Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  But she said none of this as she hugged him tightly.

  “Of course I’ll be your friend,” she said. “Always and forever.”

  “In that case I can ask no more,” Sam said, as she reluctantly released him from her embrace.

  “Take care,” he added. Then he and Vasily disappeared into Departures.

  And Miriam was left alone.

  Chapter Eight

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The man who called himself James Locke took his coffee from the Starbucks assistant and headed to the condiment bar near the back of the store to load it with sugar, ever-aware of those around him.

  He loitered for a moment in the shadows, taking longer than necessary to sweeten his latte, whilst he waited for The Fixer to appear; surreptitiously watching the bench outside, through the store window, where they had agreed to meet.

  Locke was not accustomed to explaining his work and was irritated by the summons. The job had been carried out as instructed, completed to his own high level of satisfaction and to the total fulfilment of the brief.

  To his mind there was nothing to question.

  Yet there he was, in the middle of a busy mall, having been pulled off another assignment for the sole purpose of giving an explanation for what he considered to be exemplary work.

  And it did not sit well.

  The blonde hair had gone now, replaced by his own silvery-grey. Locke was only thirty-three but had begun to prematurely grey in his early twenties and was now fully silver - not helped, no doubt, by years of dyeing and bleaching as was necessary for the very specific nature of his work.

  Yet the constant changing of his appearance had unquestionably helped him to remain anonymous.

  Nonetheless, over the years he had grown to appreciate his natural colour, which he wore tightly cropped. What is more, he knew that with his piercing blue eyes, deep tan and tall, muscular physique, it made his appearance very striking indeed.

  He was dressed casually; tight black T-shirt, black jeans and black high-laced boots, along with the obligatory black Ray-Bans which hung loosely from the crew neck of his shirt.

  He looked good and knew it, having received several admiring glances from both women and men as he made his way to the rendezvous, which had appealed greatly to his overblown sense of vanity. As for preference, however, he was completely ambivalent; his sexual tastes depending entirely on his mood or, more usually, on whatever his assignment required.

  As a contract killer, Locke was something of an anomaly in that he was equally content to work as a sole assassin or as part of a strike force. Sometimes he was required to work quickly - in and out within a matter of hours - whilst at other times he would be asked to imbed himself and work undercover for several weeks or even months.

  The only constant in the work he did was that it always ended in death. Sometimes one, often many, but the number itself was irrelevant and not something that concerned Locke in the slightest.

  He had always felt the need to kill, even when he was just a child - he had taken his first life when he was barely twelve years old, drowning his school friend in the local pool when the lifeguard was not looking, claiming that the boy had dived in and not come up. But it was Locke who had held him under, he who had killed him, just to satiate the need to know what it felt like.

  A year later, feeling constrained by the humdrum monotony of small town life, he had murdered his unambitious parents with a carving knife as they slept in their bed, then afterwards escaped into the night, never to be heard of by the townsfolk again.

  At sixteen he joined the army where he stayed for ten more years; the last four running black ops as the commander of a highly-efficient team of professional killers. Yet whilst his superiors found him to be a natural leader, they also thought him to be over zealous and, over time, his blood lust in the heat of battle became a matter of great concern.

  In the end, at their request, he had resigned his commission.

  However, military service had taught him to control his basest urges and put them to better use, which he did for considerable financial reward as a mercenary and hired killer.

  Since embarking on this career, for which he was eminently well suited, he’d had numerous names and identities but ‘James Locke’ was the one he chose to use most.

  Furthermore, it was the name The Fixer knew him by, whom Locke now saw taking a seat on the bench outside the coffee shop whilst he sipped his sickly sweet latte within.

  The time was 10.58am and their arranged meet was set for 11.00. Even though he had already been there for ten minutes, Locke liked to give the appearance of being punctual. Two minutes more, then he would go and join The Fixer outside.

  As he bided the time, he watched Miles DeVilliers, the man who had approached him soon after leaving the military, having been informed of his talents by a mutual acquaintance in the service.

  Their meeting had proved to be a fruitful one and both had made a great deal of money since their initial introduction.

  Yet they met only a few times a year, sometimes less, and even then only very briefly. Rarely did they have a proper conversation and never did they discuss matters beyond the realms of their professional concerns. But they knew and trusted each other as well as any two people could within their chosen sphere of expertise.

  Indeed, DeVilliers had a complete dossier on the exploits of James Locke and was one of the very few people who knew his real name, although he had never made mention of this.

  But Locke knew, and had taken the trouble to look into his shadowy employer in return, finding out much more about him than DeVilliers would be entirely comfortable with. But it was a game of chess and each of them had pawns to play should the need ever arise. So far, however, it had not.

  On the surface, DeVilliers appeared to be little more than an ex-public school fop. Effete and flamboyant in mannerism and style wearing a quaffed toupee and brightly coloured clothes, he could easily be taken as a lightweight or a fool.

  But, in truth, he was neither.

