid them over.

Peter took a gulp from his beer. "How's business?"

"Boring."

"Yup." The journalist yawned. The barman adjusted his cape and sliced more lemons.

"'Scuse me."  Peter took a leak in the men's room, smiling to see the 'Z' flashed in blue bleach across each urinal. He returned and finished his beer.

Reunited with sunshine and the traffic's low rumble, the pair reached a mansion, separated from the road by exotic gardens. A tubby young man forced golf clubs into a sports car. The older, jowly man waved as they approached.

"Long time, no see," he said. They shook hands.

"Off for a round?" Peter asked.

He nodded and sighed. "Same as always. Ready, Dick?"

"Holy long-lost comrades!" Dick said, shaking their hands. "Fancy a game?"

Peter shook his head. "Thanks, but we're working."

They waved as the car pulled away.

"They're getting fat," the journalist said. "They should join a gym."

They walked on. A scrawny beggar sat with his dog beside a rusted, graffiti'd camper van.

"Like, spare any change, sir?" asked the beggar. He had a squeaky voice, an untidy beard. The dog whimpered something unintelligible.

"Sorry," Peter said. They kept walking.

Peter stopped. "Hey! That dog just called us 'rastards'!"

"Well," the journalist said. "They should have learned a trade. Something to fall back on."

Peter went back and gave them ten dollars, nodding at the 'rank you's' he received in return.

"Listen," he said, returning to the journalist. "I know the final showdown was amazing and everything, but—well—do you ever think maybe we were too successful?"

The journalist nodded. "Honestly, Peter? All the time."

As they passed beneath trees, they heard an insistent mewling. High in the branches, they saw the grey cat stranded.

"Showtime," the journalist said.

Peter fired a web, ensnaring the cat; the journalist leapt higher than a building in a single bound and landed, feline under his arm. He stripped away the web, set it free, then straightened his glasses.

"We've still got it," he said.

They looked at one another and burst into tears.

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Michael recently turned thirty, to the sound of the Grim Reaper sharpening the scythe, and in keeping with the generic conventions of the decade, he has recently acquired a far-reaching knowledge of house prices, mortgage rates, where to buy quality cane furniture, which wine goes with which meat group, the rules of Bridge, and sundry practical tips on coffin-dodging. Email him for top tips - but be warned, his eyesight isn't what it used to be. Young people's music? It's all a noise...