Life In Shadows

By C. P. Clarke

A search for faith, treasure, and an escape from the demons of a man's soul.
Simon is an assassin duped into a job that goes horribly wrong. On the run, he is drawn into the employment of a mysterious figure guarding an ancient doorway to another world. Stumbling through to this otherworld he finds himself trapped in a desolate world. In seeking a way home, he is befriended by the Prophets, a group of mysterious figures who appear to have their own agenda for him as they hail his as the saviour of their world from an ancient darkness.
Back in the world that Simon has left behind, Alan is tormented by the mystery of an accident that should have killed him. Scarred mentally and physically he becomes fearful of the dark ghostly figures pursuing him. Questioning his own sanity, he, along with his wife, embark on piecing together the clues left behind by the one victim of the accident who didn't survive. Their search leads them to the existence of an ancient artefact hidden by the church, one which is the key to opening the doorway and linking two distant worlds.
In the shadows of a world beyond the two men meet – their fates entwined in an eternal battle of forces beyond their comprehension.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. P. Clarke
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223339083

Book preview

1

THE THEFT

Orders. Orders. Always bloody orders! Quit it, it’s what we’re here for. He shook his head in frustration, resisting the temptation to continue the nagging dialogue that tempted to derail their purpose.

We’re here, let’s get on with it.

Osal checked his side-arm’s safety catch was off before holstering the steel Barretta beneath the left side of his jacket.

Low key, came the superior voice from his left sat behind the steering wheel. Osal nodded as both men climbed out of the vehicle into the open space of the underground car park. They sauntered, ever watchful, towards the grey panelled lift. The light above the green stairway sign flickered to their right. As they approached the lift door, Osal reaching forward to press the call button, two brooding figures in black suits reflected back distortions in the battered aluminium.

The doors opened almost immediately as though waiting for the two men to arrive. They stepped aboard and paused for the doors to close. The lift was small and basic, the control panel simple and clean from under use. It numbered fourteen floors with a blank button for the fifteenth, with a ten-digit security access panel next to it.

Osal quickly pressed the unmarked button and tapped in a set of four numbers on the panel beside it. The lift began moving silently and smoothly, neither man saying a word as it ascended the building. The lift came to a halt at its destination without stopping at any of the other floors. The doors glided open into a brightly lit reception room of a private residence.

The two men stepped out, stopped, and listened. Cream sofas squared off into a sunken floor, allowing an unobtrusive view of the city skyline through wide paned reinforced windows. They both took in the view, and then after a moment’s pause, gave each other a knowing look and moved off to the right, not stopping to appreciate the décor or the lavishness of the penthouse apartment they were already familiar with.

They moved through to a side bedroom and then through into a study. Osal walked behind the great oak desk splitting the room in two from the right-hand side. He opened the top draw on the left side and pressed a button on the roof of the draw. The bookcase on the adjacent wall opposite the door opened. Osal casually closed the draw.

The hidden door shifted back smoothly, double its depth. It slid with a slight swish as the pressurised hinge slid on a track, hiding the collection of grand looking books behind the wall.

The walk-in vault housed three things: two large bookcases encased in locked glass cabinets, and a five foot by four foot safe against the far wall.

Without hesitation the two men paced towards the safe, not even glancing at the books. Some were hundreds of years old, all first editions, and each one worth a small fortune. Bright red beams twinkled off their shoes, their trousers, suit jackets, and their dark glasses. They seemed unperturbed by the sensors and no audible alarm sounded, having already been disarmed. They casually stopped in front of the safe, not seeming to be in any hurry.

Osal confidently turned the combination lock with one hand, spinning the dial from right to left and back again with accuracy and speed. With the other hand he yanked down on the brass handle, releasing the bolts. The heavy door opened wide as he stood aside to allow his associate access.

Inside the safe were four shelves stacked high with bound $50 notes. Ananda crouched down and removed a stack, which he handed back to Osal before reaching down to remove another, again passing it back to Osal, who cradled them in an untidy bundle in his arms. Ananda removed a third stack, placing it on the floor by his feet before reaching back in for the grey metal box hidden at the back of the safe.

