TARGET PRACTICE

An assassin is in location but must wait for confirmation of his latest target.

 

TARGET PRACTICE

 

 

Provided my information was correct, my target would arrive in the hotel late in the evening. Perhaps I had never been blessed with anything else in life, but I had considerable patience. 

I was an expert at waiting. Quite an asset in a country with so many opportunities to queue. 

A recent trip to Austria reminded me that contrary to popular opinion, the average British citizen was actually much more adept at the art of queuing than his European neighbours. In Vienna it seemed that the more robust and defiant you were, the quicker you got what you wanted. 

 

'Another Tennents please Christine.' I said, then picked up my glass and finished my first lager. I watched the young lady behind the bar as she concentrated on pulling the pint. She managed somehow to incorporate an almost casual stance as she glanced down at the gradually filling glass, but still managed to take in her area of responsibility as she surveyed the lounge bar and it=s occupants. I=d picked up on the barmaid=s name from other customers. 

Yet another member of the golfing fraternity arrived to join his group of friends, and even as he approached the bar his presence was instantly rewarded with a warm smile and a friendly 'hello,' from the ever observant Christine. I looked at her more closely now. Maybe five foot eight, and probably not more than 135 lbs when soaking wet. A very pleasant face, framed with long hair, which had an attractive arrangement of brown and blonde streaks. Her slim build was perfect for enhancing the standard hotel uniform of white blouse and black trousers.

'Thank you,' I said, and handed over a ten pound note. I could have given her the exact money, but then I would have missed out on another look at her face. She would now after all have to bring me my change. I was rewarded with another flash of her smile, and my change. 

I then looked at my perfectly poured pint, with the head of froth lightly clinging to, but not going over the rim of the glass. This pint had been poured and delivered perfectly, and if it was going to be spilled, it wouldn’t be by the person who had managed it into the glass.

It occurred to me that being a man in my fifties I shouldn't really be taking so much interest in watching this young lady going about her job. What if somebody was to be watching me and thought I was some sort of lecherous pervert? Well, as I glanced around the room steadily filling with golfers and couples in their autumn years, I thought, I can't see anybody taking a keen interest in me, so I'll just continue. 

Christine surveyed the room, then went out through an adjoining door. Seconds later, at a low but pleasant volume the strains of Freddie Mercury and his associates were serenading the air around us and telling us that Freddie wanted to, '...break free...,' and also that he was, '...falling in love...' In my opinion I thought the lady behind the bar was perhaps in her early twenties and therefore not a massive Queen fan, but then it wasn't necessarily her choice. It might well be that there was a selection of CD's available to soothe the ears of the customers. Even as I listened to the music I thought back to the days when my drinking was a serious problem. Music then would have played from an 8 track cartridge, or an audio cassette machine. I clearly remembered many times leaning on a juke box, trying desperately to focus on the titles and artists as I plugged my coins into the slot. Now that was going back in time. Enough!

 

            As I had been starting my second pint I considered leaving my bar stool for a comfy chair at one of the many tables in the lounge. I was sitting at the far right end of the bar, as seen by a customer. I thought some more about it. I wouldn't be able to observe the place and it's clientele as easily from anywhere else. I stayed put. I pulled my small notebook closer, and after a quick look at the back of the bar I noted the names I knew from my chequered past. Smirnoff,   Hennessy's, Glenlivet, Campari, Harvey's. I had been to the bottom of so many bottles and the only similarity was that deadly feeling of failure in the dawn of the new day. I often wondered if it was akin to that of the man or woman who wakes up beside a one night stand. A heady mixture of success and failure. On one hand feeling the accomplishment of, '...yes, I=ve still got what it takes...' and on the other, the self-loathing of the person who has been unfaithful.

 

During my second pint I was once again given the brief attentions of the lovely Christine as she brought out my previously ordered bar meal. My utensils wrapped in a green napkin. At my choice of table, I sat and quietly went about the necessary business of putting fuel into my human engine. Except for the typically male penchant for chocolate and ice cream, I've never really been a fan of food. When the subject comes up in conversation my standard line is, 

 

'I eat to live, I don't live to eat.' This tends to get a strange look from any companion. Shortly after I had entered the bar, a man who was uncannily like a young Charles Bronson came in and sat on a bar stool at the opposite end of the bar. I caught his glance and offered a nod and smile of greeting. In return I got a blank stare, then he returned his attentions to his choice of beverage. He ordered a Guinness. Suits you, I thought, you're probably bitter from head to toe. I wondered then if he was a regular, and I was occupying his usual seat. Tough. It was mine now, and I felt comfortable on it. From experience I'd learned that those frequently in bars, or even the lounge of a hotel, can be very territorial. It's quite possibly one of those human instincts that occurs in us subconsciously. An assumed ownership.         

