Mr. Average
Peter Rappaport was an unusual man, with an unusual job. He did not look unusual, quite the contrary, if you saw him in the street, he looked as normal as the next man, Mr. Average. He was normal, which made him all but invisible. In a crowded room or on a busy street, no one would remember him, a passing observer would not be able to describe him five minutes after seeing him. That ability to blend in unnoticed with his surroundings, chameleon like, was one of his greatest assets, for he was Mr. Average with a gun and anonymity was the friend of an assassin.
He had worked for The Clinic for longer than he cared to remember when he met Jocelyn. Saw her in the park, throwing bread to the ducks on the small lake and was captivated by her fragile beauty. He had been to the park many times, always went there after a job. He liked the park, liked that it was small and out of the way, he was rarely bothered by children playing, even in the height of summer. There were no swings or roundabouts in the park, no playing fields, no boats or pedalos on the water. There were just a few benches, the small lawns and the flowerbeds, barren during the late autumn and winter, small oases of dazzling colour in the spring and summer. He liked the park, revelled in the peace and tranquillity it offered, broken only by the occasional querulous quack of the ducks, the rumble of traffic from the nearby highway muted to a distant roar that he blocked out with ease. The park, especially in summer, was an affirmation of life to him. A contrast between what was and what should be. He’d chosen a life of death, but there were times that his profession weighed heavily on him. And so, he came to the park and the burden was lifted.
It was the noisy calls of the ducks that had drawn his attention, he had been staring off into the distance, seeing nothing of the park or the sky, only the blood. The ducks dragged his mind back to the present and when his thoughts had arrived back in the here and now, like a train pulling into a station, he saw Jocelyn. He heard her first. Heard her joyous laughter as she watched the ducks waddle out of the water and congregate at the lakeside where she had thrown the small chunks of white bread. She squealed with cautious delight as two or three ducks made a line for their supplier and began to peck at the crumbs on the ground where she sat on the short grass. One of the ducks, bolder than the others, stared up at her with its dark, curious eyes and waddled closer still. He heard her shoo it away, a small nervous tremble in her voice as she waved her hand over the duck’s head and threw the last few pieces of bread behind it. The duck quacked at her once more and turned away.
Peter stood up from the bench where he sat watching her. He had never approached anyone in the park before, the few regulars, at least he assumed they were regulars—they were usually here when he was, always kept to themselves. Today the park was empty but for himself and Jocelyn, even the two old men who played chess, never speaking, just occasionally moving pieces in studied silence, were not here. Later, when he thought back on their meeting, he wondered whether the job had anything to do with his speaking to her.
The job had been messy. The man had been old but he had taken a long time to die and had bled copiously, the vile, coppery scent of his life leaking away burnt a memory into his nostrils and left a sour taste at the back of his throat. The man had been evil, of that there was no doubt, had killed or caused to be killed many people over the years, but in the end, he had been just a man, a shadow of his former self. Confined to a wheelchair, limbs wasted by disease, he had not much longer to live, nature would have taken its course in the not too distant future without the aid of The Clinic. It was perhaps that that had preyed on Peter’s mind, that and the look of abject terror in the man’s eyes when he had stolen into the room, circumventing the nurse cum security guard in the hallway outside. There was none of the steely determination in the hooded eyes that had stared out of the photographs Peter had seen before, the eyes now were weak. The frail body had started in the wheelchair when he entered the room, face revealed out of the shadows that draped the doorway. The cry of surprise no more than a wheezing rattle. A trembling hand, aged and liver spotted, reached for an alarm button, arthritic finger curling out to depress the button that would ring the bells. Peter shot it off. The sound of the discharge no louder than a quiet cough heard through the thin walls of a cheap hotel room. Blood splashed thickly onto the papers on the walnut desk the man sat behind in his rolling chair, the finger vanished in the gloom. A guttural cry rose in the old man’s throat, too weak to be heard by the nurse even if he had still been alive. Peter fired again. The sound of the silenced bullet slightly louder than the previous shot, it was the fourth time the gun had been fired and the silencer was becoming worn, the baffles not muting sound as efficiently now. Dark blood stained the old man’s chest, a spreading rose of crimson. His body thrashed in the chair, back arching, wasted muscles straining. His eyes were wide, pain stimulating the nerve endings. The chair shook with his efforts, the leather and metal a squeaking, groaning orchestra of death. The third bullet seemed to deflate him. His body sank back in the chair and his head slumped forward. His chest still heaved in agonised breaths. Peter stepped forward to finish the job, amazed at the old man’s resilience. Before he fired, the old man raised his head in final defiance. The eyes, watery and weak when Peter had stepped into the room now held some of the menace evident in his photographs. Talk was beyond him, but those eyes asked the question. Why now? Peter did not have the answer. He pulled the trigger.
That was what he had gone to the park to forget, to put behind him, like a snake sloughing off its skin. He found himself standing on the lawn at the lakeside before he had thought about what he was doing.
“It seems you’ve made some friends.”
Jocelyn looked up at him, startled. “Sorry?”
“The ducks,” he nodded his head at the birds.
“Oh, they’re fickle, it’s just cupboard love.”
“And now the cupboard’s bare?”
