an Uncomplicated act

I chose to take the hover-rail from the west side to the south. It’s safer that way. I look along the oval carriage. It’s almost overcrowded. The battered seating...the stink of stale urine...mixing with that sour, onion odour of too many people...with too many thoughts... in too smaller a place... all adds up to a difficult trip ahead.
I see a group of heavily armed metro guards keeping order; so I keep low and sit on the edge of the first seat I can find. I take the glass vial from my jacket pocket and take two shots of Phaledrine...Governor Sloat’s “magic potion”. It comes with a price to all those who share my peculiar talent’s... And, I might add, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane...It takes effect... Like...the warming sun, after a bout of ice cold October rain...the cold voices slowly leave my mind. And for a moment, the world seems a little brighter.
I look outside...the chequered lights from the bulbous buildings of New London shut out the night. I turn to see, huddled opposite, a petite middle aged afro-Caribbean woman, wearing a heavily mottled coat. She’s scared. I see the nervous tick in her square jaw. But I also feel her pain... The Phaledrine can shut out the crowds, but still some voices get through...she is trying to protect herself from the longing silent stares, directed not at her, but the food package on her lap.
Heavy cruel laughter from the metro-guards makes her jump. The paper bag falls, spilling its contents on the floor. All around me I see the longing stares, and feel the hunger. But I am close and begin to help her; putting the contents, as best as possible, back into the bag. A solitary orange rolls underneath another woman’s chair.
She is stiff, nervous and greedy, I can see she wants it and I know she’ll fight for it... I smile and put the thought of a long field of daises into her mind. She relaxes, as I bend down, pull out the orange, and hand it back.
‘I haven’t seen one of those in a while.’
‘Ahh, I know...’ she says, her voice guarded. ‘... I saved up three weeks food vouchers... it’s a party for me Venice...’
‘Venice... nice name.’
‘Ayah. She be three today. I promise her a burthday party an she ‘aving one.’
I smile gently, and feel pity; knowing that she hasn’t eaten properly, while she’s saved. There is a shudder and a whine as the break is applied. People weave, grab hold of the seats in front, but avoid each other.
She smiles gratefully. ‘We’el this is me stop.’ I help her get to her feet.
‘Funny...it’s mine too.’ I lie, as we walk off the carriage and into the bustling night. I look up as I wave her off; in time to see a holo-vert beam a picture across the clouded night sky.
I see her. Like an angel smiling down upon me “Vote Southgate and end Sloat’s injustice.” It reads. As I make my way across the crowded rain-soaked square to the grey steel tower where boss man Sloat’s little ferret hides out.
*
From the corner of my eye I see the pistol. Its plump, charcoal, double barrel is pointing directly at me... just within his reach. I sit uncomfortably in this uncomfortable chair; almost opposite Barton, as he reclines behind his sad steel-rusted desk. I still hold her picture in my hand.
‘It’s... not complicated...’ Barton reflects, as he sits back. I can tell he is trying to gauge me. “Feel me out.” as Sloat would say.
Barton’s eyes bore into mine.
‘No...’ I reply ‘...It’s not complicated at all.’
I smile tightly, as I turn away from Barton. For a moment I take in the room. I breathe in the torpid stench of stale sex. I note the crushed coke cans, and the crumpled and the empty chocolate bar wrappings littering the stained carpet...the grey, damp, greasy walls...the cracked round mirror behind him... The windows covered with a fractured mesh...The semi-constant hum of grav-cars as they speed past... Well Barton... you’ve definitely gone up in the world.
‘How much?’
Barton smiles that sallow greasy smile. He picks up a can and he swallows a huge gulp of soda. He puts it down. His fat flesh shines with droplets of sweat.
‘I’ve been ordered to offer you four.’
Four? Christ, He’s going to have to do better than that.
‘Sloat knows me...’ I say coldly. I smile icily. My white teeth glean savagely from behind my slightly parted lips in that shitty mirror. I shake my head and look about the room again, only this time it’s for show. ‘... Ten!’ I bark it out...making that little fat shit jump.
