‘Me?’
He nodded. ‘And myself. There I was, trying to save a bullet, thinking a shove off a cliff, and no one would know you weren’t a suicide. I should have taken you to the woods and beaten you to death instead. No one would have cared, since from what I’ve seen of you, no one likes you—you are a self-entitled bitch.’
‘People do like me,’ I said, lifting my chin. How dare this man thinks he knows me.
‘Name one person.’
‘I can name three, Linda, Alex, and I think Paula though I don’t know her that well,’ I admitted. ‘And it’s probably three more than you have.’ I bit my lip. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
‘I don’t have friends,’ he nodded. ‘I’ve read your blog… oh, you look surprised. I’ve done a study of you. I know you better than you think. I’ve followed you to work yesterday, and you even turned around and saw me. But you didn’t see me if you know what I mean.’
I did. I knew exactly what he meant. I had imagined I had seen his tall, thin shape so many times it had become mundane.
‘Are you here to kill me?’ It was just a wild guess. With a toothless grin, he nodded.
‘Not just to kill you but hurt you. You are going to watch me kill your father first, then your turn.’ He let that hang. ‘The scene out in the hall just now was very touching,’ he said, making a gesture by placing a hand to his heart. ‘You’ve been giving your father’s lady friend a hard time. Shame on you.’
I had wondered why I was still alive but didn’t like to mention it. He was waiting for dad, and there was nothing I could do to warn him.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ventured. ‘Dad won’t be home yet.’
He considered this, eyes flickering to the worktop. ‘Why not?’
I got up, faltering as my legs gave way, which amused him.
Filling the kettle, I asked. ‘What’s your name?’
Again, he seemed to consider whether to answer.
‘Vincent.’
‘Vincent,’ I repeated.
‘Problem?’ he snapped.
‘Just thought it might be something like Antonio or manly like Bret.’ Kettle turned on; two cups set out. He waved the gun at me to sit again.
‘Are you trying to antagonise me?’
I looked at him.
‘Provoke me,’ he clarified as if I didn’t know what antagonise meant.
‘No, just a weird name for a hitman.’
‘I don’t like the term hitman. I’m a paid assassin.’
‘Do you get a lot of work?’
‘Are you an idiot?’
‘No, just wonder how someone gets into that line of business. Suppose you were in the armed forces, a sniper or something?’
‘You’ve been reading too… no, I take that back, watching too many spy films.’
‘I’m not stupid. I’m not the one running from the police.’ There I go again. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? He just smiled at me.
‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’ He leant across the table. ‘I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.’
The kettle boiled, and I stood to pick it up. I was thinking of tipping it over him. But he was way ahead of me. He took his gun and shunted back in the chair towards the kitchen door, watching me; okay, that plan was out of the window.
Then the unexpected. The neighbour must have been listening for dad and hearing a male voice burst through the kitchen door. Vincent turned in a panic as the door hits his chair. I threw the kettle with its contents of boiling water at him. He dropped the gun, jumping up, screaming. His leg caught in the chair while Mrs Brown froze on the spot. Staring at the man jumping around, trying to pull the wet clothes off his body.
I skipped around the kitchen table and swooped up the gun, standing back with it in my shaking hands. Mrs Brown flashes me a look. I thought she was trying to apologise, then her eyes flickered the gun in my hand. It went off, hitting the wriggling man in the leg as he was trying to get his trousers off. Not on purpose. I was not sure how that happened.
Mrs Brown fainted. I was looking at the gun, not sure what to do. Vincent was howling, having dropped to the floor, and was dragging himself up against the kitchen cabinets, kicking at the chair freeing his leg. Clutching the other leg with both hands, he panted—the blood trickling from the wound, forming a puddle on the floor.
Vincent and I were gazing at one another. He was controlling his breathing and pulling out a hankey from his jogging bottoms, now halfway down his legs to tie around the wound.
‘You’ve done it again. Fucked me up. So now what, call the police? Please do before you shoot me again by accident.’
‘You shouldn’t have come after me,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Because I dreamt of killing you since that day at the cliffs. Of ending you, for nothing more than pure gratification.’ He smiled despite the pain he must have been in. ‘You ruined me, my reputation, my living. If you have been another hotshot assassin, I could have lived with that, but you.’ He spat out in disgust. ‘So, now what? You call the police, I get taken to the hospital, do a little time since they can’t prove anything other than I tried to kill that woman whatever her name was.’
‘Her name is Jenna.’
‘Whatever, I had a life. It was ordered. I’d work, go home to Maggie, my dog, and look forward to the next job. I have ninety-seven kills to my name. But doesn’t means anything now. You ruined everything.’
As he spoke, Mrs Brown came too. She lifted her head and struggled to get herself
