Mr Fixer

‘One black coffee for you, sir,’ he says, placing the cup in front of me.

I look up to see a man with a wave of silver hair swept back from a weathered face. I would guess he’s around seventy-five. ‘Thank you,’ I say with a nod.

He starts to wipe down the plastic tablecloth on the table next to me, lifting the salt shaker and sauce bottles as he goes. This place reminds me of my childhood. My mother would bring me somewhere like this as a treat on the way back from visiting aunts and uncles on a Saturday afternoon. It’s a little oasis in this drab part of North London. 

A handful of tables are arranged around a counter halfway down the one side. The single door at the entrance is set back from what was probably once a thriving high street but which now has an air of desperation. Right at the back there is another door which, from the occasional waft of grease that hits me, I assume must lead to a kitchen.

I’m not normally a talkative guy, but this place has put me in a reflective mood so I turn to the guy that brought my coffee and ask, ‘So do you own this place?’

He stops wiping and looks across at me. ‘I do. I’ve owned it for twelve years now.’

‘Is business good?’

He laughs and flops down on a chair, resting the cloth on his knee. ‘No, business hasn’t been good for about, let’s see, about twelve years.’ He laughs again. ‘But it pays the bills. Just about.’

‘You must enjoy it then?’

‘Sure. I’m my own boss and I get to meet new people each day. Like yourself. I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.’

‘No, I’m just passing through.’ I take a sip of my coffee and it’s good. Strong and bitter. I don’t go in for all these frothy concoctions with flavoured syrups. Give me a good solid filter coffee any day.

‘Here for work?’

‘Yes. I have a quick job to do and then I’m heading off.’

‘What line of work are you in?’

There’s a trace of an accent in his voice. He’d almost pass for being British, but not quite. There’s some Eastern European in there. ‘Well, it’s difficult to describe,’ I say. ‘I’m what you might call a fixer. I solve people’s problems.’

‘How very intriguing. So are you good at solving people’s problems?’

‘I am. If my clients aren’t happy, I don’t get paid.’

He leans forward. ‘And do you enjoy your work? Are you happy, Mr Fixer?’

‘I used to be.’ I gulp back more of the coffee. I’m already beginning to regret starting this conversation but I guess it can’t do any harm. ‘But lately – I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just been doing this job too long. I really should get out of this game. There’s a new breed of kids coming through now and they do things differently. They don’t seem to have the respect for the craft like I’ve always had.’

‘It sounds to me like you’re ready for a change.’ He grabs his cloth, leans on the table and pushes himself up.

‘Well, yes, I probably am. I’m not sure what else I could do though. I’ve done this work since I was sixteen. Maybe I should just open up a little café.’ I glance around. The only other customers are an elderly couple over by the window. They’re sitting in a comfortable silence as people who have spent a lifetime together often do.

‘Ha, you could do a lot worse, my friend. You know, I used to be in a pretty stressful job myself before I got this place. But I made a complete change. It was a pretty dramatic change, in fact. The money’s not so good now but that’s not what’s important. I don’t miss my old life.’

‘What was your old life?’

‘Ah, I used to work for my government. All very hush hush type of stuff. But then was a change at the top and my skills were no longer required. And my knowledge made them uneasy. But change is a good thing. You need to embrace it. So I came here to my little café.’ He lifts up a half-full coffee pot. ‘Top up? On the house.’

I hold out my cup and he slowly pours. The old couple by the window scrape their chairs back and stand up. I watch as they work through their ritual of gathering their belongings and layering on their scarves, coats and gloves. As they open the door, it strikes a small bell which gives a single chime. Before they leave, they glance back at the owner and offer a polite wave.

‘Thank you, please do come again,’ he says, waving back.

He walks over to where they were seated and I watch as he starts to clear their table. He has quite a powerful build for a man of his age. I could imagine him maybe dancing round a boxing ring when he was in his prime. He looks like he’d be able to handle any trouble-makers even now. As he reaches across to pick up a plate, I glimpse a faded blue tattoo on his wrist.

What was this hush hush government work you did, I wonder. And why did you leave it?

He places the crockery on the counter and then walks back to the door and moves the sign to the closed position. As he passes me, he says, ‘Don’t worry, you take your time. Can I get you anything else?’

‘No, I’m good,’ I say as I take a last gulp of coffee. 

I rise from my chair and start towards the counter. As I pass the door, I slide the bolt so I won’t be interrupted. He has his back to me as I approach the counter and he’s busy wiping down a gleaming chrome coffee machine that wouldn’t look out of place in a 1950s diner.

‘You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?’ he says calmly as he moves his cloth over the shining surfaces. ‘I’m the problem you need to solve.’

I don’t answer. Rule number one in this job: don’t build a rapport with your target. You don’t need any hesitation when it comes time to complete the task. I’d already exchanged too many words with this man. I remove my gun from the holster concealed under my jacket.

‘I need you to turn around,’ I say. ‘I’ve never shot a man in the back and I don’t intend to start now.’

‘What you said about wanting a change – did you mean it?’

‘Turn around,’ I repeat.

‘I understand, you know. I was in just your position once. I got out before the job killed me.’ He lifts a lever and a jet of steam escapes from a nozzle which he then wipes down. ‘It’s not too late for you either.’

I’m ready to take the shot but not while he has his back to me. Those new kids wouldn’t understand. They’d have made the shot by now. But my generation of operatives abide by a code of honour, as perverse as that may seem.

I walk round to the side of the counter with legs that feel stiffer than they should. Once this job is over I’ll be heading to the Caribbean for some rest. I scan the objects around him. There’s a knife just out of his reach. He’d have to be crazy to think that would be a good move and I’m sure he knows it.

As the seconds pass, I feel my chest tightening. This isn’t nerves. I haven’t been nervous for decades. Maybe the caffeine hit is catching up with me.

Now I see him in profile. I raise the gun level with his head and as I do so I wince from the effort.

‘I knew what you were soon after you arrived,’ he tells me. ‘I saw you looking around – looking for cameras, scanning for exits. You were assessing where I might run, am I right? I spotted it a mile off. You and I have had the same training, I can see that.’

He turns to face me now. The pain I feel is excruciating and my head is throbbing. It’s becoming too much of an effort just to keep my arm held out.

‘Don’t fight it. It’s a nerve agent. A particularly effective one, as it happens. Colourless and odourless too. It’s something maybe that new breed of kids might use. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so dismissive of them.’

I feel my legs give way and my head hits the cold tiled floor.

‘It’ll be pretty bad for a couple of minutes but then it’ll be over. You’ve been sloppy, Mr Fixer. I’ve seen your kind before. Complacency is the real enemy in your job.’

Through the pinprick of vision I now have left I see him peel the gun from my fingers and I’m powerless to stop him.

‘You should have got out while you had the chance. And you definitely shouldn’t have accepted that top-up from me.’

I’m engulfed in pain and I’m desperately trying to hold on to consciousness but it’s ebbing away from me.

‘Never know when to quit. That’s the problem with your lot.’