The Call

Right tools, wrong job.

He never intended to lie; he never intended for any of this, but circumstance rarely allows for our personal wishes — at least that’s what he tells himself. And was it his fault that it came so naturally?

Every morning began the same, with what had now become a well-worn routine — an old pair of shoes, minus the comfort. The shower, the cheap instant coffee, the harmless banter with the wife and daughter, a normal life to the casual observer: a little too normal even.

He paused at the anteroom mirror to inspect the scar across his forehead — a reminder of past mistakes, destined to be repeated. The bus ride to the city was reliably uneventful, sitting among the same familiar strangers in silence, all with their own lives and stories, hopes and dreams; he couldn’t care, even if he wanted to.

The walk from the bus station to the cafe was short, but long enough to be hassled by numerous panhandlers. The faces always seemed to change, did they take turns, or were these people simply so forgettable? That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, anonymity without the effort.

“Robsons Cafe” — was there more than one Robson, or had the apostrophe fallen away over the years? He occupied his mind with these inconsequential thoughts while waiting for his coffee. Always the same order, “large skim flat white in a takeaway cup, no sugar”. Sitting comfortably just on the North side of 60kg he had no need to watch his weight, the order had just become habit.

Weaving between the other patrons to his usual table, coffee in hand, his train of thought was interrupted by the ringtone of his phone — not just any ringtone, one assigned to a very specific number. No niceties or small talk on the other end, just a name, a date, a time, and an address. The phone clicked silent.

Who was this man? What had he done to end up on the other end of Marcus’ phone? Who had he crossed? None of this mattered. It was time to go to work.

“No I hate it!” —two months shy of her eighth birthday, Anna didn’t know the true meaning of the word, but her approximation of it was how she felt about school. Helena sighed in resignation, her daughter had a gift for exhausting her before the day had even begun. “Please, for me —I’ll take you for icecream after school”. Their after school trips to the icecream parlour had become a given at this point, but they went through this pantomime every morning, all the same.

“Good luck today, I’m sure you’ll be great!”, Marcus called as he slipped out the door, running late for his bus as usual. Helena felt the briefest twinge of guilt down her spine, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. There was no job interview, but what was one more deception at this point?

Her daughter finally on the school bus and out of her hair, she nervously stared at the clock and sipped her lukewarm tea. Always half an hour. If this arbitrary period of time once had a meaning, it was now long gone.

Her husband leaves the house, their daughter follows suit shortly after, wait half an hour, then leave. There was a strange comfort in this buffer, not that she deserved any comfort for what she was doing. But it was too late now —things would never be the same, and a guilty conscience wasn’t going to help anyone.

The engine shuddered to life over the percussion of the old garage door —they were by no means short of money, Marcus' job at the bank kept them quite comfortable, but the ailing garage door was yet another victim of his convenient mantra —”If it ain’t completely broke, ignore it until it is”. Helena resisted the urge to let this thought push its way into her mind, right now the last thing she wanted to think of was her husband, it was easier that way. The aqua sedan pulled out onto the street and turned towards the city.

Was it drugs? Gambling? It was hard not to wonder. You didn’t get a job taken out on you by leading a completely virtuous life. Of course, there were always exceptions, but Marcus had yet to come across one. He was well aware of the irony in him, of all people, judging the innocence of others. In any case, this particular target called for a measured, long-distance approach.

One thing was abundantly, and inconveniently clear; this job had a hard deadline attached to it. Getting a call on the same day it was to be carried out was nearly unheard of. Combine this with the fact that it was broad daylight and Marcus was understandably on edge. He should have asked for double his usual fee. Clearly, he wasn’t the only nervous one, and somebody wanted this dealt with immediately — wanted this man dealt with immediately.

Some in his profession swore by the latest and greatest equipment — computerised to the nth degree. As far as he was concerned, digital meant trackable, and trackable was not a word he wanted to be associated with. Besides, the old methods had never let him down, and it wasn’t as if his quarry had changed — people will always be people, for better or worse.

No time to scout the location or determine the target’s routine: this had “disaster” written all over it. He dismissed these negative thoughts, what purpose did they serve? With his employer, assignments weren’t exactly optional. On the bright side, he quickly found a suitable vantage point — a clear view of the building as he perched between the stacks, just another one of the birds.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven — eleventh floor, third apartment from the left. He watched through the window, not moving but to adjust his zoom. Patience was a skill he had honed over the years. Accuracy, camouflage, blending in with a crowd; all of these had their place, but patience trumped them all. You can be as invisible as a ghost, but if you can’t remain still in one position for an eight-hour stretch, this was not the job for you — try painting houses or walking dogs, because without patience, you’re as good as dead.

As the third hour ticked over, the apartment finally sprang to life. The lights flickered on as the front door opened and two figures entered — home early, or late, depending on your perspective. Marcus stayed in position and waited for a clear view of his target’s face, for now he was just another anonymous man in a navy suit, and Marcus had no intention of carrying out a job on the wrong person, not again; deadline be damned. The man disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the second figure, a woman, standing nervously in the bedroom. Marcus panned across and focused on her face, his heart skipped, and at once he knew exactly why he was there.