RobBanBur90
Shelly and Thomas
THURSDAY
A short crime drama
⸻
Southbury was quiet. Too quiet.
A light drizzle coated the pavement like sweat.
No alarms. No dogs. Just silence. The kind of silence that tells you no one’s watching — or worse, that they don’t care anymore.
A black Ford Mondeo, scratched and old, sat tucked beneath a broken streetlamp. The engine was off. Nothing moved.
Thomas stepped out first — shoulders hunched, jacket zipped, gloves already on.
Behind him came Shelly.
She didn’t check her surroundings.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t hesitate.
She simply walked — black bomber jacket tight over her frame, dark jeans, cheap black boots hitting the ground without sound. Nitrile gloves already fitted, stretched like second skin.
She pulled a nude nylon stocking from her jacket and started rolling it over her head.
Thomas did the same.
Their faces blurred into pale, ghostlike masks — warped and anonymous.
They didn’t look at each other.
They didn’t need to.
This wasn’t a job. This was a routine.
They slid through a side gate and into the overgrown garden of Mrs Langford, 82.
⸻
INT. BACK DOOR – NIGHT
Click.
The lock turned smoothly. No resistance.
They entered.
No speaking. No light.
The hallway smelled of wood polish, cheap perfume and old life.
Framed photos of dead husbands and distant grandkids lined the walls.
Thomas drifted left — straight to the living room, already unzipping his bag.
Shelly stood still. Listening.
Upstairs:
A faint whirring of oxygen.
That’s where the body was.
She climbed slowly. Deliberately.
Boots silent on the carpet.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
No light.
Just a yellowish glow from the hallway spilling in.
Mrs Langford slept in a clean bed, tucked neatly, her jaw loose and mouth open.
Beside her, the oxygen machine whispered like a secret.
Two gold rings on her fingers.
A gold chain and locket on her chest.
Shelly stepped in.
No hesitation.
No sound.
She picked up a spare pillow from the chair.
Walked to the bed.
Paused for exactly one second.
Then leaned down.
SHELLY (flat, almost bored):
“You old bitch.”
She pressed the pillow down hard.
Mrs Langford stirred, wheezed, jerked — but it was soft, weak.
Shelly didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
She held the pressure steady. Elbows locked.
No noise.
Just the muffled gasps under cotton.
One leg kicked.
One hand twitched.
Then stillness.
Shelly waited.
Ten more seconds.
Then pulled the pillow away.
Eyes open. Mouth slightly crooked.
Dead.
⸻
She went to work.
The first ring slid off.
The second resisted.
She twisted the finger.
A light crack.
The ring came loose.
She reached for the necklace, unclasped it, shoved it into her pocket.
No looking. No reaction. No emotion.
Just silence.
She tucked the blanket back over the body, smooth and neat.
Wiped one corner of the pillow with her jacket sleeve.
SHELLY (quietly, like finishing a checklist):
“Dead’s dead.”
She walked out.
⸻
INT. LIVING ROOM – SAME TIME
Thomas moved with quiet speed.
Drawers opened. Jewellery box. Loose cash.
Watches, rings, coins in plastic sleeves.
Behind a curtain: an old wall safe — already open.
He pulled out:
•Two fat bundles of £50 notes
•A rusty engraved pistol
•Three silver coins
He took everything except the gun. No prints. No noise. Just habit.
Zipped the bag. Waited.
⸻
INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT
Shelly came downstairs.
They didn’t speak.
They just pulled off their stockings in sync — folded, hidden.
SHELLY:
“Clean.”
THOMAS:
“Done.”
Click.
The back door opened.
They left without looking back.
⸻
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
The rain had stopped.
Their footsteps echoed softly against wet concrete.
Shelly lit a cigarette.
Took one long drag. Passed it to Thomas.
SHELLY (casual):
“She pissed herself. Could smell it through the covers. Warm piss and perfume.”
THOMAS (quiet):
“She didn’t feel it. Out before her brain caught on.”
SHELLY:
“She knew. For a second. That’s the moment. That one second where they realise. That’s the real prize.”
Thomas said nothing.
Just walked.
SHELLY:
“I wiped her mouth three days ago. Brushed crumbs off her lap like some carer.
Now I’m wearing her necklace.”
She exhaled. Flicked ash onto the pavement.
⸻
INT. FORD MONDEO – NIGHT
Doors shut.
Engine turned over.
No music. No talking. Just the city breathing in the background.
They drove.
The heater was broken. The silence wasn’t.
THOMAS (after a while):
“You good?”
SHELLY:
“I feel… clean.”
Pause.
THOMAS:
“You scare me sometimes.”
SHELLY (without turning):
“You’d be more scared if I smiled.”
The car rolled down the hill.
Headlights off.
London in the distance. Still sleeping.
Behind them: nothing but quiet death.
