The Assassin

In the distance, as the church clock struck midnight, a ghostly figure could be seen creeping through the graveyard . . .
Thick clouds of mist swirled and twirled about the grounds, weaving between the tombstones like a great serpent. The sound of distant chatter filled the air.
With a sudden unexpected and almighty creak the heavy wooden church door swung open whilst groaning in defiance. Small groups of people bustled out, each one talking about insignificant things such as dinner and parties.
The quiet babble of voices grew quieter still as the crowd slowly disappeared down the path and out of the gate. Seeing that, the cloaked shape that was crouching behind a fir tree stood up; his eyes alight with anticipation. A sly grin crept across his face as he heard the reoccurring, weary moan of the church door opening. One middle aged man in hat and coat stepped out into the night. He retrieved a key from his pocket and heaved the church door shut while locking it with a loud grunt. The figure stepped out steadily as he peered round the tree, his eyes hunting for the trademark sign of the little white dog collar between the man’s shirt - yes he was the vicar. The vicar ambled out of the graveyard and across the road whistling to himself joyfully. From underneath the long the drapes concealing the hooded form’s face, a smirk appeared. This smile however was not one of friendliness but of hostility and malice. Just for a second he remained there and then he was gone, into the forest and into the night, his frightening cloaked silhouette billowing around him . . .

Over the constant wailing of the wind an ear splitting CRACK echoed throughout the valley followed by a heart stopping FLASH, as the whole atmosphere exploded with sudden light for a moment.
Just one moment.
Then the town and its surroundings were plunged into darkness once more while a deep rumbling voice from above pursued the lightening with his thundering complaints that filled the sky.
From across the seemingly endless hillside the figure glided effortlessly across the muddy grassland terrain towards his next target. A little cottage sat before him; screeching and battling in disagreement with the harrowing, never ending to and fro of the wind. It desperately struggled to hold its ground. With another intense flash of lightning, the small lattice windows lit up as the broken and battered shutters containing them rattled ferociously against their rotting frames. Whilst each door frame shook in on itself, the ever approaching shadow drew closer to the tiny house, only stopping when it reached a small crevice in the nearby overhang of a hill that looked down upon the cottage. The mysterious man crept and slid inside the cranny as the darkness within ensnared him away from the lightning and thunder, hiding him in the blackness for no-one to see.
Once concealed the cool yet clammy smell of damp and mud hung loosely in the air like the cob webs around him and the familiar taste of excitement filled his lungs and teased his tongue . . .

The bare branches of the surrounding trees were grasping towards the sky, like crooked hands clutching at the night – trying to reach the stars and imprison them in their embrace . . .
The great storm came to a long awaited stop yet the wind howled away, but quieter now. From between the hillside, the man’s eyes shifted out of his daydream and back to reality. His eyes scanned the horizon to find the source of the commotion that drew him from his daze. He found what he was expecting as his dark pupils focused in on the dainty vehicle. A small red can was battering down the nearest lane with a sound like the man had never heard before. As it banged, clashed and clanked its way toward him; his form shook gently as he chuckled and sneered with distaste. Without warning the car pulled to a screeching stop in front of the tiny house which was still recovering from the storm. The priest swung himself out of the car muttering in complaint; the hidden man lifted his head higher in time to see the vicar bend back into the vehicle and signal into the back seats with his hand, before slamming it closed.




The assassin’s eyes followed the vicar down the garden path, as he pushed the crippled door open, replacing the old key from where it came. He stepped into the house and disappeared into the shadowed hallway, leaving the front door WIDE OPEN. Baffled by his pure stupidity, the steely spy yanked himself out of the crevice and made his way down the hillside. He seemed almost to glide, with his face a mask of calm, focused on the cottage like a creature on its prey. As he skimmed through the doorway, his face changed as her took in his surroundings. He shook his head and grinned once again, still amazed at how easy tonight had been. Stumbling and slipping on the carpet beneath him, he examined the grotty flooring in disgust; the sudden and familiar sound of smashing glass reverberated through the empty house. With the swiftness of a whip, his head shot up, eyes hunting for the cause.
It was then that the man of God made his first mistake. . .


His face was calm and collected. As he bent down to the floor to sweep up the broken glass, the vicar spoke; not a hint of how he felt could be heard in his speech which was strong and steady.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His voice shook for a moment before he continued.
“It’s just I didn’t know who you were and you appeared so suddenly.”
A little laugh escaped from his lips; awkward though it was, the assassin sniggered in response, his vicious smile just visible from beneath his hood.
“Sorry can I help you?” the vicar asked as he rose from the floor. The murderer grinned more at this, still saying nothing.
He slowly walked around the vicar and into what might have once been a living room. The priest followed him, confusion slowly sliding across his face. The assassin drew to a stop in front of an old broken mirror, his grin quickly turning into a wicked snare.
Then in movements surreal and completely in unison he turned to face the vicar as his cloak fell to the ground, revealing his features.
He had dark black eyes that appeared drained of all colour, the shifted across the priests’ face piercing at his skin with a look like daggers. Each eye was set in a hard structured face, shadowed by a set of bushy brows. Yellow stained teeth crooked and out of place still gaped from his ajar mouth. As if weighed down by troubles and regret his shoulders and back were arched over, hunched and rounded like the hills on the horizon. He was dressed reasonably smartly in clothes so mundane the he seemed normal, like a normal person who walked down a normal street. Not someone who had blood on their hands, it seemed he was just trying to blend in. His hair however was the opposite, it was knotted tangled and filthy; long and grey it hung limply down his face partially covering two long scars that stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw.
A sudden release of white light lit up the household as the lightening returned. During the flash the killers face was abruptly consumed by such violence, the shocked vicar took a wary step back as his fear finally became apparent.
“Who are you?” he breathed, slowly backing towards the open doorway. Before he could speak again the assassin disappeared, only to reappear behind him while another round of lightening disguised his movements.

