Dead at First Sight

119 Friday 12 October

As soon as he could find a place to turn, Tooth circled back, fast, and was relieved to see the two men were still occupied with the rod in the middle of the field. He pulled the van into the small car park for the cemetery, jumped out and locked it, then stood by the road while several cars passed, before running across.

He was feeling better now. The adrenaline coursing through him had nixed the nausea and hopefully would keep it at bay. He felt alert, back in the army, in the jungle, alone, surviving on his wits. The thrill. It was moments like this when he felt truly alive, as if all the rest of his life was padding.

This was the last time, he reminded himself. Savour it, enjoy the moment.

Could he really retire? Spend his days fishing and walking his dog? The mutt wouldn’t live for ever and he had no idea how old the creature was, anyhow — seven, ten? Whatever, he had a few years in him yet. But retirement meant not having to deal with punks like Steve Barrey, and all the others who’d employed him before. In his line of work, he wasn’t ever going to get hired by anyone decent.

He switched his mind back to his task. Stalking mode. Instinctively he crouched a fraction, keeping below behind the hedgerow until he reached the rear of the van. Obligingly, the workmen had reversed the vehicle in here. Which meant no one from the road could see him. Good.

He slipped along the far side of the van, which was out of sight to the men in the field, and around to the rear of the vehicle. The doors had been pushed to, but not closed. Perfect. He took another glance at the workmen, then pulled open one door, wincing at the loud creak of its hinge, but the men were too far away to hear it, and one had headphones on anyway. He peered in. It was cluttered with equipment — traffic cones, meters, gauges, a box of valves, a large toolkit, a pump and, to his joy, a tarpaulin that lay under a jumble of road signs, right behind the driver and passenger seats.

He scrambled in, pulled the door shut behind him, then trod his way carefully in the semi-darkness towards the front. Reaching the tarpaulin, he knelt and wormed his way under the heavy sheet, which smelled of damp and plastic. He lay on his back on the hard metal floor, right up against the seats, checking to ensure his legs were concealed by the signs lying on top of the tarp. Then he pulled out his gun, removed the safety catch and settled down to wait.