The Word Cloud

I'd really appreciate some feedback on this short story - I think I know where some of its problems lie (like the over-complex sentences) but have probably missed loads. It was for the Theakston thing where they gave you the first line, it's about 2000 words. Job done “In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.” So used to say “The Guv’nor” when he was in one of his more self-rationalising moods. Perhaps it made his job – which he never really seemed to enjoy even at the best of times – bearable. He was saying it now. I must have looked sceptical though, because he scratched his nose the way he always did when he was feeling threatened. “And believe me, he’ll beg. What’s wrong with you, Shane?” he grumbled. “You wanted to join the firm. You wanted to prove yourself.” “I just don’t see the connection,” I said. “Surely there must be plenty of occasions where you can’t equate fear with guilt?” “Self-righteous little prig”, he responded. I think he said “prig”. “Well,” I began. “Just do it,” he said, “or I’ll get someone else to.” “Okay, okay,” I said. “How do you want it done?” “It’s a Cat. C.” Category C. That meant no witnesses, but no need to go to any lengths to hide the results either. “Okay,” I said again. “When?” “Tonight, any time up until six tomorrow morning.” It was company policy not to give you too much warning on jobs like these. They had some theory about too much thinking time meaning too much scope for over-complication and mistakes. “At his home, you said. Or you were saying, just before you trotted out the begging for mercy line.” He looked crossly at me. “At his home. 27 Laurel Avenue. The photos are in the file. Don’t take them with you.” This was an unkind and unnecessary reference to the time back when I was a very nervous beginner and I had left an envelope of photos, together with a credit card receipt from a nearby petrol station, on the kitchen counter at the target’s home. I had had to go back and get them, and although I managed to do this perfectly successfully, I knew that the original incident would never be forgotten. “I won’t.” I went upstairs and took the file out of the drawer. In a colour-coded document wallet (yellow for Category C) I found the photos of the locus, the target and, rather to my dismay, of a large Rottweiler with a malignant expression. The animal was lying on a sofa, apparently watching television, rather than being securely chained up by its neck somewhere in the back garden. There were also plan sketches of the house and yard, a timetable of the target’s activities over the last two weeks, and a note to the effect that this was for a very good client. The recce team had done their usual thorough job. The Guv’nor was always boasting about how good they were, and how he had personally headhunted them all – literally, in fact, in the case of an ex-mercenary called Knut. According to the activity timetable, the target’s daily routine was gratifyingly consistent. His alarm went off at 7 a.m.,he lay in bed listening to Radio 1 until half-past, then he got up,showered, went downstairs, persuaded the Rottweiler to get off the sofa and go outside, breakfasted on cornflakes and tea, brought the dog back inside, and left the house to walk to the station to catch the 8.22 to Paddington. He returned on the 17.10 from Paddington, let the dog out, changed into jogging gear and set off round the block, this took him twenty minutes. Once back inside he poured himself a small vodka, made himself some toast, let the dog back in and fed it, changed from his jogging gear into jeans and except on Fridays, set off for the Turnpike. On Fridays he went to Purple People Eaters, a club on Lower Canal Street. He returned from the pub at 11.05, and from the club at 12.05. The dog appeared to sleep soundly through his homecomings, as it never raised even its head from the sofa. Ideally, since it was Friday, leaving the club would be the optimum time, but the client had stated “at his home”. This could be for a number of reasons, the most likely being that there would be a certain delay before the deed was discovered. Clients often needed a bit of breathing space just to come to terms with what had actually happened before the news got out. And although this particular client normally had no such sensitivities, all his previous instructions had been connected with his businesses whereas this one was rather more personal. So bearing in mind that the dog – and evil-looking as it was, I was starting to feel a bit sorry for it – was only outside the house for a short period in the morning and again in the evening, I picked up the photos again. I could see that I only had two possible courses of action, break in, or be invited in. It was too late for the dog-free period for this morning, so that really only left the dog-free period this evening. But it was August, so breaking-in unseen was not much of a possibility. The side and front windows were clearly visible from the street, and by the neighbours, and the back windows were in Rottweiler territory. That left being invited in. There were a few choices here, I thought. Meter reader, courier, JW? Then I had a sudden inspiration: RSPCA Inspector. “There’s been a very serious complaint”, I could say, about a dog being starved in the back yard, someone had seen a very thin Rottweiler at the side gate on a number of occasions. The target would, with perfect justification, be sufficiently indignant not to look too closely at my “credentials” and would insist on dragging me all the way through the house to where the overfed twelve-stone monster would be slouched against the back door waiting to come back inside for its daily twenty-three hour nap on the sofa. There he would point out to me that there was no possible way that this creature could be described as either “starved” or “very thin”. Obviously we would not get as far as the back door. I unlocked our props cupboard and found a cap which with a little adjustment would easily pass for an RSPCA one. Sitting it on the desk, I went on-line to their homepage and studied photos of the rest of their get-up. Easy, I said to myself. The cap, sat on my totally undistinguished head, would not cause any unwanted second glances. I rang the intercom to the garage where Jose would be working on one of the cars. Or pretending to work on one of the cars. “Yes?” the response was not welcoming. I don’t know why the Guv’nor kept him on, but he does tend to wink and tap his nose a lot. “Hi Jose, it’s Shane. I’ll need the little van this afternoon.” “Yeah.” I took that as meaning I could have it. The weapon needed a little more thought. I may not be all that fastidious in my day to day life but I don’t like blood. I mean I really don’t like blood. Mine or anyone else’s. I’m not crazy about noise either. Or physical contact with the target. My options, as usual, were getting fewer and, as usual, I’d have to compromise. I practised my lines as I drove back to target’s house, and by the time I was parking a couple of doors away from his front gate I felt I was