Coming home

Henry was sat in his usual position in the reclining chair, watching reruns of Morecambe and Wise on tv, nursing a half glass of whiskey when Sarah walked in. He looked over at her as she set down her bag, took off her jacket and scarf and hung them up by the door. Something was wrong. Henry knew it from the way she walked in. Her shoulders were slumped and she was slouching slightly. That wasn't like her.
She walked over to him and gently kissed him on top of his head and breathed a meloncholic, "Hi daddy" before collapsing into a chair.
"Something wrong pickle?"
"I don't know dad... it's just..." She tailed of, staring out of the window as if looking for answers in the trees outside. There were none to be found and she looked back over to him before staring down at her feet. Henry shifted around in his chair to face her better. If she couldn't keep his gaze, there was something badly wrong. She was the only person on the planet that Henry knew could out stare him. She got her stubborn streak from him, there was no doubt about it.
"Just what?"
Sarah looked up at him from under heavy lids.
"Just... Look, I don't want you to go off at the deep end, but..."
"Who is he?"
Sarah looked surprised. She should know better by now.
"I may be many things Sarah, but stupid isn't one of them, you know that. There's not much that I miss." He took a swig at his glass.
"Old maybe, drunk possibly, but not stupid." He smiled and Sarah grinned from under her hair, which fell over her face in dark strands. There was something she wanted to tell him but didn't think she could. He knew this game. There was no use pushing, Henry had to just be patient and wait. That was not a problem. Henry could wait.
"It's just that I've got myself into this situation..."
Henry felt bile rise in his throat. If some young prick had got her pregnant, well it would be the last of him.
"Who is he?" There was a slight edge to henry's voice.
"No, not like that daddy," she always used 'daddy' when she wanted to placate him, "A different type of thing, but you are right, there is a guy involved."
"Of course I'm right."
They sat silent for a moment, Sarah fixing her gaze outside again. Henry leaned back into his chair.
"Look Sarah, I know what you think of me. You think I'm an old fashioned relic, that I don't want you to meet anyone. Maybe you even think I don't want you to be happy."
"No, I know you want me to be happy daddy and I don't think you're a relic!"
"Thanks pumpkin, but there's an element of truth in it anyway. I am old fashioned and I'm ok with that, it comes to every man eventually. The values that were cutting edge in your youth at some point become yesterday's news. It's sad but it happens."
He sighed into his glass and sipped gingerly.
"I've been... overprotective of you. I know I have. You're way past old enough to be doing whatever you like," Henry glared over the rim of his glass at Sarah, "Within reason of course. But you're a woman now, I should have little say in who you associate with."
Sarah sat, stunned. This was not the way she had been expecting the conversation to go.
"The problem with parents..." He paused and looked out of the window as she had done, "The problem with parents is that they think they know what's right for you and sometimes they don't, do they?"
Sarah gently shook her head.
"They want the best for you. They want to provide you with things that they never had. Most of all, they want you to avoid making the mistakes they made."
He rolled the glass around between his fingers, absentmindedly.
"Even though it all comes from good intentions, it's an evil thing to do to a child."
Sarah looked distressed at this and opened her mouth to speak, but Henry waved her down.
"It is. It's evil. The only way we learn is by fucking up. Remove the capacity to fuck up and people learn nothing for themselves. Parents want to correct mistakes they've made in their own lives by not allowing their kids to do the same. What we forget is that our kids are not us. Maybe they will make the same mistakes, maybe they won't, but it's the process that's important."
"Daddy, I've never heard you talk like this. Is everything ok?"
"Yes and no sweetie."
"Is mum ok? Is it a business thing?"
"No questions just yet Sarah, please."
Sarah clasped her hands together and nodded her assent.
"I feel the need for change Sarah. There are certain things I've done wrong in my life and even then there's not many I regret, but I regret not being a better father to you."
"Dad! How can you say that? You're a great father. I've always had everything I've ever needed or wanted!"
"No... no you haven't Sarah. You haven't had much freedom. Freedom of choice, freedom of expression or the freedom to make mistakes. I've been completely overbearing with you. You've hardly lived your life so far because I've been such an ogre that you've been afraid to make mistakes. That's no way to live Sarah."
Sarah shifted her chair closer to Henry's and placed her hands on his.
"If it helps dad, I've made a few mistakes that even you never found out about." She grinned slyly. Henry laughed loudly and drained his glass.
"I'm glad to hear it!" he roared. "I'd have been compelled to get all maudlin otherwise."
She leaned forward again and kissed him on the forehead.
"Silly old man." He grinned and grabbed her in one of his famous bear hugs, pulling her onto his knee.
"So this guy..."
"Dad!"
"Hang on, hear me out. This guy, is that who you've been with the last few days?"
She looked up at him sheepishly, feeling like a little girl again. Being sat on his knee didn't help. She nodded.
"Do you love him?"
Sarah nodded again. Henry winked at her.
"Cat got your tongue?"
She grinned and shook her head vigorously.
"Heh. Sarah... does he love you?"
"Yes."
"Good solid answer. I'm glad you're sure. Is he a good man?"
"He's... he's one of the good guys daddy."
"Hmm."
Sarah wasn't sure what was coming next. So far tonight had been a complete surprise.
"If you're waiting for me to give you permission to see this man, you'll have a long wait."
Sarah's heart sank. He'd tried to be ok with it, but obviously his old fashioned values still stood firm. Henry caught the look on her face.
"You don't need my permission Sarah. You make your own choices. As long as he treats you well and looks after you, then it's fine with me."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. But if he mistreats you, I'll feed him his balls."
Sarah got up from the chair and walked over to the window, arms folded.
"What is it?"
"I just..." Henry could see tears welling at the corners of her eyes and felt the corresponding lump form in his throat. "I just wish you'd said this earlier."
Henry looked down at his shoes. It had been so long since he'd felt humbled that he struggled to realise what it was he was feeling for a moment. It was shame.
"I'm so sorry Sarah. Truly I'm sorry. I know I can't give you back all these years, but I can make sure things change from now on."
There was an awkward pause. Sarah continued staring out at the trees and Henry watched her.
"It's not that daddy. It's just if you'd only said something sooner, I wouldn't be in the situation I'm in now."
"I'm sorry Sarah. What kind of situation are you in? If I can help I will."
"No questions just yet Dad please."
"Ok. I respect that. If I can help, just ask."
She turned to him and her arms unfolded again and she put her hands in her pockets. A definite sign she didn't want to be pressed on the topic.
"Thanks Daddy, I will."
She walked over to the sofa again and sat down. Henry refilled his glass from the crystal decanter and held it up and nodded at Sarah.
"No thanks, whiskey's not my drink."
"What is? Jesus, listen to me. I've spent so long forbidding you to do anything that I don't even know what you like to drink!"
"Beer mostly. Occasionally vodka."
"Beer? Good god you really are a modern woman! I think there's some in the fridge."
Sarah got up and wandered through to the kitchen. Henry heard the fridge door open.
"Sarah?"
"Mmm?"
"Can I meet him?"
"Mmm?"
The fridge door shut again and Sarah padded back through.
"Sorry daddy, what did you say?"
"Can I meet him?"
"Who?"
"Your young bloke."
She sat down heavily on the sofa and took a pull at the bottle.
"I'm not sure dad, maybe now's not a good time."
"It's the perfect time! I promise I'll be on my best behaviour and it'll prove to you that I've changed!"
"I meant maybe it's not a good time for him."
"Oh... sorry, of course. Silly old man."
"Don't be like that. Look, finish your drink and go to bed. It's getting late. We'll talk about it more tomorrow if you like."
"I'd like that Sarah." Henry paused and downed the contents of his glass.
"You're right, it's past my bedtime," he said with a smirk, "I'll see you in the morning sweetheart."
Henry walked over to her and kissed her lightly on the top of the head.
"Night daddy."
She watched him go, listened to his footsteps on the stairs, heard the bedroom door shut. She took another swig of beer and thought about the irony of the situation. For the first time in her life her father was being reasonable about her making decisions for herself. Unfortunately his new attitude was about a week too late at best. Now all that remained was to figure out where to go from here.
Xerxes had mentioned going away together, but this might mean they could stay together here, providing her father made good on his promise. She wondered if there was any way of convincing her father that talking her boyfriend into shooting the family dog at a garden party would be seen as one of those forgivable mistakes he'd been saying she was supposed to make.
Jesus, they really hadn't thought this through. Her father being the man he was meant there was only a small chance that he wouldn't find out who had shot Pepper, considering the resources he had. It was probably just a matter of time and then he would really be tested on keeping his promise.
Other than that, the only options were to go away with Xerxes, or else break things off with him for his own protection. She wondered where they would go. Xerxes had mentioned Canada, but Sarah preferred the idea of Australia. A nice, hot country with pretty scenery and a good standard of living. Of course, you could say the same about Canada, but Sarah had never seen a Canadian soap opera, whereas all the Australian ones she'd seen made the place look pretty appealing.
Sarah stood up, finished her beer and set it down on the table top, knowing her mother would despair because she hadn't put it srtaight into the recycling, but also knowing her father would support her now. He really did seem to want to change and that could only be a good thing surely? As she thought this, her mind became clear and she had an epiphany.
She'd made her decision.

