The Hit

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi, you look great,” he replied. He walked over and kissed her. She had thought there might be drinks or something, but no, he was straight in with his fat, wet, old-man’s tongue. It was such a shock, she pushed him away and backed off.

  Christian glared at her. “Are you doing this or not?”

  She nodded.

  “Kiss me, then.” He stuck his face toward her and stood there like a sulky boy, his lips pouted, head forward. Lizzie dithered. Then he tutted irritably and came in again for another kiss, same as last time, full of wet tongue — a nasty porn kiss, she realized. But what had she expected? Romance? She had agreed to be porn for him.

  Christian ran a series of little kisses down her neck that gave her the tickles. That was the icebreaker. Then he was easing the shoulder straps of her top down, pushing everything down below her breasts, and grabbing hold of them. It was horrible enough for her to back away from him again without thinking.

  “Are you going to be my girlfriend or what?” he demanded. “You’re not just playing me along, are you?”

  “It felt funny,” she said.

  “Oh. You girls,” he said, suddenly playful. “C’mere, you.” He grabbed her again, kissing her and kneading her breasts roughly. But before he could get any further, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Fuck’s sake!” roared Christian. “What?”

  Vince peeped in. “It’s Mr. Mindly at the door, sir,” he said.

  “Mindly. Of all times.” Christian disentangled himself, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and went to the window to look out, leaving Lizzie standing with her top and bra around her waist. Vince stood at the door, staring at her. As delicately as she could, she pulled her clothes up and bowed her head.

  “Bastard!” exclaimed Christian. “Coming to my house. How much does he owe us?”

  Vince took out his phone and consulted it. He glanced at Lizzie.

  “Never mind her. She’s my girlfriend,” Christian said.

  Vince shrugged. “About fifty thousand,” he said.

  Lizzie thought, I shouldn’t be hearing this, should I? But it was too late now.

  Christian glanced back at her. “You get upstairs. Go and warm the bed up. It’s the third on the left when you get to the top. Front of the house. Go on.”

  Lizzie hurried up. Vince watched her go up the stairs and into the bedroom before he went to the front door and opened it.

  * * *

  The room was big, freshly decorated, and dirty. There were splashes all up the walls behind the bed, and the smell of rotting food coming from somewhere. She found it soon enough, on a tray by the bed — a half-eaten burger that had passed its throw-away date ages ago.

  Lizzie threw it down the en suite loo, flushed, then stood looking at herself in the mirror above the grimy washbasin. The face staring back shocked her. She had never seen herself look so pale. Her eyes were like stones. Her top had been ripped at the neckline where Christian had tugged it down. She looked petrified.

  It was time to run, wasn’t it?

  There hadn’t been any talk about the antidote, either. She should have made him hand it over before he got her clothes off. And what if he was lying? Or what if he was telling the truth but then changed his mind once he got what he wanted?

  She’d always trusted her instincts, but she had overridden them for Adam, and now she didn’t know what was going on or how to cope with it. She was trying to be heroic, but what if she was just being stupid instead?

  The smell of the rotten burger still hanging on the air made her gag. Suddenly, she’d had enough. She went quietly to the door, opened it a fraction, and stood there, listening. Voices were being raised. An argument going on. She crept onto the landing and peered over the banister. No one there …

  Then, just before she began to tiptoe downstairs, out of the blue, there was a single gunshot.

  Lizzie jumped, screamed slightly, then froze, utterly unable to move a muscle. A door opened below her and Christian stepped out into the hallway. Behind him, he left a bloody footprint — just one. His left shoe was dripping gore. He glanced behind himself and got on one leg to ease the guilty shoe off.

  “You idiot,” he said, speaking into the room he’d just left. “That was too quick, much too quick for the amount he owed us. I could have C4’d him. And on the carpet. Don’t tread on it,” he yelled suddenly. “Take your shoes off. That’s a good carpet. You should have shot him on the tiles, for God’s sake. Look. What a mess.”

