Kim & The Hitman

by Sandie Baldry

  Finding a lump of driftwood suitable for using as a crutch, he heaved himself up, ignoring the pain burning inside his leg. Dragging himself towards the slope, his destination the promenade. There he limped to a bench and collapsed as police vehicles sped past. Panting, he crushed the urge to scream, the sharp pain like hot needles piercing his leg from the inside out.

  It had stopped raining; in the distance, the sun was sinking. In a few minutes, only the streetlights would illuminate the area. Vincent’s eyes scanned for signs to indicate where he was? He could see none. Opposite, tall guest houses lined the road rising up a hill. It all looked familiar. He knew this place. He was sure he did. He just couldn’t place it.

  Having tucked the wooden crutch beneath the bench, Vincent controlled his breathing; he needed to look composed not to arouse suspicion as the police invaded the area. The problem was, he looked like an illegal. Like he had swum ashore, which he had.

  In the dimming light, he watched as the orange jackets were rounded up before being guided into the back of a police van. Most without a fight, perhaps grateful the end of their journey had come.

  Vincent became aware someone had sat beside him. A man with his dog running around as it chased a ball. Good, he looked like a local fitting in. He stooped to pet the animal as it ran to its owner with the ball in its mouth, striking up a conversation. The man was keen to comment on the current police action around them. Several officers strode past, glancing their way. Vincent gave what he hoped was a relaxed wave to the uniforms; they nodded back.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked the man, losing interest as the clean-up appeared completed. Vincent nodded with a glance to the man beside him. His eyes returning to the group of officers, walking away from them. The muscles in his stomach relaxing. He turned back to the man, knowing he must look a sight. But the dog walker was more interested in two illegal men huddled behind one of the beach huts—the streetlight from the road revealing their hiding place.

  ‘I wonder what makes them do it,’ said the man. Vincent didn’t answer; he was watching the officers. One had slowed, turning his head in his direction. His heartbeat jumped; his jaws tightened. The man beside him was still talking.

  The officer called something to the others which Vincent couldn’t catch; he then veered back in Vincent’s direction. Vincent was trapped. He couldn’t run, and though he wasn’t illegal, he didn’t want to be in a position to prove it. They would ask him for identification, which he had in the form of a driving licence. Put that together with the description that woman would have provided of him to the police, and he might as well put a bullet in his head. Could things get any worse?

  As the officer drew closer, Vincent jabbed a finger at the hiding men. The officer turned, and on seeing them, he shouted and waved to the others to give chase as the men broke cover.

  Vincent blew out a breath, aware of the man next to him was still muttering.

  ‘Poor sods. But suppose it’s for the best.’ Taking the ball from the dog’s mouth, the man threw it again.

  ‘You got caught in the rain?’ continued the man next to him, giving Vincent a long look. He had watched the police van pull away, and now they were alone.

  ‘Yeah, got soaked, hurt my leg slipping on the grass so resting before moving on. I lost my mobile somewhere,’ said Vincent, faking a check of his pockets and flicking a look to the police van now in the distance. ‘Would it be possible to make a call on yours?’ he prayed the old boy carried a phone. He needed to get help. Organise a safe house. He wouldn’t be going back to his home.

  The man eyed him, Vincent recognising that shot of fear crossing his eyes. He went to rise. Vincent couldn’t allow that.

  Two minutes later, Vincent was slipping the man’s coat on and breathing relief. The phone, a cheap, generic thing, wasn’t password protected. And the wallet had twenty pounds plus some change. Not a lot, but it would do.

  ‘Easy boy, you’ll find another meal ticket,’ he murmured to the whimpering terrier at its dead master’s feet. Vincent shifted the body into a sitting position. Allowing the head to fall to his chest. It had been a long time since he had broken a neck. It was good to know he hadn’t lost the skill.

  With luck, the body wouldn’t be discovered until the morning.

  9

  I arrived home at five-thirty. It was warm; we were now in the middle of a heatwave. My body was clammy, my face, even with protection, showed signs of sunburn. And the easiest way to deal with my hair was to tie it back, not cut it short as dad suggested, mocking me with his scissor fingers.

