The Retired Assassin

“I should have known better.” The man’s voice was muffled behind his face covering. He struggled out of his chair, creaking his elbows whilst his knees cracked.

Another fellow behind an enormous cherry wood desk leaned forward, pressing his fingers to his temples, and gave them a circular rub. “You’re telling me he got away?”

“It’s not that he got away. More like I chose the wrong method, sir.” He was barely audible through the thick woven fabric over his mouth.

“Do you have to wear that now?” The desk man slammed his fist on the hard surface, his quills jumped and the inkwell flooded an escape route over the edge of his furniture.

“Well I can’t take it off. Wouldn’t be very professional of me, would it?”

“Mr Squee. I hired you. The least you could do is take off that silly mask.”

“You might think it silly, sir. But I might get chucked out of the organisation if they found out I was unmasked in public.”

The man behind the desk spun in his chair and stood, pushing it back against the shelving behind him. Books coughed dust from years of neglect, which spluttered delicately in the shaft of light sneaking through a crack in the torn blinds. His long black cape rippled behind him, gliding towards the door. The golden knob turned, bullying the door into creaking inwards.

“Mrs Tengle. Clean up the mess in here.”

An elderly woman’s voice echoed in the distance, “right away, Mr Tegrat.”

Mr Tegrat made his way to the side of his desk, and perched on the corner. His old, twisted frame was a fragile ornament balanced on the large wooden block. “Tell me what happened, Squee.”

“You see sir, when you said to take him out, I assumed you meant to a picture show or something.”

“Why on earth would I hire an assassin to take a man I want dead to animated pictures?”

“I thought that, too. But times are changing.”

“Did you at least try to kill him?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an assassin!”

“Retired assassin. I haven’t worked a job in over 20 years.”

“If you’re retired, why are you still wearing the outfit?”

“Respect!”

“Respect?”

“Well people are a lot more willing to do things for you when they think you’re an active assassin.”

The door squealed open, revealing a small woman with tight bound dark hair. She hobbled as she walked, pushing a cart with bowls of liquid and folded torn cloths. “Hello Nigel,” she nodded to the man in the mask. “Bertra,” his head tipped, sitting back in the chair.

Bertra pulled out a piece of heavy dark material and mopped the creeping spillage of ink, now snaking its way into the cracks between the floorboards below the desk.

“So what do we do now, Squee?”

“Buy a new house for my grandchild, perhaps.”

“Buy… what are you talking about? I haven’t paid you.”

“Oh, I don’t need your money, Mr Tegrat.”

“Then why in the name of buggery did you take the job?” The frustrated man almost jumped up, if it weren’t for the fact he was close to a hundred years old.

“Well, I hadn’t seen Barnabus in years, and I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“But you said you’d used the wrong method.”

“Right!”

“Right?”

“Yes. In retrospect, perhaps pretending I was going to kill him wasn’t the kindest way to reignight a friendship.”

“But… I was going to pay you a lot of gold for this.”

The woman coughed behind Mr Tegrat. “Sorry, sir, but should I be listening to this?”

“Don’t worry Bertra, you’ve heard worse.”

“Like the time you kidnapped the chancellor?”

“Yes… well… Mr Squee doesn’t need to hear everything we’ve been up to, though.”

“Right. Sorry sir.” The old lady scrubbed the desk of its unwanted inky stain.

“Take the mask off, Nigel.”

“Sorry. Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m working.”

“You’re retired!”

“You hired me.”

“That was before I knew you were retired.”

“I’m ninety-six years old. What did you expect?”

“I expected you to perform your duties when hired.”

“But I did.”

Mr Tegrat pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled the frustration building up inside him. “How did you finish the job if the target is still alive?”

“He won’t be for long!”

The older man moved his hand from his face. The years of stress rippled through his wrinkled face. He ran his long skinny fingers through his straggly white hair, flattening it with the palm of his hand.

“All clean,” Mrs Tengle popped up from behind the desk, “would you like tea, sir?”

“Scotch, Bertra. A strong one.”

The masked man narrowed his eyes. His white eyelashes were long and beautiful.

“Would you also like a scotch, Nigel?”

“He’s working,” Tegrat scolded her.

“Retired,” Squee reminded him.

“Take off the bloody mask then.”

“Can’t. Working.”

“Then you can’t have a drink.”

The woman hobbled back out of the room, dragging the cart which rattled a happy tune as it left the room.

“So if you didn’t kill him yet, when will he be gone?”

“I’m not killing Barn. He’s an old friend.”

“You said he won’t be alive long.”

“What time is it?” Nigel Squee stepped out of his chair and walked, hunched with his elderly frame towards a white bust of Mr Tegrat in the back corner of the room.

Mr Tegrat pulled a golden pocket watch from beneath his cloak, and flicked open the cover. “It’s ten twenty six.”

“Give it fifteen minutes.”

“How can you be sure? I thought he was a friend you didn’t want to assassinate?”

“He is! I love Barn.”

“The what are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr Squee. Remove the mask and tell me what’s going on.”

“Scotch?” Bertra appeared at the door. Mr Tegrat clutched his chest and shrieked a little. The man in the mask patted the marble bust on the head.

“Quickly.” Mr Tegrat’s hand shook, reaching towards the glass in her grasp. The shallow amber liquid, sloshing in the clinking ice.

Mr Tegrat downed the nectar and slammed the receptacle on the desk. He wiped a dribble of alcohol from his pointed chin and coughed gently. Nigel walked towards the chair in the middle of the room, his footsteps vanished as he stepped upon the ornate rug beneath the seat. Mrs Tengle smiled at the assassin and closed the door behind her as she left. It clicked with a heavy metallic thud.

“Nigel…”

Mr Squee elegantly perched on the edge of the seat. “Yes, Mr Tegrat?”

“Why should… you have known better?” The older man struggled to catch his breath.

“Well, retiring so early. This has been fun.”

“You… but… I hired you.”

“Nah. Barn hired me first. And I had to help out a friend. Came out of retirement and everything.”

“I should’ve… known better…” Mr Tegrat inhaled a strained breath, croaking as the air reached inside him, pulling out the death waiting inside. His face plonked on the desk, his chest growled and gurgled as the life faded from him.

The door clicked open once more. Mrs Tengle shuffled inside, holding out an empty vial towards Nigel. “Did I do it right?”

Mr Squee stood out of his chair and took the vial from Bertra. “Fantastic. You did bloody fantastic.”

“Are you going to take the mask off now?”

“Actually. No. I kinda like it. Reminds me of old times.”

The woman looked at her employers limp body slumped over the large desk. “Barn will be pleased.” She rolled her wedding ring with her right finger and thumb.

“Can I take you and your husband to watch a picture show?”

“That sounds delightful. I can clean this up tomorrow.”

The assassin and his friend’s wife chuckled as they left the room. The heavy door clicked closed.