  He was the product of public school though, with a first class education gained at Eaton. From there it was onto Sandhurst then straight into Military Intelligence where he excelled as an analyst and then later as a handler. However, he was unapologetically homosexual in an age when it was neither wise to admit it nor legal to be so and the impact on his career within the Intelligence Service was devastating. Indeed, after being caught in an ill-advised encounter in the Gentleman’s toilets with a young male subordinate he was swiftly drummed out of MI5 and asked never to darken their door again.

  Nonetheless, during his time in The Service, he had established a wide network of influential contacts around the globe, operating on both sides of the law, which, after his unceremonious dismissal, he set about exploiting to the full.

  By the mid-seventies, DeVilliers had become known as the person to go to if a problem needed solving. He was discreet, did not ask questions and always got the job done no matter what it entailed.

  In this role, he had achieved great success and was now extremely wealthy in his own right. Indeed, he owned an estate in Surrey, a mansion in Chelsea, villas in Cap d’Antibes and Bermuda as well as an enormous yacht which was permanently moored off the coast of Monaco.

  Yet he still made every connection himself and offered a uniquely personal service for which his clients paid handsomely.

  Indeed, for all his wealth, he only employed three people, other than those who looked after his various properties. One was his personal secretary, Miss Markham; an extremely loyal and efficient woman who ran his office in London, and two men who accompanied him at all times, no matter where he travelled in the world.

  These were his bodyguards, Robert and Leon; both large, both dark skinned, both homosexual and both extremely capable; each tasked with the sole purpose of ensuring no harm ever came to their em
ployer.

  Locke studied them as he glugged down the last sugary remnants of his latte, confident that he could take them if needs be and almost relishing the challenge they would surely present.

  Maybe at some point in the future he would get the opportunity to test himself against them. But not today.

  As his watch ticked over to 10.59am and 48 seconds, Locke threw his polystyrene cup in the waste bin and stepped out of the shop into the New Orleans sunshine.

  Within six strides he was sitting beside DeVilliers on the bench; Robert and Leon standing guard either side.

  “Good morning, James,” said Miles brightly. “Beautifully prompt as usual dear boy.” DeVilliers was late fifties and of portly stature. His toupee was the colour of straw and styled in the fashion of a ‘Ken doll’. He was wearing a sky blue jacket, fuchsia pink shirt, mustard cravat and white slacks, with pink socks to match his shirt and custom made tan brogues.

  Locke removed his sunglasses from the neck of his T-shirt and made a show of slipping them on as he regarded the brightly coloured attire of his companion. “Good job I thought to bring these,” he said, feigning shock with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes, very amusing, I’m sure,” said DeVilliers. “Perhaps you might entertain me some more by explaining exactly what happened on your previous assignment.”

  Locke’s upper lip curled involuntarily. “Not necessary. The job was carried out as instructed and to the brief. The girl was dealt with and the team disbanded immediately afterwards. End of story.”

  “Yes, but there was someone with her, was there not?”

  “Yes. A boyfriend. But he was eliminated,” Locke replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Well it seems that is not quite the case, James, I’m afraid,” said DeVilliers. “You see, the boy apparently survived.”

  “Survived?” Locke was clearly surprised as he remembered stabbing the boy himself and recalled the pleasure his team derived from the terrible beating they administered afterwards.

  Indeed, Locke’s last recollection of the boy was seeing him covered in blood and on the brink of death. What is more, with the wounds he received it seemed inconceivable that he had not succumbed to them. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.

  “It’s true,” countered DeVilliers, “I verified it myself.”

  Locke could not disguise his shock. Obviously the boy was made of much stronger stuff than he had thought - and it was very rare for him to misjudge anyone. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to appraise someone almost instantly; a talent which had often proved an advantage.

  But he had underestimated the boy and that troubled him. “So has he talked?”

  “No,” DeVilliers said with certainty. “You and your comrades did enough to put him in a coma from which he has only just emerged - and he apparently remembers very little, so there is nothing to concern you unduly.”

  “So why mention it?” Queried Locke. “Why drag me off my assignment - set up this meet - if there’s nothing to concern me?”

  “Because the boy was not just anyone, that’s why,” DeVilliers replied, turning to face Locke for the first time so that he could see the seriousness of his expression. “It seems he was the only son of Benedict Beresford.”

  “So?” Asked Locke, not understanding the significance.

  “So do you not watch the news?” Said DeVilliers, somewhat exasperated.

  “A little, yeah - when I’ve got time - and when I’m not killing people for you,” replied Locke irritated. “Why?”

  DeVilliers shifted uneasily on the wooden bench, not wishing to draw attention to themselves. “Why?” he replied. “Because Benedict Beresford, the media magnate and his lovely wife, were killed in a car accident on the very same day that you supposedly killed their son - that is why.”

  Locke stared at him open mouthed with amazement.

  “I will assume by your reaction that you were ‘too busy’ to catch this rather important snippet of information on the news,” DeVilliers continued, unable to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

  “So his parents are dead. Boo hoo,” said Locke, removing his sunglasses, “I still don’t get the significance?” He was now clearly annoyed by DeVilliers’ manner, which was reflected in both Robert and Leon’s body language who stood ever-ready to protect their boss.

