Write To Kill - He's Putting The Dead In Deadline:
Book One In The Series
by David P Perlmutter
MORON
EYEING the blurry headlights in the rear-view mirror, I
caught my eye and glanced at the person staring back.
I didn’t recognise myself.
Or what I imagined I was about to become.
As I drove on the M40, a shade after eleven on a miserable, wet
Saturday evening in November, a number of cars, one straight up my backside,
creating spray from the saturated tarmac, were flashing me to get out of their
way, even though my right foot was pressed hard, flat out on the metal, hitting
seventy. Which is an accomplishment for my ageing car, believe me.
The downpour that had been rhythmically drumming on my
windscreen most of the journey, temporarily making driving treacherous, due to
only one functioning windscreen wiper, had finally stopped lashing it down.
Some moron, probably pissed after a night out a few days ago had completely
ripped off the passenger side wiper when my car was parked close to the
building where I live but luckily, if you can call it that, had left the
driver’s in place, otherwise I'd have been well and truly fucked and unable to
go to my ‘so called’ business meeting tonight.
You may be thinking why on earth am I going to a meeting on a
Saturday night, especially having left a warm bed with an exceptionally
beautiful girl under the duvet, but this was not like any other meeting, I can
assure you of that. There was no office, no board room, or even colleagues. It
was going to be just the two of us, in a dilapidated warehouse, in a deserted
place, in the middle of nowhere, on a day and at a time that suited him.
BLACK T-SHIRT
TAKING a
long final pull of a cigarette until there was no more to smoke, I flicked the
butt through the small gap I’d left open at the top of the window, out into the
chill wet darkness. But as quick as the remaining ash hit the outside world, it
flew back in and over my black T-shirt. Dusting the ash into my top
rather than off it, I shifted from third to fourth gear.
The thought of what I'd agreed to do accelerated in my mind as I
veered from the inside lane, over the other two and exited at
junction two. Taking a narrow lane, a mile down the road, I lit another
cigarette, the last of the pack, and threw the empty packet onto the passenger
side floor, to join the many others that had made their home there.
This was my fifth in the hour since I’d left my flat, with an
attractive brunette asleep in my bed. I really must give up these damn things. No,
not the brunette, I'm not that stupid. Or am I? The fags. I’ve been
saying that for months though, maybe a year, I just can’t kill the habit, even
though I know that one day, they could eventually kill me.
I was nervous. Very nervous. Why? Because in a few minutes, in the
building that I was approaching, in this isolated area in Buckinghamshire, I would
be meeting him.
DARKER SIDE
TURNING off
the country lane in total darkness, with just my headlights as a guide, I took
a right, then a left, which led into an uneven forecourt, full of potholes
and puddles, and pulled up outside the deserted derelict building. How I
managed to find this place from the directions I’d been given was a miracle, especially
with only a half moon for light, and the fact that I don’t have a sat nav as my
car is it’s an antique. It even has a cassette player, that’s how ancient it
is. But it does have electric windows and, my pride and joy, pop-up lights.
Also, being stuck out in the countryside, I had no signal on my phone to get
Google maps or any other map app. It was dark, with not a light in
sight and as I checked the time on my mobile it beeped as I did so, indicating
that I had only eight percent of juice left.
Why didn’t I charge it before I left home?
Arriving ten minutes early, which is a feat for me, as people
have said that I'll be late for my own funeral, hopefully this won’t be it, I lit another cigarette, with the
remains of the cigarette I was smoking. Keeping my headlights on full beam, I
followed the stream of light that captured the deepening evening mist and
hesitantly made my way inside the shell of the warehouse.
As I stepped in, with the luminosity of the moon my only light, I
disturbed a kit of pigeons that were pecking at the soggy floor. They
cocked their heads in my direction, their beady eyes staring at me, then flew
off in different directions to the highest point of the roof, leaving their
white and brown excrement all over the grey coloured concrete.