  “He was going for his weapon, sir.”

  “Was he?” Christian turned and went back in.

  “His inside pocket, sir.”

  There was a pause.

  “That’s his wallet, you fucking idiot. His wallet. Look, he has money in it. He was going for his wallet so I shot him. How would that look in court? Vince, you’re an idiot. He was going for his wallet.”

  The two men started to laugh and somehow, this sound brought Lizzie back to life. She had to get out — she was witness to a murder. She jerked back from the banister and ran lightly along the corridor to the back of the house. She was in luck — there was another stairway there. But before she could go down, another door opened below her and Christian came out, carrying his hands before him, covered in blood. She just had time to dash into one of the nearby rooms off the corridor as he came up the stairs. By sheer bad luck she found herself in a bathroom — exactly where Christian was heading. She just had time to climb into the bath, draw the shower curtain, and lie down, before he came in after her.

  Christian spent some time at the basin, washing the blood off his hands and trying to get some spots out of his T-shirt. Then he took a pee, shook himself, and left. Lizzie waited a few minutes before leaving the bath and going quietly to the door, which he had left ajar. Below, she could hear the two men arguing.

  She had to get out. They’d kill her.

  She made her way down the front stairs, but the door was locked, so she had to go to the back of the house, right past the room where they were arguing about the best way of getting blood out of the silk carpet. Her luck held, and she escaped through a kitchen window. All she had to do now was get around the front to her car and drive off.

  It was getting dark. She was going to be all right! Keep to the bushes, avoid the windows; she was making it! She reached the front, and was just about to leave the shelter of the shrubs and venture onto the gravel drive for her car, when the front door opened and Christian came out with Vince behind him carrying something heavy wrapped up in black garbage bags. Christian opened the trunk of the Porsche. Vince dumped it in there.

  Lizzie was tucked away behind some bushes. It was dusk, she was well hidden, no one could see her. Vince got in the car, started up, pulled away, and as the headlights swung around they shone straight at her. She was picked out beautifully, white as a sheet, hidden badly behind what turned out to be a straggly tree.

  “Lizzie!” Christian roared.

  She turned and fled for her life, but got no more than a few yards before her feet were kicked out from under her. She crashed to the ground and was picked up before she had time to draw breath.

  Christian carried her toward the house in his arms like a hero rescuing a wounded girl. He paused by the car where Vince was still sitting, waiting.

  “You go on,” he said. “I’ll look after her.”

  “She saw everything,” said Vince, and he drove off.

  ADAM ARRIVED BACK AT THE FLAT AT HALF PAST THREE ON Wednesday morning. Lizzie was nowhere to be seen.

  He texted and rang her; no answer. Where was she? He wandered from room to room like a lost child, looking for clues, but there was nothing. Then he got angry, and trashed some dishes and cupboards in the kitchen. He needed her! He rang again and raged and wept at her down the phone; then he sent another text begging forgiveness, pleading with her to come back. He turned the TV on to try and distract himself, but it was no use; his spirit w
as in freefall. Seeing his parents had brought him face-to-face with the feelings he had been trying so desperately to avoid, feelings of failure, isolation, and worthlessness. Lizzie had deserted him, he had destroyed his parents’ lives as well as his own; all he wanted now was for it to stop.

  He contemplated throwing himself out the window — he even went so far as to open it up and look down at the drop. He longed for the oblivion at the end of it, but lacked the courage to face the fall. He began a search around the house, looking for painkillers that might put an end to it all, but he only found a half-used packet of aspirin in the bathroom — not enough to kill a baby, let alone a strong young man powered up by Death. He went to bed in the end, believing that the only reason he didn’t end it all now was because he lacked the courage. He was woken up a couple of hours later by his mum and dad ringing him. He turned the phone off, leaned over the bed, and was sick — literally, sick with fear. Then he turned over and went back to sleep.

  * * *

  He woke up to a headache, and, he realized, a bit of nausea as well. What was that about? Death was supposed to make you feel great, wasn’t it?

