THE COUP DE GRACE 

by Richard Banks           

Mr Dunlop shut the front door and turned around the open sign so that it showed closed. As usual, there was paperwork to be done, receipts to be counted, but today was Thursday, and Thursdays were different. He let down the Venetian blind that covered the glass panel in the door and in the second or two it took him to close the slats peered nervously into the darkness outside.

      In the pharmacy behind the counter, Janice was unpacking the day’s delivery of pharmaceuticals. She had almost finished. In a few minutes, she would retreat to the bathroom and exchange the white overalls she was wearing for the outer garments she arrived in. Mr Dunlop emptied the cash register and placed both banknotes and coins in the safe. He would count them tomorrow. Next door the sound of footsteps was followed by the closing of the bathroom door and the splash of water signaling that Janice had discarded her overalls and blouse and was about to wash her arms and face. If it had not been Thursday he might have followed her there, for he often did and they would…, but it was Thursday and, although Janice did not know what Mr Dunlop knew, they both knew that Thursday’s were different. The bathroom door opened and Janice re-entered the pharmacy wearing the suede jacket that Mr Dunlop had recently brought her.

      “Are we still on for tomorrow?” she asked. For a moment she feared that he would say no, that he had no choice but to spend the evening at home with Irene. To her relief, he nodded, and although his parting kiss had not its usual warmth she sensed that nothing had changed between them. He let her out through the front door, waited several minutes, and then switched the light off and on three times to signal he was alone. 

      On the other side of the street, the glow of a cigarette in the unlit doorway of a vacant shop revealed the presence of someone otherwise unseen. The road was empty now, time for him to make his move, to be in and out with no one the wiser. He crossed the road and pushed at the door which he knew would be unlocked. As usual, Mr Dunlop was sitting behind the counter, grim faced, unwelcoming.            

      The young man closed the door behind him, his face contorting into an affectionless smile. “Hello uncle, how are you today?” 

      Mr Dunlop regarded him with wary distaste. Once he felt pity for him, now he had none. He left that to others, to those who saw only the dirt and neglect of a homeless vagrant. But he saw more, saw deeper, knew the corruption within. 

      Having received no response to his question the young man tried again. “Aunty Irene well, I hope.” 

      Mr Dunlop felt anger. What did the boy care for Irene, or anyone else for that matter? He nodded, not in response to the question asked, but at a box he had placed on the otherwise empty counter.

      The young man approached the box as though drawn by a magnet. “Have you got the ones I wanted?”

      “Yes. It’s all there, one hundred tablets.” He sensed that the young man was about to say that one hundred was not enough, that he needed more, instead he snatched-up the box and after a brief examination of its contents thrust it into the hip pocket of his overcoat. The young man considered whether to leave, or if something further needed to be said about Janice. His uncle would not have forgotten his threats, but sometimes it was necessary to reinforce a message, to remind him who was in charge. 

      His mind travelled back to the event that put him in charge. He had gone to his uncle’s shop, just before closing time, hoping to lift a few pills but no one was on the counter. Sensing an opportunity he pushed open the pharmacy door and peered inside. Again, there was no one to be seen. He entered, scouring the shelves for a familiar name or label, moving in crab like strides towards the restroom where Uncle Harold cooked lunch and read the ’paper. As he neared the half open door, a movement in his peripheral vision coincided with the sound of heavy breathing that grew in volume until it became an urgent gulping-in of air. For a moment he thought his uncle had been taken ill, then he saw them together on the sofa, saw Janice’s horror struck expression as she stared back at him, and the rise and fall of his uncle’s plump bottom. As she screamed he fled in panic, fearing the consequences for himself, but when, the following day, nothing had been said or done he realised that the person in trouble was not himself but Uncle Harold. An opportunity had come his way. At first, there was no need for threats. He had only to mention Janice and his uncle would be reduced to a nervous quiver. 

      “Don’t worry uncle, your secret’s safe with me,” he would say, and then, in an apparent non-sequitur, express his disappointment that he had insufficient money to go to the cinema. At first, his uncle paid him with money from the till, five pounds, then ten pounds but when ten pounds became twenty they agreed to use the currency of prescription drugs.     

      Mr Dunlop stared stony faced at his nephew. He couldn’t wait to see the back of him, but the young man showed no sign of leaving. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “It’s no good asking for more. There isn’t any. Since that new place opened I’m barely breaking even.” For a moment his dark thoughts about his nephew were eclipsed by his animosity for DayNite Pharmacy. His nephew smiled another affectionless smile and, after ‘assuring’ Mr Dunlop that he would be back the following week, left the shop.     

     Mr Dunlop locked the front door and turned out the lights. Irene would be cooking dinner; he needed to get home before it spoiled. He anticipated the questions she would ask, “how’s business? is it up on last week? isn’t there anything we can do to stop losing trade?” 

      As the owner of the business founded by her father, she had every right to ask such questions and, as her manager, his job was to find solutions. How fortunate then that at last he had found one. A solution that also solved his other problem.    

      For now, there was nothing to be done, just wait until his nephew ingested one of the pills he had added to the bottle of anti-depressants that bore the DayNite label. His death would be a painful one - no more than he deserved. The repercussions to the pharmacy that apparently supplied the pills would also be painful. Even if they weren’t closed down who would do business with them after that. It was, as his old history teacher was fond of saying, the coup de grace.

The End

Copyright Richard Banks