Murder

Murder, you could say was his calling, even his profession. Perhaps
that implied more than it was, though. A profession meant that you went
to university to study for years then got a degree. He had, on the
other hand, spent years and years perfecting his craft. He had become
an expert. He'd had to, so that his murders would go smoothly and
nothing would go wrong. He wondered if he was entitled to letters after
his name. DM perhaps (doctor of murder) or MM (master of murder). He
preferred MM himself, though he pondered the chance of getting a
master's degree through 'on the job training'. He smiled grimly. If it
hadn't been for his elder brothers, he might have been an accountant
with a real degree, or a bookie, or anything. It was expected that he
would follow them into the 'family firm', so he had.

He stopped in his tracks, involved with his thoughts, and the man
walking behind him just on his right, collided with him. He cursed
himself. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. He took pride in
being unnoticeable, a real invisible man. No one ever remembered him.
No one actually noticed him. They couldn't ever give any information
about him at all. He could even appear taller or smaller, depending on
how he held himself. He had learned to alter his appearance
comprehensively in seconds so that he was difficult to identify. Now,
he had brought himself to the attention of a potential witness. He
cursed silently. His hand closed round the knife he always carried in a
hidden pouch inside his trouser pocket. He brought it nearer, ready. He
turned aside to face the man, and apologised briefly, 'Sorry'. Then he
saw that the man was carrying a short white stick. That was a lucky
escape. He didn't think he needed to worry about being identified by a
blind man.

He continued on his way towards the station. He was right. It was
crowded. He could make his way over to the platform using other people
as cover so that the security cameras would not be able to identify
him. He smirked at his own cunning. He was 'Mr Average': average
height, average clothes, and average looks. Nothing about him stood
out. He was just a normal person struggling in to work on an average
Thursday.

He caught sight of his target. He was also dressed in the uniform of
the City. It was as if they had all been made in a factory, or had been
cloned. 'Born from the same briefcase', he pondered. Before long, he
was sitting a few seats from his target. He was absolutely sure it was
him, in the faceless throng in the carriage, because he had followed
him from his home three times in the last week. (He had a reputation
for being thorough in his preparation.) Besides which the initialled
cigarette case that he had removed from the target's pocket in the
station was conclusive in itself.

He waited. They were both in aisle seats. Soon his target would get up
and go through to the toilet. He always shaved on the way to work. He
watched him go along the passage, followed him and when the door had
almost closed, he slipped inside giving his victim a push forward as he
did so.

The target didn't make a sound. He was too shocked. Within a minute he
was dead, and the murderer was at the other end of the carriage.

As the train drew up at the station, he could hear faint shouts of
alarm and horror, but ignored them, stepped down from the carriage and
made his unhurried way to the exit. He risked a glance behind him. He
was rather astonished to see the man with the white stick being met by
someone who took his arm and walked alongside him out of the station.
They passed right in front of him and the blind man seemed to glance in
his direction momentarily. They seemed to be going in the same
direction as he was too. However, the white stick reassured him and he
continued on his way and on to the next job.

The whole situation was bitterly strange. The wife, whose contract he
had just fulfilled by killing her husband, was his next target. Her new
boyfriend, the reason for wanting her husband dead, had arranged for
that killing, while her husband, poor dead sod, had wanted revenge for
her affair with his best friend. He was about to complete that
contract.

When he had seen his next victim, he wondered why on earth two men were
willing to kill for her. She looked so ordinary. There was absolutely
nothing to warrant the Grande Passion going on around her. He hazarded
a guess that she must have a terrific personality or hidden depths, or
maybe was just great at sex. He went with the last thought, and for a
moment was tempted to find out. No, he was a professional. That would
contradict his strict ethical code as regards his work. The irony of
that thought completely escaped him.

He'd taken money, a substantial amount, to kill her, and kill her he
would. For a moment he wondered if he could get to know her first, then
put the idea out of his head. Business was business and had to be kept
separate from his personal life. Besides there was his wife and
children living happily in Margate: they knew he worked in the City,
just didn't know what exactly he did for a living. . .

He was annoyed at her lover. Imagine going along with killing the
husband just to make life easier for himself and his friend's wife.
Probably decided it meant fewer hassles than divorce.

He was getting emotionally involved with his cases. This was certainly
a no no. He had taken money from both a man and his wife (through her
lover) to murder each other. Well he was not one to renege on a deal.
He had instructed the husband to arrange an appointment to 'discuss the
divorce' at the solicitors', only a street away from the station. Her
boyfriend would of course take her there. Her husband had promised it
would all be amicable and as free of pain as possible. The appointment
was at 1000 hrs precisely on that very morning. He looked at his
watch.

The murderer had laid his plans well. He was a genius with explosives,
so it wasn't too much trouble to fix the devise he had in his briefcase
to the boyfriend's car.

He was sure he'd been right to kill the boyfriend as well. He had not
been paid for this. Passing a supermarket, he noticed a sign saying
'three for the price of two' in large letters on various items. This
time the irony hit home and he had to hurry off down a side street to
express his mirth. Couldn't draw attention to himself by laughing out
loud in a busy street. It would set him apart from the grim isolation
of the workaday crowd.

In the news later it was stated that a car bomb had gone off in central
London killing two people; a woman (who amazingly had just become a
widow when her husband was stabbed on an early morning commuter train)
and a man who was a friend of her husband's. The papers surmised hugely
about the situation. Even the tabloids came nowhere near the truth, the
murderer reflected grimly. There were many groups of terrorists who
could be blamed for such an event and they were.

Back home with his wife and children, life settled down again to its
usual anonymous ordinariness. He often thought about the woman, the
plain ordinary woman he had killed. He wondered what people would think
of him if the truth ever came out, but it wouldn't of course, he was
too professional.

Several months later, a police car arrived at his door and he was taken
down to the police station to 'help with enquiries'. Although annoyed
that his routine was being disturbed, he was not particularly worried.
Possibly everyone who was on the security cameras at the station had by
now been identified and interviewed. Remembering how careful he had
been to put others in front of him on the station platform, he was a
little anxious about this. However, during the interview it was
revealed that because of vandalism on trains around London, hidden
cameras were in place. His breath caught. Surely they didn't have one
in the train toilet? No, he breathed again. They were outside the
doors. Whenever the doors opened, they switched on. Now he knew, he
would have to allow for this in future jobs.

He was not worried. All that the cameras proved was that he was on the
train at a certain time, no big deal. So were many other people. He
questioned to himself why they were looking for men only, but reckoned
it was the stereotype thing, must be.

Much, much later, he was told he was going to be in an identity parade.
Well, of course, lots of people had seen him but if they had actually
noticed him it would be a first.

'Got an eye witness have you?' He remarked casually to the large
policeman beside him

'Oh yes, mate. A reliable one too. Used to be a private eye, dead
observant. Trained, you know.'

He felt the first sick quiver of fear, which turned to great relief.
The man with the white stick was coming towards the line of men. The
woman who had met him at the station was by his side.

'Are you having a joke, here, taking the piss like? How can a blind man
identify the murderer?'

'Tunnel vision, mate. He can't see round about but can see a small
patch in front of him. He tends to fall over kids and dogs and small
people. That's what the stick's for, to let people know to get out of
his way but he's clear enough if he'd looking straight at someone.
What's wrong? Feeling faint, are we mate?'