The box, four inches deep and A4 in shape and size, had a key-lock on the top end closest to Ananda. He reached into his trouser pocket and removed a small flick-knife, which he opened with one hand whilst his other dragged the box forward towards him to take the place of the missing bank notes. He used the knife with sudden expertise, jamming the blade sharply into the crack of the lid, forcing the gap to widen and using its edge as leverage to force the lock open. He quickly folded and put away the knife and then flipped open the lid of the box. He lent a hand forward and stroked its contents, a smile edging the corners of his mouth.

Within a moment, the two men were stomping through the apartment in a reverse route, the contents of the metal box hidden securely beneath Ananda’s suit jacket.

They made no attempt to cover their tracks as they left, nor did they attempt to disguise their intrusion, leaving behind the cash, and the vault door open with its fortune on display.

Having what they came for, they stepped back into the waiting elevator, staring blankly back through dark glasses into the apartment and its penthouse view of the city. The doors closed as they made their escape without a word being uttered between them.

2

WHITE FLASH

The pale smiley face with its indented eye and gashed nose had outlived its welcome. The thin drawn features were now lined with an almost emotionless frown as a trickle of dirty brown seeped from its wound. Then extinguished. Crushed in the palm of a hand and tossed aside to tumble painlessly to the gridded encasement of its cell to accompany its other, long bored, colleagues of the polystyrene cup brigade.

The day was over, the last day for Alan Parkes. The clock on the wall adjacent to the desk having just ticked passed ten minutes after five. The final paper shuffle was in progress. The draws were opened to be filled messily to make the tabletop more presentable, and then closed again. The hum and flicker of the computer settling as it shut down systems reacting to the pressing of the off button. The biro cap replaced as the pen fell into its slot in the pea green penholder. The chair finally pushed back after over an hour and a half of desk hugging.

Alan put his hands to his face to cover his eyes, flipping his head back and taking a deep breath in an attempt to get oxygen to his temples. He had a headache. The day had taken its toll, and he was tired, eager to get home. He loosened his tie and stretched out his legs beneath the desk as he lowered his hands to glance once more across his work surface, a final double check that his day’s work was done and he could go home.

One more glance to the clock, the second hand ticking slowly to have moved the minute hand no further than his last glimpse, the thought echoing, not for the first time, at the annoyance of having a clock so close to his desk causing him to peer continuously at its slow movement through the day.

Alan reached for the phone to the left of the desk, the family snapshot half hiding behind it – a mother and daughter posing in full Kodak colour in front of the family home, the three-year-old brunette smiling broadly at the photographer whilst the slim bottle blonde mother held the little girl’s hand away from her face. Alan picked up the receiver and quickly tapped out a number with his index finger before raising it to his ear. A lengthy silent pause. No, not silent – a slight crackle, the pitched murmur of the voices howling together along the condensed line. Then it rang, melodious and repetitive: once, twice, cut off with a click halfway through the third.

Hello.

Her voice was sweetly feminine, high-pitched but not childish. He could picture her sat on the sofa with the phone in her right hand, the TV on across the room with their daughter sat not too far away on the floor watching it, her head turning to enquire curiously as to who mummy was talking to on the telephone.

Hi, I’m just about to leave.

Okay, I’ll get dinner started.

Alan picked up the familiar animated sounds in the background, a delighted childish giggle rising over it.

What’s that she’s watching, Veggie Tales?

Yeah, that new one your brother bought her, David and the Giant Pickle.

Again.

So long as it keeps her quiet.

Fair enough.

How long will you be?

Forty minutes probably, depending on traffic.

Okay, I’ll see you then.

Love you. Bye.

Alan heard the click at the other end just before he replaced the receiver. He stood up, gently rubbing his finger and thumb together unwittingly, not realising he’d caught the flap of skin on his index finger which he’d sliced on a page before lunch. He stepped away from his desk and pushed in his chair, suddenly aware of its colour, as though before it was dull and colourless. Looking at it now, it seemed bright, with its green cloth over a shiny black plastic frame, its wheels rolling across a blue carpet spotted in grey, supporting his brown shoes at the base of dark slate coloured suit trousers. The late afternoon sun shone through the window illuminating all in its golden warmth. Alan paused to take in the effect which seemed to give everything a new lease of life, including his headache which seemed to pierce sharply from his temples through to the back of his head as the light struck his eyes.

