Morning washed slowly over London with cold winter light and a sun that would be in hiding behind clouds for the rest of the day. One of those in-between days that struggled to decide if they'd stick to grey or a strange colourless sky that was even more depressing than the constant rain.
He usually was up early, preparing tea for his wife and himself. They had abandoned coffee a few years ago when Amanda got pregnant with their first baby. Tea for breakfast somehow got stuck in their habits.
He checked his phone, watched the news on the telly. Always good to be up to date. His wife was having a shower. It was 9 in the morning.
He wouldn't have to go to work today and they made plans to visit the British Museum since the kids would stay at the grandparents house over the week. He already missed them. The house was too quiet without their footsteps on the stairs and the ongoing - yelled and shouted - questions concerning the whereabouts of a variety of items; toys mostly.
The doorbell rang. Once, twice.
Amanda shouted: "I'll get it." And her footsteps could be heard as she hurried down the stairs. Alistair smiled to himself and put his phone aside. The thing had been quiet and he appreciated it. He had feared certain messages but they faded, got less and finally stopped when he didn't answer them anymore. He had been out of his depth, not aware of the trouble he really got himself into.
He allowed himself the false feeling of "it" being nothing more than a strange dream he had. Something along the lines of a modernised Victorian Horror Story. Edgar Allan Poe-esque.
"Als? There is someone at the door for you." Amanda said as she approached him in the kitchen. "He's got a letter for you."
Alistair sighed and nodded. "Right. Won't take too long." He drained his mug and walked to the door, taking his time.
Later Amanda would put on record that above everything else she wished she would have told her husband how much she loved him in the second before he left the kitchen. It was the last glimpse she would get of him alive.
"What is it, mate?" Alistair looked at the man in front of him. He appeared to be nervous. Maybe new to the job?
"I got a message for you." The envelope was shoved into Alistair's hands and he blinked at it and made a few steps back to put it on the small side table in the hallway, noting with a shake of the head that one of the kids put a single sock on top of it. He turned back to the door, assuming he would need to sign something to confirm the receipt of the letter.
"Listen man, I'm sorry." The delivery guy sounded desperate and it took Alistair some moments to realise what was wrong. "Man, I owe him and you owe him and I don't want to do this, but I have to. You know it, don't you? He sent you messages, didn't he? Orders, demands… He is pissed off with you, man." He twitched and shuffled his feet on the edge to snap. Alistair immediately knew what the talk was about. The strange dreams became reality again. No way to escape or to ignore it away. The muzzle of the gun wasn't to be clicked away or brushed off with a single movement of his hand. "Oh god…" he muttered and those were the last words he spoke. If he could have this last thought; if he would be allowed to have a last second he would probably regret that he didn't tell his wife this morning how beautiful she always had been for him, how much he loved her and how proud he was to be her husband and the father of her children. Indeed his last thought were the two words he managed to mutter before he dropped to the ground.
The shot was surprisingly quiet. Not quiet enough to pass unnoticed.
"Was that a gun?" Edith grew a habit to speak to her budgies since her husband passed away a few years ago. "Can't have been one, can it?" The birds chirped but Edith didn't find the reply very satisfying instead she did something remarkable. She acted against her usual manner and immediately called the police.
This one call that got the ball rolling, set the machinery in motion.
By the time Police Constable and responding officer Mills arrived at the scene the gunman had already fled and took the envelope with him. Mrs. Knell was standing in the middle of the hallway, tea dripping to the floor from her tilted mug and burning her bare feet without her noticing.
It didn't need the paramedic to tell her or PC Mills to lead her away or Mrs. Warne and her o-shaped mouth from next door to confirm what she saw, what was in front of her.
In a second all she knew cracked, burst, shattered.
In a second she had been made a widow and she didn't understand.
It was 9:55 a.m.