Sherlock
Bet I can make you laugh again. Or make you sick, but that's up to you, depends on what kind of person you are. But I'll bet you laugh at me.
Just bear in mind, I did really, really well. I got as far as the shops and everything. Got milk, and fags, and bacon. I think it was the bacon that finished me actually. That was just a little bit too hopeful. That smacked of organization, the ability to actually light a hob ring under a pan and time the actual cooking of something. I should have known better than to put that kind of pressure on myself. And then, of course, there was the fact that I did that because I wanted bacon. That sounds simple but think about it, really think about it. I was pursuing a desire. The memory of a taste and a smell made me wants it back in my life all over again. I did it because I wanted it.
Maybe if you think about that you won't laugh, and you won't feel sick, when I tell you I'm in the furthest corner of the furthest room of a doss I haven't been to in at least a month and a half and I am high to the very brink of drinking the milk straight out of the bottle. But I'm not there yet, so there's that. Give me the credit for that.
Curled up, I hear footsteps coming towards me, but until it affects me directly I'm not moving. It might just be somebody else looking for the furthest corner, and they haven't realized yet that it's occupied. They'll be fine; there's a mattress against the other wall, so they'll be more comfortable there. The floor is hard, and my back is starting to hurt already. I'm doing them a favour. They'll be happier over there, and then they tap me on the shoulder.
"Excuse me." Those words are strained and strange to the speaker. This is someone trying very hard to be polite. So I'm not getting kicked out or arrested, so it's not urgent. This person, already high by the sound of things, continues with their heartfelt, hard-working etiquette, "But might I please possibly borrow one of your cigarettes could I please?"
Depends. I'm not sure on what, but I know I haven't made up my mind yet. So I look up out of my arms to see who's talking. Female. And yes, already high. Looking, in fact, like she might have been up for days, the bitch (excuse me; that's envy talking). Huge blue eyes in a skeletal face, long, greasy ginger hair. I know her from somewhere, or like I knew her before she died.
So yes. Yes, she can borrow one of my cigarettes can she please.
No, wait… "Borrow? Are you giving it back?"
Mild confusion stuns her like a gunshot. A full twenty seconds later she grasps the point and says, "But I'll give you one sometime… that I have, when you don't have one."
"Doesn't work," I tell her, shaking my head. "I'm not coming back here. I'm quitting. In fact I've already quit, I just wanted this one today."
"Oh, well, then, something else, like, that you could have today, we could, like, swap?"
"I get what you're saying, and I totally agree, but what?"
She says, "Um," and hums it for a long time afterward, tips her head back like the ceiling is going to beam down the answer to her. For all I know it is, so I leave her to it. If she or the ceiling can think of something I want, she can have the fag. It's really as simple as that. But I think they're having trouble, or else having a long, silent discussion about it, because she sits like that with her chin pointing up for a long time, until my thoughts start to drift, until I'm not even thinking of her anymore, asking myself what the hell I've just been talking about and what I'm even doing here and why I'm high again when I was doing so well, and somewhere in the middle of all this she bobs her head in and kisses me.
No. That's not what I want. I give her the cigarette, but then I push her away. She's already off balance, so she stumbles backward and into the wall over the mattress, where she drops down and just lies. That wasn't something that I wanted. I only gave her the fag to make her go away. This morning I wanted it, but that was just a physical, bodily reaction, seeking an imitation-hit via serotonin and endorphin release, that's all that was. This morning, if she'd been around and wanted a cigarette or something, that would have been absolutely okay. But I don't want it when I'm high, or even when I'm sober and in a good place.
But she's over there, and all I can see the soles of her feet and the various shapes beyond that; a scythe-like smile that is her hips, disappearing back into the hammock of her emaciated stomach, looking like you could lift her up by the bottom ribs, breasts shrunken practically out of sight. And somewhere beyond all that, big blue eyes, a strand of pinkish hair stuck to the wall. Then, like she knows I'm looking, she sits straight up, fast and upright as a TV monster. With the fag waggling in the corner of her mouth, "But now I need a light, though."
I've already given her the cigarette. No point arranging any sort of swap around the necessary light. I fish in my pocket for the lighter and am about to toss it to her when she shakes her head.
"Won't catch it. And that's really dangerous. Come over to me."
I don't want to. But she's waiting for it. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, face stuck out, eyes shut. I don't want to go over there, though. Rather than throw the lighter, I skim it over the carpet to stop between her feet.