Now that the intruder’s hunched frame blocked the doorway, the vicar had no means of escape and backed away once more, visibly shaking. The killer reached swiftly into his cloak and retrieved something metallic and cumbersome.
Moonlight beamed through the cracked windows and softly glinted over the object, mirroring reflections across the room. It was not a welcome sight for the vicar. His breath caught in his throat while his eyes widened in pure terror as it dawned on him what the object was.
The gun clicked, almost as if it were in response to his thoughts.
“Please NO!” he pleaded
“Please do not kill me now, not yet.”

“You are in no position to bargain.”
Those first rasping words echoed between the walls, each version more haunting than the last.
“But my s . . . ”
The assassin steadily lifted the gun and pointed it squarely at the vicars’ chest, stopping him in mid sentence.
“No!” he snapped
“The time for talking is over!”
In acceptance and defeat the vicar swallowed slowly and fell to his knees, holding his palms together and muttering incoherently.
The murderer sniggered.
“No words you utter to him can save you now!”
The priest at his feet winced. Each word the assassin spoke terrified the vicar, it was not the voice of anyone human but if a coldblooded killer; someone who could thoughtlessly slaughter innocent people and not care. A heartless, soulless, monster.
The killers’ cold, hard, expressionless face showed very little emotion or concern at what he was going to do next. As if it were a regular everyday action to take someone’s life though for him it probably was.
Just as the assassins fingers folded over the guns trigger, an unmistakable sound halted his actions. The crunching screech of the rusty front door latch reverberated about the house. Both of the men’s heads shot up.
The vicars’ frame slouched in despair as his face showed extreme fear, fear he hadn’t shown before. His killer eyed him questioningly but his queries were soon answered by what came through the doorway.
“Dad?”
The child’s voice immediately brought the vicar to his feet causing the assassin to move closer gesturing the gun towards him.
From around the corner came a young blonde haired boy of about 10 years of age. He was wrapped firmly in what looked like an old withered blanket. His eyes flitted across the room taking in his surroundings, before resting them on his father’s face.
“Dad?” he repeated as he made his way into his father’s arms.
The priest shuffled over to the boy, pushing him behind his own body, shielding him from what was to come.
“Please let him go” he said as he turned to face his fate.
But he was met by a man so different from before, so opposite.

The assassin remained frozen where he stood looking very frightened; his head was directed at the young boys face but his eyes were focused on something else. They were far away looking over on a memory that occurred many many years ago.
He was a boy again, a child sheltering behind crates and rubble, with the sound of incessant gunfire ringing in his ears. His eyes slowly opened from there scrunched up pose. This small boy cautiously lifted his head and edged it over his hiding place; only to see his family being dragged away by armed men and thrown against a wall. His father shouted out in a plea and went to run towards him but was shot in seconds. The sound of gunfire rang out again followed by the screams of his mother. She looked desperately into her sons eyes before she and the rest of his family got shot down as well. The boy started to cry silently but crouched back down, closed his eyes and covered his ears. . .
The assassin stumbled backwards and out of his daze, he then inadvertently tripped and fell against the wall behind him. This in turn made him jump forward in shock as his flashback engulfed him again. Then for the first time in over 35 years this killer showed fear. This fear shook right through his very core as he looked at the people than stood before him. As he studied the sheer panic on their faces he saw his parent’s right before they were killed.
He was then thrown back into reality and present day again. Stifling a sob he looked back at the other people in the room. The vicar and his son just stood there completely still measuring the assassin’s reactions.
Although his lip was still quivering with sadness, the still-armed hit man spoke up.
“GO”
“I’m sorry?” asked the vicar.
“GO . . . I SAID GO!”
“Please forget, forget about me, this house, this place, this country even. Now get out of here and never return!”

The priest was utterly bewildered; he just stood there, mouth gaping in confusion
“Daddy come on.”
He looked over to see his son standing eagerly at the open doorway. He looked back at the assassin who had turned his face away and was flinching at each word the boy spoke.
His son ran for the door and he quickly followed turning round one last time.
“Thank you” he said to the assassin who looked up and then away to the window.
With that the vicar left.
The changed man watched them from the window as the broken car made its way back through the valley and out of sight.
Then he turned from the window and faced himself in the opposing mirror. His lips were now pressed into a hard line; neither happy or sad, upset or angry - in between.
The creature that stared back at him was not anyone he recognised, although it was of his own making.
For the first time in the man’s life he properly looked back at what he had achieved and done, and a sudden truth and realisation hit home.
He had spent his entire life running and searching for his family’s murderer, and done countless unmentionable things in order to get there. However in that time he had been so thoroughly consumed by hatred and thoughts of revenge; that he never stopped to think or look at what he had become.
The man abruptly turned away from the mirror in revolt and disgust. Without warning the harrowing faces of all his former victims flashed before his eyes. Each and every one of them had begged with him before they had died and he had just laughed. The eerie explosion of voices consumed him now each one getting louder and louder. Only to be ended by their individual screams and shouts as gunfire cut them off.
Flashback after flashback, vision after vision, memory after memory.
All ending in death, all repeating inside his head.
“NO!” he screamed, firmly plunging his fist into the mirror behind him. His hand, now bloody and broken curled up by his side and his breath came out in short rasps.
Except the voices never stopped they kept going on and on.
His fingers began to repeatedly rake through his filthy matted hair, as if to claw away all the thoughts and memories from his head.
He pulled his hands away and back to his side. Tears cascaded down his crippled face, he bent down to his knees and retrieved his gun from the blood stained carpet.

With a heavy head and heart filled with remorse and regret, he closed his eyes lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. . . .