I trod carefully so as not to step into the mass of bird crap as
I observed the vast vacant, fragmented construction, made of corrugated metal,
with gaps in the roof giving the pigeons the freedom to fly in and out at their
leisure. I checked my phone, now with just seven percent juice left and only
five minutes to our meeting. Five minutes until he arrives. That’s if he’s
punctual. Again, I began to wonder what the hell was I doing? Why was I doing this? Why am I here? I
whispered those questions, out loud, to no one, but me, as I waited patiently
but nervously in this tin hub of a desperate building.
These were the same questions that had been going over and over
in my head since I’d left my flat, after making passionate love to that girl, Lisa,
the petite, grass green-eyed brunette beneath the duvet, over an hour earlier.
That’s why I didn’t charge my phone.
The same girl who I'd been seeing for the past few months, which
is the longest relationship I’ve been in for three years. All the others
within that time, and there have been quite a few, only lasted the night. Lisa
and I met at a friend of a friend's party in Clerkenwell. She's a nurse, seven
years younger than me, lives in North West London, not far from me, a couple of
miles or so, where she shares a flat with four friends, all colleagues at The
Royal Free in Hampstead. She stays over at mine at the weekends and sometimes
during the week. I assume so she can get away from talking shop twenty-four
seven. We hit it off straight away, it was like fate really, unlike what I'm
about to do, but she knows nothing of what I am getting myself into. She
knows nothing of this darker side of me. Come to think of it, I knew nothing of
this darker side of me. All she knows, is that I’m a struggling first-time author,
and I mean struggling, not with writer’s block, well maybe, but financially.
My bank account was way, way over its overdraft, in fact, it was
on the brink of being frozen. The rent on my flat was four months late, and trust
me, it isn’t cheap. I hadn’t paid a single utility bill for months or my
council tax, and to top it all off, along with the bailiffs on my case, I had menacing
loan sharks circling and banging on my door every other day, wanting to break
my legs, unless I paid them what I owed, with huge interest. You see, my
mountain of debt began when I lost my job as office manager for an estate agency
six months ago, a month after I moved into this flat. They closed the branch without
any warning at all and since then I’ve struggled to find another job. Believe
me, I’ve tried. So, while I’ve been looking, I’ve been trying to fulfil a
lifelong dream, which is to write a book and become a bestselling author. I’ve
written a few short stories before but I’ve always wanted to write a novel.
But I was a long way off becoming a bestselling author and
signing copies at Waterstones. Turns out that writing a bestselling novel is
much harder than you might think. I'd written nothing, maybe a thousand words
of nothing, that’s all, then not another word, not even a letter. I have what author’s
call writer’s block, like I said. I was way behind where I wanted to be with my
first draft. My editor, well, I say my editor. My mate who has lived in London
for a number of years, had some time ago emailed his mum, who lives in New York,
a short story of mine. His mum, a semi-retired editor, who used to edit many books
for a number of top USA Today bestselling authors, was so impressed with my writing
and one of my short stories, that she encouraged me to write that first novel. I
couldn’t turn down this opportunity and thankfully last month, she agreed to be
my editor, on the understanding that firstly, the book will be written within
three months, as she has another project scheduled for the beginning of next
year, no pressure there then, and secondly, I will pay her a fee once
the book is published, and the royalties start to roll in.
Whenever that will be. If it ever happens.
She is very sweet, reminds me of my mum. God bless her.
So, every couple of days my editor sends me an email asking when
the first couple of chapters will be available for editing. Every reply I
return says the same thing. In a few days. But will I ever get this book
finished or even properly started? Of course, it’s my dream like I’ve said, but
with my plummeting financial situation, not only did I need money to pay
thousands to get people off my back, I needed money just to live day to day,
and having none and pretending I had to Lisa, completely threw me from my
writing.
My money worries played on my mind but I still don't know why I’d
agreed to do what I’m about to do. Well I do. The dough. But I couldn’t back
out now, even if I wanted to, and believe me, I did. I’d given my word and he’s
not the kind of man you back down to. No way. Once you’ve given your word, you keep
to your word. Or you’ll face the consequences. And I didn't want to face
mine.
You see, with him, once you’ve shaken hands, you’ve shaken
hands.
Otherwise you won't have a hand to shake.
Get my drift.
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