The Editor

“Hello Douglas.”

“Hi Julian, how are you? Work going well this morning?”

“What do they want?”

“Yes, well, I spoke to them. They were very… serious.”

“Good. What do they want?”

“They need him to disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Yes, you know, disappear.”

“Douglas, you’re not in the mafia, skip the euphemisms. I need to know, very literally, what they want to happen to the target.”

“They need him dead.”

“Right. Thank you. I can do that. Accuracy is important here Douglas. Making someone “disappear” is a bit vague. Should I send him to the shops? Should I make him turn invisible? I know you’re just trying to sound tough, but I need to know if they want David Copperfield or Paulie Walnuts.”

“It’s just that I’m still not totally alright with this. I was trying to avoid being too blunt.”

“I appreciate that Douglas, but we must be specific. If we’re charging this much money then we have to give the punters what they actually want. I can definitely make him “have a little accident” and if they want, I’m pretty sure I could make him “swim with the fishes”, but if it’s death they want then they’d probably be a bit miffed if I made him stub his toe or sent him away to cross something off his bucket list.”

“That’s whales, isn’t it? Or dolphins.”

“Douglas, please…”

“Ok. Yes, you’re right of course. I understand.”

“Good. Any preferences?”

“They said no unnecessary violence. Just write him off. Gone. No clues.”

“Write him off?”

“Sorry, yes, accuracy. Kill him.”

“No, I quite like that. “Write him off,” sums it up quite nicely. And you told them the price for that?”

“They’re fine with it. Didn’t blink. They paid half then and there.”

“No difficult questions?”

“None. I didn’t tell them anything about our methods, and they didn’t ask.”

“My methods, Douglas. My methods. Send me the details. I’ll get to work. I’ll let you know when I’ve got a draft and you can take a look.”

“Great. Maybe we could do a visit to gather some…”

I hung up the phone and started the research immediately based on the few details that Douglas had already provided. I found some information online in a few minutes and Douglas’ more detailed files pinged into my inbox as I worked. Well done, Douglas, not totally useless. He always added something in the editing process too, some little tweak that always managed to spice things up a little bit, bring it to life. His greatest use however, was providing a bit of distance between me and the clients.

There was enough in the files Douglas had sent to get a feel for the character, recreate a typical day, and then write a plausible death for him. Obviously, the target had gotten himself involved with people who wanted him dead, but his death couldn’t look like it had anything to do with his more nefarious activities. It had to be natural, unspectacular, inconspicuous. Let’s see. No dangerous hobbies, non-smoker, a drinker, but no major substance issues… Excellent! There were preexisting health conditions - bullseye.

On a previous job I had managed to make a target just drop dead, but inconclusive autopsies had left room for suspicion. It was better to give the coroner something to work with. Yes, judging by the information in the files, which included his medical records, this one could have a highly plausible, virtually expected, cardiac arrest. I should get Douglas to do a site visit to the target’s office and send me some photos. A toilet stall would be ideal. Nice and private. Not very dignified, but there are worse ways to go.

In the early days I’d tried my best to perfect “…peacefully in his sleep”, but there just wasn’t enough to go on. I probably need to work on that, but it’s a tricky business. It’s just a bit too subtle. There has to be something in there to give a real sense of the target’s experience, and nobody knows what it’s like to die in your sleep. It would all get a bit too dreamy. The foggy alternate reality of sleep is a tricky place to make sure someone is unambiguously, unarguably, emphatically dead. I just haven’t got the knack for conjuring macabre things in misty, peaceful realms. I bet Haruki Murakami could get someone to go peacefully in their sleep. If he had my particular gift, that is.

Nope, this guy’s going out Elvis style.

“Douglas, it’s me. I need details for the setting. I need you to do a site visit. Actually, it’s a shite visit. You’re welcome. No need to reply to this, just ping me photos. I’ve got images of the office interior and some of his coworkers online. I need detailed shots of the interior of the toilets closest to his department. As much detail as you can get, anything that gives a real feel for the place. What type of toilet paper dispensers do they have? That sort of thing. Visual, aural, olfactory. It’s a public building so don’t worry about getting in, just be cool, low key. Try and remember you’re not in the mafia, capisce? Get them to me asap. Thanks, Douglas. Oh, don’t suppose you know if he likes Elvis, do you? Never mind.”

Right, a little less procrastination, a little more action. Let’s get on with it. He’s a creature of habit. Friday night is curry night, and he works Saturday mornings, appearing diligent but actually using the quiet time in the office to do his off-the-books work. Excellent, not many people around to find him on a Saturday morning. A late night the night before, gastric discomfort to disguise symptoms and a filthy hangover too. Excellent.

… The faint waft of phal on Malcolm’s still lager-sweet breath was more than he could take. He closed his eyes and felt his parched tongue lurch involuntarily against the inside of his mint blasted mouth. His well-scrubbed teeth emphasised the pungency of the rich brew that boiled inside him. He sweated a tincture of spiced ghee…

Good. Disgusting. I’m doing the poor bugger a favour.

Wait, is he a lager man?

…Malcolm’s still booze-sweet breath…

Let’s keep it tight. We don’t want any repeat of the zombie incident. To be fair, Douglas said there was a bit of ambiguity around whether or not that one was properly dead by the end of that piece. I should have used all of the changes he suggested. We didn’t finish him off properly, so he just continued living his life the way we left him, after the accident. I thought that it would be sufficient to write that he fell down the stairs and dashed his brains out on the floor. Apparently not. Still, all’s well that ends well. The clients were satisfied that he’d been sufficiently “dealt with”, and I hear that he’s got a successful career in politics now. Everyone’s a winner. Nevertheless, better make sure there’s less room for interpretation this time.

