In search

In search

Day 1

Mist obscured the stars, it reminded him of where he grew up, that heavy dampness
of a wet winter morning. Pain shot through his hand as his cigarette burnt to the filter.
Distracted again. He hadn't slept, not one wink since reading the stories. He was a
slight, tall man, handsome but dishevelled like a beautiful church overgrown and
abandoned.

Reflexively he checked the German Luger in his pocket, ejected the magazine
fingered the bullets, chambered a round and checked the safety. He'd done this at
least three times already in the last twenty minutes. He'd considered himself a bit
OCD about keeping his gun locked and loaded but it had saved his life in the past,
obsession has its benefits.

He felt that he was close now. Definitely. He knew where to begin his search;
Mcdonalds, the bins outside Gregg's, the dingiest apartment block that he could
find. If those drew blank he was pretty sure that a man such as his prey would be
easily described and easily recognised. The quicker the better, he hated this goddamn
country.

He checked his watch, 6am. He waited at the door impatiently, minutes passed. A girl
in uniform appeared from a door behind the counter, she leisurely walked towards the
door fumbling with the keys.

"Morning" she smiled politely, falsely.

"Morning, gotta get my egg mcmuffin" he said brightly, trying to put her at ease.
Suddenly he was concious of his sodden dirty Mack and lank unkempt hair.
They walked to the counter in an awkward formation, he trying not to seem to eager.
Play it cool, light and breezy, just plain awkward.

"So an egg mcmuffin, anything else" she was trying to brighten the interaction now,
put him at ease. She looked tired.

"Just a coffee, black. And. Say. I was in here yesterday and saw a fat fellow in a
moo moo pick up my umbrella by mistake, I have his here" he gestured to a cheap
umbrella in his right hand as if only now discovering the mistake. "I was wondering
if he came in at any time in particular, it sounds silly but the umbrella that he took by
mistake was my grandfather's and I'd like it back"

She looked at him oddly, her brow furrowed slightly, only now he noticed how much
makeup she wore. Shit, she knows I'm lying. He started, or imagined that he had
started to sweat visibly. She frowned a second later then relaxed.

"I remember a guy like that came in here very regularly, but I haven't seen him in
months. He looked kind of li.."

He turned and left, his head suddenly woozy, felt like he was seasick.
"But what about your egg mc.."

He was out the door and into the still dark morning.


Day 2

He'd tried the fast food restaurants, the all night petrol stations, moo moo shop, the
24 supermarkets, the local hospitals even the fucking poetry circle. Nothing, oh they
remembered him alright, but he hadn't been seen in months. People didn't know his
name or where he lived. He seemed to have been a local of the Brixton area, but as for
exactly where he lived he was none the wiser.

Today he would just roam the streets between where he had been seen last. The
people he'd asked had looked at him strangely when he had asked. Who could blame
them; long lost cousin, witness to a mugging, grampa's prize umbrella, these were all
stupid excuses but what else could he say.

He couldn't tell them that he had a bullet with the guy's name on, that this guy had
ruined his life. God what had he become, so obsessed by finding one man.
He walked and walked, the streets grew more and more dilapidated. Now we're
talking. Was this it?

The tower block was bounded by an eight foot high timber fence, panels rotten and
roughly pushed aside at intervals. A gate for letting vehicles through was padlocked
shut.

The street was busy with people in suits, in track suits and red chords busily going
about their business. He couldn't just duck in with these people around. He cut back
to a construction equipment shop that he had passed. Returning with a hi viz jacket,
helmet and clipboard he ducked in the site.

The car park was cracked and overgrown with a single burnt out car rusting silently
away. At the entrance he found the doors open when he tried them. He was suddenly
aware of just how dangerous this could be, hypodermic syringes lay discarded and a
body shaped pile of rags lay in the foyer motionless. Alive or dead he didn't want to
disturb them.

Climbing the stairs an overpowering smell of mould and dank stagnant air hit him.
This place was dead. Then he spied it, a scrap of floral moo moo fabric was snagged
on the handrail. He knelt to inspect it, it was filthy and dry. He stood and raised it to
his nose, it smelt foul. Dabbing it with his tongue he could taste brackish dried sweat
and McDonald's cheese. He was close, he had to be.

He pulled his Luger out dramatically and silently stalked through the building.
After much searching he came across the first floor apartment of his prey. Rusted lilt
cans and filthy torn moo moos littered the floor. He picked his way through gingerly
so as not to give any prior warning of his presence. After methodically sweeping all
the rooms he came to the bedroom. A patina of dust covered every grimy mouldy
surface. The bed was empty, he pulled off the sheets, they stuck together sickeningly
and the smell was too much. He fell to his knees and vomited crying, after composing
himself he again felt the urge to wretch.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? GIVE ME MY FUCKING LIFE BACK!"

He collapsed pulling himself into the recovery position still sobbing.


Day 3

He shambled through the streets a broken man, his hair was wild from the night in the
tower block, his teeth furry. No one had come back in the night to the tower.
Maybe he'd moved on? Died?

He found himself in an off license.

"Bourbon"

He wondered through the streets swigging liberally from his brown paper bag
wrapped bottle. Stumbled on a flagstone. He passed an alley, one more look.

He could hear a rummaging and a low mumbled conversation. The type that is always
only with yourself.

There before him, bent over head deep in a dumpster was a hideously fat adipose man
in a moo moo.

The assassins mouth hung.

The man pulled himself further into the dumpster, his moo moo straining, feet just
off the ground wiggling. The scrabbling sound became louder and somehow more
determined.

This was him, he let the hand with the bottle in fall to his side and reached inside his
Mack for his Luger. Gently he released his grip on the bottle, it fell to the pocked
alley Tarmac and smashed.

Surprised the wiggling feet leant back onto the ground and the man turned around.
The assassin can see the rolls of sallow cellulite wrinkled fat realign as the man turns.
The assassin raises his Luger aiming it straight and true. The man finally manoeuvres
his head around. A rancid banana peel hangs limply from his revolting maw, sinuous
slather dripping viscously to the floor.

The assassin can feel his wretch reflex returning at this monsterous visage, he
squeezes the trigger twice. One to the head one to the heart. The flashes light up the
alley.

He smiles, I'm finally free.

He steps over his accomplishment. The man looks like a better looking, slimmer
chris moyles. The assassin's heart jumps. In that instant he realises that he cannot
undo what he has just done. Worse he knows that his prey has escaped him again. He
vomits and wretches uncontrollably falling to the floor and writhing in agony.

Quite out of nowhere he is laughing manically.