“As you can see,” she replied. The ducks had turned their backs on them, were waddling back to the water, fighting over the remnants of the feast Jocelyn had brought them. She started to rise. Peter held out his hand to her and she paused, looking into his face. It was, she thought, a nice face, nothing special but nice, honest. She rubbed her hands together, wiping away crumbs and grass and reached up and accepted his help.
“I’m Peter,” he said, still holding onto her hand.
“Jocelyn,” she smiled revealing gleaming white teeth. Her smile was infectious and he grinned back at her.
“Pleased to meet you, Jocelyn,” he said and shook her hand.
“Likewise.” He finally let go of her hand and immediately began to regret it, his fingers tingled, seemed to ache at losing their touch with her. They stood silently for a long moment.
“I… uh… haven’t seen you here in the park before,” Peter said lamely.
“It’s only the second time I’ve been here,” she replied, “I never knew this place existed, chanced upon it last week. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, I come here whenever I can. I enjoy the peace.”
“I see what you mean,” she glanced around them, “it’s deserted.”
“It’s not always this way. There’s six or seven regulars, still even then, it’s quiet, and it’s like it’s our little secret.”
“Am I intruding?”
Peter shook his head, “Not at all,” he waved his arm at the ducks, “these guys seem to have accepted you, that’s good enough for me.”
“I told you, cupboard love.”
“Nah, they don’t fool easy, now if they were geese, that would be a different matter, geese are dumb, just don’t have a clue, but ducks, they’re smart!”
Jocelyn laughed that laugh again, the one that had brought him out of his reverie. It was at that instant that Peter knew he was in love.
Peter began to doubt himself, doubt the necessity for what he did. He tried to keep his misgivings to himself, he didn’t want to give anybody at The Clinic cause to worry about or doubt him, that would be dangerous. He had given his life to The Clinic and the organisation it represented but he knew they would not hesitate to dispose of him if they felt it necessary. He continued in the same fashion he always had, accepting assignments with his usual nonchalance, even when Jocelyn became pregnant. He worried about her so, knew the trouble she had with any sort of pain, could only guess at the trauma her morning sickness had put her through from the one instance that he saw it, how she would cope with the pains of labour he did not know.
Shelton, of course, had offered all the help The Clinic could give and despite his new found feelings for his job, Peter accepted the offer instantly, The Clinic had a first rate medical facility on the island, he had had to avail himself of it’s expertise on more than one occasion and he trusted the medical team there.
Jocelyn was terrified at the prospect of the birth and it helped her to know that the people who would be looking after her were her husband’s colleagues. She did not know what, precisely, Peter did for a living, believed him to be some sort of envoy for an important company with a close governmental relationship—she never knew how close to the truth she was—and it comforted her to be cared for by people in whom her husband had such faith.
They seemed so concerned for her, even Peter’s boss, Mr. Shelton, had taken time out to see her personally. She had not liked Mr. Shelton, she could not put her finger on what it was precisely, the piercing eyes, the close cropped hair just showing a tinge of grey at the temples would have looked distinguished on another man but seemed out of place on him. He was short, only about five feet five and his manner was as abrupt. When he smiled at her, she noticed, the smile never reached his eyes. She shrugged off her unease, putting it down to the fact that the man was busy, being the Chief Executive Officer of such an important company. After all, she told herself when the thought occurred, how many other people in his position would make the effort to come and see her at all, and despite his cold personality, she couldn’t fault the care she had received. And the painkillers they had given her, she didn’t know what they were, but boy, they really worked, had helped her right from the word go. A nurse had brought the pills to her that day after Peter had seen how sick she had been, found her on her knees in the bathroom retching painfully, her head down the bowl of the toilet, thinking she would never be able to stop, tears of pain and self pity streaming down her face. He’d had to go away on business that night, making a stop at his office before his flight. He must have gone to see the doctor while he was there. He was so sweet, so caring.
The last few assignments had gone smoothly, no problems whatsoever and no moral dilemmas or hesitations on Peter’s part. He had come to accept that his feelings the last few months were unjustified, he put it down to that one incident, one unnecessary killing of the old man in his wheelchair. That and then meeting Jocelyn. He never thought he would fall in love, thought he was immune from those sorts of emotions so when it happened, and happened so suddenly, he was taken unawares and it caused him to re-evaluate his life. He had been married now for two years and life was better than it had ever been. He had never had the doubts that he heard could afflict someone in his line of work, always felt what he was doing was right, that sometimes, justice had to be meted out in secret, when there was a breakdown in the system, it had to be mended. Shelton always referred to him and the others like him as Technicians, but Peter often thought of himself as a repairman. It was a simple analogy, Right and Wrong were appliances and it seemed sometimes that Wrong was top of the range with an extended warranty while Right was a cheaper model whose guarantee had lapsed, that was when Peter and his ilk were called upon, only his call out charge was very expensive.
The baby was due at any time. Peter was more excited than he would have believed, his excitement tempered only by his concern for his wife. He had not wanted to take on a new assignment so close to the birth of his child, but he had no choice, like a repairman, he was on twenty four hour call and his beeper had sounded. Again, the job had gone smoothly and the flight home seemed to take an eternity. From the airport he was taken by helicopter to the island for his debriefing. He gave his usual clinical dissection of the job, his words recorded and stored away. And then the earth gave way beneath his feet.