HEAVEN SENT.

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           Maurice is dozing on the armchair, his paper spread like a map upon his belly when the phone wakes him. In a daze he rolls onto the floor, swearing profusely, before finally shuffling over and grapping the piercing instrument.

‘Hello, boss,’ he croaks.

‘Maurice, I have a job for you,’ the deep voice says. ‘Someone is going to die and you’re going to make it happen. Oh, and Maurice, this will be your last job.’

‘So I’m being put out to pasture. That I’m to join the ranks of the others.’

‘You know the rules Maurice. Retirement comes to us all,’ replies the voice.

‘Except for you, boss,’ Maurice says with a touch of sarcasm.

‘That’s why I’m the boss, remember that.’

‘What about the job?’

‘ The place is the bus stop next to the cemetery on Claxton road. The time is 1309 local Earth time. Full details including a visual guide will be found in this mornings post. And Maurice?’

‘What boss?’

‘Make sure there’s no cock-ups this time. It will make your passing over a little smoother. Oh, keep a look out for the enemy, this ones important to them.’

Maurice was going to thank the boss for giving him a local job for a chance but there was a click as the connection was broken. Maurice was just a small cog in the grand scheme of things when it involved the boss.

   Rubbing sleep from his eyes he grabs the silver topped cane that eases the pressure on his weary limbs and wonders why his got the job of an assassin for such an ungrateful boss. He doesn’t remember him moaning about that job he did in Dallas in 1963. And surly it wasn’t his fault if that Reagan fellow had learned to duck. Here he was doing two-bit jobs in a backwater town. It was quite sad how things have turned out.

       On the mat he finds an unusual mixture of mail. A final demand for the gas, yet another letter from readers digest, and a plain buff brown envelope containing a picture of a sweet looking lady who’s time is nigh.

       Browsing through the details of his latest hit he bite his nails as he contemplates life on the other side. Is it going to be that bad?

 ‘I’m happy in my little house, with my easy way of living. I enjoy going to the bookies, playing bingo with the other oldies. I even like sitting down the laundrette on a rainy Tuesday afternoon talking to Hilda. Perhaps that’s what I need, a woman in my life,’ he says out loud. ‘Are you listening, boss. I could do with some female companion.’ But he knows he isn’t listening. He has far more important things to do.

     Dragging his feet he makes his way to the bathroom, looking at the figure in the mirror. What he sees is a washed-out, sad excuse of old bones. Throwing cold water over his crinkled face he decides it is time to face the day. Smiling, he asks the reflection. ‘Where did it all go wrong, my friend?’

    Ruffling up his silver hair, he grabs his best coat, trilby hat, and umbrella and without pause leaves the house to face the world.

   It was nice to get out into the fresh air; even through there was a hint of rain in its gentle breeze. For once he was glad of the umbrella swinging by his side. For the entire world he was a gentle old man on an afternoon stroll.

  Glancing at his watch he notes that he has plenty of time to kill. It made a nice chance not to be driving the clogged roads to work. Striding along he begins to whistle, quite out of tune, to an old song he remembers from his youth.

    Reaching the junction to Claxton road he makes his way to over to a deserted bus shelter. From his position he has clear view across the road. In the distance he can even make out the gnarled headstones of the cemetery. From his spot he could see right up the road from where a procession of cars are continually zipping past.

‘Excellent,’ he says, clapping his hands with glee. ‘She’s not arrived. Plenty of time to get focused.’

   He has just got comfortable when he gets a whiff of the unmistakable smell of a perfume, which he was sure, is lavender. Looking around he cannot see anybody.

‘Disgusting isn’t it,’ a voice says ‘I blame the youth of today; no respect.’

Spinning around he finds himself looking up at an old lady who has appeared by magic.

‘Hilda, what are you talking about? Where did you come from?’ he says.

‘The vandalism, the general state of things,’ she says, indicating the shelter upon which they were sitting. Shattered glass lies upon the ground like sparkling diamonds. Graffiti adores the shelter, some of which was quite down right offensive. Litter drifts in the morning breeze.

   Maurice realized that he hasn’t even noticed.

‘Anyway you know where I’ve come from, the old tower estate,’ she says pointing, to a block of grey flats. ‘You’re a bit early for bus into town, if you don’t mind me saying,’

‘I like a bit of fresh air. I like to have peace and quiet while I’m waiting,’

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ she says, before waffling away.

As she is talking Maurice nods while studying her.