Uncle Darkness

Uncle Darkness sat on a bench in the park, feeding the ducks. It was one of his favourite spots and the place he always met his contact. Today he'd decided to treat the ducks to some nice, fresh ciabatta. He watched them splash and preen, and waddle over to where he sat, eyeing him curiously even though they must know him by now.
He'd given some of them names - the one with the damaged beak was Bill, the one with the particularly striking green plumage was Gordon, and the one with the white flecks around it's eye was Bernard. Then there was Henrietta, who was very popular with a few of the boys, Gabriel, who had a habit of taking off suddenly, doing a couple of circuits of the park and then landing heavily in the middle of the lake. That usually annoyed Simon and Priscilla, who were inseparable and would bob up and down on the ripples looking haughty. That reminded him, he hadn't seen Bob in his last couple of visits.
His contact was late by thirty-seven seconds so far. Not entirely unlike him, but enough to make a visual sweep of the area necessary. Three marks were within range, a mother and buggy , a youth in a tracksuit and headphones and a man in a suit with a briefcase. All unlikely but Uncle Darkness was not a man to be complacent. He judged range on all three and kept his eye out for sudden movements. He shifted his gun from his inside pocket to the bench next to him, hidden in the folds of a newspaper.
He scanned the bushes, trees, visible windows and other vantage points in the vicinity for gleams of light that might be reflecting from a telescopic sight. Nothing. The three marks had made their way out of range for anything but a rifle and none of them were carrying one - at least not one that was assembled, so he kept tabs on their directions and noted the possible angles.
His contact came into view. He was a grey haired man, probably in his early forties, still in fairly good shape. He had a grey suit on with a purple tie. Bad choice. He was walking quickly, looking to the sides like he was crossing the street. Uncle Darkness adjusted his trilby and the grey haired man wiped at his nose in response. Good, nothing was wrong and he hadn't been followed. He'd worked with the grey haired man for about six years now and they both knew how the other worked. If ever the grey haired man realised he'd been followed, they had signals in place to let each other know it wasn't safe and to walk away.
What the grey haired man didn't know however, was that if ever he was followed, Uncle Darkness would make sure he would be dead before he hit the floor and only then would Uncle Darkness walk away. The man probably had an idea that would happen, but nothing had ever been said between them. Uncle Darkness expected he would be treated the same way, but it was not a matter for concern. Uncle Darkness had only been followed once in his life, early in his career and had doubled back so quickly, the guy had been entirely surprised to find the contents of his jugular painting an alleyway.
The grey haired man sat on the bench next to him and put a takeaway cup of coffee down between them before opening a broadsheet. Uncle Darkness kept feeding the ducks.
"Big job."
"Mmm?"
"HPL"
Uncle Darkness paused for a second. Henry Porter Lanchester. Interesting.
"Interested?"
He threw another scrap of bread toward a duck he'd just decided to call Henry and smiled. He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.
"Oh yes, that sounds lovely."
"Details are in the racing section, usual method."
Uncle Darkness spoke into his phone again;
"Ok dear, I'll have a look when I get home." He placed the phone back in his pocket and threw more bread to Henry the duck. Grey hair turned a page.
"Is that one Henry?"
"Mmm."
Grey hair chuckled and the paper rustled slightly.
"We work together much longer, you're going to run out of ducks."
Uncle Darkness allowed himself a sly grin. Grey hair glanced at his watch as he turned a page, folded up the paper and set it on the bench. He picked up his coffee, stood up and walked away. Uncle Darkness watched him go, scanning again for anyone following him or any other possible marks in the park.
The wind picked up a little, the leaves hissing. Gabriel took that as his cue to do another couple of laps. Uncle Darkness threw some more bread to Simon and Priscilla, to try and placate them a little in preparation for when Gabriel splashed down again, making them bob.
He threw the last of the bread to the newly named Henry, picked up the paper grey hair had left, then transferred his paper with the gun in back to his inside pocket. This might be a fun assignment, depending on exactly how the client wanted it handled.
Subtle was a word that had been used, but subtle could mean many things.
Uncle Darkness hoped that he wouldn't just be directed to do the hit on Henry and that he would either be given free reign to deal out torture and death as he saw fit. He really hoped he'd have the chance to get his hands on Henry's daughter, Sarah. She was a lovely specimen and Uncle Darkness was sure her squeals of pain would incite Henry into either giving up lots of useful tidbits of information or else get him so enraged that his torture would last longer than normal. An angry man holds out longer out of spite, which suited Uncle Darkness just fine.
Henry was the sort of man who would hold out for quite a long time indeed, barring any heart defects that Uncle Darkness didn't know about. Henry was a beligerent man, used to getting his own way. Those were Uncle Darknesses favourite clients. They took longer to break, but when they did, invariably they unravelled at an unparalleled rate.
It was always fun to watch. Their psychology would turn itself inside out, Id and Ego in conflict, swopping quickly between higher and lower brain functions, as their reptilian brain interrupted mammilian thought processes in order to preserve their survival. Some would actually regress in front of his eyes, changing from rational adult to irrational child - all tears and victim mentality. Some even regressed completely and went feral. That was the most amazing thing to witness, a man turn savage.
It served to remind Uncle Darkness that the illusion of rationality and control that every single human being on this planet tries to keep in place and project to everyone else, was nothing more than a facade, a sham. Uncle Darkness always allowed himself a small chuckle if he heard people talk in terms of people and animals, for he knew better than most that people were animals too - animals that intimated propriety and moral rectitude, but were always only ever a trauma away from the wildness that birthed them.
God he hoped Henry went wild. It would be so satisfying after all these years to see that man squatting in a pile of his own shit, eating raw meat. Yes, that would be the icing on a very disturbing cake, one that had been many years in the baking.
Uncle Darkness arrived home, unlocked his somewhat fortress-like front door, all rivets and deadbolts and went inside to get a drink and ponder on the irony of his being chosen to carry out this particular job. His connection with Henry Porter Lanchester was indirect but he knew enough of the man to dislike him. However, Uncle Darkness was a professional and he would act accordingly. The fact that he would enjoy this job more than most was something he would keep to himself.

Bentenman

Arthur Bentenman paced up and down in his office. Fuck. He paced over to the door, grabbed the handle and hesitated. Fuck. He paced back over to his desk and sat down. The leather creaked. He leaned back. Fuck. He stood up again suddenly, causing spots to appear before his eyes. Fuck, fuck fuck.
He placed his hands on the desk and breathed deeply for a few moments, like his personal trainer had taught him to, back when she was still teaching him anything. She was twenty six, lithe, bouncy and he'd been fucking her behind his wife's back for eight months. Fuck.
Of course he wasn't getting the type of exercise he was paying for, but on the whole he preferred their current arrangement. All that shagging meant he was trimming up slightly too, so his wife assumed it was from the exercise. Plus it meant she wasn't getting bothered by his advances all the time, so she was happy. Did she know? Maybe, but if she did she either didn't care or else had decided the benefits outweighed the fact that he was having an affair.
He paced again. What the fuck had happened at that garden party? He was all ready to let that bastard Lanchester know that his precious little girl was banging some young stud and was so looking forward to seeing the look on that bastard's face when he realised that Bentenman was telling the truth. Oh god, it would have been sweet. Then for some reason, just as Lanchester was on his way over, his fucking dog exploded.
Who makes a dog explode? More to the point, why? What could that possibly achieve? It must have been an attempted hit gone wrong. Someone hired some fuckwit on the cheap who claimed he could shoot and the stupid turd missed and hit the dog.
Problem was, who hired the turd? He knew he hadn't and he'd made damn sure no one in his employ had gone over his head and done it. It was difficult to guess. Henry Porter Lanchester was an arse at the best of times, but even if he stiffed you on a deal he made you feel like you should be the one apologising, it was part of his charm. Besides, he hadn't stiffed many people and as bitter as Bentenman was about being one of them, he knew that Lanchester wouldn't have done it to him unless it was necessary, meaning Bentenman would have done the same thing to Lanchester if the roles had been reversed.
You had to respect a man like that. Not actually like him per se, but respect him. Bentenman ran through a list of names in his head, those either powerful or foolish enough to have pulled this debacle. Garnet - no, he lived in Lanchester's pocket. Dover - no he didn't have the balls. Harper - maybe but unlikely. Pinon - definitely up himself but Lanchester would wipe him out in a second and he knew it. That left Simmons, Du Prix, Van Horn, Elijah, (who goes by just their first name? Pretentious prick,) Murraybell and himself. Out of that list, Bentenman was the most likely to have pulled this caper. He had the resources, the connections and for fuck's sake, he had motive. Fuck.
He almost wished he had pulled it, at least then he would have had the satisfaction of it in the face of what was coming. Lanchester had already run the same list through his head and come to the same conclusion no doubt. Fuck. Even the fact that he was walking over to Bentenman when it happened made it look more like he'd done it - risking being showered with dog brains to make it look like he wasn't part of it - a classic double bluff. Well, apart from the dog brains bit. There was nothing classic about that. He'd showered for an hour after that and somehow the smell hadn't quite gone away until the next day.
He buzzed the intercom and asked his lovely secretary Tamsin, who he was also fucking, to send someone in for him to shout at. She knew better than to question him, even just by raising her inflection and replied in a straight tone that she would see to it. That was part of what he liked about her - she never questioned him. If he asked for someone to shout at, she got someone. If he asked her to bend over the desk and frig herself with his letter opener, she'd do it. Not like his wife. His wife was the complete antithesis of Tamsin. She questioned everything. If he told her he was going for a shit she'd ask how long he would be. Who in their right fucking mind knows how long they're going to be?
Bentenman could hear collected whisperings and scufflings outside the door for a moment. They were deciding who the sacrificial lamb would be. There was a trembling knock on the large oak doors which sounded more like a drum roll. Very apt, thought Bentenman and bade whoever it was in.
A young man with a severe side parting and a cheap shirt appeared in the room. His pits were already damp and he looked at any moment like he might shit himself. He was not going to be any sport at all, Bentenman could make this lad crap a housebrick just by saying good morning. The poor lads knees were trembling so Bentenman dissmissed him as nicely as his mood allowed before the little Herbert pissed on his carpet.
Bentenman leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling for a while, hoping a plan of action would come to him but nothing came. He had to try and second guess what Lanchester might do next. It would probably go one of two ways, he'd either take the softly-softly approach or else he's just go all out. If he went all out, Bentenman would have to be very careful. He could wake up in the night to find men in his house, who would rough him over, place a bag over his head and then put him in the boot of a car before driving him to some remote location, probably a warehouse out in the sticks somewhere. Lanchester would be waiting for him there, and then the shit would begin. As powerful as Bentenman was, Lanchester would get to him if he wanted to.
So, he had a limited set of options. He could run, he could hide, he could wait and see what happened and then react as best as he could or he could preempt Lanchester and strike first. Bentenman had never been much for running and although his considerable wealth would mean hiding would involve either five star hotels or else one of his little out of the way properties somewhere, probably one of the one his wife didn't know about for when he needed to entertain , the thought of hiding from that bastard for something he hadn't even done turned Bentenman's stomach. Besides, something like this would not blow over quickly, if ever, so it might mean permanent exile and he had too many concerns here that would go undealt with if he wasn't around.
So that left waiting or striking first. Waiting left him vulnerable, there was no doubt about that. It meant hoping that Lanchester would be reasonable enough to find out who really had shot his fluffy rat and there was no guarantee of that. Lanchester could be called a reasonable man, but only to a point. In his current frame of mind he was less likely to be feeling reasonable, as well, murderous. Bentenman didn't like his odds and certainly didn't like leaving his life in the hands of hope, which in his experience often dropped the ball. You left your life up to hope, it often got snatched from you.
So that was decision made then. Strike first and strike hard. Hard enough that your opponent didn't get back up again. Machiavelli would be proud. He picked up the phone and dialled.
"Giles? Arthur. Yes, hello mate, it has been a while. Listen, I need some work doing. It's rather a large job so I need professional work. Who's available? Hmm? Parker? No I don't think it's his type of thing. Mendez? No this particular work requires a little more... finesse than Mendez can provide. Right. Uncle Darkness? Yes I think he would enjoy the work and I know I can rely on him. Ok, give him a tinkle and ask him nicely for me would you? Lovely. Yes I'll be in touch with details once our dear Uncle has shown interest. Say hi to the wife for me. Ta ta."
Uncle Darkness. Bentenman sat back in his chair and rocked gently. He chuckled to himself - Christ, it was almost cruel. Still, that was that taken care of, on with the business of the day. It was probably time he gave his secretary a good seeing to.

