A silent, swirling mist flooded the lane in billows of obscurity as darkness claimed the city. On either side of it, the windows of the buildings were blurry blazes of yellow, a few with blinds drawn. The lamp-posts on the street were thoroughly ill-maintained by the authorities considering the paltry significance they held in the daily transport of the metropolis. But even then, they made their best endeavour to combat the night, each determined to retain its circular domain of light. Nothing much ever occurred on that particular street, but that night it was ominously quiet, apart from the occasional yelps of the stray dogs the lane boasted, unable to endure the deathly chill in the air.
The stillness of the shadows was suddenly disturbed, as a pair of feet strode into the lane, feet evidently meant to be noiseless, but the shoes wrapping it betraying such intentions. The owner of these feet, a tall, stalwart man of around thirty-five, somewhat past his prime, padded along the pavement, warily treading clear of the lamp-posts. He was clad in inky blackness, blending admirably with the murky place. He had on a thick overcoat with its collar turned up, almost touching the rim of the considerable felt hat which shrouded his countenance. With hands tucked away in the trouser pockets, he walked in the dark, his attire gentlemanly, though his purpose was not.
He stopped by a ramshackle pawnbroker’s further down the deserted street. Beside him now was a dark figure leaning against the wall, clothed in an odd huddle of winterwear, with something like a great woolen hood concealing the face entirely. To this grotesque spectacle the man said nothing, neither did he offer a cigarette as he lit one, blowing rings of smoke in still anticipation.
The man smoked hard to steady his nerves. It wasn’t that he was scared or anything. All emotions, and particularly fear, were alien to his austere, unfeeling nature. It was precisely these characteristics of his, coupled with an immaculate set of ‘skills’, which had landed him his present job, and consequently, lost him his family. He mused on the happy memories of his wife and daughter as he lurked around the place, which was his customary preparation when on an assignment.
He and his wife never got along too well because they had discovered, as the profound warmth of illusory love slackened between them, that they had hardly anything in common to bind them. Moreover, his vices were despicable, and he was nothing short of a fiend when drunk. The final, crushing blow in their marriage came when he lost his post in the army. The inevitable ensued; a dolorous separation at court, but in the process he lost the one he loved most, his daughter. Life went further downhill when he dreadfully wounded a rival in a bar brawl, and after serving a short term for it in the bowels of an infernal prison, he emerged, positively suicidal. It was then that the agents of his nameless ‘employer’ found and sheltered him, for he had been a gunner of repute while in service.
The man despised his job, though it was the only available for him. It brought in enough to allay his material desires, and involved the stealthy removal of people from the face of the earth. His talent and experience had made his first three assignments exceedingly successful, all his victims meeting their demise under ‘circumstances pointing to foul play’, as the papers loved to call such happenings. He had received phone calls in each of the cases, a raspy voice furnishing him with all necessary details, and a photograph of the target lying inexplicably on his table when he got home after an outing. Every call ended with the routine warning that there should be no failure, and no mess, just a quiet, clean kill. His last three had, thus, met every criterion, resulting in the mysterious appearance of a note-stuffed envelope on the mantelpiece of his house. He harboured high hopes that the fourth would conclude with a similar aftermath, and dared not think of the negative.
The phone had rung again that morning, and the unknown voice had informed him of the man who’d be driving down the very street he was on. He’d asked for certain arrangements to facilitate his objective, and it was all as he desired. Now, he could only wait.
The vigil wasn’t long. As his keen senses told him it was coming, he dropped the cigarette and pulped it under his foot, scurrying up to the figure and straightening it onto its feet, balancing it on a skateboard. It was only a mannequin, a clever contrivance of his, meant specifically for the task at hand.
The curtains of yellowish fog parted in the distance as the headlights came into view, emitting tunnels of light. The man waited until they came into distinct visibility, bathing the street with a soft white illumination. Then he shoved the mannequin with proper force, just enough for it to trundle down and stop in the vehicle’s path. A resounding screech cleaved through the air as the car halted, having rammed into the plastic figure and reduced it to scattered bits and pieces. The killer briskly pulled out a revolver. His moment had arrived.
The driver, his target, clambered out of the car in consternation, and walked timidly up to the mess in front. The gun was raised in the dark, its muzzle in a silent beeline with its target’s head. It was then that the killer noticed her out of the corner of his eye, in the backseat of the car. In ghastly stupefaction he gazed at the little girl, as if he had seen an apparition. He thought at first that it was his daughter, but realized a while later the impossibly curious resemblance of that child to his girl as he had seen her last, more than seven years ago! A flood of agonizingly passionate memories consumed him. He was disarmed, incapacited.
He could only stare as the girl’s father got back and turned on the ignition again. It was his last chance, but his hands were cold, they refused to budge. For the first time in his life, he had a profound, overwhelming grief mingled with a human sort of feeling he didn’t know, pity perhaps.
The orange backlights of the car dashed off into the empty night as the killer strained his eyes to discern the last rays ripple away through the fog. He had failed in his assignment. However unpleasant the result of his futility might be, he was prepared to face it.
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