  Once indoors, I kicked off my shoes, stretching out my toes. I needed a shower. I had been to see yet another flat. This one smelled damp, and as I walked up the stairs to this third-floor accommodation, I could not only hear the neighbours but also smell their cooking and smoking habits. I was getting high, just walking past their doors. So, I blew that one off. I couldn’t afford a high-rise apartment, and I was getting disheartened about finding a place. I would’ve liked a flat with an entrance intercom. Where you buzzed visitors in? Though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I still felt insecure. I had even suggested to dad to get a dog, something like a German Shepherd. His comeback was, ‘And are you going to walk the bloody thing? Pick the dog crap up?’

  As I stood in front of the hall mirror, staring at my hair tied back in a ponytail, I knew I’d let myself go. My fringe had a frizz, and I didn’t care. My face, almost bare of makeup, showing a multitude of freckles over my nose. I was only glad the girls couldn’t see me; they’d think I was having a breakdown. Of course, I tried for work. Couldn’t be styling my client’s hair with mine, looking like a wet dishcloth hanging around my neck. But the effort was getting tiresome.

  As I stood in the hall, I got a funny feeling something was wrong; spider senses.

  I was about to waltz into the kitchen, and the front door opened and closed behind me. I froze. It was not dad, as I would recognise his footsteps. He had a kind of cave-dweller walk, as I called it, sort of stamps his feet down as if he thought he might slip or something. Looking around to the front door, our next-door neighbour was pruning herself in the mirror as if my dad would’ve noticed. So, dad had given her a key?

  ‘Dad’s not back yet, Mrs Brown,’ I said. Whatever perfume she was wearing was drifting around my nose, whipping at my senses, so sweet.

  ‘Okay, Kimberly, I’ll come back. Just needed a chat with him,’ she said. She lied, it was Thursday, her day for a booty call, and I wanted to puke.

  She went to leave, then hesitated before turning back to me, eyeing me in a way that I guessed what was coming. She wanted my opinion on her make-up or clothes, and I was ready to lie through my teeth. Because I was polite like that.

  ‘I know you don’t like me, Kimberly. Can I ask why?’ She looked at me, the question written on her face with a hurt expression.

  Well, that was a surprise. I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what to say. Mrs Brown answered for me.

  ‘Is it your mother? You know I don’t want to replace her.’

  She couldn’t.

  ‘We are just two lonely people, enjoying each other’s company, not doing any harm. I’m sorry you don’t like me, and I wish I could fix it.’ There was a beat, locked into a gaze. ‘Any chance at all we might be friends?’ she asked.

  Jesus, talk about putting me on the spot. I couldn’t say anything; I know it was unusual for me. My mouth was open, but nothing. I couldn’t remember when we had spoken to each other than the occasional, ‘Hi, how are you, the weather is shit today…’ that sort of thing. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards every year. When her husband was alive, he complained about the garden’s noise if I played with friends or grumbled about dad parking in his space on the road outside. Dad had said, ‘No one owns the road.’ And quite right, too. He had died five years ago.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,’ she smiled, then turned to the door, but before leaving, she turned again to me.

>   ‘If you ever want to or need to talk, I’m just a whisper away.’ And with that, she left.

  For a moment, I just stood there. Sadness overcame me when I thought of Mum, who had been gone now for some years. But not for Mum. I found myself thinking of Mrs Brown and dad. I hadn’t thought of them as two lonely people. In fact, I tended not to think of my dad as a person. He was dad. And he didn’t show his feelings. And I wondered how Mrs Brown even got close to him. Was he lonely, and I hadn’t noticed? So full of my problems and treating him like an obstruction to get over, to go around. I was thinking of this when I arrived in the kitchen. As large as life, at the kitchen table was the hitman.

  He greeted me with a grin, wide enough to show me his front teeth were missing, a gun beneath his hand on the table. His grey hair cropped short, showing his bony head. His eyes flickering over me with what looked like satisfaction. His appearance was rough; four or five days’ growth of grey stubble covered his face like a person who’d been sleeping rough. Though his clothes were clean and judging from the smell, he was wearing cologne, filling the kitchen with his presents. And I realised then that was what I could smell, not Mrs Brown.