  Don’t make me laugh.

  Then he thought — Lizzie.

  He turned his phone on. There were a dozen calls and texts from his mum and dad, some from his friends. But from Lizzie, not a word.

  She’s dumped me, he thought.

  He fell back on the bed. How could she do this to him? He was on Day 3 — it felt like Day 7 already — and she’d left him to it. The thought that he was on his own was so frightening that he lacked the courage to ring around and see if he could find her. He lay in bed for another hour, feeling too low to do anything, before he got up, showered, had some juice, put the TV on, and sat watching an old comedy for a while. It was late morning by the time he finally tried to find her.

  Her home. Nothing. It just went straight to the answering machine. He tried Julie — she’d left them a number — but she wasn’t picking up, either. Lizzie must have told her what was going on. His number was coming up and they were all sitting there watching it, waiting for him to go away, thinking — What a loser!

  He had a precious day in front of him and no idea what to do with it.

  The comedy on the TV ended and the news came on. Suddenly the screen was full of scenes of people massing in the streets of Manchester. The crowds were immense.

  Adam watched in amazement. Of course — the riots. Vaguely, he started to recall the scenes of unrest he had seen while going in and out of town. Somehow, it had passed him by. It wasn’t about rioting anymore — in fact, riots were impossible with so many people about. The Zealots had been joined by other groups: trade unions, student groups, civil rights groups, you name it. The police had stated publicly that it would not engage in any actions against valid protesters. A general strike had been called for that Friday, the one-week anniversary of Jimmy Earle’s death. Even the state-controlled TV channels were talking openly about it.

  Revolution. Was it really going to happen? The crowds massed in the streets and roared defiance. And sitting there so close to the heart of Manchester, Adam realized that the roaring wasn’t just from the TV. It was coming from outside. He went to fling open the window to let the noise in — and there it was! The roar of a million throats. The TV was showing live action and he was there, right there, listening to it. Up and down the street below him, thousands of people were pushing their way forward, trying to get to the main protests in Piccadilly Gardens and Albert Square. Never before had so many people gathered in one place, all with the same aim.

  “Freedom!” roared the crowd.

  The future, thought Adam. But it had nothing to do with him.

  He closed the window and went back inside. He didn’t need to see this.

  Of all the crap times in history to take Death! The world was changing. No one knew which way it was turning. None of it was any use to him.

  He found the regretit-forgetit site and logged on. The first thing he went to see was his own posting, asking for people to sleep with. And — he had a hit! Yeah! Someone had answered.

  “Hi Adam,” it said. “I’m interested — definitely. I’m not posting a photo because I don’t want my picture up for everyone to see, so you’ll just have to take my word that I’m not hideous! I am a bit of an old lady, though — all of 25. I suppose that seems ancient to you, but if you fancy having a date with an older woman — let me know.”

  You bet he would. Adam picked up the TV keyboard and typed in a reply: “Just let me know when you’re free.”

  Things were looking up.

  He flicked through the rest of the site. So many people were taking Death! He found a page where people were posting up their experiences. He settled down to read a few.

  “Hey, to the guys at the BP Garage on Finland Road — thanks for the cash, hope no one gets in trouble. Sorry about the broken arm, big guy with the black hair!”

  A robbery. Way to go, Adam thought. And, wow, how lucky he’d been to get away yesterday!

  “I told my mum and dad today.”

  A pang shot through him.

  Don’t think it don’t think it don’t think it … Quickly he flicked on to the next post.

  “I finished saying good-bye to the world today. I’m leaving early.”

  Wow. That one froze him to his seat. Leaving early? There was so little time anyway. He remembered how he had felt last night — but this was different. It didn’t sound like despair. He flicked on to the comments underneath.

  “You DICK! You threw your life away, man. DEATH is for living, not dying on!”

  “What an empty, barren little life you must have had,” said another.

  “But you guys don’t get it,” said someone else. “When you’re ready to go, you’re ready to go, it doesn’t matter how old you are or how long you have left. I think saying good-bye is a beautiful way to go. What did you say good-bye to?”