‘Mr. Sloat has given me strict instructions-‘
‘-Sloat!’ I snap. ‘Sloat knows I am the best! I CAN KILL WITH A FUCKIN’ WORD!’ I aggressively lean forward the hostile smile still on my face; before I lean back once more.
Barton is looking nervous. I know he has had strict instructions from Boss-man Sloat to make me do it for four. I know this, because I can see inside Barton’s head...I feel his fear, as his memories re-enact the call he had two hours previously; where Sloat snaps at him over the Holo-phone: “four and no more!” I look down at my brown polished shoes. I look up as I hear another grav-car speed past. I see him sideways glance at the gun. I know he longs to pick it up.
‘I...’ Barton begins nervously. ‘I...’ he coughs. ‘I...’
‘I FUCKIN WHAT?’ I bellow. I want this little shit; this errand boy, to pay.
‘Mmmm.r. S.S... Sssloat has told me to g...ggo upup to seven...’ he stutters out.
What a liar! Barton is paying me out of his take. But this is getting boring... he is getting boring... so I nod slowly.
Barton smiles once more. I can sense he feels safe, now that the offer’s been accepted. So I close my eyes, and think about Barton’s neck... his sallow fleshy neck. I think about what it would be like to put my hands about it. I think... I visualise...I feel...I can feel his flesh in my hands...
Then it happens...Barton’s face becomes taught... Red... Puffy... his eyes distend... his swollen lathered tongue lops out as spittle flies in an arc across his face...He can’t breathe...
He tries to reach for the gun but with another thought I slam him -in his chair- into the far wall. I see his fat face pleading for me to stop. But this is far too interesting. He gasps. He tries to stand. He reaches for his neck; but falls back. He turns in his chair. His legs outstretched, start to kick sideways. Then slide along that tired greasy floor; in this tired shitty office. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see a pair of glowing crystal eyes...eyes that are not mine... and an evil crooked smile that really can’t be mine... stare back at me.
*
I get home five hours later. The door whirrs as it closes behind me. There is darkness.
‘On.’
There is light as the wall-screen shines grey light into the darkness.
‘Voicemail?’
‘You have two messages.’ The server replies; before reeling off nothing that I Want to hear.
‘Billings...This is Sloat...’ His rough gravelly voice fills the room. ‘...Barton is scared shitless! He’s going to be in hospital for a week. He said you tried to kill him... And his safe’s been compromised! If I find it was you, I swear to all that’s ‘Unholy’-
‘End.’ I say sharply.
The second message cuts in and cuts deep.
‘Daniel... Its Julia...Are you there?’
‘END!’
I walk to the kitchenette, and pull myself a long scotch. I gulp it down. I shake... No stop stop stop.
The shaking stops and I gain control once more...the apartment looks tired and unkempt but I am not the best housekeeper.
I look at the wall screen. The news is the same... more food riots in Europe...more riots in Israel as the great Temple is close to completion...more tit for tat shots along the England-Scotland border...more pictures of the Mars mission. I shut my mind as her face fills the screen....Daniel are you there? Her voice again. I shake my head, trying to shut out the swings...the slides and happy smiles... Should I hear more? I walk back to the bottle and pour another large scotch. The warming fills me... soon I’ll be drunk... soon I won’t care at all....then I’ll do it... I’ll kill her...as if I have a choice... I feel the empty vial in my pocket. I grab it tight. I squeeze. It splinters and delicious pain shoots up my arm.
Then I pull the folder and her photo and hold it. There is a clatter scratch of papers that now are scattered at my feet. I look at her picture once more...How many had I killed now..? Christ...far too many to count... Mayor elect Julia Southgate...nee Julia Billings... stares up at me. Yes...Barton’s right. Killing isn’t complicated. If -of course- you see killing your sister an complicated act.

The end.