     The old girl was harmless, her tea, which tasted more like crude oil was more deadly. With her blue rinse hair, bulky, knitted cardigan, and varicose veins, hidden under blotchy stockings, she was one of the reasons why he could still smile.

‘Why don’t you come back to mine for a brew?’ she asks him, plonking herself down.

‘What, and have the neighbours tongues wagging,’

‘You know I don’t care about them. I love our little chats. Its nice to have someone to share your time with,’ she says putting her hand gently on his knee.

‘I can’t I’m afraid. There’s something that I need to do first.’  Looking at him with a quizzed expression he continues, ‘After today you possibly might not see me again.’

‘Maurice, what are you talking about?’

Putting his fingers to his lips he shushes her, ‘No questions Hilda, its better that way. And always remember that your always been special to me.’ With this he plants a kiss gingerly on her cheek.

With tears slowly flowing down her flushed cheeks she gets up and moves away, before turning back and saying, ‘Oh, Maurice, it doesn’t have to end like this.’

He doesn’t reply, but merely sits there watching the traffic flow back and forth in a never-ending pattern.

‘You don’t know the real me. I’m not the nice man you think, I’ve done bad things, terrible things, crimes that would make you cringe. I’ve got to go away, I wish I could stay, but it wouldn’t work. I don’t deserve you.’

‘I don’t care, Maurice,’ she cries.

‘I’ll send a postcard when I get to where I’m going. But I don’t think it get here somehow. Now, I’d rather be left alone thank you. Goodbye Hilda.’

  Bursting into tears she moves away, not once looking back at the expressionist man sitting alone.

   For a while he is alone with just the sound of morning birdsong. Nobody can see the glistening upon his eyelashes. Then he sees his last job.

She is strolling up the street without a care in the world. For all intents and purposes she is just another pensioner on her way to the shops, complete with wicker basket, and wearing Oxfam best. Her gunmetal hair bobs as she makes her way briskly to the bus stop opposite.

         A couple hundred of yards behind a youth is stalking her, and Maurice knows beyond all doubt that the enemy has finally arrived. Wearing the uniform of the youth – torn jeans, baseball cap, trainers he is definitely one of them. Maurice checks his watch – just past the hour.

 He has a few minutes to go. He must put his plan into action. Bunching up his hands and putting them into his pockets he purposefully makes his way across the road. As he reaches the bus stop he positions himself behind his waiting victim. The youth seems to be loitering, kicking rubbish about, as if he isn’t bothered. He is good, Maurice has to give him that. He could almost be an innocent bystander to the dreadful tragedy that is going to occur. Maurice’s head is thudding, his heart racing as he waits patiently for the C33 to town to arrive. Timing is everything with jobs like these. A push to early and your victim might survive with mere scratches.

            He’d much rather have victim in the sights of a snipers rifle. The tight squeeze of the trigger; clean and simple. But his eyesight is not it used to be, and besides he doesn’t to attract too much attention. Far better to make it look like an accident.

            The throaty roar of the bus snaps him of his revive. It is approaching at top speed down the road, black smoke billowing behind.

He glances at the youth, but he seems more interested in his mobile than the old ladies impending death. He has been doing this sort of work since the youth has been in nappies.

           The bus is getting closer; he can see the face of the driver, an old man with silver hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He is just about to make his move when Hilda appears across the road, before running in front of the oncoming bus. In the blink of an eye he sees and hears it all; the horror etched upon the drivers face as he frantically steers the wheel, smoke rising as the wheels lock and skid toward the old lady. Then it hits with an almighty thud, and time speeds up to normal.

‘Hilda!’ he screams, before launching himself at the figure lying comatose on the ground.

She rises to her feet, before dusting herself down.

‘Now that was a close one. Thought I’d left it too late that time.’ Maurice looks confused. ‘You don’t think I was going to let you kill that poor old dear do you?’

  ‘I thought you were killed,’ says Maurice.

‘No, it merely clipped me wings,’ she replies winking.

‘I don’t understand?’

‘All I know is you’ve picked the wrong side my love. Come on, sweetie lets go and have some death by chocolate cake and you can fix me a nice brew and we can talk about your retirement with me.’

‘What about you know, my boss?’ asked Maurice.

‘He can’t have any, plays hell with his guts apparently,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘I don’t think your going to have any problems on that score.’

Grabbing his hand the pair disappear into the direction of chocolate cake, strong tea and companionship. Squeezing Maurice’s bum Hilda’s only thought is that even Angels have to be naughty sometimes.