  And underneath it, the original poster had written, “I said good-bye to everything that ever mattered to me, and I did it real slow.”

  Adam leaned back and thought about it. It made sense to him. Not the killing yourself — not yet, anyway. That stuff about doing it real slow. He’d been rushing around like a lunatic. Maybe it was time to slow down. Lizzie had the right idea after all. Everything is for the last time. Every little thing matters. It gives things a different perspective. He’d been going at it all wrong — too fast, too rushed. Today, he thought, he was going to take it slow.

  Say good-bye. Yeah. Take time. Take a look at his old school, at his home. He didn’t want to see anyone — no friends, no parents. As soon as he did that the peace would be shattered, you could bet your life. Maybe he’d take a few pictures on his phone, post them up for people to see, so at least they’d know he’d been around. Hey, that was an idea. He could leave some messages for them. He could say good-bye like that.

  Better than meeting them face-to-face.

  The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. It was right.

  Before he went, he checked out his message box again — and he had an answer already.

  “OK. See you in Piccolino off Albert Square today at 5? I’ll be the blonde with the blue coat. I’ll know who you are. We can have a drink and if we don’t like each other, we can say good-bye. If we do … let’s see, shall we?”

  “We have a date,” Adam answered.

  Five o’clock. It was almost midday already. Today was going to be a good day. Take it all in, enjoy it. The smells, the sights, the sounds of some of the places he’d been familiar with during his time on earth. Saying good-bye.

  He rang Lizzie again. Still no answer. That hurt him, deeply, badly, right down inside. But he didn’t have time to let it worry him. He finished his cereal and went out to begin his day.

  * * *

  Adam intended to catch the bus straight to Fallowfield, but as he walked to the bus stop on Oxford Road, he got caught up in the crowds. Hundreds of thousands
were converging on Manchester for the protests. There were tents on Piccadilly Gardens, food stalls and soup kitchens were being set up. There were posters and banners demanding that the government must resign, that the banks must be broken, that the corporations that had become more powerful than states be controlled, that capital should be mutually owned. A couple of the big office towers had signs up saying FREE MANCHESTER. It was a declaration, not a request.

  People were coming to see the future recast. Something remarkable was going to happen, something that could change your whole life overnight. Adam felt as if he was in a dream, that none of this was really happening to him. It wasn’t. He was immune from the future. This was for the living, not the dead.

  He wandered among the crowds for a while, but he’d quickly seen enough and walked away along Portland Street. On Oxford Road outside the Palace Hotel, a running battle was taking place. The rebels were trying to take the place over, and the management had hired their own security team to see them off. People struggled in the lobby and on the pavement outside; and in the middle of it, a thin line of people waited for the bus — life still going on amid the chaos.

  Adam joined them. He stepped onto the number 42 and rode away out of town. Things were much quieter out there, and by the time he got to the university, you would never have guessed that less than a mile away the world was changing forever.

  As he entered his own patch, a sense of the amazement of life filled Adam up — how the world just kept on going on! With you or without you, it was always there. He got off the bus, wandered around, anxious in case he saw his friends or his mum or dad. His mum would be at work, of course, but the old man would be home alone now. He had to turn his phone on to take pictures, but kept the sound down, although it kept vibrating. He checked. It wasn’t Lizzie and there was no one else he wanted to talk to.

  He stood on the corner of Copson Street and Wilmslow Road, watching the shoppers going to and fro. The old Romanian lady who sold the News of the Week was there, calling out to people. Yeah, life went on regardless. It was beautiful but sad, and he tried to take some comfort in the idea that it would still be here, doing its thing, whether he was happy or sad, or high or low, or living or dead. In the end, what difference did it make? After, he went to have a look at his school. Same building, same students, same teachers teaching the same lessons. His death was going to mean so little to the world. Even his parents were going to get over it. Life went on. What did it matter how and when you popped in and out?