The Assassin

He stuck out like a sore thumb with his shabby, bright orange shirt and red tie. It distinguished him from the hoards of people making their way, bright eyed and bushy tailed through Hyde Park, during the morning rush to work on that desperately cold November morning. The shirt compared with the bright autumn leaves falling from the trees, which now hid the path from view. This made him hard to miss considering his size and the fact that every other businessperson in London wore smartly coloured attire. Although a bit untidy, with stubble on my face from where I had roughed it the last few nights, I was dressed inconspicuously. That helped me to blend in with my surroundings; charcoal suit, navy tie, black briefcase in hand.

A bright but surprisingly cold sun hung over London that morning, making the dew on the grass glisten softly. The smell as usual in London was of exhaust fumes, briefly interrupted by the odd roasted peanut stand, or short burst of a fresh morning grass smell. The orange shirted man seemed to be moving quickly for such a large man. I knew where he was going I just kept a steady distance from him. He was very shifty and constantly looked at his watch, or over his shoulder and his posture suggested that he was paranoid. Possibly, he knew what was coming to him. Maybe he had a tip-off. What did I care once I caught him alone and ‘did my job’ I would get my money whether he knew or not.

This was a personal job of Charlie’s, who wanted this man killed for being...how did he put it…”A fat thieving mug, who’s gonna get what’s coming to him”. This of course meant he was beating Charlie in business, but I’m not paid to think about why I am killing, just how and how fast.

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I caught a glimpse of him, on the phone. Definitely a tip-off! Everything fell completely silent except for the enormous aircraft flying just above London. I could see his chubby mouth moving, as he talked on the phone between intervals of eating his large full baguette. The “Fat Mug” knew what was coming to him, was he trying to outsmart me? I kept my head so that he didn’t notice me again and proceeded to the point that I planned to ‘intercept’ his journey. The low aircraft still engulfed all the sounds in London into one enormous roaring engine sound.

As I approached a tall, grey, sinister looking building, a plan entered in my head, which could be executed with ease. I began climbing the stairs, to find a good vantage point. Although this high street was packed, an orange shirt could never be too hard to spot. From here the world looked small. The air was cold and thin. Pollution was not so prominent up there; I could breathe easy, relax and concentrate on my target. As I quickly set up my Rifle, I focused the lense on the now fast flowing high street. I once again noticed the boldness of the man’s shirt. Floating hurriedly down the street, desperately, looking for me. I caught him moving towards a clearing in the street. The whole world it seemed, fell eerily silent, to witness what I was doing. That bright blank sun from only a minute ago suddenly hid, and the heavens opened, with cold, heavy raindrops. The kind that soaks you instantly, and finds any uncovered skin. My rifle lay rested on a stand, peering down on the street, with a watchful, sinful eye. I kept my eye locked on the fat orange shirted man. A droplet of rain hurtled into my eye and blurred my vision.

No matter how many victims of these ‘jobs’ from Charlie, or how experienced I get, a sort of stage fright overcomes me. I always manage to complete my job with no problems in the end even thought it sounds as though my heartbeat is someone beating on a drum. My hard breathing echoes annoyingly back to my ears. I lifted my head for one second and looked back down at my target. I adjusted the focus, looking for him, slightly panicking. No sign of him! No orange shirt, no nothing, no kill – no money. I began frantically surveying the high street for my target. Still nothing. Just the same inconspicuously attired London workers. With the rain came a feeling of despair. Like something seen in a film, only this was not a film. I reached into my pocket for my phone to ring Charlie – he would not be happy.

The voice that picked up wasn’t Charlie. I heard the loading click of a gun.

The voice exclaimed, “It’s that fat mug, Now Charlie’s getting what was coming to him”.

By Nick Thorogood