THE JOB - a short story

 "Life isn't like it is in the movies, is it?" she asked as she lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The tears had dried tram lines through her make-up, but she didn't care. Panda eyes were like war wounds to her. She been there, done it, and cried to prove it. She flicked her cigarette even though there wasn't enough ash to flick.

I shook my head.

"Do you think that they know?" She took another long drag. "Do you think they know? How hard it's been? How hard it is for us?"

"I doubt it," I answered. She was referring to our employers. And I knew what heartless bastards were.

She nodded, the ash finally falling to the floor at her side. "I shouldn't have listened to him."

Him was the job. The contact they had given her. "No, you shouldn't have."

"I'm weak." She hadn't heard me. "I should pay more attention to my head and less to my heart. My head is never wrong. I knew what he said was crazy, but I believed him."

"Yes, you did."

"You think I was wrong?"

Her eyes pleaded with me to say no. To tell her that what she had done was the right thing to do. But I couldn't. I couldn't agree. But I also couldn't see her cry more. "I think you did what felt was right at the time."

She nodded nervously. Tears filled her eyes again, but they didn't fall. I could see the vein in her right temple throb, but her skin was as white as a sheet.

"You thought it was right," I repeated.

Then she asked the question that I knew she'd wanted to ask me all night. "What do I do with the body?"

I sipped on my whiskey. "Where is it now?"

"Still in my apartment." Her eyes darted about the room, but I knew no-one else was listening.

"You can't leave it there."

She gave me a proper 'duh' expression and shrugged, "Hell no!"

"Was there a lot of blood?"

"About two pints." Her training had kicked in. It was a common mistake to think that the human body held tens of pints of blood. It averaged at seven. Try pouring half a pint of water on the floor; it looks like a lot more than just half a pint. Two pints, however, meant that she'd caught an artery. That was messy.

"What flooring do you have?"

"It's a new build. Wood flooring but concrete under it."

That was going to be a problem. The wood would need replacing, but concrete is porous. The evidence would be there forever.

"No plastic sheeting?"

She shook her head.

I sighed.

"I know! I fucked up."

There was no point in panicking about it. "And you left it?"

She nodded, but her nerves made her whole body shake. "I wrapped it up in the rug. I didn't have anything else to hand."

"Okay. Then there's a chance the blood hasn't soaked through." It was a very slim chance.

"Will you help me?"

I thought about it. I didn't like it. Not one bit. Helping her would make me an accessory. If I helped, I'd have to be extremely clever about it.

"Please?"

But how the hell could I say no? She was on the edge, about to fall in to God knows what kind of emotional psychological nightmare. And I cared for this one. She was still wet behind the ears, but she had potential. She had to know that even though we worked alone, we were still on the same side. We were still part of a team. And she wasn't quite ready for the fall out. She needed the backup, the same way that I had on my first kill.

I nodded. I'd help.

She physically relaxed. But her hand was still shaking as she stubbed the cigarette out.

"You need to tell me exactly what happened."

He'd told her that he loved her. He'd told her that the only thing stopping him from being with her was his wife. He'd suggested, on more than one occasion, that had it not been for his wife, they'd be together. She believed him. She said she knew what it was like to be in love, and he was most definitely in love.

I'd heard that story so many times before that I knew she actually believed it. I also knew how nasty perception could be. Very misleading.

The next time, she'd take the sob story with a pinch of salt. Eventually, she'd be completely numb to it. But that stage took time. She wasn't quite there yet.

He'd told her that he'd dreamt of his wife dying. That if that happened, they could be together. He'd said it wasn't about the money. But even she knew what liars men can be when it comes to money. At the end of the day, he'd come to her to kill his wife. He'd just been like so many others. He'd thought that a sob story would make it easier. Maybe for himself, but it didn't really matter to us. And she knew that. She understood it.

Like I said, she had potential. She'd learnt from the school of hard knocks.

Logistics were always tricky though. To dispose of a body, you needed to know and understand the logistics. Height; weight; clothing; distinguishing body marks. Would a shallow grave do? Or a lead weight so it sinks to the bottom where the fish were hungry? Or would I need tools? Something to chop it up with, or acid to wash it away?

As I've already explained, her training had kicked in. She knew it all. Even down to the dental work. She knew what would need destroying and what wouldn't. She knew bank account details, where the passport was. We could book a flight somewhere and make it look like a runner. We had those kind of tools at our disposal. That was the team. That's how we worked.

A phone call had got the target into her flat. That was all it had taken. That and a promise to spill the beans. Knowledge can be persuasive.

Her flat was great. I was actually surprised when I entered it. I'd expected her to be messier. But it was modern, with white walls and splashes of abstract colour enough for you to think you'd walked into a gallery. Of course, blood was a bitch to cover on white walls, but not impossible. Luckily, the kitchen - the murder sight - was large. And the body was on the floor in the middle. There was a bit of blood splatter on the laminated white gloss doors, but a bit of bleach would clear that up.

We rolled the body, inside the rug, on to a large plastic sheet. The gaffer tape secured it tightly. The blood was dry and rigor mortis had kicked in. That's a good time to move a body as the blood has dried up and the body is rigid - that makes it easier to 'roll'. When it gets past that, and purification kicks in is when it gets really messy. The bowls and bladder loosen and the smell is nasty.

We'd bought replacement floor boards, and after getting the body into the boot of my car, I set about ripping up the blood stained ones. I had UV lights with me so I didn't miss any. It had gone through to the concrete below, but we scrubbed it with bleach as best we could before laying new underlay and replacing the boards. When we were finished, it was as if the murder had never happened.

She poured me a whiskey while she smoked a cigarette. She'd stopped shaking. Support from a friend can do amazing things to the nerves. She felt in control now. It had made a remarkable difference in her demeanour.

"What now?" she asked.

"I'll get rid of it." I already had the concrete block ready on the bridge that I was planning to throw the body over. I'd have to stop off first and remove the jaw. There was also need to remove the left arm where a very personal tattoo was situated. But I had my garage to do that in. The grinder was sharp enough to destroy a jaw and an arm.

She nodded. "Thank you."

But I had to know. "Can I ask you one thing?"

She nodded again.

"Why did you kill him? He hired you to kill his wife."

She smiled for the first time in the two days we'd been sorting this out. There was glint of something quite evil in that smile. "Because the wife paid me more."