Henry's Time

Henry had been working for the market boss for almost a year now. He's become a regular face for the people he delivered packages to and from. In addition to the market boss, the fat man, the decrepit accountant and the gaudy old woman, there was now also a sallow man, a bearded man and a very femme fatale brunette. He delivered between them on an almost daily basis, packages of varying size and weight, the contents always unknown to him. Occasionally, like with the gaudy old woman, they would give him a tip of some sort - sometimes money, sometimes something else.
His best day was when he delivered a rather large non-descript package to the femme fatale. She'd answered the door in a rather slinky black number, all curves that would fox a racing driver. She had kohl rimmed eyes and lips so red it looked like her lips were aflame. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw the package and then her beautiful pouting mouth curled up at one corner. She gazed up at him and beckoned him to bring the package inside with one finger, her nails as red as her lips.
Henry had been inside before, so steeped in over the threshold. The femme fatale walked backwards down the corridor, which was wallpapered in a deep red flocked design, continuing to curl her finger to lead him. Henry followed, trying not to watch the sway of her hips, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that she had one hand resting on her left side. The curve of her slender and pale arm drew his eyes down over her shoulder, down to her elbow and around, then down her forearm until it rested for a moment on her hand, small with slender fingers and those nails that looked like burning embers. From there Henry's eyes could not help but linger on her hips, their boom-boom rhythm beating out her gait like the most alluring metronome.
He followed her down the corridor, barely aware of the weight of the package he was carrying. She lead him into her bedroom, which was decorated in gold and red. There was a deep mahogany chest of drawers with elaborate wrought handles and a small shaded lamp on top. The centrepiece was a wooden four poster bed, with a small red and gold canopy and an assortment of scatter cushions in various shades.
She motioned for him to put the package down next to the drawers. As always, Henry stood and waited. Sometimes there was another package to go elsewhere or maybe the person would want to talk to you for a moment. It was amazing the things Henry had learned from simply standing quietly and waiting. Once the fat man had talked to Henry for over an hour about several of his business deals with the market boss and the sallow man without Henry saying a word.
This was not one of those times. The femme fatale beckoned him over again, to where she was stood by the bed. Henry went over, standing only a foot away from her, taking in the sweet scent of her perfume as well as the smell of her skin. She moved closer to him. Henry stood and waited, as always. She took another step forward and placed her hands on his wide shoulders and let her hands run over them, squinting briefly and smiling in appreciation of their musculature. She ran her hands down slowly to his collar bones and onto his chest and let out a little gasp as she felt the hard muscle under his shirt.
Henry stood impassive as she continued to run her hands down over his washboard stomach and round onto his waist. Her face was close to his now and he felt her breath, hot and sweet against his neck. She pushed him, playfully but forcefully, so he had no choice but to sit on the edge of the bed. She grinned, beautiful white teeth contrasting with the red of her lips.
She backed away, keeping her eyes fixed on him, to another mahogany cabinet. She very deliberately bent over to open the door of it, taking out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. She placed a few cubes into both glasses and poured a generous measure into each. She sashayed back over, her hips working double time. Henry was mesmerised, but not so much that he tried to touch her. He knew the rules, unwritten and unsaid. If she touched him, he could respond but if she decided just to tease him, then he had better keep his hands to himself.
She handed him his drink. Henry had never tried whiskey before, he was more a pint of ale type of guy and even then infrequently. He savoured its warm flavour and held the glass up to the light to see the light refracting through the glass and liquid. It soothed him and he took another sip.
The femme fatale gently took the glass from him and pushed gently on his chest so he lay back on the bed, its softness cushioning him, its silken sheets caressing his skin. Suddenly she was unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers. Henry ran a hand through her jet hair, as soft as the silk sheets he was lying on. She reached inside his zip and pulled him out, already hard and put those crimson lips around him. He gasped slightly, allowing a soft moan which she replicated as she moved her mouth over him, licking as she went.
He caressed her head but never grabbed, as she got into a rhythm of bobbing her head back and forth, taking him deep into her mouth. Occasionally she would let him slip out, accompanied by a loud slurping noise that made him want to be back inside as soon as she would let him, but that was up to her. She would lick the length of him and kiss up and down before plunging him back inside, her strokes becoming faster and harder.
Eventually Henry lost control and came hard into her mouth, his back arching and every muscle tense, quivering with the delight of it. She continued to suck on him for a few moments, grooming him with her tongue. As he relaxed, she let him slip out, grinning. She gingerly placed him back inside his underwear and zipped up his trousers. She buckled his belt and patted his stomach, still grinning at a job well done. She stood up slowly and Henry looked up at her. She was playfully biting on her little fingernail, the most mischievous smile spread across her pouting and slightly smudged lips. She looked at Henry for a moment and then simply waved from the wrist. It was time for Henry to go. He understood and stood up and walked out into the flocked corridor. Neither of them had said a word since he arrived.
That was the day before the incident. Henry had been asked to deliver two packages, one small and one large, from the sallow man to the fat man, but the large package had been of sufficient size that a van was needed. Henry had not only been provided with a van but also a driver, much to his surprise. He'd never been accompanied before. This meant one of two things; either the package was more valuable than normal or else this other person was untrustworthy and was being put with Henry so he could keep tabs on them.
The drive between the sallow man and the fat man was not easy due to one way systems and congestion. Henry's driver was a sickly looking man with lank hair and day old stubble, who smelled of cigarettes and cheap ale and talked too much. As much as Henry was quiet, this man talked to fill the silence.
He talked about his jobs, being amazingly indiscreet about people's names and what they got up to. He even told Henry that he'd opened a few of the packages he'd delivered. The only word Henry spoke all evening was to say no when this greasy weasel asked him if he wanted to know what was in the packages he'd opened. The man had laughed an uneasy laugh and commented on the fact that Henry was a quiet sort before launching into another tirade of indiscreet drivel. Henry tried to ignore the man as best he could but it was difficult. So far he'd heard the man's name, (Henry had remained silent when asked his,) his wife's name, all about their kids, their pets, their house - Henry even knew this stupid little man's address.
It was during one of his endless spewings that the fuckwit managed to rear-end a police car at a traffic light. Henry's stomach sank and the weasel yelled fuck at the top of his lungs before grabbing the small package and diving out of the door, bolting down the nearest side street. Henry couldn't get his seatbelt off and was struggling with it when the policeman tapped gently on the window. His partner was already chasing the weasel down the road.
The weasel had gotten away, complete with the small package, whereas Henry had been caught with the large one; it was not good news. The judge had given him ten years and true to form, Henry did his bird without saying a word to anyone. Some of the other inmates even thought he was a mute he spoke so rarely.
The years passed by slowly, along with a good portion of his youth. His taught body became less so as he concentrated more on reading than exercising. He had regular visits from the market boss, who always asked if there was anything he could do to help or anything Henry needed. He explained how grateful he was that Henry had kept his mouth shut all this time and that he'd make sure Henry was well treated while he was here and even better once he got out.
Henry's cellmate was also a quiet man, which suited them both fine. Sometimes days would pass without either of them saying a word. They read and sat in silent contemplation most days, took exercise around the yard, which basically involved walking in a big circle. Most of the other prisoners ignored the two of them due to their quiet nature. They didn't get involved in inside politics, avoided trouble and whiled away their lives. In some respects Henry found it quite tranquil. He didn't have to worry about where his next meal was coming from, the work was easy - mostly sewing mailbags or doing laundry and he had time to read. Of course given a choice he still would have preferred to be out, but for now things weren't so bad.
The market boss was true to his word and provided Henry with whatever he could while he was inside. Cigarettes were a useful currency and the market boss seemed to have an understanding of how many to bring him - enough that he could buy things he needed, but not so many that it attracted the attention of the other inmates, who would certainly go through his room to find them. Henry sometimes wondered if the reason he managed to avoid trouble so well, when other inmates seemed not to be able to stay out of it no matter how they tried, was due to the bosses influence. A man like that must surely have contacts inside.
Every now and then when he visited, the market boss would ask him to pass along a message to one of the other inmates and one time, to one of the guards. The messages seemed innocuous enough and Henry did as he was told, as always. He would write the message down on a thin strip of paper and pass it over to the person in a handshake. Henry was bright enough to know that this was proof of the bosses connections and also of the fact that Henry was still very much in his employ, even in here.
When Henry left, he was greeted at the gate by a Rolls Royce, which took him firstly to get some new clothes which went on an account and then on to see the market boss. The market boss was sat in his usual office, surrounded by boxes. He explained that Henry had proven himself more than worthy and was happy to announce that Henry was going to be moving up in the world. No more delivering packages for him, it was time for the big leagues. He was going to be helping the market boss directly as his second in command.

