Where You End And I Begin
Aqui lo teneis, un fic para entrar en calor ya que ni me acuerdo hace cuando he escrito el ultimo XD En ingles esta, como es mi costumbre.
My health has been deteriorating in the past few months, leaving me with an always worsening eyesight and a couple other problems. People often say I should go to a doctor, but it's not that easy. I wish it was. Or maybe not. It's just after lunch-time and I'm still walking around Chelsea, aiming for South Kensington. While it is true I'm not exactly healthy anymore, I can still walk the whole day, mile after mile, and never feel tired. Of this I'm rather proud, especially since walking seems to be what I most do, whether it is for pleasure or for work.
As I get closer to the High Street, I start observing more attentively my sorroundings; the businessmen and their posh trophy wives, the expensive cars parked carelessly on the side of the road, the tourists next to the aforementioned cars taking pictures as if they were a rare sight only typical in this part of the world. It's such a busy time of the day, and yet it feels like there is absolutely no one who cares, every step I take gets as much notice as a falling leave from a tree. Nobody cares anymore. These days it's all about me, me, me and especially so in such a wealthy area.
I check my watch rapidly, but with accuracy. My Omega is my only posession which I value, the one I cannot separate from. I keep travelling, moving, I renew myself constantly but the one thing that never changes is my watch. It was never intended to last that long, nor has it ever had any special value. It wasn't even a gift, just an impulse buy, but I guess it somehow placed itself into the list of things I cannot get rid of, a long list comprising one item.
It's 2.34pm. It is supposed to happen at roughly 2.45pm. Roughly, that's a funny word. Everyone expects people to deliver things right on time, to never be late, but it happens ever so rarely, doesn't it. It's not all up to us, we live in a world populated by six billion people - things are bound to go wrong, wouldn't you think? Like they say, the flapping wings of a butterfly can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world...
I gently push the door and walk into the coffee shop, letting the strong smell of burnt arabica slap me in the face. Busy times for the burnt beverages distributors as well, with nearly all tables full of people, munching on their cinnamon rolls and checking emails on their iPads. You'd think otherwise, but a crowded place is more than often the ideal setting for such an event, so I can't and shouldn't complain.
Quickly I locate a small table located between a couple and a family of four, not too in the open but still close enough to the door. I sit down and start wondering with all these people, just how long will the waitress take to notice me sitting there. A quick glance to the watch revealed that it was now 2.41pm. The waitress, signalled by my impatient waving arm, was now fast approaching.
- Sorry love, didn't see you over there. What can I get you?
- Coffee would do fine.
- Would you like to eat anything, love?
- Coffee will do.
- Alright...
As if there was a cue that had to be followed, seconds after the waitress served my cup of coffee, the man I was to meet at 2.45 was entering through the door and was now approaching my table. It is now 2.52pm.
- I run into some trouble on my way over here. Someone at the copshop must have told some rookie uniform to follow me around.
The man was speaking in hushed tones, making his subject of conversation much more suspicious that it already was.
- I would then presume you were able to lose him?
I said, speaking in a monotone, never raising nor lowering my voice.
- Well, what do you think, son! See the word cunt written across my Chevy Chase?
The man was probably around 40, although he looked 60 and reasoned like he was 12. A faint foul smell would often reach me whenever he moved his arms about, most probably due to a severe lack of personal hygiene.
- Shall we cut to the chase, then?
I was starting to grow impatient, perhaps irritated, but I tried not to show it.
- Yeah, well, alright then. You said you were looking for someone to get a job done, said you had the means and everyfink, then if it is true we will do it, just give us a name and that's it.
I then asked:
- I hope you realise we're talking about something very serious here, I need to be able to trust you can do the job as required.
At this, the man's face quickly switched from a pale yellow to a bright red.
- What nonsense is this now? It was you who called us, pal, and you just can't call us because you want to, you should know that by now!
By this he meant that despite his rough exterior and retarded appereance, he was someone relatively big in South East London, but not the London of the banks and financial advisors, this was a completely different London. Although it was just a small remark I had made, he seemed to have completely lost his nerves. Not much of a professional killer, but it suited me just fine. I suggested he would order something, so we could waste a few minutes and let the surrounding crowd forget his sudden burst.
After a few minutes, the same waitress from before brought him a rather dry looking apple-pie on a tiny plate and a set of over used cutlery. We didn't speak a single word during the time he used to eat the pie, when after swallowing the last bite, he finally said, now in a rather calmed tone:
- You read the papers lately? You know the bird who was gunned down at Maida Vale, what's her name...
- I remember. Patricia Brooks.
- Yeah, that's the one. That Brooks bird, think she died just cos she was in the wrong place at the wrong time? I'll tell you how it went. She was one of them fucking prosecutors putting their noses where they don't belong. They should stick to their fucking Prada bags rather than going around thinking they know what's best for the world.
As the waitress walked by us, he stopped her by grabbing her arm and asked for a pint. After the beer arrived, he went on:
- She goes and starts putting her nose into our business, lost ten grands in a single morning cos of that bitch, but that's not enough for her, oh no. She must save the world, she think. Starts some fire at Scotland Yard and all of a sudden we get burnt, our people nicked in a matter of days. Well if she thinks she could do what she wanted in this city, well...
