As I approach the platform, I begin reciting the routine. They make it sound so simple, as if ethics has no part to play. I close my weary eyes, and picture myself, climbing the stairs. The hotel workers will be in the foyer, or preparing the bedrooms. The staircase up will no doubt be deserted, so roof access will be naturally simple. Some humans are so predictable; their idle nature means that they are prepared to flock to the comfort of a lift. Then the preparation, and, as they re-iterated, the model is ruthlessly accurate. They promised not a quiver, instant satisfaction with one flick of the finger tip, and then a generous reward. Remorse and guilt are the enemies in this game, and the devil is your ally. Inefficiency has inconceivable consequences.
I remove the creased picture of the target from my shirt pocket. His sour expression and slick-backed hair fit the cunning, sly stereotype of a money launderer. I have read intently about how he had destroyed people overnight with his cruel dealings, even driven people to suicide. His transactions in the underworld have done him no favours, he is a wicked fraudster. I can not let any emotion seep into my mind. Confusion and sympathy results in certain failure; I have to remain undeterred and cold-hearted in order to achieve success. The tube stampedes towards me, a helpless horse pinned to the same routine of navigating dark caverns.
The doors of the tube swing open, the gates of hell beckon. I loosen my tie slightly, and cautiously slip on a pair of leather gloves. They say that wearing them makes you feel less responsible, less of a cold-blooded killer. With minimum fuss, I sink into a seat, and rest my throbbing head against the cold glass.
* * *
Underground stations…..full of dirt. All these filthy scumbags littering carriages like a plague of vermin. Well, I don’t want that good for nothing, nosy, pompous slave knowing anything about Janice. That slimy little toad can snitch to my wife, and cause a real stink. In fact, if he does not start showing more respect then he can return to his sad job of working in a restaurant, earning a meagre four pounds an hour. If he carries on playing top fiddle my mate Rex will be paying him a ‘visit’. Nothing too drastic. Just a few smacks with the club he got from the Big Apple. Best take the tube and keep a low profile.
Looks like a hellhole to be honest. These beggars should get proper jobs, not try and scrounge off my money. Just because I pay me own way in life, does not mean these scavengers can try and steal off me. Only decent people are worthy of my attention, all the rest are around only to make blokes like me look good. This world is survival of the richest.
I don’t reckon my job to be evil or immoral, just one that takes advantage of others’ pathetic mistakes. In fact, many regulars who have come for my help start booming trades…well, some. Put it like this, people who come to me asking for money are frankly stupid. They don’t seem to click with the rules of business, and that I have to receive some sort of interest. I’ve had it up to here with these stylish gangsters parading their tarts like race horses.
I here a lot about this new gambling place in town. It has been a successful day; that stubborn McKenzie man coughed up at last. No muddling with the dates this time, he owed what he owed. My men gave him a bit of a helping hand, allowing the deal to run smoothly… He can consider himself a lucky bastard, he staggered away with a pair of black eyes and a nose bleed. Rex wasn’t his usual feisty self, a bit under the weather. Anyway, I might as well gamble a few juicy smackers tonight.
Goodness those escalators do make a racket. Guess they don’t have the sense to get hold of a few technicians. Ye…. some lads having a good night out picking on that cowering tramp. Nothing more rewarding than giving a rat like that some stick for polluting our world. Pieces of food clung to his greasy hair. It seems pretty funny, as the youths prod and poke at the tramp, who can only manage hoarse, croaky splutters. Why doesn’t the dirty specimen pick himself up and do something useful with his life, rather than crumple up in a corner and make a big fuss?
I loosen my Rolex, which is rubbing against my wrist. I remove a white handkerchief from my top suit pocket, dabbing gently at my face. It was this day last year that I seized my first proper money packet. I remember the man… young and arrogant, thinking he had such a bright future in the business. Pity he ended up hanging from a noose with our lot cackling beside the treasure in the next room. We well and truly shattered him.
I glower up at the notice board. Its already three minutes late. Just a bit longer before I’m raking it all in. Perhaps I will palm Janice off with another present if I get my own way tonight. She’s a real sucker for gifts, she’ll keep off your tail for a bit if you give her something to marvel over. And she still thinks that diamond necklace is real. Bless her little cotton socks.
* * *
A clearly tense, balding man hoisted his briefcase onto his lap, his eyes flickering vigorously. He continued by rubbing his hands together, looking frequently at his watch. Several people in the carriage, including a wiry, sprucely dressed man with polished hair and a pompous expression, peered at him in bemusement. The balding man, in an attempt to avoid looking conspicuous, fumbled for a bottle of water in his pocket. At the same time he removed some sort of picture, and gave a furtive glance to the man sitting opposite.
The tube began rocking furiously. The balding man lurched forwards, a panicky expression on his face. A deafening, screeching sound followed, and passengers collided. The tube caved in, creating a concertina effect. People were thrown into the tornado of flying papers, banal adverts ripped from the walls and heavy tiles. Lights flickered, like re-sparking candles as the wick comes to its end. The metallic sound of bars splintering into windows triggered shrill screams of petrified passengers. A sandstorm of litter swept through the carriage, as bins were torn from the safety of their walls. Violent, fizzing sparks erupted from the cracked lights. The minatour made one last charge through the caverns, before gradually grinding to a halt. Silence. A sheet of menacing darkness enveloped the tube.
Muffled groans broke the silence. The sprucely dressed man with polished hair flicked on his lighter, and activated his phone beam. Beside him was a balding man, blood oozing from a deep gash in his chest. The man with the lighter sat up abruptly, a concerned look on his face. He hastily removed his jacket, and applied it to the wound, in an attempt to prevent the blood loss. The balding man grunted, croaking for assistance.
A creased picture caught the eye of the suavely dressed man. It was beside the ravaged hand of the balding man. He frowned, recognising the picture’s familiarity. On the back, scribbled in red writing, was the word target. Before acting, he reached for the weighty briefcase that was crushing his foot. He began to click it open. The balding man’s left eye fluttered open.
