The Price of Blood

Blood splattered my white canvas shoes like a Halloween decorative pattern. I stared down at the body, a flow of emotions coursing through me like electricity, adrenaline causing my heart beat like thunder in my ears. What did I just do?

* * *

I scraped the last of the baked beans out of the can, savouring the last scoop knowing I might not have a feed again for a while. My stomach was already letting me know it wasn’t satisfied, and experience told me it would be growling at me within half an hour. I sighed as I looked around at my surroundings, depression seeping in. A tiny one room apartment, deep in the heart of commission living with a complimentary surround sound system of crying, screaming, fighting and fucking. Most other women would be scared to live by themselves in such an environment but I had grown up around it; I hardly noticed it anymore unless it was extreme.

My unmade single bed sat in the corner of the room, sheets due for a clean, pile of newspapers on top; all potential job adverts circled then consequently crossed out after a phone call of enquiry resulted in someone informing me I was underqualified, didn’t meet the requirements, or the position had somehow already been filled. I had lost my job as a cleaner at the local school when it had closed last winter; public schools in low social economic areas had been folding like cards in the last year due to tightening funds within government sectors. I sighed again, but it was deeper than just carbon dioxide leaving my lungs… It was defeat. It was a piece of my soul leaving, and with it taking the last shred of hope, resilience and optimism.

What was I going to do for money? I had considered stripping, but I lacked the figure and the rhythm; two requirements for such a position. Prostitution; I wasn’t that desperate. Yet. Drugs; didn’t possess the experience or knowledge which was a great way to end up in prison or dead. I had begun considering the worst of the worst; pyramid schemes when I gave up and collapsed on my uncomfortable scratchy couch. I turned on the television, and the midday news had just commenced. Same old stories invoking terror and fear amongst the community: hit and run, bush fires, stabbing. The program was then interrupted by breaking news: Samuel Jefferies, the premier of the state, was in a coma. He was taken to hospital last night due to circumstances which they could not disclose, and due to respect for the families the announcement was delayed until now. I shrugged and switched channels; I was rather fond of the cooking shows where the chefs belittle contestants and come up with the most creative ways to insult their food.

I was in the middle of watching a female chef get spittle sprayed on her face during an onslaught of verbal abuse when there was a knock at the door. No-one was there upon my arrival; I looked down the metal stairway which was in dire need of a coat of paint, and saw no one. As I was at the end of the flats there were no other stairways for quite a distance. A yellow envelope grabbed my attention as I went to close the squeaky door. Picking it up, once I turned it over it was clear it was unmarked. My uneven table wobbled on its legs as I sat to open the package. A stack of cash fell out, as well as a little black book. I stared at both for a while, my brain quickly flicking over possibilities of why or who. No logical explanation surfaced. The cash, after counted, was a total of twenty thousand dollars. I opened the black book, paging through, and all it contained were a list of names which had been crossed out. There were two names on the last page that stood out for me. One, which was crossed out, was Samuel Jeffries. The other underneath it was one I didn’t recognise, but stood out because it was the only name in the booklet that wasn’t crossed out.

Money. A lot of it. A man in hospital. A book with the man in hospital’s name in it. I opened my phone and searched some of the other names which had been crossed out. “Moustafa Ali, died 3 weeks ago due to car accident.” “Stacey Chan, stabbed at a supermarket, critical but stable.” “Raymond Cutajar, hospitalised post parasailing incident.” My heart started beating so hard it almost came out of my chest. Was this a hitlist of some sort? A list specifically meant to bring pain, suffering or death to people? Why did I have it? And money?

I lit up a cigarette and started pacing. The obvious was there but I didn’t want to rest on that answer until all other possibilities had been exhausted. After an hour and 15 cigarettes later I finally got there. Someone paid me for putting premier of the state Samuel Jefferies in hospital, even though I had never even seen the man anywhere but on the screen in my living room. Another insight which occurred to me- these people wanted me, or who they thought I was, to take care of someone else. Someone else was in danger, very immediate and very real danger. Then there was the last sobering point, the most mortifying one of all; these were extremely dangerous people, and they had just created a liability by delivering the book and money to the wrong person.