Jim
Moran got in about four o'clock. Stopped in on his way home to tell me I was completely safe re: the Conservative who got all conservative lately. Remembering Dani's reaction, I tried to sound interested and grateful and like I didn't already know I was safe. It went down a lot better that way and now I'm not on my own for dinner. Which is nice.
Y'know, that's one thing I never forget; the two of them are always teaching me things. I'm doing all my business online or over the phone. Sometimes I just need a little refresher in how to talk to real people without giving them the excuse to get all pissy over something none of us has any real control over and storm out like they've got any right to do so. Not that I'm feeling bitter about anything at all. It was worth it, anyway; like I said, it's given me a bit of time with Moran. Not just as company over the steak and salad, but because I've got a present for him.
"D'you fancy the south of France, next weekend?"
"Who's the target?"
"Pharmaceutical mogul. I'll send you all the details, if you're on board."
He's thinking about it. I'll be honest, I didn't expect him to. See, the south of France is very near the north of Italy. And there's a fella in the country right outside Milan who I know dear Sebastian would just love to ride down and visit. They don't see nearly enough of each other. Might lighten him up a bit. I've noticed he's not at his best lately. He's still doing the job, oh yeah, and doing it very well, but he's not… He looks how I feel, is what I'm trying to say.
This frog that wants killed, anybody could do it. In fact, I could call back the underling who is paying for this assassination and tell him how to cut costs by doing it himself. But I thought this might be exactly what Moran needs. Quick, continental dirty weekend. Get the shot off on the Friday night, spend the rest of the weekend pretending to me he's still working and really just getting the rest of his shots off in Milan.
See? I do try to be a thoughtful boss. And if I'd thought for a second that MI5 might be on to the theft of those plans the other night then… Fuck it; I'm not wasting any more breath justifying that. Honestly, you'd think I was guilty or something, listening to me.
He's still thinking, by the way. I've had time to go off on this whole little rant because he's still thinking.
"Where do you think Dani'll be by next weekend?"
Please, God, don't make me answer that… "Right back where she usually is on the weekend; three martinis down and between strange legs." Then, as an afterthought, "Christ, you're a much better brother than me…"
"What?"
"Nothing. She'll be fine. Will you take the job?"
"Yeah, why not?"
Sighing, "Good. Thank you." Over the minute that follows, it's cute really, you can watch everything I thought of in advance slowly dawning on him, the gears running furiously, glowing at the edges, as he figures out he can make the kill with relative ease and sneak off like a guilty teenager with his Italian paramour. Just because the thought of it makes my flesh creep doesn't mean it won't cheer him up. I take care of my people, when I can, when it's within my capacities to do so. I give him long enough to get to the end of that thought process before I let him know he's got his dreamy, drifting face on. "Moran? Hello?"
"Sorry. Tossing up whether to chance customs or if I can get something while I'm out there."
Tossing up something, anyway, y'lying filth… "I'll set something up. Let me know what you're looking for and we'll get it delivered." Another five seconds go by in silence. I don't like all this quiet; it's making me very aware of the way time's passing. Or, more accurately, not passing. "What's the matter? Usually you'd have given me a veritable Dear Santa list of firearms by now."
"Nothing," he says, and shrugs, and breathes in like there's more.
But there isn't. Or at least, there aren't words for it. He just sort of shrugs again, and I know it. Like I can read his mind, I know everything that's going through it. And I point across the table and just, because there aren't any words, "Yeah!"
Moran looks up, confused at first, but I think whatever the psychic link is, that cements it, because he gets it right away, points back, "Yeah, and you just think… whatever."
"Exactly. I mean, it's not boredom, I know what that feels like, so it's not-"
"No, not boredom. Never been this busy in my life."
"Me either. It's not boredom, but it's… It's-"
Moran says, "Next, please." He doesn't know why he said it. It just came out. It doesn't make any sense to him. But I know precisely what he meant and I couldn't have expressed it any better myself. On one level, that's what we're doing at the minute. Clients come like customers in a queue and we tick them off one by one, 'Next please', and it's only every so often you get one who is really engaging. Moran just stands behind his gun and I put a succession of targets in front of him. Maybe that's why Dani doesn't get it; every building, every object is a fresh challenge. Not to mention she has her duties as primary Mata Hari on top of the theft, so there's more to work with. But me and Moran, we understand each other on this point, this constant succession of something we're good at and comfortable with and each one is only different in the details and…
And on another level, 'Next, please'. This thing I'm doing now, I've taken it as far as I can. What's next, please?
