Hawkman
11-11-2011, 09:41 AM
There’s a lot of things that can ruin your day, you know, stupid stuff like missing the bus and getting in late for work so the arsehole you work for just has another excuse to chew you out. Or there’s hitting your thumb with a hammer, or having your computer die on you so you lose god knows what and have to pay some geek to try and recover all the important stuff you never bothered to back up, and this on top of the expense of having to buy a new one; and the problems with the new operating system which won’t run your old programs, etc. etc. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about don’t you. Been there, done that and eaten the pie.
Well, you’ll be relieved to know that I’m not going to go on about this trivial stuff. What I am going to tell you is that until you’ve had your wife’s head explode, showering you with blood and itty bits of skull and brains, because some bald bastard with a barcode tattooed on the back of his head has shot her between the eyes from two miles away while you were both enjoying a nice cup of java at a pavement café, you’ve never really had your day spoiled.
That kind of thing can **** you up big time.
I mean, it was such a nice head under that gorgeous mop of dark curls. Suki had such lovely brown eyes, kind of slanted, that used to look at me with a sort of yearning vulnerability that just made me want to put my arms round her and kiss her for ever, and yeah, she had the most kissable mouth you ever saw. Everything about Suki was just perfect, at least I thought so.
OK, maybe she’d have to go away on business quite a lot, I didn’t enjoy that much, but when she came home she’d always more than made up for her absence, if you know what I mean.
Sh!t! I just can’t get over it.
I mean, it’s such a nice day, blue sky, sunshine and Suki smiling at me over the rim of her cup - and then that awful sound, like a dull splatting thud, followed by that percussive crack, and I’m wearing her thoughts like a face pack, and everyone’s screaming, diving for cover, and tables are going over and cups are smashing. But I just sit there, stunned, and watch the ghastly ruin of her face, like an exploding balloon full of red paint blowing out in front of me, like an action replay, playing in slow-mo, over and over…
Trust me, your last memory of a loved one shouldn’t be like that.
I don’t remember much of what came after. They told me it was all over the news. I vaguely remember my arsehole of a boss phoning me up at home and telling me I could have a day off. I don’t think I said anything back, just stared at the receiver and put it down. I never went back to work for him anyway. But after I got the letters I do remember phoning him back and telling him to go **** himself.
But I’m jumping the gun, getting too far ahead; that was a couple of weeks later, after the funeral.
I tell you, I don’t know how I got through it. I think it helped being so numb. My brother and his wife kind of took it in turns to look out for me. I only ate when they came over and shoved food into me. I practically had to be spoon fed like a baby. They were the ones who made all the arrangements for Suki. I just couldn’t cope. The only time I showed any emotion or reacted to anything was when they offered to go through Suki’s stuff for me. I went ballistic. No one, I mean absolutely no one was going to touch her things. I know I scared them and they backed right off. I had to apologise big time when I got my act back together. But they were ok about it, said they understood.
It wasn’t until a couple of days after she was in the ground that the dams burst. I think I must have cried solidly for twenty-four hours straight, and then slowly my brain came back on line. I sort of re-booted and found I could look at her picture without seeing her face explode.
Then I got the letters.
I just couldn’t make them out. The first one I opened was from the director of operations at Langley; it had the CIA logo at the top and everything. There was a pension cheque inside. Next one came from Moscow. It was in Russian so I couldn’t read it, but there was a postcard of the Lubyanka and another cheque from FSB Central Banking. There was one from MI6 signed M, and that had a cheque with it too. Sh!t, there was even one from Mossad. I thought someone was having a sick laugh at my expense until the solicitor came round. He brought a letter too. It was from Suki. After I read it I paid the cheques into the bank.
Oh now, just listen to me; I’m getting ahead of myself again. I haven’t told you what the solicitor said yet. Very solemn, he was; very respectful of my freshly bereaved status, offering his condolences and all. Then he read me Suki’s will. Sh!t, I didn’t even know she’d made one.
Well guess what. My little Suki had been keeping secrets from me. Turned out she had some bank accounts in places like Switzerland and the Cayman Islands and she’d squirreled a few bob away for a rainy day. Quite a few bob actually, a little over £15,000,000, and now it was all mine. Well I tell you, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I guess you can work out why I told my old boss to go **** himself. All that cash, and some sizeable extras in death benefits from the word’s most successful intelligence agencies. Well, the Russians and Mossad anyway.
I don’t suppose any of this is a surprise to you though is it? I mean, guys like you know all about this sort of thing don’t you. Not boring you am I? No? Good. Only you were looking a bit fidgety. Duct tape’s not too tight is it? Too bad. Just sit still and listen. Ok?
Now where was I? Oh yeah, well, the solicitor didn’t know about the CIA and the FSB or MI6 and Mossad, of course, he just gave me the details of Suki’s will. It’s not like he knew where Suki’s money came from. His job was just telling me what she’d left me. Did I mention she had this old observer corps bunker up on Dartmoor? Back when The Wall came down and the Cold War ended, the Ministry of Defence sold off a load of these for peanuts. Some people turned theirs into eco homes, sh!t like that. Not Suki though. No, Suki had an underground hideout stuffed to the gills with toys. You know what kind, don’t you. The solicitor didn’t though; he just gave me a map reference and a key. I didn’t strike pay dirt until a couple of days later; after all, it took me a while to come to terms with my new status.
