his worthless life.
I look in the mirror and tug at the battle scar on my bottom lip with my fingers. Could it have given me away? It is only noticeable when I smile, causing both lips to skew in a lopsided grin. Not a chance. I am safe.
The agents look like smartly dressed clowns in a circus, their disparate shapes adding comedy to deadly serious faces. Such pompous idiots wouldn’t survive a month in the SAS. I suspect their presence at the tube station is not for my benefit. So why are they here? Why aren’t they at Bradshaw’s apartment sifting through papers on the blood splattered desk? Could the agents be charged with recovering Bradshaw’s invention? Perhaps they were headed to its location.
An urge to run down the agents overcomes me. I need them alive for now but ... one twitch of the steering wheel and a burst of acceleration and these fools would be mulch. Heads would be crushed and bones snapped like twigs. Blood and brains would be spread across the pavement. My breathing quickens as my excitement grows. My thoughts unconsciously turn to Sasha. Later she will whisper down the phone to me, filth that she wants me to force out of her, and I will come like a train, thinking of her spread-eagled under my weight, unable to escape. The little bitch would love it too, she just doesn’t realise it yet. But no, failure does not deserve reward and so the call will wait until success is mine.
I follow the agents up a side street. They are too busy ignoring each other, eyes fixed dead ahead, to notice I am just a few yards behind. There is no doubt in my mind that I will kill them once I recover my prize. The agents get into a top-end, black Mercedes. Overpaid as well as overrated. I might tie them lying down and facing each other, securing them so that their positions are inescapable. With delicate twitches of a scalpel, I could nick the major arteries in their necks. I could watch as their faces pale, blood spurting in fine jets across each other’s bodies. The art will be in making the wound small enough to make death slow but not so small that the wound clots. Too big and the fun ends before it really starts. I am no surgeon but I am willing to learn. I can feel prickles of pleasure on my arms.
Anticipation is a wonderful thing. I can’t wait to talk with Sasha afterwards, or maybe even during. Her reluctant whispers will complete the day’s satisfactions. It’s so nice to have a sister.
6: Saturday 24th September, 14:05
The District Line tube train was mostly empty and yet it seemed like all eyes were on John.
Like a hot piece of coal, the unopened piece of paper bothered John every second of the short journey home. He had thought about pulling it from his jeans on the tube and once again when he exited the train at Stamford Brook station. Each time his fingertips wandered into his pocket he was overcome by the feeling that strange eyes watched his every move. But it was more than that. He had the oddest feeling that if he ignored the paper, maybe it, and the scene in his best friend’s apartment, would turn out to be figments of his imagination.
The five minute walk from the station went some way to allaying his fears that he was being followed. As he examined every person he overtook or met, he realised that he still didn’t know where Stamford Brook became Chiswick and vice versa, or if Stamford Brook was just part of Chiswick. His head was full of rubbish.
The closer he got to home the more space appeared between him and the next man. By the time he had turned two corners and reached the converted Victorian building, where he occupied the ground floor flat, there was barely a soul in sight. He leapt up the steps to his building, three at a time, taking one last look around him before entering.
He doubted that the two men he had evaded at High Street Kensington tube station could have stayed on his tail. And his home was the last place they would expect him to go - wasn’t it? Besides, they
I look in the mirror and tug at the battle scar on my bottom lip with my fingers. Could it have given me away? It is only noticeable when I smile, causing both lips to skew in a lopsided grin. Not a chance. I am safe.
The agents look like smartly dressed clowns in a circus, their disparate shapes adding comedy to deadly serious faces. Such pompous idiots wouldn’t survive a month in the SAS. I suspect their presence at the tube station is not for my benefit. So why are they here? Why aren’t they at Bradshaw’s apartment sifting through papers on the blood splattered desk? Could the agents be charged with recovering Bradshaw’s invention? Perhaps they were headed to its location.
An urge to run down the agents overcomes me. I need them alive for now but ... one twitch of the steering wheel and a burst of acceleration and these fools would be mulch. Heads would be crushed and bones snapped like twigs. Blood and brains would be spread across the pavement. My breathing quickens as my excitement grows. My thoughts unconsciously turn to Sasha. Later she will whisper down the phone to me, filth that she wants me to force out of her, and I will come like a train, thinking of her spread-eagled under my weight, unable to escape. The little bitch would love it too, she just doesn’t realise it yet. But no, failure does not deserve reward and so the call will wait until success is mine.
I follow the agents up a side street. They are too busy ignoring each other, eyes fixed dead ahead, to notice I am just a few yards behind. There is no doubt in my mind that I will kill them once I recover my prize. The agents get into a top-end, black Mercedes. Overpaid as well as overrated. I might tie them lying down and facing each other, securing them so that their positions are inescapable. With delicate twitches of a scalpel, I could nick the major arteries in their necks. I could watch as their faces pale, blood spurting in fine jets across each other’s bodies. The art will be in making the wound small enough to make death slow but not so small that the wound clots. Too big and the fun ends before it really starts. I am no surgeon but I am willing to learn. I can feel prickles of pleasure on my arms.
Anticipation is a wonderful thing. I can’t wait to talk with Sasha afterwards, or maybe even during. Her reluctant whispers will complete the day’s satisfactions. It’s so nice to have a sister.
6: Saturday 24th September, 14:05
The District Line tube train was mostly empty and yet it seemed like all eyes were on John.
Like a hot piece of coal, the unopened piece of paper bothered John every second of the short journey home. He had thought about pulling it from his jeans on the tube and once again when he exited the train at Stamford Brook station. Each time his fingertips wandered into his pocket he was overcome by the feeling that strange eyes watched his every move. But it was more than that. He had the oddest feeling that if he ignored the paper, maybe it, and the scene in his best friend’s apartment, would turn out to be figments of his imagination.
The five minute walk from the station went some way to allaying his fears that he was being followed. As he examined every person he overtook or met, he realised that he still didn’t know where Stamford Brook became Chiswick and vice versa, or if Stamford Brook was just part of Chiswick. His head was full of rubbish.
The closer he got to home the more space appeared between him and the next man. By the time he had turned two corners and reached the converted Victorian building, where he occupied the ground floor flat, there was barely a soul in sight. He leapt up the steps to his building, three at a time, taking one last look around him before entering.
He doubted that the two men he had evaded at High Street Kensington tube station could have stayed on his tail. And his home was the last place they would expect him to go - wasn’t it? Besides, they
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