Sarah's lament

Sarah was scared. I could understand because here we were, conducting an affair under the nose of her powerful, influential and possibly psychotic father who didn't like the idea of her dating anyone and we'd just killed his beloved dog. We'd managed to sneak some time together after the events of the garden party. She told him she was going to stay with a friend for a couple of days until the stuff with Pepper had been dealt with.
Truth was, she was never really fond of Pepper. Like all Pomeranians, Pepper was a yappy, annoying ball of fur that had a tendency to get underfoot and take up more of her parent's time than she would have liked. Between grooming him, feeding him, walking him and then preparing him for shows and going to shows, there were definitely times when Pepper had got more attention from them than she did.
This didn't mean she wanted to kill the dog, but that was the way the plan turned out. We realised that killing a person would end us both with jail time - not a great way to go if what you want is to be able to spend time together. We knew however, that killing the dog would certainly put an end to the party and stop her father talking to Bentenman, who knew about us and wanted to use that knowledge to hurt her father to get back at him for a deal that went south.
Neither of us wanted to kill Pepper. It had almost destroyed me to do it, as it broke my first commandment. In my eyes the only thing that should be held sacred is life - all life. I'm the guy who literally wouldn't hurt a fly, but here I was, having killed an innocent Pomeranian with a rifle. I drank heavily the night it happened, which I haven't done in a long time. It was the only way I could cope and get some sleep. I couldn't imagine what people who killed people went through. It must torture you constantly. I'm not making the distinction between people and animals - I think it's wrong to kill anything but if the thing you're about to kill can plead for its life with you... that has to make things harder. You'd hear their last words in your head over and over.
We couldn't go out for fear of being spotted so we stayed in and ordered takeaway food to keep us going. We talked about what we thought would happen next, how things might end up and what we wanted to do once this had all blown over.
We talked about getting a little place together in the future, when her dad had calmed down and accepted the fact that she was a woman and had been for some time. Sarah wanted dogs, I wanted cats. Some people have both so we agreed to get them all at the same time so that they would grow up together and get along. We talked about their names and what our place would look like. We even had a mock argument about curtains and throw pillows.
Sarah brightened up somewhat but neither of us knew how this was really going to go. It could all end badly. We had to consider the possibility that if her father found out I shot the dog then it would be time for me to emigrate. She said that she'd come with me if I had to go, but we both knew that would be problematic at best.
It was so difficult to sit there with the woman I loved, knowing that despite the regrets we had, we had to do what we did, but at the same time knowing there was a chance that we might have ruined any chance we had of being together if things went wrong.
Unbeknownst to us at the time, things would go very wrong indeed. Things have a way of getting out of hand, the best laid plans and all that. That was something we forgot to take into account when we formulated our plan. The original idea was to make sure Sarah's father and Bentenman didn't get to speak, thereby ensuring our secret stayed safe, at least a little while longer. We really hadn't thought what the repercussions might be for killing Pepper. If you asked me now, I couldn't tell you which of us came up with the idea or even how. It just seemed to grow out of a conversation we were having about how to stop Bentenman telling Sarah's dad about us, at least until we were ready to broach the subject with him.
So now we had to make sure he didn't find out that it had been me. I went over and over the day in my head. I'd been careful - careful enough to pick up the cartridge casing from the rifle. Of course, they could still do a ballistics test based on the actual slug, which I felt certain they'd have found by now, unless I'd gotten really lucky and it was lodged deep in the earth or somehow deflected off the skull of poor Pepper and flown off somewhere, never to be found. I could but hope, but it was better to think along the lines that the bullet would be found and if that was the case, then the type of rifle I used would be known pretty quickly.
I'd also been careful there - I'd chosen a rifle in common use for hunting, rather than go with something more custom, which could be more easily traced. Of course this is England, so hunting rifles are still not a common commodity in any household, but going with the most common model gave me a little leeway.
I knew I was safe with the van. I'd hired it under a false name and a very good friend of mine had supplied a driving license under that name and accompanying documents that only someone with training would be able to spot as fakes. I assumed that the spotty pleb that sorted out the paperwork wasn't an adept when it came to forged papers. I'd also hired the van from a town a hundred and fifty miles away, driven it down for the shooting and then back the same day.
What we hadn't figured on, was Sarah's father - Henry Porter Lanchester, taking the killing of a small, annoying Pomeranian as an act of war. Henry was not the sort of man to treat lightly in your dealings with him. Fuck, I'd worked indirectly for the guy for nearly ten years and I'd yet to meet him. He didn't generally get involved with his businesses on a day to day basis, but he knew everything that went on in each one of them. He was like some presiding omniscience, overseeing all. Those that worked for him knew better than to fuck around as you knew he'd find out somehow. If you were lucky, you'd just get the sack. Somehow I knew that sleeping with his daughter and shooting his prize Pomeranian would have a more dire consequence.
Henry had decided that Bentenman was directly responsible for the shooting. I remember Sarah telling me about it. She'd called home just to check in and allay suspicions with her father and asked him how he was. He'd mentioned a spot of trouble with an old business associate. Sarah had asked if it had had anything to do with Pepper and he'd become uneasy and non-commital. Henry Porter Lanchester - businessman, scourge of his enemies and hardened underworld man, who had the most developed poker face when it came to dealing with people who would rip your throat out if they so much as thought about suspecting you of a double cross, was completely unable to lie to his daughter.
She'd had many years of practice of course. She knew every tell he had - he'd even instructed her in the art of spotting tells and other non verbal clues that someone was lying. Sarah had been utterly fascinated by this aspect of her father's life and devoured his teachings. She'd become completely adept at reading people through his lessons. Henry had learned the hard way, through simply watching people in high pressure situations, but he was something of a natural. He could spot the merest unconscious movement, the tiny twitch in the corner of a person's eye that told him they would accept less money in a deal or conversely, that they were getting riled and that he should back off.
Sarah had told me she'd used her skills for a while when we'd met. She'd been watching to see if I had been telling her the truth and a large part of the reason we were together now was that I always did. It was just the way I was wired. In any given situation, my first instinct was to tell the truth. It usually didn't even occur to me to lie and fuck the consequences. If people didn't like hearing the truth, that was their problem. I'd been around enough bullshitters in my time to know that they would always get caught out and it was usually sooner rather than later unless they were particularly clever. The way I figured it, liars have to be very clever and on top of things. They have to remember which lies they've told and to whom to keep up their pretences. I just can't be arsed with all that hassle, so I tell the truth and then I don't have to keep track of anything. I don't have to remember anything other than what happened.
This is why this situation is so fucked up. Not only have I broken several of my commandments, but I'm having to lie about it. It's lucky I'm clever after all. The real shame of it is that I know Henry respects honesty, especially people that are so honest that they drop themselves in the shit because of it. He respects people who are willing to risk the consequences of telling the truth and here we are in a situation where there's no way I can do that because he'd have me gutted if I did. He'd probably like me otherwise. Fucking typical.
Anyway, Henry had given the game away in his conversation with Sarah and we now knew he was going to go after Bentenman. If Henry got hold of Bentenman, well, our problem was solved. If Bentenman got hold of Henry, things could get very dark indeed. Dark like an Alaskan winter. Not only would Bentenman convince Henry that he was not behind the shooting, (Henry would pick up on the fact that he was telling the truth,) but he would also tell him about us, which would be the icing on the cake. If Henry survived the encounter, and I didn't know enough about Bentenman to place any bets at this stage, then he would come for me, riding all the Valkyries of hell, ready to unleash their fury. If I was lucky, my body would give out quickly. If not, I was looking at a couple of days in the company of Mr. Pliers and Mrs Hotknife. It was not a prospect I relished.
Sarah was getting more and more scared now. She knew what her father was capable of more than most and several times I woke in the night to find her weeping next to me. On the one hand it was wonderful to have her here and the fact that she was so upset showed how much she cared for me, but the joy of knowing that was always tempered by the fact that she was crying over some imagined fate for me. We desperately needed to know what was going on, but there was little way of finding out that would not arouse suspicion.
Sooner than I wanted, it was time for Sarah to return home. I'd gotten so used to having her here for the few scant days we'd had together that I really wondered what I was going to do without her here. I considered asking her to stay, but knew before I'd opened my mouth that it was folly. If she didn't return, there would be awkward questions that may lead, ultimately to my death.
If there was a bright side to all this, however small, it was that the fear and danger intensified our lovemaking to the point of epic proportions. Romeo and Juliet never fucked this passionately. We were a blend of limbs and lips, an amorphous mixture, churning and mixing like paint on a palette. We enveloped each other completely and neither could tell where one ended and the other began. We shared breaths and caresses, kisses and climaxes. We lay spent after several hours, draped over each other, dropping little kisses on any spot we could find, arms and legs entangled like celtic knotwork, so we thought nothing bar Alexander's technique for beating the Gordian knot would separate us.
As she was leaving, she erupted into tears once more. Again I felt the comfort of her caring for me juxtaposed with the reason she was crying. I held her for as long as I could. She looked up at me with eyes full of salty droplets, which I wiped gently away with the butt of my hand. She gazed deep into my eyes and entwined our fingers together like the roots of an ancient tree and moved my hand close to her chest. For a moment, she said nothing and all I could feel was the samba rhythm of her heart beating. She looked down at our hands, as if readying herself for something.
Suddenly she looked up into my eyes again and held my gaze for a second before slowly and deliberately telling me she loved me. I felt my heart swell to capacity and told her I loved her too. It was the first time we'd said it.