But getting back to the solicitor… Well, his penultimate act – penultimate, great word that – his penultimate act, before giving me Suki’s letter, was to give me a key to a safety deposit box. That would have been surprising an hour or two before, but now nothing fazed me. To tell the truth it just didn’t register till after he’d gone. Anyway, I signed for all the stuff, and again to acknowledge that he’d discharged his obligations, and he assured me that all his fees had been paid for in advance, and that I now had full title and control over all Suki’s assets. Then he buggered off. That’s when I opened Suki’s letter.
She’d written it a couple of days before we went to the café. It told me how she’d postponed a business trip so we could spend our anniversary together. Did I mention that the day we went to the café was our anniversary? Sure didn’t help me cope, I can tell you. Anyway, she said she’d postponed her trip, even though she knew it might be taking a bit of a risk. She said the reason I was reading the letter would be because it had turned out to be too big a risk.
Silly cow. As if I wouldn’t rather she had missed our anniversary and still been alive. I can’t tell you how much I’d have preferred not to have seen her head explode. Women! Just slaves to their emotions, even the ruthless ones who work for international intelligence agencies and kill people for money. But, of course, I didn’t know she did that when I married her. I mean, really, my gorgeous little Suki was just so sweet and adorable. I wouldn’t have believed she could hurt a fly. She’d told me she was a freelance interior designer, with rich folk always wanting her to travel somewhere exotic to soup up their villas. Well how was I to know?
Getting back to the letter - next there was some personal stuff and, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not share it with you. But the bit which you’ll find really interesting was where she told me I was to go to the bank and open her safety deposit box. Bet you can guess what was inside. That’s right, a big fat dossier with lots of photographs and a detailed profile with movements and schedules, all mapped out. There was a note too. It said, ‘Don’t get mad, get even,’ and underneath were more instructions. They told me to go to her little hideout on Dartmoor and what I’d need from her toy box and how to use it. It was all very informative.
Which kind of brings us to where we’re at. I mean the dart gun with the temporary nerve agent that completely paralyses the recipient for 5 hours was quite useful in getting your cooperation, and I know the Desert Eagle I’m waving under your nose has your full attention. Oh, did I mention that the ammo in it is mercury filled hollow-point? I thought that was a nice touch. Kind of Creative. Suki suggested it.
Full of ideas my Suki.
Well now, I guess we’re about done. End of the line, for you anyway, so I’ll be saying, 'so long.' I’m really going to enjoy watching your head explode. It’s going to give me what psychologists call, ‘Closure.’ Goodbye Baldy.
Well, you’ll be relieved to know that I’m not going to go on about this trivial stuff. What I am going to tell you is that until you’ve had your wife’s head explode, showering you with blood and itty bits of skull and brains, because some bald bastard with a barcode tattooed on the back of his head has shot her between the eyes from two miles away while you were both enjoying a nice cup of java at a pavement café, you’ve never really had your day spoiled.
That kind of thing can **** you up big time.
I mean, it was such a nice head under that gorgeous mop of dark curls. Suki had such lovely brown eyes, kind of slanted, that used to look at me with a sort of yearning vulnerability that just made me want to put my arms round her and kiss her for ever, and yeah, she had the most kissable mouth you ever saw. Everything about Suki was just perfect, at least I thought so.
OK, maybe she’d have to go away on business quite a lot, I didn’t enjoy that much, but when she came home she’d always more than made up for her absence, if you know what I mean.
Sh!t! I just can’t get over it.
I mean, it’s such a nice day, blue sky, sunshine and Suki smiling at me over the rim of her cup - and then that awful sound, like a dull splatting thud, followed by that percussive crack, and I’m wearing her thoughts like a face pack, and everyone’s screaming, diving for cover, and tables are going over and cups are smashing. But I just sit there, stunned, and watch the ghastly ruin of her face, like an exploding balloon full of red paint blowing out in front of me, like an action replay, playing in slow-mo, over and over…
Trust me, your last memory of a loved one shouldn’t be like that.
I don’t remember much of what came after. They told me it was all over the news. I vaguely remember my arsehole of a boss phoning me up at home and telling me I could have a day off. I don’t think I said anything back, just stared at the receiver and put it down. I never went back to work for him anyway. But after I got the letters I do remember phoning him back and telling him to go **** himself.
But I’m jumping the gun, getting too far ahead; that was a couple of weeks later, after the funeral.
I tell you, I don’t know how I got through it. I think it helped being so numb. My brother and his wife kind of took it in turns to look out for me. I only ate when they came over and shoved food into me. I practically had to be spoon fed like a baby. They were the ones who made all the arrangements for Suki. I just couldn’t cope. The only time I showed any emotion or reacted to anything was when they offered to go through Suki’s stuff for me. I went ballistic. No one, I mean absolutely no one was going to touch her things. I know I scared them and they backed right off. I had to apologise big time when I got my act back together. But they were ok about it, said they understood.