word-perfect and very convincing. I knocked on the door. Footsteps, then the door opened. “Yes?” Halfway into my “very thin dog” recital he suddenly said: “Wait here” and shut the door in my face. Shortly afterwards he reappeared, with the hulking great brute of a dog on a lead. “Take it. It’s all yours. The wife left it with me when she buggered off. Its name’s Fred.” He handed me the lead and slammed the door. Fred glared at me and I glared back. That was not supposed to happen. Temporarily defeated, I took Fred back to the van and tried to persuade him to get into the back of it. He refused. I had to offer him the passenger seat and he condescended to climb in, although when I got into the driver seat he stretched out and rested about half a ton of slobbering head on my lap. Well, I consoled myself, at least the target’s house was now dog-free. There was nothing to stop me sneaking round the back after dark and carrying out my assignment. I drove unsteadily off, nearly stalling twice as my left leg was going numb from the weight of the dog’s head and I was finding it hard to work the clutch. I began to realise that now I was lumbered with this dog, the fact that I had him would be more than a little incriminating. I was just going to have to turn him loose somewhere, and make sure no-one saw me doing it. I wasn’t even sure how I was going to get him out of the van. I managed to get back to the office and drove into the yard. As I suspected, Fred was reluctant to move, so I left him there. I made sure that the windows were down a little bit to let the air in – and to be honest, he could have done with a bath – and also so that he would not get too hot. Half past ten would be a good time. It would be getting dark by then, and although the target always left the lamp on top of the television switched on and I would have enough light to see what I was doing, I would still have enough cover to break in unseen. Fred and I set off back to Laurel Street. I parked a couple of streets away, not on the target’s route home from the club, behind a bush which I had calculated would conceal me from the two CCTV systems I had noted on neighbouring properties. I left the van and went quickly back round the block, down the drive and over the locked side gate. Once around the back of the house, it was a very simple matter to break in through the kitchen window. This took me into a big open plan area with the kitchen on one side and the sofa and television on the other, so I went into the living room part and settled down to wait. The target arrived home unexpectedly early, well before midnight. I thought for one horrible moment that he had not returned alone, but the conversation he was having when he came in his front door was on his mobile. “No, he’s gone. I had him put down. You’ll never see him again. Sweetheart.” The last word was snarled rather than spoken. I prepared myself as he came down the hallway into the kitchen, and from behind him, I slipped the hood over his head and the garrotte around his neck. “Don’t move”, I warned, “Just relax and nothing will happen.” He struggled a bit and I tightened the garrotte a couple of notches. He stopped struggling and started to shake. “Keep your hands by your sides.” It’s not easy to keep your hands by your sides when someone is trying to throttle you, but he was frightened enough to manage it. “Who are you? What do you want?” “No talking,” I said. “Okay, you’re going to stand perfectly still and listen.” His knees buckled slightly but the pressure of the garrotte made him stand up again. He started to sob. “Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered, “Do you want money? You can have my cashcards. And pincodes.” ‘I don’t want money,’ I said, ‘The client pays well. And I said don’t talk, just listen. And I’ll kill you if you move.” I let him think about that for a few moments. “What my client wants,” I explained, “is for you to suffer pain and fear and humiliation. It’s a sort of a revenge thing.” He gulped, but didn’t say anything. I released the garrotte slightly. I didn’t want him passing out just yet. Yes, I know, the longer you spend not killing someone, the less you are likely actually to do it. Sort of Stockholm Syndrome in reverse. But the target needed to know why. That had been part of our instructions. “Your father-in-law – soon to be ex-father-in-law I suppose that is now – doesn’t seem to like you very much,” I began. “He seems to think, now how did he put it? – that you are a dishonest, two-timing, cheating, snivelling little rat. And that’s the censored version, of course.” The target sobbed. “No, no, that’s not true. Please!” “He also thinks you should be punished.” “No, no, please, I haven’t done anything, I swear on my mother’s life, I’ve never done anything wrong, I’ve never hurt anyone, I’ve always done the right thing, I was a good husband, please, why are you doing this? My father-in-law’s a bully, he never liked me, he –” This self-pity was interrupted by a commotion at the front door and then Fred came padding down the hall. He leapt lovingly at the target, and we both crashed to the floor, which Fred apparently thought was a nice new game. He grabbed my arm and playfully chewed at it, causing me to lose my grip on the garrotte. I stood up, backing away and examining my arm, and Fred, unfitness winning out over excitement, wagged his massive backend and hauled himself onto the sofa. The target was still lying on the floor. He was completely motionless, which surprised me, too terrified to move, I decided. I knelt beside him to reattach the garrotte and he gave a sudden start, then his head lolled back and he was motionless once more. That was when I noticed the blood seeping though the hood onto the cream hearth rug. I nudged his foot. Nothing. I gently eased the hood off, and looked at the dead eyes, and the crumpled temple where his head had hit the edge of the hearth. I sat back on my heels, holding the hood away from me. I glanced around the kitchen, looking for a carrier bag, I could not leave it there, but I didn’t want blood on my clothes either. There was one of those cloth bag tidy things near the fridge, I took out a Tesco bag and put the hood inside it. Fred was still lying on the sofa, watching me. Perhaps he thought I might be going to feed him. “Sorry Fred,” I said, “but I’ll leave the back door open for you.” I walked back down the hallway to the front door which Fred had managed to push open. The target had been so engrossed in his telephone conversation when he came in that he had not closed the door properly, nothing appeared to be damaged, and the door closed and locked itself when I pulled it towards me. The street was very quiet, and I walked as casually as I could back to the van. It was easy to see how Fred had got out, as the passenger window was lyingin pieces on the side of the road. God only knew how many fingerprints – or nose marks – might be found on those pieces of glass, so I picked them all up before I drove home. The job was done. That was all my report and invoice needed to say.