873 words

3 minutes 30 seconds reading time

I’m seated in a chair five stories up, waiting patiently, the tip of my gun resting on the windowsill. My eyes are focused on the street below, watching for any sign of my latest mark—and secretly hoping they don’t show up.

It is silent.

All I have to do is wait.

This always requires the most focus. Being still. I sit in my yoga crossed-legged position, channelling calmness.

Before Joey, I was trained. In control.

Now I’m a yoga-focused, meditation app–toting, Crunchie bar–addicted gun-for-hire.

Seriously, of all the chocolate bars I could have developed a thing for, why a Crunchie? It’s hardly the quietest.

Just thinking about it makes me want one.

Joey’s sure to appear. I can feel my heart racing—just slightly. But slightly is too much.

That’s it. This crossed-legged thing isn’t working for me right now.

Crunchie it is.

Why does unwrapping the foil have to sound like a train exploding in a tunnel? If I do it quicker, like pulling off a Band-Aid—

Nope. Still loud.

The clock ticks down the seconds at the side of my eye. Almost there.

The Crunchie will have to wait.

Leaning into the gun, I find my target.

Perfect.

I aim.

I am calm.

He moves into position.

My finger is on the trigger.

Almost there. One second more.

Time slows. Microseconds.

Wait.

Wait—

“Heya.”

Loudly. From behind me.

“I was wondering where you got to?”

For fuck’s sake.

“What?”

He found me.

Joey.

My first hit.

It’s not like he actually lost me.

Do we have to do this every time?

I sigh, looking at his sad face, and just like that, the irritation slips into guilt.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t like waiting outside, and you always take ages.”

Well, it’s not like I can just pick any random stranger to shoot. I do have to earn a living, you know. Not everyone here can get away with not eating.

I flap my hands between the two of us. I need to eat, keep a roof over our heads, and do all the normal things that actually being alive entails.

“I’ll just go over here,” he whispers, floating off into the corner and standing right in the centre of a small console table.

I have a confession to make.

It’s disturbing enough being followed around by my ghost—spectre, whatever he is. Most of the time, I’m kind of okay with it.

Just not when he stands smack in the centre of furniture.

Can we not do that?

“I’m sorry, I keep—”

Look, stop.

He’s gone.

“Who?”

Let me see.

The person I was supposed to kill.

“Oh.”

Yes, oh.

Now I have to come back next week and redo this whole setup.

“Sorry.”

In truth, I was sorry.

Sorry that I ever killed Joey to begin with.

I had been warned—connecting with a mark had consequences.

Yes.

Giant, inconceivable consequences.

—

But that wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The first time.

—

Everything had been arranged to make it effortless.

The car.

The location.

A detailed plan.

Yeah.

Right.

Looking back on that night—what was I thinking?

Instead of following dutifully what I was told to do, I went through the front door of the hotel.

Not the back.

Mistake number one.

And then, realising this was the first time I had even a sliver of freedom in a year, what did I do?

Did I head to the room and get ready?

No.

Of course not.

I went to the bar.

For a Diet Coke.

A Diet Coke.

I hadn’t so much as touched one in a year. All the training—healthy body, healthy mind, no junk food, no rubbish calories, yoga, meditation, peace and calm.

All so I could kill someone.

The irony.

And there I stood at the hotel bar with a glass of sweet, perfect Diet Coke.

Cold.

Right amount of ice.

Bubbles popping on the surface.

When, from behind me, I heard—

“Let me introduce myself.”

I froze.

It was Joey.

And yes, he was talking to me.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered.

I turned to move away.

He didn’t give up.

“I feel like we know each other.”

I don’t think so.

Grabbing my bag and leaving the Diet Coke behind, I walked out.

He followed.

Yes.

Followed me.

“Wait, I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”

I walked faster.

So did he.

Through the hotel, out the back, towards the delivery door—the one I should have used.

Out through the kitchen.

Past the staff room.

The cool room.

Then the door.

It opened onto the street.

As it closed behind me, I reached into my bag and pulled out a small .22.

Joey stepped out in front of me.

Silent now.

I raised the gun.

Level.

Steady.

Right at his head.

And then—

Bang.

A gigantic flat screen TV came flying out of a window above.

Smack.

Hit him directly on the head.

Killed him outright.

And if that wasn’t strange enough—

“Well, that’s not good.”

From behind my left shoulder.

—

I have since learned that Joey has a gift for being very understated during traumatic experiences.

His death being one of them.

—

So yes.

Consequences.

And he never left.