Hitman

On Saturday afternoon Mr Smith takes up residence in his new home. He sits on a deckchair on his front lawn and smokes while three men in blue boiler suits carry his possessions from the lorry to the house. It is warm for September and they sweat dark crescents beneath their arms.

            Expressionless in black glasses he watches them struggle along the short path with antique furniture of mahogany and oak. One falters with a crystal vase of surprising weight but maintains his grip beneath the unchanging gaze of his employer.

            “Close call that, Mr Smith,” says the man, but Mr Smith just draws on his cigarette and says nothing.

            He wears trousers of carefully pressed white linen and polished brogues. His shirt is pale blue, the sleeves rolled down and buttoned, a white handkerchief folded into the top pocket. He is clean shaven and his hair is dark and waxed smooth and flat.

            The last few items leave the lorry. A violin case. A cage containing an elegant cat of oriental extraction. Two cacti with purple flowers. Then the men are finished. Mr Smith takes a roll of notes from his trouser pocket and with a silent nod pays them and retires into the house.

There are seventy houses in the village. The bigger properties line the edge of the green. There is one small pub, the Pony and Trap, which has a bull-mastiff lazing on the doorstep and an old man in a cricket cap mowing the lawn. Mosquitoes cloud above a duck pond with dark water and no ducks. A Kawasaki rides through at over sixty and everyone pauses to shake their heads in disapproval.

At four o’clock Mr Stroud lights a barbecue. He wears loafers and is tanned from a holiday in Tuscany. While the coals begin to whiten in the flames he drinks champagne. In the kitchen Mrs Stroud makes salad with rocket leaves and shavings of parmesan and drinks neat vodka.

At five o’clock the first guests from the village arrive. Soon there are twelve people gathered on the lawn, enjoying the fading sunlight and the glasses of gin and tonic. Bill Cornwell tells a golfing anecdote, handing his drink to his wife so that he can demonstrate the full range of his swing. Mrs Stroud passes round smoked oysters which no one enjoys. Her silver bracelets jangle as she stumbles between guests and her overpowering scent of Chanel mingles with the smell of barbecued swordfish and garlic.

Then the peace is broken by the scream of sirens as two fire engines pull onto the green. Mr Stroud knows immediately what has happened. He looks up to the bedroom window of his neighbour’s house where the pale face of an old woman peers from behind a net curtain.

“You,” he shouts, and hurls his champagne glass in rage. “You think this is funny? I light my barbecue and you call the fire brigade? You exist only to make my life hell.” Then he lets fly with a stream of obscenities. Twenty minutes later, as the fire brigade are leaving, the police arrive to caution him for threatening behaviour.

Next evening he sits alone at the bar of the pub. He drinks whisky and feeds his humiliation and rage. The door is open and a cool breeze blows through, rippling the poster for ‘Quiz Night’ and lifting the corners of the bar towels. The bull-mastiff sits by the empty fireplace and dribbles while it watches a young family eat steaks.

Mr Stroud broods over the injustice of everything. He is an honest, hardworking man. Mrs Kent, the old woman from next door, the old woman who sabotaged his barbecue, has never worked a day in her life. And yet she lives comfortably in a five bedroom house, spending the will from her dead husband, and using her time to interfere and spy and cause trouble in the village. She opposed the planning proposal for his indoor swimming pool with built in cocktail bar. She accused him of watching her through the bathroom window. She had his poodle impounded over ludicrous allegations of a vicious attack on her person. Fi-fi was still traumatised by the experience.

“I wish that woman was dead,” he whispers, then orders another whisky.

Nearby Mr Barnaby enjoys a pipe with his bitter. He sits at a table with Mr Banks, his longstanding drinking companion. Both men are in their sixties and wear flat-caps and sleeveless fishing jackets. For an hour they discuss the results of the village cricket season and the disappointing performance of the local team. Amid a cloud of pipe smoke Mr Barnaby states that next year he is considering an emergence from retirement.

“I wager that even with the rheumatism and the pacemaker I could build an innings to be proud of,” he says.

“Pride,” says Mr Banks. “That’s exactly what’s missing from the game these days.”

Then their conversation develops a conspiratorial air.

“Have you seen the new villager?” says Mr Banks, his voice low.

“I have indeed. A strange fellow. An air of mystique about him, I would say.”

“There’s more than that.”