He took his last sip, feeling the rush from the cold beer reaching his stomach, calming his nerves and relaxing his pose, and went on:
- Some fun we had with her that day. Think she was invincible cos she was procted by the cops? Well she should have though better. So if some fucking lawyer piece of shite backed by the fucking uniforms can go down so easily it's not because of luck, son. You don't need no trust or fucking male bonding with us. You have the money, we'll get the job done.
My hands were resting on my lap, I hadn't spoken a word during the whole time he was telling his story. I kept my posture, not moving an inch from the chair, and was absorbing each and every word. Now, though, was my turn.
- Right, then. I suppose you're quite right. In which case, I hope you will forgive me as even though I am prepared to go ahead with this, for safety purposes I would like to do it another time. I feel we have spent too much time here.
- Whatever fucking pleases you, mate, if it makes you feel good acting like fucking 007 then please yourself.
- Good, so I shall give you my business card, you will find my private number there. Please call me tomorrow at 7pm, I will then meet you and give you half the money, as we agreed.
I slowly put my hand into my back pocket and retrieved my wallet, finding one of my usual business cards on the right side. I took it out and made it slide across the table. The man took it with his left hand and examined it.
- General Manager, eh? Suppose you do have the money, eh, Stephen?
- Let me ask you something: what is my surname?
The man now looked at me suspiciously, he had no idea what was the meaning behind such a silly question. He looked at it again, now for a moment longer and giving it more thought. Then something started to click in him:
- Stephen... Brooks. Brooks.
Slowly, with great care, he started raising his head. It was now clear to him. As he was starting to open his mouth again, I quickly grabbed the knife next to him, gripped it with all the strength in the world, and with a fast and violent movement, I directed the knife into the right side of his neck and pushed as hard as I could. Blood was starting to come out in fast motion, and as he was raising his hand in surprise, trying to reach for the kinfe, I took it out from his neck and now used it against his chest once, twice, and a third time. He fell to his knees with a loud thud, his face a puzzle with no solution, he started to contort his body violently, hitting chairs and tables. After a few hit and misses, he started to calm down, as his last breath was drawing now close.
I let the knife go from my hand, hitting the floor inches away from my wife's murderer. The coffee shop was now a place of chaos, people screaming and running towards the only exit. I wiped my hands on the table cloth, slowly turned around and followed the noisy crowd towards the exit, across the road and now alone, on a secondary street towards my parked car.
I looked at my watch.
It was 3.33pm.
My health has been deteriorating in the past few months, leaving me with an always worsening eyesight and a couple other problems. People often say I should go to a doctor, but it's not that easy. I wish it was. Or maybe not. It's just after lunch-time and I'm still walking around Chelsea, aiming for South Kensington. While it is true I'm not exactly healthy anymore, I can still walk the whole day, mile after mile, and never feel tired. Of this I'm rather proud, especially since walking seems to be what I most do, whether it is for pleasure or for work.
As I get closer to the High Street, I start observing more attentively my sorroundings; the businessmen and their posh trophy wives, the expensive cars parked carelessly on the side of the road, the tourists next to the aforementioned cars taking pictures as if they were a rare sight only typical in this part of the world. It's such a busy time of the day, and yet it feels like there is absolutely no one who cares, every step I take gets as much notice as a falling leave from a tree. Nobody cares anymore. These days it's all about me, me, me and especially so in such a wealthy area.
I check my watch rapidly, but with accuracy. My Omega is my only posession which I value, the one I cannot separate from. I keep travelling, moving, I renew myself constantly but the one thing that never changes is my watch. It was never intended to last that long, nor has it ever had any special value. It wasn't even a gift, just an impulse buy, but I guess it somehow placed itself into the list of things I cannot get rid of, a long list comprising one item.
It's 2.34pm. It is supposed to happen at roughly 2.45pm. Roughly, that's a funny word. Everyone expects people to deliver things right on time, to never be late, but it happens ever so rarely, doesn't it. It's not all up to us, we live in a world populated by six billion people - things are bound to go wrong, wouldn't you think? Like they say, the flapping wings of a butterfly can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world...
I gently push the door and walk into the coffee shop, letting the strong smell of burnt arabica slap me in the face. Busy times for the burnt beverages distributors as well, with nearly all tables full of people, munching on their cinnamon rolls and checking emails on their iPads. You'd think otherwise, but a crowded place is more than often the ideal setting for such an event, so I can't and shouldn't complain.
Quickly I locate a small table located between a couple and a family of four, not too in the open but still close enough to the door. I sit down and start wondering with all these people, just how long will the waitress take to notice me sitting there. A quick glance to the watch revealed that it was now 2.41pm. The waitress, signalled by my impatient waving arm, was now fast approaching.
- Sorry love, didn't see you over there. What can I get you?
- Coffee would do fine.
- Would you like to eat anything, love?
- Coffee will do.
- Alright...
