‘Dad’s not back yet, Mrs Brown,’ I said. Whatever perfume she was wearing was drifting around my nose, whipping at my senses, so sweet.
‘Okay, Kimberly, I’ll come back. Just needed a chat with him,’ she said. She lied, it was Thursday, her day for a booty call, and I wanted to puke.
She went to leave, then hesitated before turning back to me, eyeing me in a way that I guessed what was coming. She wanted my opinion on her make-up or clothes, and I was ready to lie through my teeth. Because I was polite like that.
‘I know you don’t like me, Kimberly. Can I ask why?’ She looked at me, the question written on her face with a hurt expression.
Well, that was a surprise. I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what to say. Mrs Brown answered for me.
‘Is it your mother? You know I don’t want to replace her.’
She couldn’t.
‘We are just two lonely people, enjoying each other’s company, not doing any harm. I’m sorry you don’t like me, and I wish I could fix it.’ There was a beat, locked into a gaze. ‘Any chance at all we might be friends?’ she asked.
Jesus, talk about putting me on the spot. I couldn’t say anything; I know it was unusual for me. My mouth was open, but nothing. I couldn’t remember when we had spoken to each other than the occasional, ‘Hi, how are you, the weather is shit today…’ that sort of thing. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards every year. When her husband was alive, he complained about the garden’s noise if I played with friends or grumbled about dad parking in his space on the road outside. Dad had said, ‘No one owns the road.’ And quite right, too. He had died five years ago.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,’ she smiled, then turned to the door, but before leaving, she turned again to me.
‘If you ever want to or need to talk, I’m just a whisper away.’ And with that, she left.
For a moment, I just stood there. Sadness overcame me when I thought of Mum, who had been gone now for some years. But not for Mum. I found myself thinking of Mrs Brown and dad. I hadn’t thought of them as two lonely people. In fact, I tended not to think of my dad as a person. He was dad. And he didn’t show his feelings. And I wondered how Mrs Brown even got close to him. Was he lonely, and I hadn’t noticed? So full of my problems and treating him like an obstruction to get over, to go around. I was thinking of this when I arrived in the kitchen. As large as life, at the kitchen table was the hitman.
He greeted me with a grin, wide enough to show me his front teeth were missing, a gun beneath his hand on the table. His grey hair cropped short, showing his bony head. His eyes flickering over me with what looked like satisfaction. His appearance was rough; four or five days’ growth of grey stubble covered his face like a person who’d been sleeping rough. Though his clothes were clean and judging from the smell, he was wearing cologne, filling the kitchen with his presents. And I realised then that was what I could smell, not Mrs Brown.
‘I bet you didn’t expect to see me again,’ he said. He waved to the chair opposite for me to sit. ‘Where have you been, been waiting for…’ he glanced to his watch, a Rolex. ‘Thirty minutes.’
I guessed he wasn’t interested in an answer as his eyes flickered around the kitchen. ‘A bit of a shit hole, isn’t it?’
This was my worst nightmare. I just knew—felt he wasn’t dead, hence all the nightmares I’ve been having. He had said I didn’t expect to see him again. Somewhere inside me, I did. I didn’t tell him that. It was almost a relief to get it over with—no more waiting. No more checking over my shoulder or my body jarring with every noise in the night.
‘Still can’t speak?’
‘You look awful,’ I said in a low whisper staring at this figure sitting opposite me. ‘You need a shave.’ Jesus, was that all I could say? When nervous, most people go dumb. Me, I say the first thing coming into my head, no filters. My heart had elevated like a skyrocket, and I could hardly breathe. My eyes glanced to the gun, and my knees were knocking under the table. ‘A beard will suit you,’ I continued in a squeaky voice. ‘Gives you a more menacing look.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he snapped, spraying me with his saliva. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘I liked you better when you couldn’t talk.’
‘Sorry, Mr Hitman, how did you….’ my voice trailed away. He did a kind of snarl at me.
‘How did I escape death?’ He snorted, his head moving to an angle to view me. ‘That’s a funny story but won’t bore you with the details.’ He let his head drop back before lifting it again with a glint in his eyes.
‘Bollocks, why not bore you? I got rescued by illegal immigrants. How’s that for luck? Unfortunately, I lost my dentures, as you can see. Not to mention my favourite weapon, now somewhere on the seabed. I haven’t been able to go home. Unable to work anywhere. Hiding out in two-bit bed-and-breakfast dosses. And