  ‘I bet you didn’t expect to see me again,’ he said. He waved to the chair opposite for me to sit. ‘Where have you been, been waiting for…’ he glanced to his watch, a Rolex. ‘Thirty minutes.’

  I guessed he wasn’t interested in an answer as his eyes flickered around the kitchen. ‘A bit of a shit hole, isn’t it?’

  This was my worst nightmare. I just knew—felt he wasn’t dead, hence all the nightmares I’ve been having. He had said I didn’t expect to see him again. Somewhere inside me, I did. I didn’t tell him that. It was almost a relief to get it over with—no more waiting. No more checking over my shoulder or my body jarring with every noise in the night.

  ‘Still can’t speak?’

  ‘You look awful,’ I said in a low whisper staring at this figure sitting opposite me. ‘You need a shave.’ Jesus, was that all I could say? When nervous, most people go dumb. Me, I say the first thing coming into my head, no filters. My heart had elevated like a skyrocket, and I could hardly breathe. My eyes glanced to the gun, and my knees were knocking under the table. ‘A beard will suit you,’ I continued in a squeaky voice. ‘Gives you a more menacing look.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he snapped, spraying me with his saliva. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘I liked you better when you couldn’t talk.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Hitman, how did you….’ my voice trailed away. He did a kind of snarl at me.

  ‘How did I escape death?’ He snorted, his head moving to an angle to view me. ‘That’s a funny story but won’t bore you with the details.’ He let his head drop back before lifting it again with a glint in his eyes.

  ‘Bollocks, why not bore you? I got rescued by illegal immigrants. How’s that for luck? Unfortunately, I lost my dentures, as you can see. Not to mention my favourite weapon, now somewhere on the seabed. I haven’t been able to go home. Unable to work anywhere. Hiding out in two-bit bed-and-breakfast dosses. And do you know who I blame?’

  ‘Me?’

  He nodded. ‘And myself. There I was, trying to save a bullet, thinking a shove off a cliff, and no one would know you weren’t a suicide. I should have taken you to the woods and beaten you to death instead. No one would have cared, since from what I’ve seen of you, no one likes you—you are a self-entitled bitch.’

  ‘People do like me,’ I said, lifting my chin. How dare this man thinks he knows me.

  ‘Name one person.’

  ‘I can name three, Linda, Alex, and I think Paula though I don’t know her that well,’ I admitted. ‘And it’s probably three more than you have.’ I bit my lip. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  ‘I don’t have friends,’ he nodded. ‘I’ve read your blog… oh, you look surprised. I’ve done a study of you. I know you better than you think. I’ve followed you to work yesterday, and you even turned around and saw me. But you didn’t see me if you know what I mean.’

  I did. I knew exactly what he meant. I had imagined I had seen his tall, thin shape so many times it had become mundane.

  ‘Are you here to kill me?’ It was just a wild guess. With a toothless grin, he nodded.

  ‘Not just to kill you but hurt you. You are going to watch me kill your father first, then your turn.’ He let that hang. ‘The scene out in the hall just now was very touching,’ he said, making a gesture by placing a hand to his heart. ‘You’ve been giving your father’s lady friend a hard time. Shame on you.’

  I had wondered why I was still alive but didn’t like to mention it. He was waiting for dad, and there was nothing I could do to warn him.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ventured. ‘Dad won’t be home yet.’

  He considered this, eyes flickering to the worktop. ‘Why not?’

  I got up, faltering as my legs gave way, which amused him.

  Filling the kettle, I asked. ‘What’s your name?’

  Again, he seemed to consider whether to answer.

  ‘Vincent.’

  ‘Vincent,’ I repeated.

  ‘Problem?’ he snapped.

  ‘Just thought it might be something like Antonio or manly like Bret.’ Kettle turned on; two cups set out. He waved the gun at me to sit again.

  ‘Are you trying to antagonise me?’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Provoke me,’ he clarified as if I didn’t know what antagonise meant.

  ‘No, just a weird name for a hitman.’

  ‘I don’t like the term hitman. I’m a paid assassin.’

  ‘Do you get a lot of work?’

  ‘Are you an idiot?’