Shelly and Thomas
THURSDAY
A short crime drama
⸻
Southbury was quiet. Too quiet.
A light drizzle coated the pavement like sweat.
No alarms. No dogs. Just silence. The kind of silence that tells you no one’s watching — or worse, that they don’t care anymore.
A black Ford Mondeo, scratched and old, sat tucked beneath a broken streetlamp. The engine was off. Nothing moved.
Thomas stepped out first — shoulders hunched, jacket zipped, gloves already on.
Behind him came Shelly.
She didn’t check her surroundings.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t hesitate.
She simply walked — black bomber jacket tight over her frame, dark jeans, cheap black boots hitting the ground without sound. Nitrile gloves already fitted, stretched like second skin.
She pulled a nude nylon stocking from her jacket and started rolling it over her head.
Thomas did the same.
Their faces blurred into pale, ghostlike masks — warped and anonymous.
They didn’t look at each other.
They didn’t need to.
This wasn’t a job. This was a routine.
They slid through a side gate and into the overgrown garden of Mrs Langford, 82.
⸻
INT. BACK DOOR – NIGHT
Click.
The lock turned smoothly. No resistance.
They entered.
No speaking. No light.
The hallway smelled of wood polish, cheap perfume and old life.
Framed photos of dead husbands and distant grandkids lined the walls.
Thomas drifted left — straight to the living room, already unzipping his bag.
Shelly stood still. Listening.
Upstairs:
A faint whirring of oxygen.
That’s where the body was.
She climbed slowly. Deliberately.
Boots silent on the carpet.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
No light.
Just a yellowish glow from the hallway spilling in.
Mrs Langford slept in a clean bed, tucked neatly, her jaw loose and mouth open.
Beside her, the oxygen machine whispered like a secret.
Two gold rings on her fingers.
A gold chain and locket on her chest.
Shelly stepped in.
No hesitation.
No sound.
She picked up a spare pillow from the chair.
Walked to the bed.
Paused for exactly one second.
Then leaned down.
SHELLY (flat, almost bored):
“You old bitch.”
She pressed the pillow down hard.
Mrs Langford stirred, wheezed, jerked — but it was soft, weak.
Shelly didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
She held the pressure steady. Elbows locked.
No noise.
Just the muffled gasps under cotton.
One leg kicked.
One hand twitched.
Then stillness.
Shelly waited.
Ten more seconds.
Then pulled the pillow away.
Eyes open. Mouth slightly crooked.
Dead.
⸻
She went to work.
The first ring slid off.
The second resisted.
She twisted the finger.
A light crack.
The ring came loose.
She reached for the necklace, unclasped it, shoved it into her pocket.
No looking. No reaction. No emotion.
Just silence.
She tucked the blanket back over the body, smooth and neat.
Wiped one corner of the pillow with her jacket sleeve.
SHELLY (quietly, like finishing a checklist):
“Dead’s dead.”
She walked out.
⸻
INT. LIVING ROOM – SAME TIME
Thomas moved with quiet speed.
Drawers opened. Jewellery box. Loose cash.
Watches, rings, coins in plastic sleeves.
Behind a curtain: an old wall safe — already open.
He pulled out:
•Two fat bundles of £50 notes
•A rusty engraved pistol
•Three silver coins
He took everything except the gun. No prints. No noise. Just habit.
Zipped the bag. Waited.
⸻
INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT
Shelly came downstairs.
They didn’t speak.
They just pulled off their stockings in sync — folded, hidden.
SHELLY:
“Clean.”
THOMAS:
“Done.”
Click.
The back door opened.
They left without looking back.
⸻
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
The rain had stopped.
Their footsteps echoed softly against wet concrete.
Shelly lit a cigarette.
Took one long drag. Passed it to Thomas.
SHELLY (casual):
“She pissed herself. Could smell it through the covers. Warm piss and perfume.”
THOMAS (quiet):
“She didn’t feel it. Out before her brain caught on.”
SHELLY:
“She knew. For a second. That’s the moment. That one second where they realise. That’s the real prize.”
Thomas said nothing.
Just walked.
SHELLY:
“I wiped her mouth three days ago. Brushed crumbs off her lap like some carer.
Now I’m wearing her necklace.”
She exhaled. Flicked ash onto the pavement.
⸻
INT. FORD MONDEO – NIGHT
Doors shut.
Engine turned over.
No music. No talking. Just the city breathing in the background.
They drove.
The heater was broken. The silence wasn’t.
THOMAS (after a while):
“You good?”
SHELLY:
“I feel… clean.”
Pause.
THOMAS:
“You scare me sometimes.”
SHELLY (without turning):
“You’d be more scared if I smiled.”
The car rolled down the hill.
Headlights off.
London in the distance. Still sleeping.
Behind them: nothing but quiet death.