The Night Train

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The Night Train                                           by Bradley Watker

It had been a close call. Lyle had used more effort than he thought he had in him to reach the train and as the doors closed behind him he had been racked with pain, his lungs burned and his temple throbbed.

 

Lyle had been in his seat now for half an hour and finally, with a whisky down him and a steaming coffee in front of him, he had begun to relax, occasionally nodding his head as he tripped in an out of sleep.

 

The train was busy but not full. Business people tapped on laptop keyboards, students laughed and drank, children read and coloured, people using up time, waiting for a destination.

 

The job had been easy. Lyle had a routine. Surprise, subdue, extract information or exact revenge then finish things.

 

He caught the guy unawares as he came out of his bathroom, just dressed and ready for a night out, hair still damp from the shower, relaxed and unguarded. A trademark blow to the neck brought him down. Lyle handcuffed and gagged him then bound him into a kitchen chair and waited for him to come ‘round. He stared at the man’s confused then frightened face, explained to him why he was there, who had sent him. He showed him the large pair of pliers he had brought then removed the man’s right index finger with a single clip. As his victim struggled, fought against his restraints, tried to scream through the gag, Lyle slipped a length of piano wire around his neck, tightened it and fastened it hard with a practiced twist. As he waited for the man’s life to finish Lyle lit a cigarette, he picked up the severed finger and placed it carefully into a sandwich bag, this was his timecard, his proof of a job well done. Job number thirty complete and that was it. Self promise about to be realised, thirty kills and out: a change of scene; a different life; an anonymous 47 year old man in a Suffolk seaside town.

 

Stephen Lyle had not always been a killer. He had not come from a violent background. A middle class boy, well schooled, a good university but he was a bad choice maker. He had begun his working life in banking, sorting out the finances of the wealthy, advising on investments, pensions, tax. His clients were not all legitimate but he didn’t shy away. Lyle soon realised that he had a taste for danger and an elastic morality. He was dazzled by the gangland culture, the fraternity, the easy money, the women and the drinking. He had not allowed himself to drift into crime, he had sought it, put himself forward for it. First some small stuff, money laundering, using the bank as a front for sharp practice then more direct activity, collecting money, threatening late payers and that led to aggression and soon violence became his drug of choice.

 

His first kill had been a huge rush. He had been alone with a nasty little drug dealer in his stinking Deptford squat. The dealer owed twenty thousand and was twisting, whining, trying to buy more time. Lyle had hit him a few times but he still droned on and it was clear there was no money. The wire had been an accident, a piece of chance left on a table in the dingy squat. He had picked it up in his leather gloved hands while the man squirmed on the floor. At first Lyle just wanted to frighten him, he had whipped it around the scrawny neck and pulled it just tight enough to make the guy splutter, but once he had him in his control an immense feeling of power and serenity overwhelmed him. He kept tightening the cord, kept it tight while the man struggled and thrashed beneath him. When the man was dead he let go of the wire and the body slumped to the floor, the wire was almost embedded in the neck and Lyle had taken satisfaction from that, seen it as a warning sign to others. There had been no police, his new friends had seen to that, and his kill gained him status and respect. The rest was history, he liked killing, criminals want people killed and he began a career as hired hit. It had made him rich, feared and a target.

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Now it was time to change. The thrill of killing had diminished and each new job brought another worry, fed his growing paranoia that he Stephen Lyle was the next victim. So he had decided to stop. He had enough cash and though an elaborate process that kept his name off the deeds he had bought a house in a respectable Suffolk town. A gentile and mild mannered place, close to the sea, and a million miles from his current life.

 

Lyle yawned. He was sticky, the sweat had dried on his forehead and his hands felt unclean. ...

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