He stepped away and reached for his blazer hanging on one of the five hooks by the door. Three other hooks were filled; he wasn’t the last to leave. He put on his jacket and felt for his keys.

He gave a cursory glance around the room, not really taking in the detail as his headache blinded his perception and his willing.

See you guys tomorrow.

There were a couple of grunts of acknowledgement in response as his co-workers grudgingly worked on. Alan faded from the room without notice or care; just another working day over as he made his way down to the car park where his ride awaited him.

Exiting the building, a light breeze struck him welcomingly across the face as the sun thumped him hard across the cheek and forehead. His eyes winced at the pain and his left hand saluted to his brow, his right hand rising to his collar to encourage the swimming flow of cool air to his neck. He looked across the small car park in front of the office building he’d just escaped. He could see his car gleefully basking in the sullen shade of the building opposite, its shiny silver body sleeping now in a dull grey camouflage.

As he sauntered across the field of lantern lit concrete, cloud shaped gobos slowly drifted from right to left before his feet. He could make out the mask of dirty white dried across his vehicle’s signature: DEO now obscured so that only MON could be deciphered.

Alan gazed up in mild annoyance as he walked, and sure enough spied a likely culprit: a slate perched atop the low-rise guttering, a cheeky coo and flutter as it turned to show its rear. Alan dropped his head, the frustration simmering, his eyes lowering to the offence and then to his steps. He would clean it off later, or most likely tomorrow.

He fished his keys out from his jacket pocket and stepped around to the driver’s door. The key slid into the lock aimlessly, routinely practised left turn to disarm the alarm and then right to unlock. It opened without effort, without argument, without emotion. Alan dropped into its cool interior and went through the motions: ignition, mirror, reverse gear. As he backed out of the parking space, careful not to scrape the black Volvo to his right, he took note of the empty space to his left, the car that had occupied it having departed at an earlier point in the day, its driver, rude and unnamed, having vacated before he could be accosted. The sign low down on the wall before the empty space clearly read, in none too bold nor shy lettering: Reserved – Alan Parkes. If it happened again tomorrow, he’d put a sign on the car’s windscreen to ward off any future offence. Alan himself didn’t want the worry of having parked a second time in someone else’s space.

Town traffic twinkled in the sunlight. Sun-streaked cars reflected in freshly cleaned shop windows, mirroring chaotic tempers in a cooler and calmer sheen as the drivers lost themselves in tinted glass. Male drivers sat with their windows wound down, their elbows perched, peering beneath their sunglasses at the generous glimpses of female flesh littering the pavement. A light breeze wafted up the exhaust fumes just enough to wisp into the open car windows to add to the slowly collecting grime on business-scuffed collars. A lusciously fat and wildly green tree reached for the sky, gently waving at the dull parched lamppost on the opposite side of the road, shadowing tired bricks flatly yawning their silence as they watched the gridded brakes of the snake light up in succession.

Alan Parkes punched the clutch with his left foot, his right clubbing the brake. His overreaction panicked his heart, a momentary breath lost. The car in front wasn’t as close as he’d anticipated, but in all likelihood, he would have bumped it had he not dragged his eyes from the side of the street in time. Still, his sudden braking was enough to cause a screech from the car behind who also wasn’t reading the crawling traffic ahead but instead was keeping pace with Alan’s Mondeo. One by one cars stopped, brake lights went on at the command of the red traffic command towering over the cars at the end of the High Street. Alan could see the road beyond; it was clearing. The holdup was being caused by the traffic lights. If he was lucky, he could probably get through at the next change and have a fairly clear road ahead.

Amber blinked and Alan slipped into first ready, prepared to zoom off, tagging the tail of the blue Fiesta in front, its female driver leaning across to a baby’s car seat strapped into the front passenger seat next to her. She hadn’t shifted her gears yet, nor looked up to see that the lights had changed. Alan worried that her lack of concentration on the road would cost him the vital seconds he needed to cross in time. His headache burned in his temples as he took stock of the cars that needed to pull off ahead of him. Six, maybe seven cars were lined up. One by one their taillights, partially hidden by others in the line, were extinguished behind a puff of smoke, the lead car the only one so far to have moved beyond the green light visible to all.

The snake moved, at long last, and Alan applied pressure to the accelerator pedal as he eased off the clutch. Even the woman in front had edged forward, despite the fact that she was still looking at her baby, her peripheral vision steering the car. The flow was steady but slow.