As if there was a cue that had to be followed, seconds after the waitress served my cup of coffee, the man I was to meet at 2.45 was entering through the door and was now approaching my table. It is now 2.52pm.
- I run into some trouble on my way over here. Someone at the copshop must have told some rookie uniform to follow me around.
The man was speaking in hushed tones, making his subject of conversation much more suspicious that it already was.
- I would then presume you were able to lose him?
I said, speaking in a monotone, never raising nor lowering my voice.
- Well, what do you think, son! See the word cunt written across my Chevy Chase?
The man was probably around 40, although he looked 60 and reasoned like he was 12. A faint foul smell would often reach me whenever he moved his arms about, most probably due to a severe lack of personal hygiene.
- Shall we cut to the chase, then?
I was starting to grow impatient, perhaps irritated, but I tried not to show it.
- Yeah, well, alright then. You said you were looking for someone to get a job done, said you had the means and everyfink, then if it is true we will do it, just give us a name and that's it.
I then asked:
- I hope you realise we're talking about something very serious here, I need to be able to trust you can do the job as required.
At this, the man's face quickly switched from a pale yellow to a bright red.
- What nonsense is this now? It was you who called us, pal, and you just can't call us because you want to, you should know that by now!
By this he meant that despite his rough exterior and retarded appereance, he was someone relatively big in South East London, but not the London of the banks and financial advisors, this was a completely different London. Although it was just a small remark I had made, he seemed to have completely lost his nerves. Not much of a professional killer, but it suited me just fine. I suggested he would order something, so we could waste a few minutes and let the surrounding crowd forget his sudden burst.
After a few minutes, the same waitress from before brought him a rather dry looking apple-pie on a tiny plate and a set of over used cutlery. We didn't speak a single word during the time he used to eat the pie, when after swallowing the last bite, he finally said, now in a rather calmed tone:
- You read the papers lately? You know the bird who was gunned down at Maida Vale, what's her name...
- I remember. Patricia Brooks.
- Yeah, that's the one. That Brooks bird, think she died just cos she was in the wrong place at the wrong time? I'll tell you how it went. She was one of them fucking prosecutors putting their noses where they don't belong. They should stick to their fucking Prada bags rather than going around thinking they know what's best for the world.
As the waitress walked by us, he stopped her by grabbing her arm and asked for a pint. After the beer arrived, he went on:
- She goes and starts putting her nose into our business, lost ten grands in a single morning cos of that bitch, but that's not enough for her, oh no. She must save the world, she think. Starts some fire at Scotland Yard and all of a sudden we get burnt, our people nicked in a matter of days. Well if she thinks she could do what she wanted in this city, well...
He took his last sip, feeling the rush from the cold beer reaching his stomach, calming his nerves and relaxing his pose, and went on:
- Some fun we had with her that day. Think she was invincible cos she was procted by the cops? Well she should have though better. So if some fucking lawyer piece of shite backed by the fucking uniforms can go down so easily it's not because of luck, son. You don't need no trust or fucking male bonding with us. You have the money, we'll get the job done.
My hands were resting on my lap, I hadn't spoken a word during the whole time he was telling his story. I kept my posture, not moving an inch from the chair, and was absorbing each and every word. Now, though, was my turn.
- Right, then. I suppose you're quite right. In which case, I hope you will forgive me as even though I am prepared to go ahead with this, for safety purposes I would like to do it another time. I feel we have spent too much time here.
- Whatever fucking pleases you, mate, if it makes you feel good acting like fucking 007 then please yourself.
- Good, so I shall give you my business card, you will find my private number there. Please call me tomorrow at 7pm, I will then meet you and give you half the money, as we agreed.
I slowly put my hand into my back pocket and retrieved my wallet, finding one of my usual business cards on the right side. I took it out and made it slide across the table. The man took it with his left hand and examined it.
- General Manager, eh? Suppose you do have the money, eh, Stephen?
- Let me ask you something: what is my surname?
The man now looked at me suspiciously, he had no idea what was the meaning behind such a silly question. He looked at it again, now for a moment longer and giving it more thought. Then something started to click in him:
- Stephen... Brooks. Brooks.
Slowly, with great care, he started raising his head. It was now clear to him. As he was starting to open his mouth again, I quickly grabbed the knife next to him, gripped it with all the strength in the world, and with a fast and violent movement, I directed the knife into the right side of his neck and pushed as hard as I could. Blood was starting to come out in fast motion, and as he was raising his hand in surprise, trying to reach for the kinfe, I took it out from his neck and now used it against his chest once, twice, and a third time. He fell to his knees with a loud thud, his face a puzzle with no solution, he started to contort his body violently, hitting chairs and tables. After a few hit and misses, he started to calm down, as his last breath was drawing now close.
I let the knife go from my hand, hitting the floor inches away from my wife's murderer. The coffee shop was now a place of chaos, people screaming and running towards the only exit. I wiped my hands on the table cloth, slowly turned around and followed the noisy crowd towards the exit, across the road and now alone, on a secondary street towards my parked car.
I looked at my watch.
It was 3.33pm.