Alistair Finch was not dead

The rain hammered against the canvas tent, each dropping a heavy drumbeat on the sombre melody of grief. I stood under the inadequate shelter, the collar of my coat pulled high, trying to disappear into the throng of mourners. Or were they mourners? That was the question that gnawed at the edges of my composure. Because here, at the supposed funeral of Alistair Finch, I was increasingly certain Alistair Finch was not dead.

Alistair, my enigmatic neighbour for the past five years, had lived a life shrouded in quiet mystery. He was a retired clockmaker, or so he claimed. But his hands, calloused and strong, spoke of more than just delicate mechanisms. He kept to himself, rarely spoke of his past, and possessed an unsettling alertness, a constant awareness of his surroundings that suggested a life lived on the periphery of danger. His sudden “death,” attributed to a heart attack while tending his garden, reeked of convenient narrative.

The service was a bizarre affair. The vicar, a young man clearly uncomfortable, stammered through the eulogy, relying heavily on generic phrases about a life well-lived. No family was present. Alistair, as far as I knew, had no relatives. The only attendees were a smattering of neighbours, their faces etched with polite, albeit lukewarm, sympathy, and a handful of men in dark suits, their expressions as impenetrable as granite. They stood apart, radiating an unnerving aura of professional detachedness. These were not mourners; they were observers.

My unease sharpened as I watched them. Their eyes scanned the crowd, and their movements were precise and economical. They were waiting for something, or someone. It was then, as the vicar concluded his hesitant speech, that I made a decision. I couldn't simply stand by and let this charade play out.

As people began to file past the open casket, offering their final respects, I joined the line. The rain intensified, blurring the edges of the scene, adding to the surreality of the moment. When I reached the casket, I forced myself to look.

Alistair lay still, his face pale and composed. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. And that’s what confirmed my suspicions. I had seen Alistair ill before—a nasty bout of flu that left him weak and gaunt. This was different. This stillness felt... staged. The pallor was too uniform, the lips too perfectly parted. It was a flawless mask of death, expertly applied.

I lingered longer than necessary, my gaze fixed on his hands. They were clasped together, concealing the calluses he always seemed so careful to hide. I needed to see them. With a surge of adrenaline, I reached out, gently taking his hand.

It was cold, as expected. But as I turned his hand over, I saw it. A faint discolouration, a subtle bruising around the wrist. A mark consistent with a needle prick? My heart pounded in my chest. This wasn't a natural death. This was a carefully orchestrated exit.

I released his hand, my mind racing. I had to get out of here. I had to find out the truth.

Turning away from the casket, I bumped into one of the men in dark suits. He was tall, with eyes like chips of flint, and his grip on my arm was surprisingly strong.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" he asked, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth.

"Just paying my respects," I stammered, trying to pull away.

"Of course," he said, his grip tightening. "But perhaps you should allow the others to do the same."

He steered me away from the casket and towards the edge of the tent. I knew then that I was being watched and that my every move was being scrutinised. I had to play it cool.

"Thank you," I mumbled, and I hurried away, pretending to grieve, towards the relative anonymity of the crowd.

As soon as I was out of sight of the dark-suited men, I slipped away from the funeral, my mind already formulating a plan. I needed to get into Alistair’s house.

Alistair lived in a small, unassuming cottage at the end of the lane. I had always admired its overgrown garden, a riot of wildflowers and rambling roses. Now, it felt ominous, a silent witness to the secrets hidden within.

The back door, I knew, was always slightly ajar. Alistair, despite his cautious nature, was strangely trusting. Or perhaps he simply knew he was capable of handling any potential intruders.

I slipped through the back gate, my heart pounding in my ears. The garden was eerily silent, the rain having momentarily subsided. I pushed the back door open and stepped inside.

The cottage was exactly as I remembered it: cluttered, cosy, and filled with the comforting scent of beeswax and old wood. Clock parts lay scattered across his workbench in the corner, intricate gears and springs waiting to be reassembled. His half-finished project, a grand grandfather clock, stood silent in the centre of the room, its face blank and unseeing.

I ignored the familiar details and focused on my task. I needed to find something, anything, that would explain Alistair’s “death.” I started with his study, a small room crammed with books, maps, and strange artefacts.

I searched through his papers, finding old letters in foreign languages, faded photographs of unfamiliar faces, and cryptic notes filled with numbers and symbols. It was like piecing together a fragmented puzzle, each piece adding to the growing sense that Alistair Finch was not who he claimed to be.

As I delved deeper, I found a hidden compartment behind a bookshelf. Inside, I discovered a small, locked metal box. My hands trembled as I tried to open it, but it was securely fastened.

Frustrated, I turned to Alistair’s workspace. Among his tools, I found a small, delicate lockpick. It took me several tense minutes, but finally, with a soft click, the box sprung open.

Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a single object: a passport. But it wasn't Alistair's. The photograph showed a younger man with the same piercing blue eyes and sharp features, but his name was different: Dimitri Volkov.

My blood ran cold. Dimitri Volkov. The name resonated with a chilling familiarity. I had read about him years ago, a notorious assassin, a ghost in the world of international espionage. Was Alistair Finch, the quiet clockmaker, actually a deadly killer hiding in plain sight?

Suddenly, I heard a noise downstairs. A muffled creak, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Someone was in the house.

Panic surged through me. I slammed the box shut, shoved it back into the hidden compartment, and raced towards the back door. But it was too late.

The man in the dark suit stood blocking my path, a gun glinting in his hand.

"Looking for something, sir?" he asked, his voice as cold as ice.

I knew then that I was trapped.

"I just… I wanted to pay my respects," I stammered, my voice trembling.

He chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. "Respects? Or answers?"

He raised the gun, pointing it directly at my chest. I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

But the shot never came.

Instead, I heard a muffled thud, followed by a grunt of pain. I opened my eyes to see Alistair standing behind the man in the dark suit, a heavy wrench in his hand. The man slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Alistair looked at me, his face a mask of grim determination.

"We don't have much time," he said, his voice low and urgent. "They know you know too much."

"But… you're dead," I stammered, still trying to process what was happening.

"Let’s just say my retirement was accelerated," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "And now, it seems, you're involved."

He grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the back door. "Come on. We need to disappear."

As we ran through the rain-soaked garden, I knew my life had irrevocably changed. I had stumbled into a world of secrets and lies, a world where death was a disguise and identities were disposable. And I was running alongside a man who was either a harmless clockmaker or a deadly assassin. perhaps , he was both.

We disappeared into the night, leaving behind the funeral, the cottage, and the life I once knew. Our destination was unknown, our future uncertain. But one thing was clear: the game had just begun. And I was now a player, whether I liked it or not. And Alistair Finch, or Dimitri Volkov, was my only ally, my only hope of survival. The rain continued to fall, washing away thepeople andd ushering in a new, dangerous, and unpredictable future. The funeral had ended, but the real story was just beginning.