As Alan neared the lights, he closed the gap between his Mondeo and the Fiesta. Quite rightly so, it seemed, as amber warned him that he was the last to get through, and if he wasn’t quick he’d be jumping the red. The Fiesta had the same thought, and for a moment Alan pictured her breaking suddenly, forcing him to brake hard and sit through another round of cross traffic staring, but she didn’t and he was relieved as they both sped through to a clear flowing road ahead of them, his headache subsiding in his moment of joy.

Second gear came quickly, swiftly hitting third as the Fiesta sped away, indicated left and disappeared, swinging wide down a narrow side road. Alan’s mind went to forth as his right foot squeezed the accelerator a touch more to get him up to speed. Then nothing.

Bright white eclipsed his vision. Blinding. Momentarily mesmerizing. Brilliant white light filled the windscreen causing the road ahead to evade him. He tried to look down to his speedometer, and then to the gear stick, the handbrake, the steering wheel, and the pedals. All in a split second, the fraction of the time it would take to register something was wrong. Frustration, then panic as Alan realised his blinding white flash had enveloped the interior of his vehicle also. He couldn’t see anything.

He blinked his eyes frantically, but it didn’t alter his view. Every other sense told him automatically that the car was still moving, still accelerating: the rumbling sound of the wheels and the dry rasp of an under lubricated engine, and the shudder of the vibrations as the car rolled across the tarmac. A cold sweat burst on his brow, smiting the ache from his temples and forehead. His mouth turned from open surprise to gritted anticipation of pain as his teeth clenched.

He slammed his left foot to stamp the clutch, his right foot simultaneously hitting the brake. He heard the piercing screech of the tyres wrestling with the friction of the tarmac as he allowed his left hand to let go of the gear stick and reach for the steering wheel, both hands gripping, bracing for impact.

As his retinas burned from the blistering white heat, he imagined he could see people standing on the pavement, the sun bouncing off their cheeks as they gasped in horror as Alan ploughed his Mondeo into a parked car. He closed his eyes tight and waited, feeling the bright heat of sunshine burning into his skin the way the white flash had burned away his eyes.

The impact didn’t come.

He seemed to travel indefinitely without striking anything. Then there was darkness, and cold, and silence, except for the running engine of the car. He relaxed his body. Slowly allowing the tension to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. His feet easing off the pedals. His locked jaw and squinted eyelids preparing to open.

Then the car jolted forward again under a new steam as the cold shadow stroked his cheek. He felt death approaching.

He opened his eyes to darkness. Night.

3

OUT OF NOWHERE

Nicholas crunched the gears into second as he swung a left off the roundabout. He was going way too fast for the turn, as usual, but his fumbling for the right gear to slow him down had only resulted in him inching the small, rust-patched, blue Renault 5 too far to the right. Fortunately, no cars were coming towards him, the road being deserted so late at night, save for the odd beam of headlights crossing the distance.

Nicholas applied his brakes and brought the car under control, even though he’d taken the bend slower than his normal ‘boy racer trying to impress’ speed. He wasn’t really concentrating on the road and knew it. He shook his head to physically wake himself up so that he was alert for the short journey home.

Helen had really pissed him off tonight. He’d let it slide at the time so they could canoodle quietly in the lounge while her parents slept upstairs. But still, what did she expect from him? "You do love me, don’t you Nick?" she had said as he replayed the scene in his mind. She was talking over his shoulder into his ear, he rolled his eyes and frowned as he fumbled with her bra strap. Yeah, yeah. Of course I do. She pushed away from him just as he was on the verge of mastering the clip. She stared intently into his eyes and he down at her cleavage and the hidden breasts beneath her bra. He drew his eyes up to meet hers, knowing that she demanded his attention. No, I mean it Nick. You do love me, don’t you? Resignedly, he’d given her the answer she wanted to hear and then pulled her forward so that he could reach behind her for a second attempt.

That was all it had taken. What did she expect him to say? They’d only been dating for six months. She was seventeen and in college. He was nineteen and worked in a shop on the High Street. Nick couldn’t understand why women always had to complicate things.