…Malcolm felt his heart pounding insistently in his chest. He loosened his tie with shaking fingers. He looked away from the glare of his monitor and wiped sweat from his pulsing temples. He rose unsteadily from his desk and walked stiffly to the toilets…

I looked at my phone and saw a message from Douglas. The clients want to come and see me. Absolutely not. What’s the point in having Douglas if I have direct contact with them? That’s the deal, he does the front-end stuff, but doesn’t handle the actual “disappearances”, while I do the real work, but don’t have to deal with the clients.

No way. Out of the question. Send.

The phone rang immediately.

“No way. Not happening.”

“Hello Julian. I thought you might say that. They’re paying an awful lot of money. They just want to know who they’re dealing with. You don’t have to tell them anything about your method. For all they know I’m ripping them off, which I have assured them I’m not, obviously.”

“They’ll know we’re for real when the target dies.”

“I told them that. They don’t pay the balance until then anyway, but I thought it might be good for us. We could get repeat business from them.”

“Repeat business would be good”

“And don’t forget, they get to meet you, but you get to check them out too. It works both ways.”

“Yes. Do we want repeat business with these particular clients?”

“Oh yes. They’ve got pedigree, a long history of making inconvenient people disappear. We’d virtually be government contractors. And, how about this, you could write the meeting into the piece.”

“Government? So, I’d have a sort of, licence to kill? Wait, write the meeting into the piece? That is an interesting idea.”

“Yes, write the meeting so you can control exactly how it goes. Give it a nice safe satisfactory ending. Keep it simple, no surprises. They see you, everything’s fine, they leave you to get on with it. You do the job, we get paid.”

“I could do that.”

“Of course you could, you’re brilliant.”

“Ok Douglas. I’ll meet them. Give them the address for the office. I’ll write a nice safe meeting into the draft. Please get me those photos of the scene asap.”

“I’ll send them now.”

“Good. Bye Douglas.”

“We should talk about…”

I ended the call.

If I can meet them, and make sure it’s nice and safe, then why do I need Douglas? I’m the one with the gift. I do all the real work. Why split the fee with him? His little edits are nice, but hardly critical. On the first job I rejected his suggestions and it didn’t work out too well, but that was a long time ago. I’ve improved since then.

I opened my emails, looked through the photos that Douglas had sent, and got back to work.

…The tang of well-watered urinal cakes drove Malcolm banging through the melamine door and into the toilet cubicle. His heart rattled into a higher gear as he momentarily contemplated which end of his alimentary canal was closest to catastrophe. He slumped to the seat and saw his own bloodshot frown reflected in the chromed toilet roll holder…

Maybe Douglas could pay the price of being the face of the operation. He could get caught. The police could receive a report of a strange, irritating, mainly useless man, snooping around the bogs the day before a bloke dies in there. There wouldn’t be much to link him to the death, of course. Unless I made sure there was. Or alternatively, he could just, go. Disappear. Nothing unpleasant, nothing painful, just go.

…Malcolm felt at once hot and cold. His sweat soaked shirt caught the coolness of the air and chilled his skin. His cheeks shuddered with a rising pressure. He screwed his eyes shut as pain vibrated down his arms. No matter how he chewed at the rank air of the cubicle, his fat blue lips couldn’t catch a breath. His head spun in a moment of puzzled euphoria, his thundering heart clattered to a halt at peak tension and froze, inert. He slouched back against the cistern. Malcolm was dead.

No ambiguity there. Malcolm was dead. Right, the deed is done. On to the meeting between the clients and yours truly.

…They went to the address that Douglas had given them at the meeting. The meeting went well. They were impressed by his cool professionalism. He did not disclose the method used to carry

out the job but he was confident that they’d understand who was really calling the shots, they’d know Julian’s killed…

I should keep it simple really. It’s tempting to jazz it up a bit though. I could write myself all steely and masculine, possibly drinking a martini. Why not? No, better play it safe. Anyway, nothing wrong with being a bit taciturn and pragmatic. I’m the man of mystery with the licence to kill.

Ok, I’m leaving it there. The gift is the gift. No point overworking it.

I saved the draft and emailed it to Douglas.

Douglas,

Please find attached my draft. This should do the trick, it’s rather good. Don’t bother replying, I’m going to bed.

J.

I had just thrown the keys to my Aston Martin on the casino table when I was awoken by someone knocking on the door. Was anyone there? Or was that the sound of an Aston keyring rattling against a fine baise tabletop in Royale-les-Eaux? There it was again. I was definitely awake and there was definitely someone knocking on my door. Who was bothering me at this hour?

I fumbled for my phone to check what time it actually was. A message from Douglas. Ah, what have you got to say for yourself Mish Moneypenny?

“Julian, this certainly will do the trick. I didn’t change a word. I’ve just tweaked the punctuation…”

Smartarse. We’ll see about that. Who the hell is knocking at the door? Take the hint. I’m not in.

“…I organised your meeting for this morning. They’ll be there soon. Bye, Julian.”

Oh Douglas, you absolute arse. How am I supposed to get to the office this morning? It’s already half ten.

“ALRIGHT, I’M COMING!” I’m surrounded by… Douglas, which address did you give them? Douglas, you absolute…

…They went to the address that Douglas had given them at the meeting. The meeting went well. They were impressed by his cool professionalism. He did not disclose the method used to carry out the job, but he was confident that they’d understand who was really calling the shots, they’d know.

Julian’s killed.