It wasn’t until a couple of days after she was in the ground that the dams burst. I think I must have cried solidly for twenty-four hours straight, and then slowly my brain came back on line. I sort of re-booted and found I could look at her picture without seeing her face explode.
Then I got the letters.
I just couldn’t make them out. The first one I opened was from the director of operations at Langley; it had the CIA logo at the top and everything. There was a pension cheque inside. Next one came from Moscow. It was in Russian so I couldn’t read it, but there was a postcard of the Lubyanka and another cheque from FSB Central Banking. There was one from MI6 signed M, and that had a cheque with it too. Sh!t, there was even one from Mossad. I thought someone was having a sick laugh at my expense until the solicitor came round. He brought a letter too. It was from Suki. After I read it I paid the cheques into the bank.
Oh now, just listen to me; I’m getting ahead of myself again. I haven’t told you what the solicitor said yet. Very solemn, he was; very respectful of my freshly bereaved status, offering his condolences and all. Then he read me Suki’s will. Sh!t, I didn’t even know she’d made one.
Well guess what. My little Suki had been keeping secrets from me. Turned out she had some bank accounts in places like Switzerland and the Cayman Islands and she’d squirreled a few bob away for a rainy day. Quite a few bob actually, a little over £15,000,000, and now it was all mine. Well I tell you, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I guess you can work out why I told my old boss to go **** himself. All that cash, and some sizeable extras in death benefits from the word’s most successful intelligence agencies. Well, the Russians and Mossad anyway.
I don’t suppose any of this is a surprise to you though is it? I mean, guys like you know all about this sort of thing don’t you. Not boring you am I? No? Good. Only you were looking a bit fidgety. Duct tape’s not too tight is it? Too bad. Just sit still and listen. Ok?
Now where was I? Oh yeah, well, the solicitor didn’t know about the CIA and the FSB or MI6 and Mossad, of course, he just gave me the details of Suki’s will. It’s not like he knew where Suki’s money came from. His job was just telling me what she’d left me. Did I mention she had this old observer corps bunker up on Dartmoor? Back when The Wall came down and the Cold War ended, the Ministry of Defence sold off a load of these for peanuts. Some people turned theirs into eco homes, sh!t like that. Not Suki though. No, Suki had an underground hideout stuffed to the gills with toys. You know what kind, don’t you. The solicitor didn’t though; he just gave me a map reference and a key. I didn’t strike pay dirt until a couple of days later; after all, it took me a while to come to terms with my new status.
But getting back to the solicitor… Well, his penultimate act – penultimate, great word that – his penultimate act, before giving me Suki’s letter, was to give me a key to a safety deposit box. That would have been surprising an hour or two before, but now nothing fazed me. To tell the truth it just didn’t register till after he’d gone. Anyway, I signed for all the stuff, and again to acknowledge that he’d discharged his obligations, and he assured me that all his fees had been paid for in advance, and that I now had full title and control over all Suki’s assets. Then he buggered off. That’s when I opened Suki’s letter.
She’d written it a couple of days before we went to the café. It told me how she’d postponed a business trip so we could spend our anniversary together. Did I mention that the day we went to the café was our anniversary? Sure didn’t help me cope, I can tell you. Anyway, she said she’d postponed her trip, even though she knew it might be taking a bit of a risk. She said the reason I was reading the letter would be because it had turned out to be too big a risk.
Silly cow. As if I wouldn’t rather she had missed our anniversary and still been alive. I can’t tell you how much I’d have preferred not to have seen her head explode. Women! Just slaves to their emotions, even the ruthless ones who work for international intelligence agencies and kill people for money. But, of course, I didn’t know she did that when I married her. I mean, really, my gorgeous little Suki was just so sweet and adorable. I wouldn’t have believed she could hurt a fly. She’d told me she was a freelance interior designer, with rich folk always wanting her to travel somewhere exotic to soup up their villas. Well how was I to know?
Getting back to the letter - next there was some personal stuff and, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not share it with you. But the bit which you’ll find really interesting was where she told me I was to go to the bank and open her safety deposit box. Bet you can guess what was inside. That’s right, a big fat dossier with lots of photographs and a detailed profile with movements and schedules, all mapped out. There was a note too. It said, ‘Don’t get mad, get even,’ and underneath were more instructions. They told me to go to her little hideout on Dartmoor and what I’d need from her toy box and how to use it. It was all very informative.
Which kind of brings us to where we’re at. I mean the dart gun with the temporary nerve agent that completely paralyses the recipient for 5 hours was quite useful in getting your cooperation, and I know the Desert Eagle I’m waving under your nose has your full attention. Oh, did I mention that the ammo in it is mercury filled hollow-point? I thought that was a nice touch. Kind of Creative. Suki suggested it.
Full of ideas my Suki.
Well now, I guess we’re about done. End of the line, for you anyway, so I’ll be saying, 'so long.' I’m really going to enjoy watching your head explode. It’s going to give me what psychologists call, ‘Closure.’ Goodbye Baldy.