Some Memories Live in Shadows

— Present Day —

“I’m sorry”

I say the words aloud, facing the place where I’ve just seen a flash of a reflection atop the Bode Museum.

I’m sure that glint of light is you. The scope of a rifle?

I feel you staring at me. I wish I could say more. There are so many things I would like to say. But this is far from a moment of redemption, and you can’t hear me.

I wish I could tell you how strange it is to be the villain in someone else’s story.

I turn and stride away. Towards the safety of the U-bahn. My path tracing the river Spree offers you a clear view of me, and the experience is uncomfortable. So be it.

Does your eye track me through the rifle's scope? My back itches with certainty that you do.

On the river, a boat explodes.

— Paris: Ten Years Ago —

You nearly had me in Paris.

Had you found me that day, what would I have done? 

I won’t lie, pretending I was consumed by guilt after Budapest. I won’t pretend that I was okay either. That was the emotional knot I was trying to unravel, trying to find myself in the threads, hoping to find a version of me that was doing more than reacting to the way we’d ended.

To the way I’d ended us.

It’s just such weighty problems that Cafe Con Miel is for.

I drink them because as the sweet of the vanilla and honey mixes on my tongue with the coffee and slight spicy hit of the cinnamon, I find calm amongst the complexity of flavour. It helps me to think calmly when my world is chaos. I lose myself in the drink and by the end, everything has a way of becoming clear.

You drink them because of me.

You drink them to feel. I can understand that. It can be difficult at times to remember to feel.

And that day I was drinking the Cafe Con Miel because of you. Because I never intended any of this, between us.  Never intended to sleep with you. Certainly never intended to grow attached to you.

Never even intended to hurt you. Though how could I do anything else?

I had always sought to be the hero of the tale. If some of the things I had to do were questionable, I did them for the right reasons. That was my bargain with my younger, more idealistic self who had started on this road.

But I didn’t have to hurt you. That wasn’t heroic.

I never got the chance to untangle that knot in that cafe. I received a message. You were in Paris and coming my way.

Maybe I should have stayed. Resolved things then.

I bolted the end of my drink and fled. I was not ready.

— Present Day —

Sirens. Debris. Chaos.

The targets from the boat are gone, consumed in a ball of flame.

The fear of the crowd is contagious. I want to run, remove myself from any possible line of sight for your rifle.

I remind myself, this is the plan.

Now I am ready to resolve things with you.

I know you’ve become ruthless.

Are you as ruthless as me?

— Prague: Twelve Years Ago —

“I know you’re in here.”

Crouched in the midnight darkness of a closed mechanic’s garage, the smell of oil and grease fills my nose and the metallic taste of adrenaline and fear is in my mouth.

“Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Footsteps descended wooden stairs from the raised admin office overlooking the garage. Overlooking everything except the alcove directly underneath, the mechanics break area and locker space.

The area where I now cowered.

Two of my friends' bodies lay on those stairs. A third between the car hoists in the middle of the garage. 

“There really is nowhere to hide in here. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Peter’s voice was disconcerting. It didn’t match the man. Large, big boned, over six feet. You didn’t expect a high, nasal voice. 

When I met him the day before at the bus depot, it had seemed weak. Now it made him extra terrifying.

I wasn’t yet a killer when I first met Peter, didn’t recognise his danger.

“You won’t escape, the building is surrounded.”

Lies. That voice made disbelief reflexive. If he really had the manpower, surely they’d have rushed us?

But could I be sure? I hadn’t believed his warning yesterday, telling me that what I was planning to do was dangerous. Warning me to walk away. We dismissed the squeaky voiced loser. What did he know? My friends and I were heroes, saving regular folk from corrupt corporations and venture capital!

The four of us hadn’t understood that the Garage was always a trap. 

Which was how I’d found myself our group’s sole survivor cowering in the corner of the garage. 

“You can survive this, you know. Just come out.”

More lies. I couldn’t see Toby and Mick on the stairs, but I could see Marsha’s body. Shot in the back, facedown in her pooling blood. There was no mercy here.

All to protect some documents. Documents that proved this garage was being blackmailed. To be sold to a venture capital group gobbling up garages all over the Czech Republic.

They kill for that.

I only survived that night thanks to luck. Whichever mechanic left their cigarettes and lighter behind that day saved my life. 

An oily rag and a flame. 

But the girl who escaped that burning building was not the same one who entered.

— Madrid: Ten Years Ago —

“I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong, I’m really not trying to hit on you. I’ve heard you’re a talented photographer, my firm is interested in your work!”