Helen was good looking enough for a poke, and not so smart that she could see through him, and her humour at times rose above gutter level. That said, she was one of the best shags he’d ever had. They got on well, had a laugh together and enjoyed themselves. So why did she have to bring love into it?

Nick felt the pressure and wasn’t happy. He was far from happy. He’d play his part of course, act it out and tell her what she wanted to hear, but secretly he wasn’t sure how long the relationship would last. He wanted a good time, not to settle down into some boring monogamous relationship.

They’d made out until about 1.00am, then they both decided he should leave and go home for the night. They’d parted on good terms, better in fact, but as soon as he got in the car her earlier comment came rushing back to haunt him.

Light drizzle spat speckles on his windscreen, and he resisted the temptation to put on the wipers, preferring to squint through the slight distortion of the glass. He touched the accelerator gently in the hope that he’d get home before the downpour.

A streetlight flickered in the distance and the wind brushed through the trees whispering sweet nothings across the tarmac as he drove in the shadow.

Nick scanned his view. All was well, except for the turbulence in his head. He could see his turning coming up on his right in the distance and sped up to meet it. Almost home, he thought to himself. He checked his mirrors quickly for other vehicles, no lights blinked back at him so, consciously ignoring the indicator, he pulled the small Renault wide to the left before swinging his familiar right into the road where he lived.

The shape, a slight movement, a gliding motion, came into his periphery view before the flash of light tore up his attention from the left, obliterating the bleak corner he was turning into.

Nick didn’t have time to react. His vocal cords seized up in shock as his eyes widened to his brow. He couldn’t make out the colour or make of the car. He couldn’t assess its speed as it appeared out of the darkness. The one thing he was sure of was the driver: his face zoomed into focus in the fraction of a second of clarity as they both expressed their surprise and shock horror at seeing the other, similar contortions lining their faces. For a split second the two drivers were joined, linked in one unique and confusing way, total strangers acknowledging their differences in their similar fate.

The car speeding out of the darkness struck Nick’s Renault 5 at such a speed that the impact tore into the side of the car and across the roof as it lifted into the air.

Nick span. House. Tree. Tarmac. Sky. Parked car. House. Tree. Tarmac.

When the Renault came to rest, Nick looked out through his new open skylight that lay a crumpled mess against the curb of the pavement. He glimpsed the final spin of the other vehicle as it twisted down into a parked car, its crumpled taillights sparkling the trace of its final journey, its wheels frozen in time as the driver’s foot clamped to the brake pedal as it bounced off the roof of the parked car before tipping onto its side on the ground.

Nick’s mind shuddered, but his body failed to react. He could feel a hot trickle of blood across his forehead rolling onto his eyelids forcing him to shut them involuntarily, his mind trying to convince him it was the rain finally falling, hitting his face, whilst a distant echo of grey matter screamed at him to remain conscious. As his eyes went black, so the darkness blotted out his internal screams.

4

I KNOW YOU

F ools! What is this ? spat Yima as he violently threw the book out of the shadows at them. The blank pages flapped, fanning the air as they fell on the wet ground at their feet, the two disciples dancing out of the way to avoid being hit.

They hung their heads in confused shame. They had no explanation. The didn’t think to check the contents and confirm the find. This was failure. They hadn’t completed the task.

This means he has it, Yima growled to himself from the darkness. You two follow every lead. Find it, and quickly! He has the information, but he’ll need help. He’ll use those caught in the rift. Start there. They are his weakness; he’s not strong enough to get it himself. Do not fail me again! He looked out at them, his pale age worn features ghosting the gloom. Go!

The two backed away in silence as a void of colour swirled in the blackness as Yima returned back through the gate.

NICK CAME TO, BLINKED profusely, momentarily blinded by shattered glass and blood seeping in under his eyelids. His shoulder was smashed. His ribs were shattered and had caved forcibly into his chest. He couldn’t feel his legs, could barely feel his hands, but at least he could see them. His left hand was crushed and torn. Two fingers were snapped back and the nail of one was ripped from the tip.

He could see the flames from the other car off in the distance and wondered how long it had been burning. How long had he been out? He knew his eyes had been shut and that he’d lost consciousness, but he had no idea for how long. He guessed it was only moments, no one had come to his aid yet and the crash was sure to have woken people from their slumber.