  “It’s quite alright, gentleman,” said DeVilliers, calming down his two bodyguards. “Mr. Locke and I are just having a discussion, nothing more than that - isn’t that right, James?” As he spoke he glanced around at their surroundings and the many people ambling by. It would not do to make a scene.

  Locke shrugged, forcibly regaining his composure. “Yeah. That’s right,” he replied, his voice now noticeably calmer as he stared directly at The Fixer and said softly, “So let’s assume I missed it on the news. Tell me what I need to know.”

  “Simply this, James,” DeVilliers replied, leaning in. “Mr. Beresford Junior is now a very wealthy young man with resources that far exceed both those of my client’s and my own.”

  “So he’s rich - what does that matter?”

  “So I need to know,” continued DeVilliers, speaking slowly and deliberately, “that given the funds at his disposal, he cannot be a problem to us.”

  “But I thought you said he can’t remember anything?”

  “I said, that he apparently remembers very little, which is not the same as nothing at all,” replied DeVilliers, his patience being tested to the full. “So reassure me. Tell me that if the clouds should miraculously disappear and he suddenly recalls everything with absolute clarity then whatever he knows cannot possibly lead back to us.”

  Locke, thought for a moment, then said categorically, “It can’t.”

  “I admire your certainty James. Really I do. But I need convincing,” replied DeVilliers. “Tell me about the men you hired, how did you find them?”

  Locke curled his lip again, resenting the need to explain himself, but he was beginning to understand why.

  “There were five of them,” he said. “Two I’ve worked with before and knew to have extreme views on race - which seemed perfect for the brief. Also one had local knowledge of the area, so it just made sense. But they’re both reliable.” He said.

  “And the other three?” Pressed DeVilliers.

  “Recruited by my guys. A couple chosen again because of their racist beliefs and because they were local to the area, and the last, because he was partial to wet work and available at short notice. If you remember, we had less than twenty-four hours to put it together and the brief was to make a statement. ‘Messy’ was the exact word used I believe.”

  “Quite.” Said DeVilliers, remembering clearly their meeting on the South Bank of The Thames several months earlier. “These three men, you’d never seen them before?”

  “No,” replied Locke. “There’s no way that they could lead back to me.”

  “And the men you knew already, can they be trusted?” DeVilliers asked.

  “Without question.”

  “Very well then.”

  “If you’re so worried why don’t I just take care of this boy once and for all,” offered Locke. “Then whatever he may or may not know won’t be an issue.”

  DeVilliers chewed on this for a moment before answering. “No, let’s wait. If you’re confident then why rock the boat unnecessarily. We’ll play it out and see what happens. Besides, by all accounts the boy is still in a very bad way, I doubt he’ll be doing anything of much at all for quite sometime. So let’s be patient.”

  “Fine. Whatever you say.”

  Locke cast his mind back to that afternoon in Cambridge, in that glade beside the River Cam, trying to remember the boy to whom DeVilliers was referring. From what he could recall he was blonde and slender, although his face was a blur. Locke also recalled creeping into the glade with his comrades and wa
tching the boy’s white buttocks pumping up and down as he fucked the black girl, oblivious to their presence, moments before the attack. And he remembered the blood.

  He always remembered the blood.

  But that was all. There was nothing more about the boy that he could bring to mind, such was his insignificance. Locke also thought it unlikely he would even recognise him should the two of them meet again, but there was a slim chance he might.

  Nonetheless, for the time being he need not trouble himself with that. In fact, he doubted he would have to trouble himself with the boy ever again.

  “So, is that it?” He asked. “Are we done here?”

  “Yes, James. We are done,” replied DeVilliers dismissively. “You may go back to finish your assignment.”

  “Good,” said Locke, standing, resenting having been excused like some naughty schoolboy. “And I don’t expect to hear from you again until the next one. Are we clear?”

  “Of course, my dear,” replied DeVilliers smiling up at him. “I do like it when you act so authoritative. It makes me go all weak.”

  “I’m sure it does,” said Locke, the disdain in his voice plainly evident as he turned to leave. “Goodbye Miles. Until next time.”

  “Au revoir, dear boy,” sighed DeVilliers as he watched Locke walk away, absently admiring his tight rear-end in the black jeans and the carefully honed ‘V’ of his torso.

  It would be such a shame if they ever had to terminate their relationship.

  But, if it meant having to protect himself, then Miles DeVilliers would quite happily do whatever was necessary.

  As, indeed, would the man who called himself James Locke.

  Chapter Nine

  New York, New York

  Vas had been as good as his word. He dealt with the lawyers on Sam’s behalf and ensured that everything went smoothly with the complicated probate procedure involved with his parents’ estates and the subsequent transferal of their extensive assets once the legalities had been settled.

  Indeed, with just a few strokes of the pen, Sam was instantly transformed from being a relatively poor student to one of the wealthiest men in America.