I didn’t believe you. Fumbling your lines in the foyer of the Fiera de Madrid on the opening day of their conference on Human Resourcing in the 21st Century. 

I knew who you were. Or at least I thought I knew who you were.

You worked for Peter.

That first conversation, if I’m honest, I wasn’t even seeing you. I was wondering what game Peter was playing, sending you to me. I was wondering how to beat him.

“Oh, what a shame.”

When I saw you later at the networking drinks, I was genuinely surprised.

— Prague: Twelve Years Ago —

How was it for you, the first time you killed someone?

How did you feel when you realised that you’re good at it? What little girl or boy grows up dreaming of being an assassin? 

My first time was just days after the garage, full of grief and anger and shock. In a shopping mall bathroom of all places.

I thought I’d found Peter. A large man stalking a young woman. I tailed him till he tracked her into the ladies room. It wasn’t Peter, but I have no regrets about what happened to that man.

It was both brutal and perversely intimate. I remember the sound of our breathing as we wrestled, and the smell of his spearmint chewing gum.

It was terrifying. I remember thinking he had me. He was bigger, stronger, and as he rolled on top of me, we shared a moment, looking into each other's eyes, of understanding. It was about to end.

My knife sliding into his belly.

The look of shock on his face.

The grateful sobs of the man’s intended victim.

Feeling like a hero and sick, at the same time. It can be a trap, a thrill. I have never killed anyone for the thrill. 

I don’t know that man’s name. I can’t stand spearmint.

How do you justify yourself?

— Madrid: Ten Years Ago —

I was surprised to see you at the drinks. 

I’d returned to the conference after taking an excursion to kill a target, a hacker. I knew you’d been to see her earlier. I hadn’t expected you to return to the conference.

“I hoped I might see you again!”

It’s funny. When I think of you, you’re locked in my mind as that naive, sweet young man. When I think of myself, I chastise myself for not having all the experience I’ve accumulated since.

“Did you really? Well, you found me.”

That night, the party atmosphere of opening night at a conference mixed with my adrenaline had me feeling invincible. 

“What have you thought of the first day of the conference?”

I shouldn’t have continued the conversation. But why not? In a room of young, exuberant extroverts kicking off their conference what couldn’t I do? 

“It’s been fine. This evening looks promising!”

You were excited about networking drinks. Or about talking to me. You were very sweet!

Never make important decisions when you’re emotional. 

“Do you think so? My first time in Madrid and here we are stuck in a convention Centre. It feels like a waste!”

Never make them when you’re riding too high, or too low. Never make them when you’re drunk or incapacitated. Never, ever make important decisions in the aftermath of killing. A pearl of wisdom that you taught me.

“It is a beautiful City!”

Experience now tells me just attending under the influence of the adrenaline I was feeling after killing your hacker was a risk. 

“And we’re not seeing any of it!”

Someone put a drink in my hand.

Mixing with alcohol was reckless.

Mixing with you was foolhardy.

“Have you got anywhere in mind?”

But you hadn’t taught me that yet.

“I keep hearing about that Plaza Mayor you mentioned earlier. As much fun as it might be to get plastered here, I really don’t want to miss out on Madrid entirely. Would you show it to me?”

I felt powerful. And curious. I just had to know, were you really innocent? If you were a trap I could handle it. If you weren’t, then what could the harm be?

— Interlude: Present Day —

I suspect the Police will declare it a terrorist attack. 

It wasn’t.

The fear this will generate is genuinely regrettable. But this was done for the people. The boat’s passengers were leeches on society. We’re better off without them

You see the calculus of life that I have become capable of?

I maintain composure as I continue along the riverside path. It would feel better to use the cover of the panic of the crowds to accelerate, to run. 

But if you are looking at my back through the scope of a rifle, as you should be, running won’t save me.

— Budapest: Ten Years Ago —

I know it would seem hollow to you, but what happened in Budapest was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I could have been worse.

You see, I had intended to kill you in Budapest.

I had made a mistake in Madrid. I should never have slept with you.

You were a loose end. So I left the pamphlet for you at the second conference stop, lured you to that beautiful little cafe by the Danube.

And once I’d taken out your journalist friend, I came for you.

I don’t know how long I watched from afar. I remember you smiled a lot. A child in the street. A young couple. A bird stealing a french fry. Nothing at all. You smiled at everything. The innocence of you. Just letting the summer’s day unfold around you. 

Waiting for your date. 

Waiting for me.

