My head is a shambles. Now that I’m actually here, the gearstick slick beneath my palm, I feel like my whole body has been hollowed out and replaced with cold, heavy air. This is the kind of place they find missing people, months later, after the foxes have done their work.
My breath fogs up the windscreen. I wipe it away with a sleeve that smells vaguely of fabric softener and stale cigarettes. I tell myself it’s fine, that this is the plan. I rehearse the conversation, try out different ways to say what I need, but every version sounds laughably naive. Steve said the guy would be ‘professional’, and that I should treat it like a job interview. But what questions do you ask at a job interview for murder?
I keep imagining different versions of tonight – the one where the hitman turns out to be a cop, or a sadist, or an opportunist who decides to kill me instead, just for fun. Each time I imagine that, my heart tries to climb out through my throat. I count the seconds between beats, willing them to slow down.
The minutes tick by. I fidget. 4G isn’t working, so I scroll through old texts. The heater starts to make a weird tapping sound, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every noise, every shift in the wind.
At 02.28, a pair of headlights flares in the rear-view mirror. My body tenses, as if an electric current just ran the length of my spine. The lights are distant at first, but within seconds, they swell until they’re a whitewash in the glass. My hands jerk instinctively, shielding my eyes. The approaching car moves slowly, deliberately, as if it’s stalking rather than driving, its beams blinding, shining into the Clio’s interior as it draws closer, no doubt illuminating me from behind. I feel exposed. My heart is racing. Is this him?
The car cruises past and pulls into the space in front.
It’s an old silver Toyota Corolla, the sort that pensioners drive to Tesco on weekday mornings.
I can’t tell if I’m sweating or shivering. Probably both. The Corolla’s interior is dark, and the silhouette in the driver’s seat is so still that, for a second, I think the car is empty. Then the passenger window cracks just wide enough for a wisp of cigarette smoke to curl into the night.
A full ten seconds pass before anything happens. Then the hazards click on – one, two, three deliberate flashes.
I review the plan – get out, don’t look nervous, get in the back seat. No sudden movements. I try to imagine how people act in movies – confident, ironic, bored – but nothing feels right. I almost laugh at myself for thinking this would be like in the films, where you just hand over the cash and walk away.
Psyching myself up, I square my shoulders. This is business. A transaction, nothing more. I’m just here to outsource a problem. It’s not like anyone will even know about Bella Newbury going missing. That thought is comforting and horrifying at the same time.
I clumsily pull the hood of my sweatshirt up and step out into the raw, damp cold. The Clio’s door shuts with a noise that sounds ten times louder than it should. As I walk towards the Corolla, my feet crunch on old grit and broken glass. The smell of wet, rotten leaves fills my sinuses. I imagine the crows in the field watching, hunched like dark-robed judges.
I keep my head down, as if that might make me invisible. I glance up once at the car, and for a second, I almost turn around and run. But I don’t. I walk up to the rear door and wait. Through the open window, a voice, low and flat, says, ‘Get in.’
There’s nothing else. No greeting, no joke, not even a ‘please’. I open the door, heart hammering, and slide on to the back seat.
The car is warm, which is unsettling. I expected it to be freezing. There’s a chemical sweet smell – air freshener, maybe – as wellas fresh cigarette smoke. But underneath is something tangy and metallic, a smell I can’t quite name. The driver doesn’t turn. I can only see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, dark and focused.
He’s silent for a few seconds, just smokes his cigarette, tapping the ash out of the window.
I try to look unimpressed, like this is just a regular Tuesday for me. It’s not. ‘Thought you’d have a nicer car,’ I say, immediately regretting it.
He blows out a stream of smoke and flicks the butt out of the window, its orange glow eaten up by the dark. ‘I don’t like to draw any attention.’ His voice is neutral with a hint of London in it. ‘The less you stand out, the less you’re remembered,’ he adds. There’s no more preamble. ‘Who’s the mark and when do you want it done?’ he asks, like he’s taking an order for pizza.
My mouth feels like sandpaper. ‘Her name’s Bella Newbury. I need it done as soon as possible, please.’
‘Got a home address?’
‘She lives in Lymington. Flat 12, Seafoam Court, Ellington Place. I can write it down for you.’
‘Nothing in writing. I can remember. Does she work?’
‘Um, yeah. She’s an estate agent. She owns Newbury New Forest Property Group.’
He draws a breath in through his teeth. ‘High-profile? That’ll cost you extra.’
I flinch. ‘What?But—’
‘Or you can leave now.’
‘How much extra?’ I ask.
‘Another five hundred.’
My heart sinks. ‘I don’t have it.’
‘Not my problem. And I’ll need it all upfront.’
