Marilyn

"What on earth is going on out here?" the manageress said, sternly..

"He killed her! He wouldn't stop," yelled Ralph, hysterical now.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said a dazed George, shakily. "I didn't hear you shout stop. Who the hell are you, anyway? You must be off your trolley, mate! It's only a bloody dummy, for Heaven's sake!"

"Not me, you fool," said Ralph through the tears. "Her..! It was Marilyn who was calling. She was telling you to stop." He huddled protectively over the prosthetic head, rocking it in his arms like a baby. "And she's not a dummy... She was telling you to stop, but you just kept on and on and on until you killed her... My dear, sweet Marilyn..."

"Poor chap," said the manageress to her two assistants. "I wonder where he's staying? Does anybody know him, or where he's from?"

The teenage girls shook their heads, stifling the threat of giggling that welled up in their throats. "I think he was the one we saw the other night," said one, "when we were walking back from the pub."

"Oh yes," said the other, "that's right! I thought he looked kind of familiar. We saw him staring into the window, didn't we, talking to himself. Funny chap."

"He's probably staying at that care home up the road," added the first girl.

"Yes," said the manageress, agreeing with the implication. "You could be right. I'll give them a call."

Ralph, now sobbing gently to himself, kissed Marilyn's cracked lips before gently laying her head down. "I'm sorry, Marilyn..." he said. "I'm so very sorry, my darling," and he got shakily to his feet. His face was deathly pale and his eyes had the look of a lost and defeated soul. "She wanted me to save her," he mumbled, "but I was late as usual... Always late, that's me...all my life I've been too bloody late..!"

THE END