The Violator

*This story contains strong language*

“And then I said,” I say to my growing audience at the coffee machine, “if you're too tight to give your staff a single coffee bean, no wonder your turnover is so bloody high!”

The whole office slaps their knees and releases a hearty guffaw. I bask in it all.

Simon, the only one not laughing, leans in. “Did you honestly say that to them?” he asks.

The chuckling amongst co-workers dwindles. Someone coughs into their hand.

My eyes snap to him. “Of course I did. Why would I lie about that?”

“Ah.” Simon nods like he's made of wood. Then smiles widely. “Ha! That's great.” He drinks his coffee and there’s a thick silence amongst us. He's about an hour behind everyone else, and he has ruined the vibe I've created.

I’m ready to talk about my America trip some more, but people begin drifting back to their desks. Simon, the one who arguably dulled the mood, slips away too.

My laser-eyes follow him. Since he was hired last year, he's been the bane of my existence. You'd think being the Senior Manager of Sky Safety Limited would give me some legroom to fire someone I detest, but with all the red-tape and the company policies, I need a hell of a good reason to do it. According to Debra in HR wanting to punch a hole in someone's face doesn't warrant a dismissal.

Yes, I did ask.

I've just returned from a trip from the U.S to visit our counterpart with the Directors. It's always a good way to network, and I'm deeply considering transferring over to our friends across the pond. It isn't that my life here in the UK is bad. In fact, I'm living and breathing the 'British' dream. I live in the centre of London in a penthouse, which has three bathrooms, an open-plan kitchen, and a gym. I wake up at 5AM to work out, I shower, eat a healthy breakfast of eggs and spinach, and I’m picked up by my driver at 07:30AM to take me to my office on the twelfth floor of Canary Wharf. Our offices here are clean and homely, pleasantly cold in the summer, and deliciously toasty in the winter. My staff are productive and energetic, and I think the work environment is friendly, especially when I'm around.

But that ignorant twat in cubicle 4. grates me.

I can't fire him because, technically, he's a hard worker. He gets his work done with little fuss, he's punctual, polite to others, and oftentimes he's the last to leave. There really is no good reason to fire him.

I watch him now from the coffee machine. I can only see the back of his head, but I know what his twatty face looks like. He’s probably digging through spreadsheets or scrolling through emails. Look at him, bobbing about like the obnoxious fool he is. He has this unwelcomingly stiff demeanour; the way he walks and talks, it's like he's several steps behind everyone else and made of chipboard. When he talks to co-workers, he must examine every word they say, remarking on every switchback like some fucking sports commenter.

I can't fire him, but I do the least respectable thing I can.

I make his life a living hell.

I call him into my office and then send him away immediately when I'm on a "fake" phone call; I berate him for eating at his desk; I do my best to catch him using the internet for personal reasons, and when I do, I rain hellfire over him; I email him daily, informing him there's been a complaint lodged against him but that I'm going to take "no further action against it"; I tell him to organise his desk better; and I snap at him when he makes eyes at the women, even when he doesn't.

I do all this, and yes, I'm not proud of it, but as the Senior Manager I need to keep the work environment healthy. He is a cockroach infecting everyone with his uncanny-valley vibe. He's off-putting, and he doesn't understand banter.

I tear myself away from the coffee machine and retreat to my office. At my desk, I’m still bristling with fury at Simon’s invasiveness. I email him:

Try to avoid eating crisps at your desk. It creates a mess.

He hasn't eaten any crisps, but he doesn't know that I know that.

When I return to my penthouse that day, I feast on a healthy meal of roasted chicken and parsnips. I gulp down a large glass of scotch and find myself imagining life in America. Oh, how splendid life is now, and how much more splendid it will be when I transfer. That joke I told the office earlier certainly tickled them all.

Too bad the vibe was ruined by Simon. Damn that idiot! If he doesn't do anything wrong, how can I possibly fire him?

And then it comes to me. I could kill him. The abrupt idea makes me laugh and I almost choke on a parsnip. I could kill him, but that's not my style. I could go full American Psycho on the man, but I wouldn't want to bring him to my apartment. His twat-blood would get everywhere. Besides, I can't take my chances. It'll look bad on me and the company if I’m ever discovered. No, I can’t kill him. But I've got money. I can pay someone else to do it.

Yes. That's right. I’ll pay someone else to do it.

I slip into bed that night with my laptop. I dig and dig through the internet, probing the darkest parts of the web to find the perfect hitman. And then I find it, a website called Violators. I scroll over their page. For the right price, they can conduct break-ins, surprise public visits, red-rooms, and much more. I private message one “Violator”, who promises to leave “no trace of soul” behind. I like that. “No trace of soul”. It sounds so finite. Clinical. He's my man.