The Aftermath

The guests had gone. Gone, back to whatever lavish homes they'd dragged themselves out of. Gone home to try and calm down, have a drink to steady their nerves and talk in astonished tones about what had happened. For the unfortunate few near to the incident, it was time to try and get the bits of blood and scraps of brains out of their clothing and hair. For the even less fortunate ones it meant a trip to hospital to be treated for shock.
The armed waiters had been good - fast and professional, but they'd fond nothing, not even a spent catridge casing. Whoever had taken the shot was either good or just plain careful. The only thing the waiters had turned up at all was a patch of flattened grass on a hillock overlooking the house and some van tracks on a nearby lane. They couldn't even be sure that the flattened grass wasn't caused by a resting animal - there were deer in the surrounding woods, but it did seem to correlate with the direction of the shot.
Henry couldn't believe it. Some fucker had made Pepper's head explode. He'd been showered with gore and hit the deck, but no second shot came. Had they been disturbed? Did they only have time for one shot? It didn't make sense. If they were careful enough to pick up the spent casing, you'd think they would have been able to shoot straight enough to hit him and not the dog. He was, after all, a much bigger target than a poor Pomeranian.
He considered the idea that the shooter meant to hit the dog, but that was just madness. Why kill his dog? What would that achieve? Unless...
Henry's mind whirled, thinking of all the possible reasons and scenarios. This was Henry's real talent - he could come up with fifty worst-case scenarios for any given situation by the time you'd finished explaining it to him. If he hadn't ended up doing what he was doing he'd have made either a great risk assesment manager or else he would have written some of the best disaster movies ever made.
It must have been intended to hurt him emotionally rather than physically, if the plan was to indeed hit the dog. It wasn't exactly a secret how much he and his wife cared for their dog - Pepper had won best of breed awards for fuck's sake, but really if that was the case why not aim for his wife or daughter?
Poor Pepper. He'd been such a good dog. A member of the family. He'd always yap if anyone came up the drive, before they'd even reached the door, like an early warning system.
Henry was going to have to make a lot of apologetic phone calls. Some of the people at the part were actually respectable and were not used to shots ringing out or exploding dogs. There were those at the party who he knew would be less traumatised by the experience and some of them would no doubt be ringing him over the coming days, probably with shot dog jokes at the ready. He'd laugh along, maybe even with one or two quips of his own but it would just be for appearences sake.
Then it clicked. Bentenman. Bentenman had said he'd wanted to talk to Henry at the party and Henry was walking over to Bentenman when it had happened. Bentenman had the biggest grudge out of anyone there, after losing two and a half million on a property deal that had only cost Henry half a million. That was enough reason for someone like Bentenman to want to hurt Henry.
Right, thought Henry. That public school fucker wants to kick off, then we'll kick off. He snatched the phone from its cradle and dialled Jeff. Jeff was Henry's second in command, his go to guy. Jeff got done whatever Henry needed doing and he was very good at it. Henry had known Jeff for almost fifteen years now and whilst he trusted him completely, if he was honest with himself, they weren't really friends. Jeff and his wife would come over for dinner once a week and Henry and his would go over to theirs. The talk around the table was always easy and light and there were no awkward pauses. They shared a similar sense of humour - dark and dry, perhaps unsurprisingly considering the things they'd seen and done in their lives .
Still despite all this and the fact that if ever Henry needed anything whatsoever, Jeff was there, Henry couldn't bring himself to think of Jeff as a true friend. He was the closest thing Henry had to one though, as everyone else Henry knew either worked for him or against him in some capacity.
Jeff answered within three rings and Henry explained his theory that Bentenman had engineered the shooting, that it was possible that Pepper was indeed the intended target
and why Henry thought this was the case.
Jeff simply listened, grunted in the right places and then asked what Henry wanted done. Henry paused - the moment was pregnant with possibilities, all of them spinning around inside Henry's head until one came to the fore, like a ball plucked from the swirling masses in a bingo machine.
Henry, with his talent for worst case scenarios, had imagined such a scenario for Bentenman and even Henry had to admit, it was a bad one. Jeff, ever the stoic, grunted again and told Henry he'd get it done.
With that done, Henry relaxed back into his leather sofa, the material creasing around his ample frame, picked up his glass and sipped the smokey flavour of the whiskey. He should probably go and talk to the wife. She'd been devastated by Pepper's death and had retreated up to the bedroom while Henry had been working out what had happened. Knowing her, she would have sobbed for a bit before retreating into two bottles - one of vodka, the other of Valium.
Henry rolled the glass between his fingers and let his head loll onto the back of the sofa. He sighed heavily and rubbed his temples. Slowly he rose from the sofa, knees creaking and shuffled the couple of steps to the table and set his drink down. He climbed the thickly carpeted stairs and made his way along the landing to the bedroom.
She was sat on the end of the bed, cheeks streaked with mascara, eyes red rimmed ans puffy, holding a sodden rag of a tissue limply in one hand. Henry walked over to the bedside cabinet and grabbed a handful of tissues. He sat next to her and handed her some of the tissues. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. He looked at her and she gazed back for a second before looking away, conscious of how she looked. Henry stroked her hair. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even at times like this or when she woke up in the morning with her hair all over the place.
It was a shame. She'd been so beautiful and funny and interesting and lively. Those days were gone now. After giving birth to Sarah, she'd suffered from post-natal depression that slid inexorably into a full blown breakdown with delusional episodes. She started seeing things and it got to the point where henry couldn't take her anywhere. She was so much the trophy wife that she may as well have had handles and an engraving but Henry had genuinely cared for her, as much as he was ever able to. Now she spent her days on Lithium and her evenings on what she called her double V's, which was vodka and Valium.
She told Henry that she hadn't taken her Lithium today. Today of all days. She was shaking, the reality of what had happened had been too much for her. She leant into Henry's shoulder and began slowly and quietly sobbing again. He put his arm around her and told her it would be ok, they'd find the fucker that did this and make them pay. She wailed and cried out what if it had been him? Or Her? Or Sarah for fuck's sake? What if they'd shot Sarah?
He consoled her for a couple of hours before she was calm enough to lie down. She was asleep within seconds, the exhaustion of the day, along with the Valium, sending her off. As soon as her breathing deepened, Henry got up gently and walked around the house. He often paced along the corridors late at night, thinking things through. He rarely needed more than four or five hours sleep a night. He remembered reading somewhere that the more intelligent a person was, the less sleep they were likely to need, but that had never made sense to Henry. Surely, he reasoned, if you were using your brain more, you'd need more sleep since the brain is the only part of the body that actually needs sleep? Besides, he was hardly intelligent - he hadn't even finished school. Sarah was always telling him off for saying things like that. She said academic achievement and intelligence were two seperate things and often unrelated. God only knew where Sarah got her brains from, her mother wasn't exactly due to appear on Mastermind any time soon either.
God, Sarah. What if it had been Sarah? As much as he'd loved Pepper, it was just a fucking dog. You could go out and buy a new one. Not something you could do with your only daughter. As he walked, tears pricked the corner of his eyes. He stopped and leaned against the wall outside her bedroom door. He choked back a sob and stood for a moment, staring at her closed door, thanking anything that was listening that she was ok.
His head filled with images of Sarah, limp and bloodied, or lying face down in the grass, which was growing redder by the second, or with half her face missing, or running up the garden with her in his arms, her head lolling unnaturally as he ran. As useful as his worst-case scenario talent could be, at times like this it was a definite drawback. The images he would envision could be as real as the world in front of his eyes sometimes and he could see his imaginings in crystal clarity.
As a child he'd been plagued by these thoughts, unwanted and intrusive, just as his father had told Henry he was once. Henry had been worried that he was some sort of psychic, that these thoughts and visions were prophetic in some form, but although many of the things he imagined as a child did in fact happen to him, he learned that they were just in his imagination whether they happened in the real world or not.
He was crying freely now, still tormented by ever worse images of Sarah - now bleeding to death from a ruptured femoral artery, hands on her thigh trying to stem the flow of life leaving her, her pleading face looking to him to make it stop and then eventually passing out from the loss of blood and dying before anyone could help.
He went into the kitchen to fix himself a snack. As he closed the fridge door, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement outside the french doors from the corner of his eye. Cautiously, he put the plate of chicken onto the counter and went through to the study, unlocked his desk drawer and took out his gun. It was a Sig Sauer thirteen shot pistol, the silencer already in place. He flipped the safety and headed back to the kitchen door.
He peered out carefully, exposing as little as possible for someone to target. He could see very little but there was no obvious threat. He stepped out and as he did, the security light went on outside the barn. His head snapped in that direction and then he was running toward the barn. He skirted around the main building, taking care to stay close to the wall and down the path to the barn as quickly as he could as there was very little in the way of cover.
As he got to the barn, he double checked the gun was cocked and the safety was off and then inched toward the barn door. He gingerly flicked the catch and eased the door open. Henry peered around the door into the darkness. He opened the door just enough to slip through if he breathed in and started to go inside.
Just as Henry had got fully inside the barn, a fox ran out from the shadows, between his legs and out into the fresh night. Henry almost had a coronary. He doubled over to catch his breath, laughing at himself as he did. He walked out of the barn and latched the door. As he walked back to the house he was unable to see the figure slipping around the back of the barn.