  ‘No, just wonder how someone gets into that line of business. Suppose you were in the armed forces, a sniper or something?’

  ‘You’ve been reading too… no, I take that back, watching too many spy films.’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I’m not the one running from the police.’ There I go again. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? He just smiled at me.

  ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’ He leant across the table. ‘I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.’

  The kettle boiled, and I stood to pick it up. I was thinking of tipping it over him. But he was way ahead of me. He took his gun and shunted back in the chair towards the kitchen door, watching me; okay, that plan was out of the window.

  Then the unexpected. The neighbour must have been listening for dad and hearing a male voice burst through the kitchen door. Vincent turned in a panic as the door hits his chair. I threw the kettle with its contents of boiling water at him. He dropped the gun, jumping up, screaming. His leg caught in the chair while Mrs Brown froze on the spot. Staring at the man jumping around, trying to pull the wet clothes off his body.

  I skipped around the kitchen table and swooped up the gun, standing back with it in my shaking hands. Mrs Brown flashes me a look. I thought she was trying to apologise, then her eyes flickered the gun in my hand. It went off, hitting the wriggling man in the leg as he was trying to get his trousers off. Not on purpose. I was not sure how that happened.

  Mrs Brown fainted. I was looking at the gun, not sure what to do. Vincent was howling, having dropped to the floor, and was dragging himself up against the kitchen cabinets, kicking at the chair freeing his leg. Clutching the other leg with both hands, he panted—the blood trickling from the wound, forming a puddle on the floor.

  Vincent and I were gazing at one another. He was controlling his breathing and pulling out a hankey from his jogging bottoms, now halfway down his legs to tie around the wound.

  ‘You’ve done it again. Fucked me up. So now what, call the police? Please do before you shoot me again by accident.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come after me,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I dreamt of killing you since that day at the cliffs. Of ending you, for nothing more than pure gratification.’ He sm
iled despite the pain he must have been in. ‘You ruined me, my reputation, my living. If you have been another hotshot assassin, I could have lived with that, but you.’ He spat out in disgust. ‘So, now what? You call the police, I get taken to the hospital, do a little time since they can’t prove anything other than I tried to kill that woman whatever her name was.’

  ‘Her name is Jenna.’

  ‘Whatever, I had a life. It was ordered. I’d work, go home to Maggie, my dog, and look forward to the next job. I have ninety-seven kills to my name. But doesn’t means anything now. You ruined everything.’

  As he spoke, Mrs Brown came too. She lifted her head and struggled to get herself into a sitting position.

  ‘You need to put the weapon down, dear,’ she said, going to move towards Vincent. I thought she wanted to help him, seeing the blood oozing from the wound.

  ‘Stay where you are. This is the hitman who tried to kill me.’

  ‘Assassin,’ Vincent corrected.

  ‘He was going to kill dad, then me,’ I said, shooting her a look. ‘And probably you.’

  Vincent nodded in agreement as Mrs Brown looked at him.

  ‘Call the police,’ I said, not taking my eyes off the man on the floor. My hands shaking, my fingers wrapping tightly around the weapon.

  ‘I didn’t bring my phone,’ she said, staring at the hitman.

  Reaching into my bag, I pulled mine out and tossed it over to her.

  ‘I’ll be out in no time,’ he grinned. ‘And you know I won’t forget you. You may even have a family by then, little kiddies.’

  I knew what he was telling me. Lifting my arms and straightening them, I aimed. He was grinning at me and winked. I squeezed the trigger, not sure if it was on purpose. It wasn’t as if I had to squeeze it very hard. The bullet hit the cabinet next to his head, splinters flying out in all directions. Vincent yelled a few expletives. Mrs Brown fainted again, and my hand jerked with the exit of the bullet. Vincent was staring at me, his head moving out of the way of the dangerous end of the weapon. It went off again, hitting and smashing the glasses on the worktop, the glass flying everywhere. Vincent tried to drag himself off the floor. One hand on the worktop, his good leg struggling to get himself up. It was like my hand was out of my control. The gun waved around, going off again, and I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. This time getting him between the eyes. His head snapped back. Blood splatter spraying over me, the table, and Mrs Brown, showing signs of coming round before her eyes rolled, and she was out of it again.