“Go on,” says Mr Barnaby, leaning forward. Mr Stroud, who has heard every word, has to concentrate hard to pick out the conversation above the snoring of the dog.

“I’ve seen his type before,” say Mr Banks. “The sunglasses, the meticulously pressed clothes, the waxed hair. And do you really think that was a violin case? No my friend. There’s no doubt in my mind. He’s mafia through and through.”

An hour later Mr Stroud makes the short walk from the pub to his house. He concentrates hard to maintain his balance. For a moment he pauses to look up at the stars but the sky is rotating in an unnerving and nauseating fashion and he comes close to toppling backwards.

He reaches his house and scolds himself as he fumbles with the keys and takes several attempts to open the door. His wife is asleep on the sofa with pink curlers in her hair and smudged lipstick. 

He tiptoes past her to an imitation Monet which hangs above the drinks cabinet. He removes the painting and with shaking hands summons all his concentration to work the dial of the safe concealed behind it.

It is gone midnight when he crouches amongst the rose bushes outside Mr Smith’s garden window. He has a bundle of notes pressed close to his chest. The thorns have pierced his trousers in several places and there are lacerations along his forearms. He is watching and waiting for the right moment.

Inside Mr Smith is reclining in an armchair. He wears sunglasses despite the soft lamplight and smokes a cigar. One leg is crossed casually over the other and his elegant cat is sat upright on his lap. The sound of Beethoven carries out into the night.

Then Mr Stroud can wait no longer. He stands and raps his knuckles on the window.

“Mr Smith,” he says in a loud whisper. “I have some work for you. I was hoping you could kill my neighbour.” And he waves the bundle of notes in the air.

A week passes. Mr Stroud has been through many emotions in those seven days. The morning after his nocturnal visit to Mr Smith he was stricken with regret, fear and a hangover worse than any he could remember. He did not go to work but spent the day watching Mrs Kent’s house through binoculars, waiting for the gunshot, or the scream as she was garroted with piano wire. But nothing happened. He saw her potter in the garden and rake the early autumn leaves. He watched her through the kitchen window as she baked chocolate cake. He saw the lights go out as she retired to bed at ten-thirty. Then he broke down in a tearful confession and told his wife everything, kneeling at her feet, begging forgiveness, saying that if Mrs Kent lived through the night he would never as much as fiddle his tax returns again.

To his surprise she seemed distant and disinterested and said that, although having their irritating neighbour assassinated seemed a little extreme, it might in the long run be for the best.

Then he began to revel in the idea. He stayed at home, unwashed and unshaven, muttering to himself, waiting with a twisted desire to hear of her demise. All ideas of calling off the murder left him. He woke in the night, convinced he had heard her death rattle carrying to him in his sleep. He sent a second planning application to the council for his indoor swimming pool, sure that no one would oppose him. He sent out invitations for a cocktail party with a live jazz band to be held at his house in a fortnight’s time.

And still he waited. But he waited for nothing.

Now he sits by his wife on the sofa and they watch Celebrity Pop Idol together. The week has passed and he feels that so has the prospect of an early death for his neighbour. He is resigned. The loss of five thousand pounds is unfortunate, but certainly not the worst outcome he had envisaged.

“It’s strange,” he says, “how you can be so wrong about someone.”

On screen Dale Winton sings I Will Always Love You.

To assume,” says Mr Stroud, “is a terrible thing. I’ve insulted Mr Smith. I’m just surprised he didn’t go to the police.”

Mrs Stroud nods in agreement, though she has heard only part of what was said. She is in her dressing gown, has freshly painted nails and has drunk herself into a stupor with campari and lemonade.

“Still, he says, “it would have been nice to see the end of Mrs Kent. We could have had the swimming pool built and held as many debauched parties as we wanted. Now we’ll have to wait for her to die naturally.”

Then he is quiet as he feels the cold metal of a pistol barrel pressed into the back of his head and smells cigarette smoke and fabric softener.

“You were wrong about me,” says the smooth voice of Mr Smith. Mrs Stroud narrows her eyes, wondering if the voice is coming from the television.

“I’m not a killer by trade,” he says. “But any man can be swayed by money. And I’m not talking five thousand. I mean big money. The kind of money Mrs Kent can pay.”

