It was never this easy before he went inside, but one look at the colour of his money and the kid took off, thinking he’d scored big-time. Until he brought back the goods, expecting his bit in return. Silly boy. It was like taking candy from a baby. He could hardly go running to the filth now, could he?
Besides, the dead can’t talk.
They’d agreed to meet at Big Waters, a remote nature reserve on the outskirts of Brunswick where the exchange would take place without fear of detection, or so he’d told the little scrote. But as the kid stood there, his sweaty palm outstretched waiting for the dosh, it was clear he hadn’t quite thought through the implications of handing a gun and ammo to a killer – someone on a mission with serious work to do.
Until that moment – the one that made his heart sing.
That awesome moment when the smile left the kid’s face and fear heightened his senses, causing a brief but unmistakable flicker of understanding in his eyes as he found himself staring down the barrel of his own destiny. Struck dumb, he backed away into the swamp, tripping in the weeds that fringed the open water, more terrified of the gun than the fact that he hadn’t learned to swim.
He fell backwards and came up gasping for breath, panic taking over.
Watching from the water’s edge as the kid slipped beneath the surface, once . . . twice . . . three times . . . he felt pure joy when the bubbles erupted, proof that liquid had entered the kid’s lungs, pushing out his last excruciating breath. Contentment washed over him as he sat down, clasped his hands together and pulled his knees up to his chest, gazing out over the shimmering surface of the lake, his face warmed by the sun, birdsong all around him. It was almost poetic; just another tragic accident – a daft sod messing around and coming to grief, unable to summon help in such a remote location.
Life sucks.
Reaching into his pocket, he unfolded Jenny’s picture and laid it on the grass beside him. And still she smiled up at him as she had done for all those years. But was she ready to pay for his mother’s brutality, he wondered? Were any of them ready? Pity if they weren’t. If he had to, he’d spend the rest of his life hunting them down.
And then he’d find her too and get better acquainted.
He fondled the gun in his hand. Its provenance didn’t concern him. The kid had chosen well. Shame he couldn’t stick around. The balance and weight felt good as he lifted his right arm, lining Jenny up in the sights.
Fingering the trigger, he squeezed gently.
CLICK.
He replaced the empty cartridge with a full one.
It glided effortlessly into the magazine.
Yes . . . it’d do nicely for her.
Jennifer Tait entered her house laden with shopping bags, a worried look on her face. She activated the deadlock, put down her parcels, took out her tissue and wiped her sweaty brow. Heart pounding, she stood on her tiptoes and peered back through the spyhole of her front door. The image was distorted; apart from children riding round and round in circles on their bicycles the lane outside was deserted. She watched the youngsters for a moment or two, comforted by their laughter, and then sank back on to her heels, relieved.
Lifting her shopping from the floor, Jenny went through to her back kitchen where she set it down on the bench and put on the kettle. But still she couldn’t help dwelling on the past few uneasy weeks. She’d had the distinct impression she was being watched: walking to and from the local shops, on the bus, even while travelling in her friend’s car. At all times of the day and night in fact, though she’d not yet told anyone for fear of being labelled paranoid.
But wasn’t that in itself paranoid?
Jenny had to admit it. She’d been of a nervous disposition for most of her life, since being followed home from an NHS placement at Hartlepool General when she was a student nurse. She sighed. That was over thirty years ago!
Wasn’t it time to stop all that nonsense?
As she had done many times before, Jenny dismissed her feelings as an overactive imagination and vowed to stop being suspicious of folks. She made herself a promise: from now on she would stop looking over her shoulder and enjoy her old age. Today was going to be the first day of the rest of her life.
Pouring water on to a teabag, Jenny cheered herself up with a chocolate digestive. She was clearing away crumbs when the phone rang. Dorothy was an old friend, a former neighbour, a woman she’d kept in touch with for fifteen years since they had both decided to move home and spend their retirement near their kids.
‘It’s about time you came to see me . . .’ Dorothy repeated her invitation as she did almost every time she rang. ‘You really must come, Jen – if only for a few days. The Lake District is wonderful and it’s been too long.’
‘I will,’ Jenny lied, not wanting to tell her friend that times were hard, finances harder. ‘Or you could come here! We could visit all our old haunts. You wouldn’t recognize Newcastle these days. It’s absolutely stunning on the Quayside.’
‘We could go to a show at the Sage,’ Dorothy suggested. ‘I hear it’s marvellous.’
Jenny began to get worried. How would she possibly finance such a treat? She changed the subject quickly, began chatting about the old days, failing to notice the hooded figure dart quickly past her window.
Lucky for her, he wasn’t ready to kill her . . . yet.