A/N: Does anyone in England remember having to do a small piece called 'The Assassin' for GCSE English Language (OCR). This was my attempt. I think of all the English coursework pieces this was my favourite. No I'm not sadistic or have macabre tastes. I enjoyed the fact that I could write anything, not having to do sucky analyses of sources and stuff along those lines. The point was not to name names and call the assassin and victim 'assassin' and 'victim' as much as we could help. This also happened to co-incide with my obsession with Casualty. If you watched the show about 3-5 years ago, the 'assassin' and the 'victim' will be obvious.

This is my first submission, so please be nice. My style has changed a bit since then, so I'm not so fussed if you do not like the style, but constructive criticism is always welcome.

Just so you are warned: An assassination does take place in this story, so if you don't like this sort of reading, obviously don't.

Thanks, Jess

The Assassin

A young woman was sitting on a low, crumbling wall partially hidden by a withered willow tree. Her slender fingers, ending in perfectly manicured points, were pinching a long cigarette, sucking it as if it was pure oxygen. The tree was nearly bare, and the autumn leaves were swirling around her slim ankles in the parched grass. The violet sky was studded with diamonds; her smoke swirled to the right of her and her dark hair was blown around her face. She watched those smoky swirls being snatched away by the gentle breeze. Her coffee-dark eyes narrowed and her thin lips created a rare, small smile. 'It's almost time', she thought. She wanted this job. Her pale hand reached in her crimson coloured coat and pulled out a polished handgun. She quickly loaded it. It was time.

She looked at the house. It should have been a lovely, large house, but time and nature had the upper hand. The original magnolia had morphed into a dirty dust colour and window frames were flaking their colours away. Ivy had overrun the walls, and in the once tended flowerbeds, weeds now dominated. The breeze was still gentle as the violet of the sky gradually turned to midnight blue. Her fingers were numb with cold. Turning her head saw the potholed, unlit muddy track on which her victim would arrive…

All of a sudden there was a set of bright car headlights turning on to the track, heading towards her. A silver Renault convertible. Again, there was a small smile; she could just imagine the victim clenching the steering wheel, face pale and guilty conscience - she should not have slept with Will; that was the biggest mistake of her life; apart from Pete. The victim did not know which was worst. The assassin did. She noticed that there was a dent in the bumper. 'She can't even drive her car without damaging it…' the assassin thought. The car came to a halt. The victim was unconscious of the fact that in thirty seconds or so she would be dead. She flipped her diabetic's bracelet round and grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. She clumsily opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut, all the time she was breathing rapidly. She hated the night; hated being alone.

She walked up the overgrown garden path towards the house – still breathing rapidly, her heart thumping in her chest. She suddenly felt overly conscious of her cream fur coat; how bright it was compared to her surroundings: the house and countryside. She opened her purse and pulled out a single key. The assassin pulled out an identical key. She muttered under her breath. Anger pounded in her head. The victim leapt gently over a pothole, like a ballerina on the stage.

The other woman raised the gun. She was a medic and knew where one accurate shot would be fatal. She aimed. Finger tightened on the trigger. Each woman's heart pummelled. The assassin squeezed the trigger. One single shot shattered the stillness. A bullet lodged itself in her head. A silent scream. A sickening thud. The tinkle of the key on the concrete path. No more noise. Her body finally gave a final twitch, and then was still. A satisfied smile appeared on the assassin's face – a job well done.

She checked the area for cartridges and cigarette butts. She collected them and crept away from the scene. She put everything in a bag and in a flash of crimson, was gone. In a green MG sports car she drove back to Holby contemplating: I can live with my husband in peace… Still smiling. No regrets.