 

Whilst I gave my stomach the good news, that it would finally get some sustenance, I casually took in my surroundings from my new vantage point. The efficient young lady from behind the bar came out for a brief and rapid tour of her territory, taking orders, delivering drinks, lifting empty glasses and generally being pleasant to one and all. Doing her job, but doing it well. It was like watching a neon tetra in a tropical fish tank. Coming out from inside the tiny sunken shipwreck, darting around, then back into the defensive shell. Even when there, she maintained a continuous, industrious routine. 

 

Charles Bronson may or may not have realised it, but I was able to catch him unawares on more than one occasion looking at me. What was his problem? Perhaps he thought he knew me? Maybe he was gay, and wondered if, or when he should make a move? Could it be he just didn't like the look of me? Did he see me looking at the young lady behind the bar with a twinkle in my eye, and he had designs on her himself? Until he said something, I wasn't particularly bothered or interested. Life, I learned a long time ago is too short for 'maybes'. 

 

 

 

At the bar once again, on the same stool, and now, surprisingly for me on my third pint, I made the decision to finish my drink and go upstairs to my room. My next message or contact hadn't been made, so I may as well have an early night and set out on my challenge afresh the next day. I picked up my Parker ballpoint and quickly noted two words that had just come to mind. In the instant that I stopped to think about the spelling of a third word, I became aware of another customer joining our small but growing gathering. 

She breezed into the room, and with an almost cursory glance around, came to the bar. 

I smiled at her in the way that I do these things, but with her, I felt so natural doing it. Looking at her in those first few seconds was like preparing to conduct an interview. I instantly liked what I saw, or I didn't. In this case, I most definitely did. When she briefly returned my smile, it almost felt personal. Either this lady smiled as part of her profession, she was a genuinely nice person, or both. I didn't think there were many of that third category, but I could wait and see. Her complexion may no longer be porcelain I thought, but in her younger days it would have been. 

In those younger days she must have been stunning, because what stood in front of me now had to be a lady between thirty five and forty, with an appearance I wouldn't tire of looking at.

    'A Merlot please.' she said pleasantly, as she placed her wet umbrella against the bar stool in front of her. With a slightly arched right eyebrow she nodded to my notebook on the bar and said, 'Research, or something more interesting?'

'A mixture of both actually,' I said easily, 'I'm almost mixing business with pleasure.'

'Sounds intriguing.' she said, as she then unbuttoned her white raincoat and slid it off her shoulders. She nodded to the young lady behind the bar, to acknowledge the glass of red wine. She loosely folded her coat, laid it on the bar stool then reached out a slender hand and lightly lifted the glass to her anxious, and I couldn't help thinking, rather lovely lips. She was aware but unperturbed as I watched her swallow and appreciate the first mouthful of her drink. 'I needed that.' she said without inhibition, and she placed the glass on the bar mat. The more closely I looked at her, the more I got the impression she had already indulged in a few glasses before venturing into the rain. Had her day been working, or simply relaxing, then the rain came? 

In an effort to make light conversation I ventured my honestly held opinions on the young lady behind the bar. The response was surprising to me, both in the way it was accepted, and also in the way it was reflected directly at the blonde girl.

'Well... Christine,' my companion said brightly, 'what have you been paying this gentleman? He's being very complimentary.' I wondered if this lady was also a resident.       

Christine glanced at us both, smiled, then busied herself with her other customers. One of the golfing party was back at the bar with an order that took him about five minutes to remember. From the ever present, slightly louder than necessary conversation at their table, his friends called the occasional derisory comment to him. The longer he stayed at the bar, the worse it got. By the time he started to relay the drinks back to the table, he was being blamed for everything from the size of the bunkers on the twelfth hole, to the abysmal weather.

 

I became aware that my new companion caught me studying her features. Only then, it occurred to me that I was staring. 'So,' I said, trying to recover my composure, 'what have you been up to today?' I asked her, as if I already knew her, which I didn't.