Nick reached his good hand round to grip the metal frame of the car, trying to pull himself free. Panic was setting in. In the films the cars always exploded, and he didn’t want to be inside when his did. He could smell the petrol breaking through the metallic odour of his own blood dripping off the end of his nose, increasing his panic even more. He pulled ever harder with his good hand until his head was free of the body of the car and he could use it to grip at the debris ridden tarmac. The pain was excruciating. He could feel his muscles popping and tendons tearing as he forced them to move away from the trappings and confines of what he feared would be his tomb, or rather his cremation.

He pulled himself free, crawling on his elbows, allowing the twisted metal of the Renault 5 to tear through his side in his attempt to further himself towards the pavement and away from the wreck. As his eyes blurred towards the curb, his ears picked out the sound of voices and doors opening and footsteps.

He strained to raise his head to the coming help, an edge of a smile allowing blood to fall onto his tongue. His eyes tried to blink away the blood as the black shoes slowly stepped before him, their shine almost revealing his own bloodied face as he allowed himself a final rest.

OSAL’S MIND SNAPPED back to the present, or past; they tended to blur in an indiscernible truth. It was a confused reality, his mind struggling to refocus on what lay before him, blocking out the echo of thoughts trying to wash over his vision.

He stared down at the familiar features of recognisable fact, the returned look of similar realisation and confusion. Don’t I know you? Yes, but from where? The wracking of brains: people, places, incidents – who are you? Like a shy sideways glance in a supermarket where all that is communicated is a loud but tentative ‘Hi! Hello! Where do I know you from? I’m not sure, I don’t know.’ And then the parting of ways to never be seen again except in memories nagging eye as it niggles tauntingly in the guise and voice of someone you thought you knew. ‘Hi, who am I? What’s my name? Where do you know me from?’

That first glimpse of uncertainty niggled at him now. He recognised him immediately as he lay unconscious, blood scabbed at his temples, the skin discoloured a darkish purple, his nose twisted with the right nostril torn upwards to the cheek, the lips caked and blistered, parched and rigid. Cold air blew past as his breath beat across his face, wafting over his matted hair in a mist.

Glass and grit scraped beneath Osal’s feet as he sidestepped to make way for the emergency services, metal crunchers at the ready eager to cut the victim free.

Up until then, there had been silence, save for the few onlookers mumbling their shock, wondering how they could help. Now there was noise. An echoing of voices slowly playing on forgotten senses as machinery and engines turned the gears of Osal’s ears as he stepped back. How long had he lain there? It all seemed so settled when he arrived.

He’s got a pulse! exclaimed the paramedic as he secured his new patient’s position. He stepped back, giving way to the fire fighters to allow them to cut the driver free.

All Osal’s mind could play were images of places past, people known, memories forgotten, but he still couldn’t place the driver. He stepped back into a dark cloud of hustle and bustle as the sirens of immediacy fought desperately to save the life lying before him.

Osal’s mind drifted in wonder of the figure crumpled and broken as to whether, through those blood bleary eyes, could he see me? Did he recognise me? If he were to speak, could he tell me who I am?

5

THE NARTH

Simon lounged casually across the three-seater sofa. One leg outstretched along its length whilst the other dangled passively to the floor, his head supported by one large, perfectly positioned cushion which bore a deep crater where his head sunk deep into its plush comfort. The sun blazed through the open front door of the apartment and the wide gaping window facing him, inviting the summer’s heat into his humble abode. He allowed it to bask upon his brow as he delved into the fine words of the latest Stephen King novel.

His reading habits were fairly consistent, often passing the time away from people and technology. The former he found unnecessary and the latter he found irritating. He preferred his own company and the ability to be able to do things in his own time and pace. He wasn’t concerned much with the spoken word and so shunned all but his most trusted of companions. However, he loved the written word, be it a recent novel or an old classic, and would often flit between the two, reading more than one at a time as he expanded his mind and immersed himself in popular fantasy, crime, and the early horror classics, stretching back to the poetic language of the great bard himself as he ploughed through the complete works of William Shakespeare. They all captivated his imagination, allowing him to escape the morbid depths of his own reality.

Beep Beep, Beep Beep, Beep Beep, Beep Beep.

Simon allowed the alarm its short cry whilst he finished reading the paragraph, then marked the page before sliding his right hand to his watch to silence the repetitious electronic chime.

