Part 1 - Beginning in the End

The sun crept to its dawning, a glimmer at the horizon as its light pressed into the copper gloom. Predatory seagulls swooped along the edges of grey clouds and white sky before plunging into the dark of the Channel seas in a whisper. An elderly man sat on the stone wall overlooking the shingle slopes that ran down the beach, thick white hair chaotic in the strong winds. The lapels of his dressing-gown braced and he pulled them in close, shuffling as he did and pulling the ends of his pyjama legs up even further.

As he looked down at his exposed feet, a crocodile plaster covering one toe, he thought about small moments. The gesture of the whisky bottle, open beside him on the wall, reminded him how much the world had changed. His benefactor, stood quietly behind him, most likely meant to kill him when it was finished but it was a touch of class he hadn’t seen for a while; what someone had once called etiquette at the edifice. He was glad the single malt would dull the thoughts that were now crowding his brain and as he peered down at his feet, swinging above the stone steps and pebbles, he thought of what he had to do before he finished the bottle.

He raised his voice to speak over the rush of the wind, taking care to let his flapping clothes cover the reach into his pocket as he swung his legs over the wall to face his killer. In the half-light the man seemed insubstantial; almost indistinguishable from the dark backdrop of the city. “I’d appreciate it if you say what you have to say, then finish your work and leave me be.” His eyes watered as the knife broke the surface of his skin but he fought the urge to rub his eyes as he addressed his captor. “I’m old enough to know any information you might want has long been entrusted elsewhere.”

The dark figure laughed briefly and moved closer, tugging the long leather jacket closer over his stocky frame; the gun-barrel constant. “I am going to kill you” he said, gesturing to the silenced pistol. “No mask, isolated place…you know the drill I suppose.” The old man smiled, partly for the honesty and partly for what his assassin had revealed. “And you knew I wouldn’t resist, even if I knew why you were here.” The metal was grinding in his flesh, the pain distracting him from the urge to panic in the face of this long awaited death.

The assassin’s smile had faded and he looked down as if studying the gun that rested in the crook of his arm but then looked up suddenly, a faint smile on his face once more, as he said slowly “L’homme cherche sa proper destinee et non pas son bonheur”. The smile widened as he saw the effect of the words, although it seemed certain he had no idea what they meant. He picked up the bottle and took a short swig, the gun barrel remaining poised. “It was a strange stipulation of my contract” he continued, wiping his lips on a gloved hand.

The indifference in the killer's voice bothered him but he supposed that was inevitable. He was too old to believe in a dignified death now, although he had been genuinely surprised at what the words implied. It was strange for him to have been touched by that world again after so many years. He sighed and allowed himself a last regret, as the final cut in his skin reddened the silk of his pyjama leg, that he would never know the outcome of his last move in the game. He had changed the world in his day; it seemed strange to leave it now so unnoticed.

The bottle was almost to his lips before his companion had reacted to it being snatched; stepping back with the pistol extended looking astonished at the other’s speed. He couldn’t resist winking then as he drained the last of the whisky, put the bottle down carefully on the wall and hitched his legs to turn round and face the sea. The day was slowly exploding in front of him, he could taste salt in the air, the whisky in his throat and the pain was like the bite of the winter wind; the sound lost in the crash of the surf. He felt his body lowered sideways, a message in blood and silk rippling as the wind pulled at his clothes; he smiled at the thought of it as reflected suns slid beneath his eyelids.