José

Until the moment at which this story begins my life had been disappointing – a series of bizarre and terrible misfortunes had reduced me to a pitiable and wretched state of misery. But in this brief window of time I am a hero. I stand alone and face death and bring hope where there was none.

            Late afternoon I stretch in the shade below the eaves of the bar, resting my head against the cracked plaster and watching the sunset fade into the grey light of approaching nightfall. I drink whiskey and smoke a cigarillo, listening to the murmur of voices from within and the occasional melody of the piano. The temperature drops and a cool wind runs the length of the town, creating whirlwinds of dust which hurt my eyes as I try to follow them through the alcoholic haze which I succumb to each afternoon. I will not elaborate, as it is a sorry tale, but my life has passed largely in this manner, riding between the make-shift towns of the west, doing whatever work came my way, then wasting the money in the bars and brothels along with the other godless drifters.

Out here in these remote places the people have a sullen look. The desert sun tans their skin but the shadow of violence and hard living line their faces. Some sit outside their wooden houses dressed in clothes of simple white cloth with ponchos to protect them when night draws in. They smoke and talk in whispers. The wind carries the smell of frying peppers and warm bread as the evening meals are prepared. In the upper window of a house opposite I see the whores adjusting their make-up while they wait for business.

            Then the peace is broken by the toll of a bell which unsettles the horses tethered nearby and sends disquiet through the town. Shutters open and faces peer through doorways, all focused on the simple church at the end of the street where the bell swings back and forth in the tower. Nothing much happens for a while. Clouds as dark as gun-metal are rolling in from the east. I drink more whiskey and wish I was sober. Then everyone sees a trail of dust, way off, but moving closer. Horses. Ten, twenty, maybe more, riding towards us at speed. Panic breaks out. Shutters close, doors slam, the bell stops ringing as the watchman deserts his post. I hear chairs being piled behind the door of the bar and children crying and whispers of hastened prayer. Soon I am alone on the street. I know what is coming but it is too late for me to take cover. No one will unbolt their doors to shelter Jose the drunk.

            So I sit and watch the dust cloud grow in the strange half-light. I see the shapes of horses then their riders – bandidos passing through to wreak havoc where there is already suffering. They wear broad hats and belts filled with bullets strapped across their chests. They slow then dismount, forming a line as they enter the street. Their spurs chime as they walk forward. Some carry a shotgun. Others have a revolver at each hip. One man walks a little ahead, the splendour of his moustache leaving his authority in no doubt.

            As they move closer something unexpected happens. I stand up. My knees creak from a thousand cold nights and my back twinges to show its displeasure but in no time I am upright and walking out to meet these killers with nothing but a bottle in my hand and a gun of uncertain reliability at my side.

            “A gunfighter,” cries someone. “We are saved.”

            “No,” says another voice, coming from a house to my right. “It is José the drunk. We are finished.”

            I hear this and feel the pain of my own existence. I remember the lonely nights by the roadside, the women who could never love me, my tears falling on my mother’s grave – I remember all these things and I am no longer afraid as I ask: “Who will stand with me?”

            The bandidos look on, amused perhaps, as the people of the town stir from their hiding places. I hear guns being loaded, shutters edging open and bolts being drawn back. I finish the bottle and cast it aside. The light is fading fast. The oil lamps which hang from the porches remain unlit.

            “Elijah, you get on out there,” says a woman’s voice. “You ain’t never done nothing no good anyhow.”

            “I’m gettin’,” comes the hoarse reply.

            And this is where you first joined me. For a moment I am a hero. Maybe it is the whiskey, but I feel no fear as I roll back the sleeve on my right arm and flex my fingers ready for the draw. They will be with me soon, I am sure, these people whose lives will be changed forever after this day when they stood and fought. Scared faces appear in doorways, gun barrels shake in unsteady hands. Courage is building. The whores gather at their window and watch with interest. Though facing death I feel more alive than ever. Perhaps I am finally happy, though how would I know?

            “Are you all insane?” shouts the dissenting voice, so quick to condemn me earlier. “You’ll all die out there with José the drunk.”

            “He’s right,” someone says. “And my knee don’t feel so good.”

            “Mine neither,” says another.

            And then there is quiet again as the people retreat to safety. There are just the horses, the clouds rolling in, the night falling and a line of bandidos weighed down with guns.

