Wordsmith Wednesdays

Doing this week's challenge I've come to realise that although my current wordsmith skills are almost non-existent, the stuff I've done in the past is pretty good. And I'd like to share some of it. Feel free to comment, critique or ignore...

I've already posted one of my pieces on here before, and here's the second. It's a story I wrote many years ago. When I write stories I tend not to have any idea of plot when I begin. This one kind of wrote itself.

Routine

I’m here. As usual. I’ve come here every day this month. Following him. Learning his pattern. He’s an easy mark. I’ve had some that do different things at different times on different days. Those types you have to stalk, take your shot when you can. It’s risky; more chance of failure, more chance of capture.

But this man is a creature of habit. He likes his routine. He leaves his small, barely standing house at the same time every morning. Never more than 30 seconds early or late. He slams the door and his face contorts as he listens to the creaks and groans of a building that should be condemned.

He takes exactly the same amount of time to drive to work each day. Nine minutes and 13 seconds. Following the same route. Down alleys, taking shortcuts so ingrained in his memory he could drive with his eyes closed. Avoiding lights and other traffic. Anything that might interrupt his schedule.

He does the same tasks in the same order every day. In the corner office with the blinds two fifths of the way down. And I sit in the library across the road. On this same purple seat by the window. The seat with the scratchy fabric that burns the skin on my arm each time I move. I choose a different book each day. Always from the same section. Crime. Not that I’ve read any of them. Despite the regular turning of pages and the occasional low mutter or laugh. My eyes are fixed on more important things than words in a book.

I watch him take off his coat and hang it neatly on the centre hook on the back of the door. I watch him place his briefcase squarely in the centre of his desk. I watch him pick up the pile of yellow message notelets, read them all carefully, then sort them into order of importance. I watch him ensure that every pencil in the tray is sharpened to a fine point, and arranged in order of length. I watch him empty the litter bin and line it with a fresh clean white bag from the roll in his drawer. Now, and only now, when everything is the way it should be, does he sink into his leather chair.

This is the only part of his day that varies. He closes his eyes and takes slow deep breaths to cleanse and calm. The length of his meditation seems connected to nothing, so far as I can tell. Perhaps something happens to him in the minute or two I lose sight of him after he enters his building, before he walks through the door of his office. Who knows? Who cares? Whether it lasts a minute, or five, eventually it ends and the rest of his day begins. Routine after routine. Chore after chore.

Nothing that happens during his work day is helpful to me. This place does not suit my needs. Too many people. Too much wind. Too many corners and angles. No clear shot. So I continue to observe, filling my head with notes about the job. My tool of choice. My fee. The customer. I’m sure there’s a reason I was hired. People rarely require my services for no reason at all. I provide a last resort. People ponder for months, perhaps years, before committing to me. Once payment is transferred, there is no going back.

But whatever reason my customer has, I don’t need to know it. Nor do I wish to. This is my job. This man I watch, any man I watch, is only one more chore in my own routine. I don’t need to know what he’s done that has made someone contact me. All I need to know is where and when I can complete my task.

I observe, without caring, for hour after hour each day. When he pulls his lunch from his briefcase and turns to face the window, he doesn’t see me. The library’s windows are tinted on the outside, providing better cover than I could manufacture for myself. I continue to watch while he eats the same cheese and pickle on brown bread sandwich, the same banana, the same digestive biscuit. He drinks the same cup of tea, with the same single sugar, from the same mug. As soon as the cup is empty, he washes it at the sink in the corner and returns it to its place by the kettle.

Sometime in the afternoon he goes to the bathroom. The same time each afternoon. Three fifteen. And he is always back at his desk by three seventeen. Without fail. His body is as tuned to routine as his brain is.

Today something happens that isn’t in his usual routine. At four thirty, his office door opens and in walks a tall, busty woman wearing a long black suede skirt and a tight pink sweater. I know, even from this distance, that she is drenched in peppermint body mist. I would know, even if I did not see the mark’s nose wrinkle as the cloud of spray forces itself into his nostrils, because my own senses have been assaulted by this woman. This is my customer. The woman who has paid me £50,000 – for whatever reason – to dispense with this man.

She sits on his desk, knocking the pile of papers to the floor, and he blanches. As she talks to him, he clenches the arms of his leather chair until his knuckles are as white as his face. Her gestures grow wilder, as I imagine her dusky voice grows louder. And through it all he sits still and silent, waiting for her to leave. Waiting for routine to begin again.

The woman gives up screaming. Throws up her hands in clichéd disgust, and storms from the room. His coat falls from its hook. Framed pictures and certificates on the wall are shaken askew. I would not have to look to know that the next half an hour of this man’s day will be spent recreating order and routine where the whirlwind woman left chaos.

When everything is straight, and in its place once more, his routine continues. He works faster, in order to catch up. He could not possibly stay later. He must leave at precisely the same time as he does every other day. When he exits the office I put down my book and by the time he walks out of the main door of the building, I am behind the wheel of my car.

I watch his path from building to car park, and my brain rouses itself. Patience is a necessity in my line of work. I can watch without moving for hours. My brain has learned to observe and take notes on standby. But now that he is moving again, I need to pay full attention. Especially since I know where we will be going next.

Driving once more along short cuts and alleys, avoiding lights and other traffic, this journey takes 37 minutes and 25 seconds. Exactly the same amount of time it took yesterday. With each second that ticks by, I grow more certain in my mind that the stalking is almost over. This place that we head to, my creature of habit’s secret vice, is the perfect place for finalising my task.

We arrive and even as I follow him, my eyes are scoping out the area. He takes his usual path through the woods. Not sticking to the public footpath, but following a winding trail around trees and bushes. The route is clear, the grass trodden down by his own feet. I keep well back. There is more chance of being spotted in this natural jungle than there was in the concrete one. So I give him more distance than is necessary. I’m comfortable in the knowledge that even if I lose sight of him – which I won’t – I know exactly where he’s going.

He’s heading for his hidden pool. An oasis that the majority of city dwellers know nothing about. In this day and age of commerce and technology, hardly anyone bothers with exploring nature anymore. Not enough that he needs to worry about. He’s safe here. For now.

Every night this month I’ve watched him rip his clothes from his body. I’ve listened to him let out the frustration that builds in him each day, dammed by his routine. I listen to his roar. I watch him dive from the highest point into the pool. I watch him splash and swim and relax. I watch him leave his routine on the rock with his clothes.

Tonight, he roars and swims as usual, but I don’t watch. Instead I turn my attention to the surrounding area. Where is the best place for the job? How do the trees affect the wind? Is there anywhere a witness might mistakenly stumble across us? What’s the best escape route? Will the sound echo enough that dog walkers on the other side of the forest will hear? Are they far away enough that even if they do hear, I’ll be long gone before they get here?

--

I break my own routine. I leave before he does. There is no point in staying. I have no more need to watch him. Tomorrow, this job will be over. He will have his last swim, then I will carry out what it is I was paid for. I will return home; he never will.

And soon there will be a new customer; a new mark. Someone new to stalk, and another £50,000 in my account.