Within seconds rather than minutes, I was captivated by her voice, her Scottish accent and the passion she had for the heritage site she had been visiting. I listened to her vivid descriptions of pieces of furniture, decor and other artefacts. As her animated account of what she had seen was related to me, I found it hard to concentrate on too much detail. I was rather dishonestly nodding and smiling, but concentrating more on her, not her tale of wonder. From my own experience of such visits around the world, I could well understand her enthusiasm. It was indeed a privilege to be able to look so clearly back in time, and be well enough educated to appreciate the value and quality of even the simplest antiquities. I was enjoying the present.     

At one point as I listened to my companion I shot a glance quickly at Charles Bronson who was still sitting at the other end of the bar. I caught him unawares as he was observing me and my new companion. He looked away slowly and ordered another drink, trying hard to make it look casual. I knew when I was being watched, and that was exactly what he was doing. In some small way, I hoped he now felt relieved that my lustful thoughts had been shifted, from young Christine to this more mature, but rather attractive specimen of womanhood beside me.    Could our local version of Mr. Bronson perhaps lip-read? At the back of my mind, his presence continued to urge questions, even though I thought I had consciously told myself to forget him. 

 

Due to the proximity of her, I couldn't indulge myself with the whole shape of my lovely recent acquaintance, so I was relieved when she quite suddenly excused herself, and announced she was stepping out to the enclosed courtyard for a cigarette. Her blouse was loose enough to disguise her upper body, but her trousers were tailored sufficiently to emphasise her shapely legs. She was wearing heels, of which I've always been a fan. They do so much for a woman, and even if she is already good to look at, the high heeled shoe seems to enhance her assets. I was relieved at first, then as I watched her walk away with her short, but nevertheless elegant stride, I realised that an occasional cigarette was one of the features I had to watch for in my target. I still hadn't received a photo to confirm the details, but I was always alert to possibilities. My client had insisted that a very recent photo would be with me within 24 hours, due to a radical change of the target's appearance. That time period still had some time to go. I'd find out soon enough. 

 

The delightful and attractive lady returned to the bar and stood very close to me once again. I had been able to watch her as she came back, and her walk, though elegant, wasn't casual, it was almost business-like. I couldn't work out why I thought that. She asked what I was doing in the area, and as I had rehearsed with idle chat to others, I explained that I was writing an article for inclusion in a travel brochure, and that I was freelance.   

 

This woman made me feel so at ease, and yet for some reason it worried me. I didn't want to feel attracted to her, especially if it turned out she was the person I had been sent to locate. In an effort to give myself some thinking time, and to put even a small amount of distance between us, I excused myself. 'Be back in a minute,' I said as I got off my stool, 'just popping to the little boy's room.' When I was walking away I thought to myself, what is she going to take from that statement? I really had to work on my language. These days it just didn't sound right to use phrases like, '...the little boy=s room...' even in jest. As I passed the end of the bar I looked straight at Mr. Bronson. He looked up from the text he was sending on his mobile phone. Cold, staring, blue eyes.    

 

On returning to the lounge, I was both delighted and dismayed at seeing the dark haired lady still standing there, chatting idly to Christine. When I pulled myself up onto my bar stool I grabbed my notebook and pen and made another couple of notes. Something I had to remember. 

'Was that important?' she asked and smiled.

'It could be very important,' I said, trying hard to return the smile, 'I'm working on an idea for this area, so I've got to get these things down as they come to me.'

'So,' she said, looking straight at me, and changing tack, 'is your room comfortable?'

 I had so many one liners rushing to be said, but I had to stop myself being crass. 'Yes,'

I said, 'it's a very nice hotel. I'm on the top floor, but the lift is efficient.' Whilst I spoke I noticed the right eyebrow slightly arch, and the corners of her mouth started to turn into a smile. 

'I was considering having another,' she said, 'but I don't know if I should. I have a lot to do tomorrow.' She looked longingly at the empty glass and breathed deeply. 

Was that a cue for me to say something, maybe like offering a nightcap? 'Sometimes,'

I heard myself say, 'it's better to know when to stop.' Damn it. Why did I say that? I wanted her to stay with me till the bar closed. At least.

'Thank you for being so sensible,' she said, 'I will finish now.'

