The Seven

CHAPTER ONE:

Brock felt the paranoia overwhelm him – wait, nope – that was nausea. He clawed his way over to the sink and retched, his vomit a sickly dark brown. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, and shakily stood. The room was like a hallucination – shining and spinning. He retched again.

A harsh knock on the door echoed through the kitchen, sending a splitting headache to seemingly bounce off the inside of his skull. He tripped, colliding with the edge of the table, before regaining his posture and making his way to the door.

Brok stumbled through the hallway, smirking as he saw his visitor. The figure through the glass was almost too familiar.

“Michelle, you bastard,” he laughed unsteadily. He opened the door and collapsed onto the porch.

“B, you little shit! You didn't think to invite me on your little ‘trip’?” Mish looked over at cigarettes on the table and laughed. “How much did you do this time? How'd it feel? That ‘happy energy’ surging through your veins?” Brok groans.

“It felt fucking amazing.”

Michelle snickers. “Good for you, little buddy. Anyway, we’ve got a new client. I’m giving the job to you. Guy wants it done by Wednesday next week, but Jake and I decided today would work fine. You up for it? Target’s a woman in her 30’s, lives on Cressy Street, has one of those weird shed things in her backyard - you know the type.”

“My only question is...” he slurs. “Would you like a cigarette?” He retches again.

“What’s the plan?” Brok whispered into the earpiece.

“Behind the tree of 44 Cressy Street, you’ll find a charged power drill. In the bush of number 53, across the road, you’ll find a coil of wire.” Jake’s voice is one of sadistic pleasure, and the dangerous glint in his eye is noticeable even from the other side of the phone.

B retrieves the items.

“What now, genius?”

“Walk to the bottom of the street and turn down Grethfald Avenue. Ring the bell of number 27, and explain that you are Michael from next door. Your little brother kicked an AFL over the fence, and you are there to collect it. The man living there has terrible dementia, and won’t question you.”

The bell rings, and footsteps shuffle to the door.

“Once you’re in the backyard, climb the fence to the house backing onto it. You should see a shed with red brick tiles on the roof. Jump to it.”

Brok jumps, a tile slipping and smashing on the pavement path.

“There should be a wooden beam sticking out at the point of the roof. Loosen the bolt holding it in place, but DO NOT take it out. Loop the wire over the beam, and on your way down, tie it to the handle of the shed door. Leave back through number 27 and leave the leftover wire and drill in the garden of the house with the red door. The woman living there has a criminal record, and will be suspected immediately. You know the rest. Don’t get caught.”

Brok laughed. He expected the ‘tragic death’ of whoever he set up that afternoon would be on the news, revealing whatever sadistic murder Jake had conducted this time.

And he had to admit – Jake was a fucking genius. Whatever went up inside that twisted mind of his was impressive.

“Tragically, huge influencer and author Jessica Charlbury passed away this afternoon, after her shed roof collapsed on her. Jessica is to be commemorated by family, friends, and fans alike on Monday evening, the 21st of April.” The news drones on and on

“How about some of that weed B? For the mastermind?” Jake grinned, clearly overly pleased with himself.

Brock puffed his cigarette. “Enjoy your fucking whiskey and get on with it Jake.” The group laughed, and Jake sniggered.

It’s a perfect Seven.