I crawled into bed, exhausted, and switched off the bedside light but I soon became more aware than ever of the quietness. The sound of silence hung in the air. I turned the light on and off several times, before I got up and went through the flat to check in cupboards and under beds. Once I made sure all the window locks were firmly bolted, I clambered back to bed and fell into a fitful slumber.

It was shortly after midnight.

68

Arthur

The Target always left his flat around 8am, returning most nights about five, give or take twenty minutes.

I tore up and disposed of the cut-out of Dracula, superimposing a large ‘T’ over the peeling wallpaper. A letter ‘T’ seemed much less personable than Dracula. I now needed army-like discipline so I could strike with razor-sharp precision. Careful surveillance, using imaginative disguises, had been inked in boldly on the master plan. I took annual leave from work and allotted the two-week period to concentrate the mind and prepare my end game.

Hatred threatened my patience and every time I watched the Target move around with nonchalant ease, I had to quell an overwhelming desire to bash his brains in. However, I knew that waiting and meticulous planning were needed to ensure success.

On the fifth day into my leave, I hit the jackpot.

Hunched down by the back wheel of my new little car, a forgettable black bashed-up Ford Fiesta, I toyed with jacks and tools mending an imaginary puncture. It was then that ‘T’ came into sight. I spotted him from under the brim of a navy baseball hat, my usual dapper appearance camouflaged in oil-spattered overalls.

Gripping the spanner, I watched him stop, pick up some litter and realign the lid of a dustbin. He scratched around in his pockets outside the front door for a few minutes before he reached up, checking there were no onlookers, and ran a finger along the ledge of the frame. He blew dust off a key and cleaned it on his jacket sleeve before unlocking the front door. He then disappeared through to his flat, slamming the door behind him.

The asshole certainly lacked imagination. Whereas the spare key might have been more readily discovered under the doormat or beneath the sad display of potted geraniums on the front porch, I did feel that the ledge above the door was only one rung down from risible. The guy was a complete prick and deserved what was coming to him.

The phone shop in Finsbury Park, Handy Mobiles, was located between a fish and chip shop on one side and a kebab joint on the other. Clad this time in jeans and trainers, suitably scruffy and anonymous, I went inside and muttered cursory pleasantries to an Asian gentleman manning the counter. The shop was crammed full with a variety of makes and models of cheap imported phones and laptops.