This is the story I typed whilst sitting in the back of the shop at work. One of the nice people who work nearby told me about the Guardian short story competition so this is what I submitted. They didn't get back to me though... even to tell me it was rubbish!
"Practice.
This wasn't personal. In no way whatsoever was this personal. This was purely and simply practice. I'd watched him carefully for three days, on the beginning of the first day he was a random name in the phone book and now I knew him in ever single conceivable way other than talking to him. I knew about his kids, his divorce and his job. I knew what his passport number was, his past month of bank transactions, and his national insurance number. I knew where he worked, what mistakes he'd made and who he'd pinned them on. I knew that he drank whisky, but only ever at weekends, that he never crapped at work because he was scared of contact with the same toilet seat shared between the rest of the firm and I knew, most importantly, that this rich, important, suited fellow took a short cut from his work to the car park through the dimly lit gap between old derelict bar and a closed bakery.
That was where I was waiting. I wasn't particularly conspicuous, just leaning against the door jam, a lit cigarette dangling from between my lips. I could have looked like the barman on a sneaky fag break if it wasn't for the fact that the bar had been shut for over a year now. That was a bit of a stroke of luck, and one which I was fully prepared to take advantage of. The alarm on my watch beeped gently, once. I dropped and stubbed out my half finished cigarette and, breathing out the last of the smoke I pushed the door open and stepped into the bar.
He would be here soon.
I walked down the corridor and through the door into what used to be the kitchen. It had been gutted, the ovens sinks and counters all ripped out, simply leaving the plain whitewashed walls. And a tripod. I walked over and flicked the camera on and checked the LCD display, it covered an entire corner of the room. The image was dull though, there was only a single dim light dangling in the centre of the room. The film wasn't going to be much use like this. I checked it over hurriedly then flicked the night vision switch on. The screen was bathed green but at least I could now make out some more definition. I pressed the record button, I doubted I'd have time to do it later. The rest of the room was empty, clean. My watched beeped again.
Two minutes.
I swallowed and fumbled with my gloves, black leather. They caught on my sweaty hands but eventually I forced my hands into them. My mouth was dry, I wouldn't be able to speak, I grabbed at my water bottle, gulping a few mouthfuls of water. I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head. My watched beeped, for what I knew was the last time this night.
One minute.
He was leaving his work in one minute, he'd be here in around twenty to thirty seconds after that. I reviewed my plan. It was quite simple really, grab him in the alley, force him into the bar, talk to him, ask him any number of inane questions, then shoot him. That's all this was, practice. The questions themselves weren't important tin themselves but I wanted to know how I would react, hence the camera. Much better to find out my stumbling blocks now with a randomly chosen stranger than in an actual job. I'd practised before, but that had always been with cadavers, and I was eager to find out how I'd react to something that could talk back, something that could beg.
I waited behind the door, listening, my right hand gripped the handle tightly. I could hear him. His shoes clattered smartly as he walked down towards me. I blinked three more times, fast, getting the sweat out of my eyes. I pressed my eye to a split in the wood, still listening. He was maybe ten paces away. I held my breath and concentrated on stopping my hands from shaking. The footsteps carried him closer and suddenly I saw him through the door crack. I shoved the door outwards, it slammed into him and he fell against the wall. Leaping for him I wrapped one hand over his neck and grasped an arm with the other. I kicked his briefcase from the floor where he'd dropped it inside and dragged him in after it, I shut the door with my foot. I pulled him along the corridor, fast. He was bent double and stumbling when we reached the kitchen. I flung him into the corner in front of the camera, his head cracked against the wall and he slid, breathless to the floor.
My armpits were sweating. I could feel it running out from under them and slipping down towards my elbow where my shirt caught the moisture, the same was happening with the backs of my knees, sweat rolling off into my socks. I made a concious effort to blink, then started towards him again. He looked confused, I had to grit my teeth when I hit him, I felt like I was going to vomit, I doubted that would have added anything to my interrogation. But punch him I did, in the solar plexus, I wanted to avoid hitting his face, if I broke his nose he'd be in too much pain to answer any questions, and his eyes would be constantly leaking so I wouldn't know if he was lying or not. Solar plexus would hurt, but that would diminish, it is much easier to make somebody fear pain if it's not constant, if it is it just dulls as the nerve endings die.
I raised his head up by his scalp and swung another punch at his gut but he twisted and I hit his ribcage instead. There was a sharp crack and he dropped to the floor, a cry issuing from his mouth for the first time during our encounter, Fuck, I broke a rib.