Henry Porter Lanchester

Henry Porter Lanchester liked to think of himself as a fair and simple man. He had simple tastes and simple pleasures. He rewarded loyalty and punished disloyalty. He had a simple set of rules for those who worked for him: Work hard, work only for me and never, ever steal from me. If you need something, ask don't take.
He had a reputation as a hard man to work for and he knew it. Sometimes he played up on it a little in order to keep people in line. Usually it was people in the lower ranks because people in the upper echelons of his organisation knew how things worked and they were only there because they were loyal and could be trusted.
If you asked him what the most important qualities in a man were, he would say loyal, dependable, honest, honorable and dignified. Like a lot of people in his position, he often didn't display the qualities himself that he demanded in others, but it was this dichotomy that had got him to where he was, which was effectively lord of the manor. His house wasn't actually a manor, but it was large and filled with the sorts of things that you would expect a man from a rough background to have once he got enough money.
Of course Henry didn't believe in a concept of 'enough money'. There was never enough. He currently owned several properties around the globe, had investments enough to require a manager to oversee his broker and accountant, a nice little forty-footer moored off St. Tropez with an on board bar, as well as lots of other little luxuries. His current value was quoted around two hundred and thirteen million - more than he or a couple of generation of his family would ever be able to spend, but he wanted more.
With money came power and it was power that was his real motivation. Not political power but real, tangeable power. Power over people. Particularly power over people with power. Now that was something worth having.
When he was growing up, he had no power. None at all. Before he abandoned young Henry and his mother for good, his dad beat him regularly and there was nothing he could do. He would also beat his mother, who would then drink heavily and sometimes she would beat Henry, blaming him for her own powerlessness against his father. He was a small child and was picked on at school by the bullies as well as kids who were picked on by the bullies. He was the lowest in the chain, the one everyone knew they could take their shit out on with no comeback.
He never complained. When he refused to cry during a beating, his father would beat him harder, determined to break him but Henry wouldn't break. Once when he was seven, Henry's father beat him unconscious out of sheer frustration at the boy's resiliance.
As he got older he filled out, although he was always shorter than his classmates. He started lifting weights to enhance the muscles he was growing. By the time he was thirteen, the kids at school couldn't knock him over any more. At fifteen he was expelled from school for beating the largest of the bullies into a near-coma. It was the first time he'd ever fought back in his life.
After that, no one hit him. No one dared. He got a job working in a factory to help pay for himself and his mother, who was unemployed and firmly in the grip of alcoholism by now. He's even had to write the acknowledgement letter to the school when he was expelled as she was incapable. The factory job was paid badly and cold but still Henry didn't complain about his lot.
Despite being a quiet person on the whole who just wanted to get on with his life and be left alone for the most part, trouble seemed to catch up with Henry on a semi-regular basis.
The foreman at the factory became the second man Henry taught a lesson to, after constantly berating him for no reason at all. He ended up with a broken arm and a severe concussion. Henry ended up with a warning, (the foreman refused to press charges,) and a first class ticket to the dole queue. His mother raged at him on his return for being irressponsible and stupid, putting the responsibility of putting food on the table for the family on him. She beat him in a drunken stupor but between his now well muscled frame and her insobriety, he barely felt the blows land.
He got another job at a market, working as a delivery driver. He spent his days shifting large and stinking boxes of fish, which served to tone his frame even more. He became friendly with some of the market workers, or as friendly as he could be and soon became a regular fixture.
At seventeen he started to attract female attention. He was still very inexperienced in dealings with women and tended to shy away. In truth he wasn't very interested in sex at all. He didn't have time for a relationship inbetween work and caring for his mother. Each night he would come home, shower, prepare a meal for them both and sit through a tirade of verbal abuse from his mother as she drank her evening meal, rarely eating anything he had made. Eventually she would fall asleep in a chair, cigarette still burning down towards her knuckles and he would put the cigarette out, carry her upstairs and put her into bed.
The rest of the evening would be his and most nights he would read whatever he had managed to get his hands on, either from saving a little of his pay or borrowing books from work colleagues.
When he was eighteen, his mother died from cirrhosis of the liver. She had left him the house but not much else. Henry didn't cry at the funeral and was shunned by the rest of the family, who had heard horror stories about the boy from his mother and had believed her without a shred of evidence.
Still Henry didn't complain. To him, the only difference was that he had more time to read. He continued to go to work. News of his mothers death went around the market and they took up a collection for the nice, quiet lad who drove the van and who's name most of them didn't know. They bought him a condolences card and a small gift and presented it to him at the end of the day.
Henry didn't really know what to say. He thanked them and shook hands with a few of them. Even the boss of the whole market had come down and not only did he shake Henry's hand, but he did know Henry's name. He told Henry that he was sorry about his mother. Henry always found it odd when people said things like that. What were they sorry for? The boss man told Henry that he should take a couple of days off and he would see to it that Henry was paid for those days. He also said he'd been watching Henry with interest and that when he came back, Henry should go see him in his office first thing.
Henry spent his two days off reading and cleaning the house. On his return, he walked up the four flights of stairs into the boss' office. Henry was nervous, his only previous experience with bosses and offices involved a talking to by a policeman and a subsequent sacking. The boss man welcomed Henry in, invited him to sit down and offered him a drink. Henry declined, it still only being eight in the morning. The boss man smiled and told Henry that he had a job for him, that his talents were being wasted and that he could earn a lot more money working directly for one of the boss man's other interests. He told Henry that he would pay him twice what he was currently earning for doing much the same job - delivering parcels.
Like any young man in Henry's position, Henry knew a good opportunity when he saw it. He greatfully accepted the job and boss man even told Henry he could take the rest of the day off and that he would sort out another driver for the market.
Slightly bewildered, henry went home to read again. He arrived at his new workplace on time. It was a small accountants office, wedged inbetween two other on a small back street that still had a cobbled road. He knocked and went in. For a second it looked empty until Henry's eyes got used to the gloom inside. There was a small, wizened man with large rimmed glasses and thick musty lenses sitting behind the main desk, dwarfed by stacks of musty smelling paperwork. It was only the tapping of the man's finger on the oak that even alerted Henry to his presense, he seemed to be such a part of the room.
He told Henry that he was late and held out a package for him with a slip of paper attached. Henry was, in fact fifteen minutes early but decided not to say anything. The man looked at Henry in a way that suggested that questions were not a good idea, but Henry had to ask what he was to do once he'd delivered it. Was he to come back here or go back to the boss' office? The wizened man told Henry in flat tones that he didn't give a flying fuck what Henry did, but as far as he was concerned, Henry's work day was over once he'd delivered the parcel intact and unopened.
Henry wasn't stupid. He knew that delivering one small parcel was hardly worthy of a full day's pay and pretty good pay at that, unless it contained something valuable or illicit in some way. He also knew better than to ask what the parcel contained. That really would be stupid for two reasons: One, it would make the aged accountant distrust him and second, if he got caught with it for some reason it would be better not to know what it contained.
Henry headed for the door. As he reached for the handle, the old man growled in a low voice that if he opened the parcel or failed to deliver it for any reason, he'd better not come back to the office. In fact, in those circumstances he would do well to leave town. Henry looked back over his shoulder at the man and simply nodded. The man nodded back slowly.
Henry read the address on the slip of paper. He knew roughly where it was - across town and in an industrial district. He had not been given a time to make the delivery by, but decided it might be best to do this job quickly. He grabbed a cab across town and then walked the last part of the journey through the warehouses. The package was small but felt heavy in his jacket pocket. At no point did Henry get even the slightest temptation to open it, having figured it was probably more than his life was worth.
He found the warehouse on the address slip, which looked long abandoned from the outside. He knocked on the front door and got no reply. This was something he hadn't considered. What if there was no one here to deliver to? What would he do then?
He walked the perimiter of the building, through overgrown weeds and grasses, dogshit and empty cans. He found a small side door near the back of the building. It was thick steel with a slide plate. He knocked. The slide plate opened and a pair of eyes squinted at him from between a metal lattice. He explained where he was from and the plate slid shut. He heard four bolts being slid open and the door opened just enough to let him in.
Henry stepped into the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust. The man who had let him in said nothing but motioned for him to walk into a nearby office. Henry went in and stood in front of another large oak desk, behind which sat a fat man with slicked down hair over an obvious bald patch. The only light in the room came from a small desk lamp with a green shade, which meant he could only just make out the man. He was wearing a pin stripe suit that looked too big for him, which was impressive given his frame. He puffed clouds of blue smoke from a cigar.
The fat man said nothing, but slowly leaned forward in his chair and stretched out his hand. Henry passed the parcel across to him and returned to his spot in the middle of the room. Henry waited while the fat man weighed the parcel in his chubby hand, turning it over before placing it on the desk.
He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a parcel approximately the same size, in plain brown paper and tied with string. He held it out and Henry stepped forward and took it. Henry looked at the address on the new slip. Back across town again. The fat man sat with his elbows on the desk, hands clasped together. Henry waited to be dismissed. The fat man waved Henry away and Henry nodded to the fat man, turned on his heel and walked out through the steel side door which clunked shut behind him. Henry heard the bolts replace.
As he walked away he glanced back at the building. On his approach he hadn't noticed the figure on the roof, who was now walking away from Henry. Presumably he'd have been shot by that man if he'd have been anyone else.
He walked the few blocks back to the outskirts where he could catch a cab and directed it to somewhere just short of his destination again and walked the last few blocks.
This time he found an old jewellers shop, windows smeared with so much dust and grease that you could barely see the displays, which sat on mouldering cushions and completely failed to gleam. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the front door was not only locked, but judging by the amount of mail behind it, probably stuck anyway. Next to the shop was a covered alleyway which smelled heavily of urine.
Henry reflected on his glamourous career so far - smelling of fish, then wlaking around abandoned warehouses avoiding dog shit, now venturing down a dark, piss-stinking alley - before shrugging his shoulders and setting off to find the other way in.
After hopping a very rotten fence which almost gave under his weight, he found the back door open. He knocked on the glass and was bidden inside by a raspy voice with a scouse accent.
Inside was as gloomy as the front window and an old woman, with blonde curly hair and sloppily applied, gaudy make up sat at a table which overflowed with ashtrays, cigarette ends and scraps of cat food. There were several cats prowling around the room and one of them rubbed itself against Henry's legs. He reached down and stroked it behind the ear. The woman smiled at him, showing a mouth with an eclectic collection of teeth - some yellow, some brown some long, some short and a fair few missing.
The smile dropped after a second and she held out her hand. Henry handed over the parcel and waited. The woman didn't weigh hers like the fat man, but simply put it to one side and studied Henry for a moment. She smiled again, but this time with closed lips and reached down into her bag on the floor. She brought out a battered purse and unlocked the clasp. She handed Henry a small wad of notes. Henry took it and waited.
She studied Henry for another moment and then told him that he could go. Henry asked where he should take the money and the woman gurgled a flemmy laugh and told Henry it was for him.
He left and found a gate in the fence that opened just enough for him to squeeze through sideways and headed home.
Once he was safely home he counted the money she'd given him. It was five hundred pounds. That was more than he used to earn in a month delivering for the market and he'd earned it in a single day by delivering two parcels. Henry found himself thinking that he could get used to this.