            “Cowards,” shout the whores, and circle their mouths in boos and catcalls as they deride the men who will not join me. They chant my name and proclaim their love, clapping out a rhythm as it becomes clear that there will be no change of heart and I am destined to remain alone. The dark clouds finally reach us and sobering drops of rain hit my face and bring a moment of terrible realisation as the leader of the bandidos smiles and I go for my gun and the whores cheer and everyone opens fire.

Snake

Tuesday night, sometime between eleven and twelve, the flat above the bakery is broken into. No one is witnessed entering or leaving the premises. The owner, 24-year-old William Hind, is away in France and out of contact.

            “And the strange thing was,” continues Constable Davis, as he drinks at the bar in the White Horse the next evening, “as far as I can tell there was nothing taken.” He puts a handful of dry roasted into his mouth and sips beer. Few people are listening. The Captain sleeps by the fire with a roll-up hanging from his lower lip and a blanket over his knees. Hamish drinks rum and plays darts alone.

            It is autumn and outside fallen leaves eddy through the dusk. 

            “And even stranger,” says the Constable, despite his lack of audience, “there was this huge glass tank in the living room. Empty. Except for some grass and a rock.” He rescues a peanut from a pool of beer and pops it into his mouth.

            Hamish misses the dartboard and puts a hole in a picture of the village cricket team, 1996.

            “Empty?” he says. He shaved hurriedly that morning and there is a line of grey hairs above his Adam’s apple and another along his left cheek. He wears a tartan jumper and a black beret. The Captain is smiling in his sleep.

            “Then what happened to the snake?”

            By next morning the escaped snake, believed to be a python of some twenty feet in length, is common knowledge throughout the village. The Constable sits at his desk with a sore head and writes down his hypothesis.

            ‘Some time after eleven an intruder broke into Mr Hind’s flat and was prevented from completing his/her robbery by the surprise discovery of an anaconda/python/cobra loose on the premises. They subsequently left in a hurry/were eaten. The present location of the snake is unknown.’

            At lunchtime the Captain tells his enraptured listeners about his time in India and the cobra which spits poison into its victim’s eyes.

            “Sunglasses,” he says, “are your only defence,” and he draws on a cigarette, enjoying the disquiet he has caused.

            In the afternoon storm clouds are rolling in and fine rain preludes a fierce downpour. Many of the villagers stumble through the gloom in dark glasses. The gravedigger beats a fallen branch with his shovel, convinced it was waiting to bite him. He wears his son’s John Lennon shades, which sit awkwardly due to the boil on his nose.

            A man from the RSPCA arrives in his white van. He wears his blue uniform. The trousers are too small and stop four inches before his shoes begin. He spends an hour cautiously prodding the hedgerows and bushes with a metal pole. He carries a cloth sack and wears plastic goggles.

            The villagers watch him, net curtains pulled aside and their faces pressed to the window panes.

            “Brave man,” says Mrs Bernard, as she eats buttered scone.

            “A foolish man,” replies Mrs Lawes. “You wait. He’ll be eaten any minute now.”

            They pause from talking as the anticipation builds.

            To the disappointment of many, when his hour is up the RSPCA man drives away, wet from the rain, but otherwise unharmed.

            Friday, 10.17am. Mrs Bernard’s greyhound is missing.

            “My Bobbie,” she screams as she runs out the front door. “He’s been eaten.”

            She faints on the driveway and is revived by the postman only to remember and relive the horror of her loss.

            “That’s victim number one,” says Hamish that lunchtime when the dog cannot be found. He wears the same tartan jumper and drinks scotch. “Who’ll be next?”

            This question is met with little enthusiasm among the occupants of the White Horse. The landlord clears his throat and pours himself wine. The Captain frowns in his sleep. The villagers are worried. They wear knee-length boots and avoid walking in the grass or through piled leaves. They check beneath their beds at night, keep their pets locked in and hurry their bowel movements in case the serpent has found its way into the sewage system.

“My money is on Mrs Malloy,” says the landlord.

They watch as the woman in question moves past the front windows of the public house. She is bent low at the waist by age and her hair is wild and long and whips behind her in the wind. She uses a stick for support and takes short, stumbling steps in her slippers. Her destination, the post office, is still half hour and a thousand small footsteps away. They drink and watch her, craning forward as she totters briefly, then resting back as she regains her footing and continues her journey.

“Ten pounds,” says the landlord. “Ten pounds on Mrs Malloy. Any takers?”