He fell to the floor with all the grace of a over filled bin liner, and crumpled. I took a step back, trying to ignore the impossibly sweatiness off my palms but complete dryness of my mouth. I walked over to the camera and checked the screen. It was perfect: He was fully in focus and the space next to him, which previously occupied my body was large, I must have been in the shot. Nice set up.
I walked back to my newest acquaintance and lifted him to his haunches before knocking him backwards into the wall behind him. His breathing slowed and his voice lowered to a whimper. I wondered what I should do next, should I start asking my questions or show him my gun. I decided on the latter, as I didn't want him attacking me in retaliation for what I'd already done to him and the best way to do that is simply to show that your stick is much, much, bigger than their stick. So I pulled out my revolver before I squatted down. His breathing stopped, first I thought he was having a heart attack, that would have been bad, giving CPR to a bloke I was going to question and kill but then his eyes refocused onto the gun's muzzle. I waved it slightly, watching as his eyes tracked with it but he didn't move anything else. It was mesmerising, that he could stay so still. I tried to speak, my throat jammed, I didn't want to have to take a drink though. I tried swallowing instead and that helped a little.
'What's your name?' I asked. I knew this already, I just wanted to start of with a question that I was sure I knew the answer to. He didn't answer straight away, I realized he was fixated my the gun, I lifted it so the muzzle was in front of my face. I repeated the question.
'Mark' His voice was husky and dry.
'That's good Mark' I said, beginning to warm to my task 'What's your last name?'
He gulped
'Reynolds'
'OK Mark Reynolds, OK. Now Mark, can you guess why you're in here with me?'
For a fraction of a second his eyes lifted and locked onto mine. He held my gaze for a few seconds before his lip began to tremble, suddenly he was sobbing, sobs that shook and convulsed his body.
'I don't know!' he cried out pitifully, 'I don't...' his voice trailed off.
I stared in shock at the sobbing heap of flesh in front of me, whatever I was prepared for... it wasn't this. Cornered people aren't strong, they don't fight. They're weak and they know it. I began to wonder how I'd react if somebody did this to me.
Snap out of it.
I was loosing control of the situation.
'Mark' I snapped. He continued to weep. 'MARK!'
His eyes raised themselves once more to my face, the his jowls were bright red and stained with tears.
'Mark' I repeated once more 'tell me about your children'
I had thought about this carefully, what would a divorcee care about most in the world? I came up with his children. My research into his life showed he barely got to see them, and when he did he spent days planning their activities, two girls, nine and six. They meant the world to him and I knew that, what he didn't know was that I had no interest in the at all, my only interest lay with getting him to talk about them.
His sobs diminished until they were overtaken in volume by his ragged gasps for breath. I had to strain to catch the single word as it left his lips.
'No'.
I brought the gun down hard onto his shoulder. He winced away.
'Please'
'Just tell me their names Mark, and you can go.'
I felt terrible, I was going to kill this man and before I did I was going to torture him emotionally. I steeled myself.
'Come on Mark, just a couple of names...'
He blubbered, his words coming out thickly as he tried to stop his snot from dribbling into his mouth. I hesitated, trying to work out what he was saying. Then it hit me.
He was begging.
Instinctively I straightened up and stumbled back from him as if he was contagious, vomit rising in my throat.. I didn't know I would react like this. My hand, sweaty again, tightened a grip on the gun.
'Stop it!' I shouted at him, panicing.
'Please!' He retorted.
My body tensed. I ground my teeth together and tried to harden my heart. If I could endure this, I told myself, it would be a major breakthrough. If I could do this I'd start to put myself around a little, get some feelers out. But first I would have to do this, and that poor man's yells were making me want to run, when running was most definitely not an option.
He was screaming now. The noise built up inside my head like pressure in a boiler, my eyes started to become painful, the nausea increased. Suddenly I moved, almost unaware of my own actions, he was making too much noise. I stepped forward, only half a yard from him lifted my revolver and squeezed the trigger. I didn't care about the ricochet I just needed him to stop screaming, and suddenly he did. The bullet was buried in the wall, the wall itself was a deep crimson colour. The nausea subsided quickly at the sight before me. I hesitated for a whole two seconds before lifting the camera from the tripod, and leaving the building."
NaNoWriMo going well thanks,
Keep smiling,
Sx