About a girl

Like any good story, this one involves a girl. If I were you, I'd be expecting me to say, "but not just any girl... this one was special." Well she is, but I'm self aware enough to know that she's special to me from my point of view. She thinks I'm special too. So far, so good.
The problems arose after we'd started seeing each other for a while. See, there's someone else who thinks she's special and that's her dad. Her dad not only thinks she's special, he thinks she's a beautiful china doll - pristine and untouched. Like any girl growing up with that kind of pressure hanging over them, she secretly rebelled. In fact she rebelled so hard and so successfully, she would have put any catholic school girl to shame, except for the fact that she used to be one.
Even into her twenties, her father assumed she was his little unspoiled, untainted princess and treated her as such. She knew she could always go to her father for money, which she would claim was for clothes or shoes or feminine hygiene products, (which always resulted in a slightly flustered father handing over pretty much the entire contents of his wallet as quickly as possible,) but would usually be spent on booze and drugs and occasionally, rough sex.
By the time we met she'd calmed down a lot and done all the naughty things she wanted to try and was ready to move on, which is where I came in. I helped her through a particularly rough patch with family problems, talked her through her issues and even got her to acknowledge a few problems that she hadn't even admitted to herself that she had.
We became close naturally, but seeing her was difficult, due to her father keeping a closer eye on her than usual. Overbearing he may have been, but stupid he wasn't. He'd noticed a change in her behaviour and decided to keep tabs on her. She went everywhere with a bodyguard, paid for by daddy and under strict instructions to fracture the bones of anyone that looked like they were contemplating the possibility of forming a thought about touching her.
We managed to snatch a few hours here and there, but even then nothing was going on with us, we just liked each other's company. We would hang out and talk or grab a coffee together and it was great. There was no pressure on us to do anything except enjoy our time together.
It happened one evening, some months after the bodyguard had been retired and daddy's suspicions allayed. We had gone out for a meal and had a good time talking and devouring mezze in a little Turkish place I know. Apparently I had decided to share some of the yogurt dip with my face because she started giggling, which never fails to set me off. After five minutes of mirth, which only one of us knew was about, she reached over and wiped my cheek with her finger. I chuckled slightly and then she put her hand on my face and looked at me intently. The moment lingered with her hand on my cheek and then we leaned across the table and kissed, gently but deeply, without having said a word.
There was no awkwardness, no blushes, we both just knew it was right and what we had been waiting for, without either of us having previously realised. We spent the night back at mine, after she called home to tell her father that she was staying at a friend's, (the friend had been briefed and could forward any calls,) and eventually fell asleep in each other's arms at about 4am.
Everything that night had been perfect. The meal, the kiss, the intense and passionate lovemaking for hours, it had all gone according to some unspoken plan. There was the matter of her father however. He didn't even like her having male friends, which had made our previous friendship furtive and difficult. To be her boyfriend would be... well, if not impossible, then certainly a strange way to commit suicide.
She was optimistic that she could handle him, I was not so sure. Worst of all I worked for him - well one of the companies he owned anyway and his temper was pretty much the stuff of horror stories. New members of staff would be told they should hope they never meet him and if they do, to pray he's having a good day. As an employee, I really didn't give a shit, but as the guy sleeping with his daughter... that was something else.
She approached him cautiously one evening after he'd eaten and was half way into his fourth whiskey and asked, hypothetically of course, what he would think of her having a boyfriend. Apparently the change was instant. He sat bolt upright in the chair, spilling whiskey on the axeminster and demanded to know who she was seeing and had he got her in trouble? Various threats followed, most of a visceral nature towards this despoiler of his most precious treasure before she managed to calm him down by assuring him that she wasn't seeing anyone and had no plans to, she had just been curious as to what he would think about it. His reply was to say that all men were scum who were after one thing and he could speak with some authority as he was a man himself.
It had taken another two whiskeys and half an hour stroking Pepper before his face returned to its normal colour. This was not a man who liked the idea of his daughter dating. This was also a man who commanded enough power to make very bad things happen for any man foolish enough to try.
Rumour has it that one unfortunate guy who crossed his path in a business deal woke up in an abandoned warehouse to find he was missing his thumbs. As he was just getting used to the idea he caught sight of a figure sat on a chair some distance away, obscured by shadow. The figure instructed him to climb onto another unocupied chair, where he would find a length of rope hanging from a supporting girder and that he should place the noose that had been tied in it around his neck. Thumbless did as he was told, not wishing to risk losing more digits.
As the chair was kicked from under him he was told that if he could untie the noose, he would be considered a free man, with all debts paid in full. Not an easy task to untie a noose so I'm told, especially if you are choking to death at the time and lacking opposible thumbs to help. Thumbless managed to somehow slip the noose away from his neck with one four fingered hand and eventually over his head with the other. He was shot in the head shortly thereafter, presumably because having not untied the noose he was deemed to have cheated. So the story goes anyway.
So our meetings became trysts proper, albeit less frequently to lessen the risk of waking up missing a part of my anatomy. Neither of us wanted that and both of us had a pretty good guess at what part he might be inclined to choose. Meeting in secret did add a certain frission of excitement, as much as I hate to say it, which made everything all the more passionate. You tend to be pretty passionate when you think your life might depend on it.
About four months after we started seeing each other, she told me she'd heard whisperings that her dad was suspicious of her visits to friends and was going to have her discreetly tailed. I considered the possibility of contacting local investigators and trying to find out if they'd been hired by him and then offering them more money to report back that she really was going to friend's houses but realised that there was no way I could afford to outbid a millionaire and contacting the investigator would definitely give them something to report.
We decided to lay low for a while and hold off seeing each other. It was hard. We'd been lovers for a while and friends even longer, but it was the only way to ensure I didn't find myself at the bottom of his carp pond at the country retreat.
Not seeing her just made me want to all the more. She bought a new mobile with money from her father, to which only I had the number. We would send texts and sometimes talk late at night when she knew he was asleep.
Then came the bombshell. Someone knew about us. She wasn't sure who, but someone did. Someone who knew her father. This could now all end in tears. There were so many possibilities - if it was someone she could trust, we were safe. If not, then we had to find out who and how likely they would be to tell her father. We didn't have much money, so bribing them was unlikely, even if they could be bought.
After another week of discreetly trying to find out who it was, we found out it was a business associate of her fathers. A business associate who had come out rather badly on a deal with him and had a grudge. Apparently he'd been keeping his eye on her for some time in the hope that he'd find some ammunition with which to hurt her father with and had continued to have her followed long after her father had given up. We'd been seen together and apparently there was photographic evidence. This was about the worst possible news. Not only did this bastard know about us, but he wanted to tell her father for malicious purposes. That meant no bribing, bargaining or pleading would work. I was screwed.
The only thing that remained was to figure out when he was going to use this knowledge. That was how long I had left to either live or run. The next day her father announced that he was going to have a garden party in a month's time. Bingo. There was no way the guy would be able to resist humiliating her father pubicly and at his own event, in front of all his friends and business partners. I had 30 days to figure out what I was going to do.
What I needed was a plan.
I dismissed the idea of running almost instantly for several reasons. One, there was a pretty good chance I'd be running for the rest of my life. Two I would never get to see her again. Three, if I ever got caught, I'd probably die slower because I made him chase me. Obviously not the way to go.
So if I was staying I needed to somehow stop this business partner from telling her father. Offering to kill her father didn't go down too well and trying to kill the other guy would be just as difficult to do - rich guys tend to have pretty good security. Besides, I wasn't about to break my first commandment. We had to either stop business guy from going to the garden party somehow or else stop the two men meeting once they were there. Neither option sounded easy but they were all we had.
We came up with plan after plan; some simple, some elaborate, some just plain stupid. Nothing seemed feasible. Strangely it was her who came up with the idea that we eventually implemented. It wasn't even our best plan and as far as stupid plans go, it was up there with the more moronic ones but we'd exhausted all other possibilities as far as we could see and we were just plain desperate.
This had to work, there was no plan B.