The list of names had letters in brackets after them. I was trying to decipher the codes. After I looked up the names I could online and discovered their fate, I came up with a very crude assumption of what the codes meant. Moustafa Ali had DBA, and so did three others who died in similar circumstances. My decryption; death by accident. Stacey and similar deaths to her had the letters WO. I couldn’t decipher WO, but I had an interpretation of what it meant, don’t kill but hurt or cause serious injury. Raymond Cutajar, Samuel Jefferies and a few others had OOA and a number; OOA5, OOA1. I again couldn’t understand the letters or codes, or what they stood for, but it must have had something to do with how long they were hospitalised or unable to continue day to day life for; not dead, but unable to function. The last category were people who died by drive by shootings, fights which had gotten out of hand, or stabbings; DWM. My conclusion: death with message.

I looked at the last name in the booklet. Patrick Oates-Winters. I did what any good hitman or hitwoman would do; I looked him up on social media. Due to the hyphenated names he was easy to find. He wasn’t an attractive man, but he had kind eyes. Although Patrick liked to publicly inform people where he was eating and take pictures of his food: he deserved to die just for that. From what I could decipher he had no children, by the looks in the images, and I couldn’t tell if he had a significant other. There were, however, multiple pictures of his turtle Harry, who had his own account I could follow. He worked at an IT firm: Patrick, not Harry. I wonder what little Patty had done to warrant a DBA?

I sent him a message via social media, asking to catch up, that his profile picture caught my eye and I wanted to meet him. He wrote back alarmingly fast and suggested a time and place. I told him I wanted to meet with him in private if that was okay and not too forward, and gave him my address and a time. He agreed to come over tonight at 8pm. I ensured the book and money were well hidden, and could retrieve them as proof when the time was right.

There was a knock at the door, and I answered wearing a black dress, make up, and my freshly washed hair in fancy updo- by that I mean half up half down. Patrick was a foot shorter than me, half my body weight, and I felt I could easily beat him in an arm wrestle even if he used two hands. He beamed up at me, then down to my breasts which were eye level for him, then back up at me. I offered him some wine, and he handed me flowers. I quickly changed into white flats so I wasn’t looming over him like the Eiffel Tower. He was pleasant enough, asking about my job, my life, my likes and dislikes, and he discussed his job at the firm, and some technology he was working on for the defence force, although I had tuned out because it was so boring, his mother and his Harry Potter figurines. Of course, Harry was mentioned too, and I now know why he was named Harry. I was about to tell him why I had invited him over; I opened my mouth but the words refused to come out. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t turn this dull but nice man’s life inside out. I could do it through an anonymous letter, or a phone call to the police or something… Then I had an epiphany.

“More wine Patrick?”

“Oh yes please darling.” I made a face as I turned to get the wine bottle.

We shared the rest of the wine. At about 11pm I told him I had to get up early for work the next day, and stood up. Patrick stood up quickly, bowing, as he thanked me for a lovely evening. I opened the door and offered to walk him down and guide him out of the complex as it was late and no one was around to help him if he lost his bearings.

“Did you know,” he started, as we slowly sauntered towards the rusty stairs, “etiquette dictates the gentleman goes down stairs first? That way if the lady was to trip on her dress and fall, he’s there to catch her.” I almost laughed at the notion of Patty catching me if I fell down stairs and not the realistic alternative of me taking both of us down in an avalanche of arms and legs. “Oh? Is that right? I suppose that makes sense.” I replied, smiling. He returned the smile and began descending the stairs. That gave me the two step runup to build enough momentum and shove him with all my strength. His nose hit the hand rail as the force from my blow propelled him forward, and blood splattered on my legs and shoes. He tumbled and bounced down the entire 43 metal steps, that which I had counted many times before, cursing every single one. When he finally stopped falling and lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs, I had a flood of thoughts that only lasted a couple seconds; What did I just do? I showed the organisation of killers and abusers I was a potential hire, worthy of their establishment. Even if it was a case of mistaken identity, and they wrongfully gave me the little black book and cash, I could possibly keep it now having earnt it, and I was no longer a liability. I would no longer be considered a threat in any way, yet an asset. I smiled to myself, then took a big breath to force my fake scream as I hurried towards my dead date in hysterics.