'I've really enjoyed your company.' I ventured, as she lifted her coat, bag and umbrella.

She paused, '...and I've enjoyed yours. Perhaps we'll meet again.'

'Good night.' I said. When she left the lounge, I picked up my pint and finished it in one. As I put the glass on the bar I saw Charles Bronson do the same. On going past him, I made eye contact once more, then headed for the stairs, rather than the lift. I stopped and absently looked at a painting of a horse and rider tackling a jump, and I pretended to be studying it. I was aware of Charles Bronson pressing the button and getting into the lift. I walked back and watched the illuminated numbers. 1...2...3...   The lift went to my floor. I used the stairs.

 

The next morning I woke from a fitful sleep. There had been nothing untoward when I got to my room the night before. My dreams were pleasant, as I thought of the possibilities of ending the night with my newly found lady friend. Then into my dreams the cold, malevolent eyes of Charles Bronson would appear. I showered, dressed and went down for breakfast, early as always. Too early as it happened. The dining room wasn't open yet. I went to the reception desk and asked if there had been anything dropped off for me. I was given a glowing smile from a young dark haired lady in her twenties, and within seconds an envelope with 'Private and Confidential' printed on the top, just above my name. I quickly stepped to one side to open it and I removed the two photos. One bore a startling resemblance to Charles Bronson but with no moustache, and the other photo, though not as clear in focus, was of my attractive companion of the night before. On the back of the photos were some brief details. If I didn't get myself sorted out quickly, one of these two was going to be a victim, in the not too distant future. As I thought about my options I headed back downstairs to the cellar dining room for breakfast.              It was now open.

 

'Two members of staff were in animated conversation, but I couldn't hear the topic. One of them checked the clock on the wall, then swiftly came to greet me.

'Good morning sir!' she said brightly and allowed me to choose a table.

'Good morning,' I said, 'tea please, and toast on white bread. Room forty seven.'

'Thank you sir.' 

I could hear more clearly now though they obviously thought they were being quiet enough. The conversation was being made in an excitable tone, and due to that, they weren't conscious that they were raising their voices so much.

'Apparently,' said one, 'he left here late last night, because the night porter saw him go.'

'So how do the police know he was stabbed to death?' said the other, younger one.

'Because it looks like he was killed, and then pushed onto the rails in the dark. The killer didn't count on the early morning train being cancelled due to bad weather.'

'All they know at the moment is, he was last seen talking to a dark haired lady.'

When my cereal bowl hit the table, it was just a little harder than I intended.

'You okay sir?' the younger girl asked as she approached with my tea and toast.

'Just fine,' I said and tried to smile, 'sorry about that. Was it one of our guests that was found on the railway lines this morning?'

'Yes,' she said in her excitement, 'I don't know who Charles Bronson is, but apparently this chap looked like him. Stabbed once in the heart.'         

 

After breakfast I went to the nearest public phone box and dialed a number in London. 

'Yes !' came the curt response.

'My apologies for the delay. The good news is, I have now had a confirmed siting.'

'I want her out of action inside the next 24 hours,' the voice said sternly, 'or you'll be out of action my friend. Either you are the best, or you're a dead man.' The line went dead. The call had been relayed, but had still lasted less than fifteen seconds. 

I put the phone on the cradle and turned to push the door of the kiosk open. My emotions were in turmoil as I looked into the dark and beautiful eyes of my companion of the previous evening. I didn't speak. I suppose I lost the incentive to do anything except stare, when I felt the long silencer being forced against my stomach.

 

'I really was beginning to enjoy your company Phil,' she said quietly in her sexy voice, 'such a pity it has to be like this.'

 

*

 

For the past four years, I've lived quietly in a small village in Switzerland. I use a different name, my hair is shaved off, and I've exchanged my glasses for contact lenses. I keep myself to myself, and hope to go on living here for some time to come. Prior to arriving and rapidly giving myself a new identity and background, I moved around the U.K. for a month. 

When I first regained consciousness and felt fit enough, I got my belongings and walked out of the hospital without a word to anyone. It seemed I had been in a coma for three months and under police protection. In my wallet there was a small card that read, 'If you follow me...   Next time you won't be so lucky. your target   xxx'

 

The end  

 

Author's Note

Would appreciate any comments. Please help me to target my audience by giving your age if 18 or under. Thank you. Tom