The Garden Party

The garden party was in full swing. People and conversation flowed like wine, which also flowed freely. The lawn had been immaculately cut into stripes and someone had spent some considerable time going over it with a roller. The trees around the outside waved lazily in the afternoon breeze, joined by the hemlines of frocks and hats of the ladies. There was a large marquee at one end, and tables lay off in a large circle down the garden, laden with posies of fresh flowers in the centre. A few of the tables were populated but most people had congregated in the centre of the circle, standing chatting and drinking with others of a similar social standing.
It was kind of interesting to watch the groups form and watch for the alpha's establish control over the others by telling their tired old stories, albeit with authority. Every once in a while one of the group would challenge for the attention of the group by interjecting. Sometimes they would win and the previous centre of attention would take a step back, often literally, blending in with the rapt crowd and other times the alpha would wait until it was polite to regain control and carry on. Those who were most used to having people hang on their words would simply talk over the interloper, cutting them off. Those were the type of people that didn't give a fuck if you thought they were impolite, they were way too important to have someone else grab their audience, even for just a few seconds.
People would peel off occasionally to go to the buffet in the marquee to restock plates with canapés, imported olives, calamari rings and other expensive, assorted nibbles or to refill glasses with champagne. For some reason those who left a group almost invariably never went back to the same one. They would catch sight of someone at another group or get accosted by someone to join theirs. It was called mingling and everyone at this particular party was an expert.
I lay on top of the hillock up from the house, watching it all through the scope. It was every world in microcosm. People meeting up, letting their façades do the talking, keeping everything at surface level. Pleasantries were exchanged, jokes shared and business deals were forged. It was the ultimate 'elephant in the room' situation - not one person showed the slightest shred of sincerity towards one another and they all knew it, but played along anyway. That was the game. Most of the attendees were so used to the schmoozing scene they didn't even realise there was any alternative.
Humans lie. It's something we learn early on. Sometimes it's for self preservation, like when a child tells you they didn't do whatever it is that they've quite obviously done. They're trying to avoid a telling off so much that they end up convincing themselves they really didn't do it. Other times it's a coping strategy. Hell, some people just do it for fun, to fuck with the heads of others for their own amusement, but for most it's just what they see when they're growing up so it becomes second nature. For some strange reason, I'm not built like that. I can only assume it's either due to the culmination of my experiences over the years, having met some of the biggest fakers and bullshitters around, or maybe I was just born this way. Don't get me wrong, I lie sometimes but my first instinct in any given situation is to blurt out the truth, whatever it may be. It's got me into trouble more than once.
See, like I said, most people have this shit ingrained. They talk about being honest and they believe they are, but they hide so much from other people that when they meet someone who is genuinely honest, they actually find it extremely uncomfortable. It's not really surprising, someone that is truly honest exposes you for the liar you are and for a second you have to really look at yourself and decide if you like what you see. It's at this point one of three things happens. The most common is that the person realises that they don't like being like this for the most fleeting of seconds before cognitive dissonance kicks in again and tells them that everyone does it, so they're no worse than anyone else and the façade pops back into place and they carry on as always.
The second situation sees the person realise they don't like being like that and they turn inward and get depressed because they can't be themselves around people. They end up alcoholic or homeless or stuck in a bad relationship and they slowly hollow themselves out with drink or drugs until only the smiling shell is left. Most of the women here have that glassy eyed look. I swear if you gazed into their eyes, you'd find yourself looking at the back of their heads.
The last option is rare. The person looks into themselves and decides that they don't like how they are and decide to make a change.

Now change can be a scary thing. It takes actual courage to admit you don't like something about yourself and it takes even more to actually do something about changing it. This is the process I've been through over the years. I'm not blowing my own trumpet, but for me it's about changing and growing. A lot of people are just too scared to step out of their comfortable bubble. That's not a judgement, that's just the way things are.
A commotion near the marquee snaps me out of my philosophising. I train the scope up the garden just in time to see today's generous and gracious host emerging from the canvas with his lovely wife Katrina and Pepper, his beloved Pomeranian, both trotting along obediently in tow. Katrina air kisses several guests, being careful not to spill any champagne on their finery. She sashays from guest to guest, the same smile fixed in place almost as well as her blonde tresses which bob slightly as she moves but no more, nodding and laughing. I wonder cynically if it should be her wearing the leash. I frown inwardly at my bitter thought before training the scope back on her again. She's wearing a low cut A-line number in cream. Simple, unadorned and very classy. Her only decadence is a necklace in pearls and diamonds. Ah, I realise. That's the leash.
Meanwhile her husband has moved away and I've lost him in the crowd. Sloppy. It takes me a minute but I find him striding away from the drinks table. Following his line of sight I figure out where he's going and subsequently, who he's going to talk to. Of course it takes him almost ten minutes to get over to them, being the host of the party means he's going to have to say a few words to everyone he passes. He's the most interesting to watch. He screams power. He was obviously quite a well muscled man in his younger days but in his middle age that has fallen to a paunch that somehow seems to focus his power. He's so powerful he can afford to let himself go a little.
In contrast to everyone else, who have worn suits, albeit slightly casual rather than full on business attire, he is wearing a pair of light tan chinos and a polo shirt under a bright white cricket jumper. His hair is slicked back over his balding head, which is turning ever so slightly pink in the sun. His shoes are immaculate and Italian and obviously hand made. The fact that he's come dressed more casually than everyone else speaks volumes, especially considering there are some very rich and powerful people here. In fact if one were so inclined, a well placed bomb would take out large chunks of the main banking, judiciary, governmental and heads of business of the city. You could shift the balance of power in this country and you wouldn't even need a particularly big bomb.
That's not my concern though. To be perfectly honest, without a lot of these people being where they are and doing what they are doing, I probably wouldn't be able to make the living I do, although after today all that's going to change anyway.
I try to relax. The knot in my stomach is causing my IBS to flare up and I'm struck with rather sharp pain in my ass which comes from nowhere. How appropriate. Of course it's not too late, I can pack up my position and walk away - but to what? To go where?

As much as I value lateral thinking, I can't imagine what I would do or where I would go. I'm bound to this course of action now, as much as I hate it.
I don't believe in fate or destiny. I don't really even believe in free will as such. I know, that sounds like such a paradox, or at least an oxymoron. I just don't believe everything we do is mapped out beforehand, that sounds like superstition to me and I don't believe we have complete free will, we just make choices from a limited set of options at any given time. I mean, if I had complete free will, I could choose to grow wings and fly. I can't do that because it's against the laws of nature so any options that break physical laws are unavailable to me. Now add to that societal constraints, group pressure and internal conflicts and you're left with a very limited set of choices from an infinite amount of possibilities.
There is a theory that if you could tap into someone's mind and see everything they've ever experienced in their life, you would be able to predict how they would act in any given situation. If you could, would that mean you could see their future or just that you had the foresight they themselves wished they had?

It's such a shame he chose to wear light colours today. I'm pretty sure they are about to be ruined. No amount of dry cleaning will help.
My ass still hurts. It's a weird shooting pain which causes me to tense my legs up, which is not really helpful at the moment. Not much I can do but wait for it to pass from previous experience. I can feel my eyes beginning to water. Great. Now my hay fever is kicking in. Fabulous. The view down the scope looks like those old porn movies where everything is blurred in soft focus. As if I didn't have enough to deal with. I'm about to break my first commandment - my most sacred, to appropriate a religious word. This has me racked with guilt as it is. Perhaps my body is trying to stop me from doing what I really don't want to do anyway. Unfortunately my body doesn't know the full story. Like I said, this is not a choice, it's a necessity.

I clear my eyes and the pain in my ass subsides slightly. I shift position on the grass, moving onto my elbows for support and bring one knee up to steady my lower half. I can see him through the scope, laughing raucously with a small throng of onlookers. He's not far from his final destination now, maybe twenty feet away and he looks like he's wrapping things up, ready to move on. Between the two groups there is a patch of clear space. He turns to leave and I line up. One of the group grabs his elbow and takes him to one side to talk. Damn. Now he's facing away from the group but towards me, locked in a conspiratorial huddle with some guy in a dark suit and a bad moustache. The bad moustache guy is leading him slowly further down the garden, away from the group he was heading to and away from that clear space. Do I go or wait? I've got to wait, there's no way I can do this now with our relative positions as they are.
Pepper circles his feet, entangling his legs in the leash. He has to break off talking to bad moustache guy for a second to free himself and pick the dog up. That complicates things. He can't be holding the dog when it happens, that will fuck everything up royally.
My finger rests on the side, tense. Eventually bad moustache guy pats him on the back and they loudly share a joke and pleasantries once more as the bad moustache retreats back to the group he came from, kissing his wife or mistress on the side of her head and whispering in her ear. She nods, almost imperceptibly.
He puts Pepper on the floor and I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. He heads back the way he came, towards the empty patch of beautifully tended lawn. He's moving slowly, trying to give the impression that he just happens to be heading in that direction for no particular reason and reinforces this by nodding and smiling at people in other groups as he passes, occasionally exchanging a few words and laughs. A trained observer would be looking at the way his shoulders are orientated and the fact that he always keeps one foot pointing to his destination. Whenever he stops briefly to say hello, his body is only half turned towards them, indicating that he's not going to be stopping for long. I see all this but I already know where he's going and unknown to him, I'm going to stop him getting there.
He breaks away from the last nearby group with a pat on the arm for the plump and ruddy man he was talking to and reaches the empty space, the halfway point. This is it. Go time. I line up and take my finger from its’ resting position on the guard. I go through the actions in my head and breathe in slowly. I hold my breath and place my finger.
There is a quiet 'phut' noise from two feet in front of my nose and the air fills with a puff of crimson mist. Pandemonium is the instant reaction, with people running every which way. Some lay down. One or two stand rooted and screaming. From up the garden a group of what were champagne waiters are running, guns drawn to the spot where he is now laid in the mud and grass, covered in blood. It's time for me to leave.
I'm far enough away that it will take them a while to figure out which direction it came from, but I'm not waiting. I carefully pack up and slide down the back of the hillock unseen and run crouched back to the van. I'll be long gone before they come out this way and they can check the tyre tracks all they like - I've hired the van. I slip in and start the engine. I even had the foresight to reverse down the little back gravel lane. It took me ten minutes to do it because the van is enclosed at the back and therefore has no rear view mirror, but it was worth it because now I can pull away easily and drive off.
It's only when I pull on to the main road that I realise I've been weeping quietly since I got in the van.