I private message him and give him Simon's details. I tell him to “keep the job low-profile”, and when the hitman asks for any special additions, I message, “Make him beg.”

The Violator promises to get the job done within a week. The price is £50,000, but I pay half now then half when the job's done. Honestly, I don't know if this is cheap or not. But throwing money at it to end Simon seems like a plausible action for me.

For the next three days, I'm subjected to Simon's annoying face. I know, I don't help myself by tormenting him the way I do. But when that twat is sitting there day in, day out, almost like he knows it pisses me off, I somehow feel justified in what I do. There's a thread of anxiety and excitement running through me. Every time we lock eyes, I smile. My very own inside joke. I want to tell him he's going to be dead by the end of the week, just to see his miserable reaction. I want to laugh at it. But I lay low. I don't email him or summon him to my office. Once the Violator does the job, I don't want the police to come probing my business.

In my office where I keep the blinds shut, I try a little role-play. A police officer has just walked in and informed me of Simon’s death.

“Simon's dead?” I cry. But my voice sounds too pleasant. I try again. “Simon is dead?” I shake my head. I need to try a new angle. “How can Simon be dead?” No. No questions. An ordinary person wouldn’t say that. Just pure disbelief is all I need. “I can't believe it. Simon's dead.”

Yes. That's much better.

By Friday, I arrive at work giddy with excitement. I spot Simon’s cubicle.

It’s empty.

I try not to show much emotion, but once I'm hidden in my office, I burst out laughing, almost crumbling in tears. It's like my heart has been split open and is spilling out...I don't know rainbows! I slap my face. I jump. I flap my arms like a fool. I'm like a little girl who's just received a puppy! My God, how elated I am. I'm free. Free from that stupid face! How much better is life going to be. I'm going to America and I'll be breathing in clean air. My planet is no longer contaminated with...with Simon. He is gone. Moved onto the next place.

I pick up my phone and check the Violator chatroom. My hitman has sent me an aubergine emoji. Our code for "job done". I weep with relief.

I switch to my emails on my laptop, as I always do. I have one from Simon. All his emails go straight to my junk folder. It was his reply about the crisps. He wrote:

I appreciate you thinking of the mess on the desks. People shouldn't be eating something that might get trapped between the keys on the keyboard, so I think it's great you letting me know about the issues. I shall let everyone in the office know about the crisp situation ha ha!

Also, I know it might not be professional, but is it possible we could grab a drink after work sometime next week? I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I've been noticing your spotlight's been on me recently and perhaps we could explore that :) Shall we say Friday next week? Drinks and dinner? My treat ;)

I tremble. Explore? He was asking me out. God, I sure did dodge a bullet there. Has my behaviour been misleading to him? Does he think I'm in love with him? My chest twists. I despise the flickering delight in my head, and I delete the email immediately. He's dead now, so it doesn't matter how I feel about the situation.

I don't emerge from my office until midday. I head towards the coffee machine, which sits right near Simon's desk. I can bask in his absence. Embrace the emptiness of his cubicle knowing that he is gone forever.

As I fill up my mug, I glance over at the desk. Someone is sitting there. My smile fades. No. That's not right. Who's sitting at Simon's desk? Curious and anxious, I head over to it. It isn’t Simon. It can’t be Simon. He’s dead. I killed him. The Violator killed him.

I stand outside the partition and stare in disdain at Simon sitting at his desk. He looks dishevelled and tired.

“What happened?” I demand without thinking. The Violator must have failed. But he sent me an aubergine emoji! That confirmed the kill. What the hell is going on?

Simon looks at me with foggy eyes. “Sorry I was late. I had a crazy night last night.”

I almost faint. “What do you mean?”

His mouth twinkles into a delirious smile. “You sent me a kiss-a-gram, didn't you? Gosh, I didn't know they could do all that! He gave me the best sex of my life. He kept me begging, I must say. You really know how to send a message, don't you?” Simon spins back on his chair and goes on tapping at his keyboard.

I stumble back to the coffee machine. I spent £25,000 on a gay sex worker. I still owe that same sex worker £25,000 for completing his services. I fumble for my phone and scroll through the Violator website. I click on the 'about' page and skim over it. My stomach clenches. Yes, they provide sexual services to partners. They’ve framed the website in such a way, it appears like some sort of hitman services.

I fill up my mug with coffee, numb. A couple of the office guys flock over to me, chuckling already.

“Hey, boss, tell us more about your trip to the States,” one of them says. “What was the food like?”

I flash a withered smile at them, but my eyes are blank. “It was good.”

Silence falls.

The men glance at each other. We all sip at our coffees quietly; all the while Simon wiggles his fingers at me.