Full of freedom and possibility. I don’t know if I was ever that carefree. I like to imagine I could have been. Before Prague. Before the man in the mall. 

When I think back, I want to picture you drinking a Cafe Con Miel, even though I know you only start doing that later. It feels like you should have been drinking one. A stick of cinnamon garnishing the cup, the fragrant sweetness complementing the sunny afternoon.

That drink is the one good thing that I gave you.

I found myself sitting at the cafe table with you. 

“Sorry I’m so late, I got called away from the conference on business.”

That wasn’t the plan.

“That’s okay, it’s great to see you again!”

I remember thinking that I would just let you break this illusion of innocence. So I didn’t have to be a villain. I really didn’t want to be a villain. 

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long!”

Then I was eating with you.

“It’s fine. If you’d been here, I would have been so busy looking at you I wouldn’t have seen the crow steal the little boy’s french fry. He scolded it so severely that it dropped it, and then his mother had to stop him from picking it up and eating it!”

Then I was laughing with you.

And then we were in my hotel room, talking about photographs, the pictures I’d carelessly left on the nightstand.

I think I thought I could save you.

—

The next morning, as I lurked in the back corner of that cafe, between Peter and the only exit, I had hoped so hard that it wasn’t you he waited for. 

What would you think if you turned up to lunch and saw one of the images from the night before made real? Would you sound the alarm, underlining what a fool I’d been?

You didn’t of course. I don’t even know if you recognised it.

From where I sat, I could hear Peter’s high, nasal voice.

“So Cassanova has a girl in every port!”

I saw you shake your head.

“It’s the same girl. The photographer.”

I saw his eyes go wide. You may not have known who I was, but Peter certainly did.

What he didn’t know was that he was my main target in Budapest.

So you see, I had to call you, lure you outside.

“Wait up Peter, I have to take this!”

A quick stab of a syringe of poison into Peter’s neck, and out the back fast.

The alternative was the second syringe.  Maybe I should have finished you then. 

If you take your revenge today, I hope it feels better than mine did. I deserved a moment. Peter’s victims deserved a moment. 

For yours, say their names in your head. Whoever the hacker in Madrid was. Whoever the man in Budapest was. Say their names. Heck, even Peter if he meant enough to you. 

Remember them.

— Present Day —

I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. 

My friends don’t understand why I allow myself to be bait in our trap for you. They only know you by what you’ve become. 

They only know me by what I’ve become.

We have to draw you out. You cannot continue to thwart us.

How deeply are our younger selves buried? Are they still inside us? Is there hope for us?

They say you are too ruthless, will not let me take this walk unscathed.

I’m counting on it.

— Prague - seven years ago —

“Dammit, the filing cabinet is empty!”

It took me a long time to realise I couldn’t save you.

“What do you mean empty?”

I should have recognised the pattern. 

“I mean there are no files in here at all, let alone the one we’re looking for!”

Documents proving a Venture Capital firm was blackmailing small companies. Buying up Czech family pharmacies below market value to leverage, consolidate and sell. Making a fortune by destroying the lives and businesses of people who just wanted to make a living.

“Are we sure we’re in the right office? It’s not one of the others?”

Peter taught you well. Your version was better. A trap for the professional I’d become, not the idealistic kid I’d been.

“Definitely the right office. Look at the picture on the desk, that’s our guy and his family.”

He taught me too. Always have an escape plan before you go in.

“Shit! It’s a trap! Quick, everybody out! Not the front door either, rooftops!”

You have gotten very good. Ruthless. Efficient.

“Sniper! Abby’s down!”

Always have two backups.

“Everyone out the basement! There’s an emergency tunnel which leads next door!”

When it was all done, when we were clear, I locked myself in a room and cried. 

For my part in what you’d become. I hadn’t been able to save you. I hadn’t been able to save myself. I hadn’t been able to save Abby, or Toby, or Mick, Or Marsha. Or any of the ones in between. 

Because of the lives I could have saved if I’d been ruthless enough to kill the poor, sweet boy you used to be.

Because I am the villain in our story, and it’s not enough.

I owe you for Abby.

— Present Day —

I can see the entrance to the U-bahn. The stairs which I will descend and be out of view from your nest.

I did not expect to make it this far. 

Does this mean I am wrong, and you are not there? If they could get to you, either kill or capture you, I would have been notified. You’re either not there, or out of reach.

I didn’t think you’d be able to resist this bait. Unless you have forgiven me? I cannot even imagine it.

I reach the top of the stairs.

A gunshot rings out.

I flinch.

I am alive.

I’m sorry.