It was time to go. He had work to do. He leaped from the sofa, placing the book on the coffee table before him as he stood, and made his way to the bedroom.

He returned only moments later wearing a thin cream blazer over his pale green tee-shirt. Grey hush puppies graced his feet beneath the crisp blue denim of his jeans. He picked up his keys from the coffee table, closed the window and walked to the door. As he crossed the threshold of his domain, he padded the bulge beneath the left side of his jacket in reassurance and then closed the door behind him.

Simon pulled his black Saab into the car park behind the small office block. He noted the black Mercedes parked close to the rear fire exit of the building. He pulled in alongside it and waited. A quick glimpse at his watch told him he was on time - as usual. He just hoped that Parsons would be similarly as prompt; he didn’t want to be in the area for too long.

After a short while the fire exit door opened and a short, plump, rosy cheeked man dressed in a blue pinstriped suit strode out. An unusual site on a Sunday afternoon, but then Simon was expecting it. He’d been watching Parsons’ pattern for a while and had grasped some idea as to why he’d been requested for this job: fraud, or something to the likes he suspected. He didn’t really care so long as he got paid. It was Mike’s job to sort out the fine details and to ensure all was kosher.

Parsons strode the short distance over to the Mercedes, giving the black Saab with its shaded windows a cautious and wary look. He clutched at a black attaché case with his left hand and fumbled about in his trouser pocket with his right. As he reached the Mercedes, he retrieved the keys from his pocket, all the while staring at the Saab. The two vehicles were the only ones in the open-air car park, overlooked by the empty office buildings.

The engine to the Saab started up, startling Parsons into dropping his keys. The Saab drove off a short distance and then returned, half circling the Mercedes and pulling into a stop besides Parsons so that he was sandwiched between the two cars. Parsons stood shaking as the black tinted glass of the Saab’s driver side window slid down with a gentle whir.

Simon noted a pearl drip from Parsons’ brow as he backed against the door of his regal chariot. Then, without hesitation, Simon reached into the left side of his jacket and removed the Jericho from its holster, extended his arm in Parsons’ direction, and fired, twice.

Smoke spilled out from the long-barrelled suppressor as Simon replaced the weapon beneath his jacket, the burning smell filling the car as the window closed, cutting the smoke in two so that half wafted decapitated, mixing with the air outside.

The Saab drove off casually as Parsons’ vacant corpse slid to sit by the side of the Mercedes, propped in silent fear, waiting for someone to discover the crime.

Simon drove home nonchalant. The sound of Michael Jackson tweeted in his ears, interrupted by a DJ giving a weather report, followed by annoyingly repetitive jingles advertising electrical superstores, summer sales, cheap insurance, and the latest Star Trek adventure to hit the big screen. It was all followed by a gentle George Michael track. Simon barely paid any attention to any of it. He was too busy taking in the drive and looking forward to relaxing at home once more with his book, and possibly, if the weather held out (and according to the DJ it would) he would even sit out in the garden. It was as he pondered this that his phone rang.

He reached across to the radio and switched it off, then across for the Bluetooth earpiece linked to his mobile phone which sat on the passenger seat.

Hello, he said, still adjusting the position of the earpiece.

Nice job. I hope they paid you well.

The accent was muffled, but Simon could make out an aging hint of Welsh. It wasn’t a voice he recognised. His mind flicked back to the car park overlooked by what should have been empty office buildings on a Sunday afternoon during a bank holiday weekend. Damn! he cursed silently to himself. He had reconned it properly; no one should have seen.

Who is this? Simon demanded not wanting to give anything away.

Panic not, my quick triggered friend. I watched you from a distance.

Who are you? How did you get this number? Despite the assurance not to, panic was drifting into his voice as the stranger took the reins of the conversation.

Mike, you know Mike, he gave me your number. You see, I have a task to which needs attention, and Mike suggested you.

Simon listened intently, his eyes wide, scanning the traffic around him through the Saab’s mirrors, searching out his caller in the nearby flow of exhaust fumes. He saw no one at whom to cast a second glance and so continued to listen, careful not to reply in case he should incriminate himself in some way.

The job I have, you see, requires tact, and nerve, and strength of both body and mind. You see it’s no easy job this, and you’ve come highly recommended.

There was a long pause, allowing Simon a