Authors: Stuart Keane
Sanchez slipped a stick of raspberry gum into his mouth and began to chew slowly.
His steely blue eyes, concealed behind a pair of dark shades, darted back and forth, watching the entrance to St. Barts, the local general hospital. Despite the biting winds and the drizzle in the damp air, he stood alert, rooted to the corner of the street by an empty, graffiti-decorated bus stop. The battered brown coat that kept him warm, coupled with his disheveled look, gave him the appearance of a typical Londoner, a person no different to the next seventy people who walked across the average line of sight.
Blending in.
Sanchez did it better than anyone.
Observation was boring and conclusive. In thirty minutes, he'd seen six nurses, seven doctors, more than a dozen patients, two pizza deliveries, and a hobbling, drunk clown.
But not one security guard.
Sanchez wasn’t convinced, knowing that the wannabe police officers probably made a beeline for the break room for coffee and potential doughnuts rather than fresh air and social interactions with smokers and bored taxi drivers. As his gaze returned to the entrance, he saw one such driver flip off a patient in a pink dressing gown and drive away. That rage, coupled with the dark blood splashed across her shoulder, and her distracted state, indicated a head wound, a loss of equilibrium and lack of a tip, a tip that would have paid for the cleaning of any spilt bodily fluids from her journey.
Sanchez shook his head, a minimal movement that meant nothing in a social setting. Maybe he was frustrated at the weather. On the other hand, the bus being late – or absent as the case may be, none had driven by in the past hour – was enough to make the average person shake his head. Sanchez imagined the normal people concerning themselves with such rigmarole, such uselessness.
He positioned the gum on his tongue, flattened it against the roof of his mouth and sighed deeply. After a moment, he stepped onto the road that arched down to the entrance of St. Barts. The drizzle spattered across his glasses, blurring his view. In one swift movement, he swiped them from his face and pocketed them, his eyes ever alert. His footsteps clonked loudly on the concrete causeway, one vacated by ambulances and other vehicles.
He stepped under the glass awning, ignoring the charity collector who shook a jingly plastic pot at him, and walked into the hospital.
The smell of disinfectant and cleanliness hit him immediately, but he didn’t stop. He strolled past the reception desk, a mask of indifference and false, muted pain on his face, and walked to the lifts. No one watched him, no one cared. A child tossed a Frisbee across the waiting room, the object clonked loudly on some glass, startling some of the sick patients. Yes, no one noticed him; people had more pressing matters to concern themselves with.
Sanchez pushed the button for floor 4 and stood back, leaning on the wall. He watched as a man in a leg cast hobbled across the waiting room to a chair, fresh from a visit to the toilet. A woman with a thick bandage wrapped around her head was crying into the shoulder of a loved one, a doting, blonde-haired man with bad acne and skinny jeans. The kid with the Frisbee began to cry as his parents admonished him for his stupidity.
The lifts opened, empty, but Sanchez didn’t move. He checked his watch and nodded.
The doors closed again.
The reception nurse had her head down, her worries and gaze buried in a mass of paperwork, work that would never be complete. Her frizzled, curly hair and creased forehead spoke of stress and job fatigue. Her colleague, a fresh-faced redhead with adorable freckles and an innocent smile powered by natural energy, one yet to be exhausted and destroyed by her chosen profession, bounced around behind her. Sanchez could practically see the vehemence rising from the older nurse.
Sanchez noticed movement in his peripheral vision and saw an elderly woman move for the elevators. He pushed the button for floor 4 again, receiving a wary glance and a half-smile from the woman. He nodded, turning away.
He checked his watch.
The lift dinged and he stepped into it. The old woman didn’t follow, holding back, refusing to share a lift with the strange man. The disgusting look she gave him was unmistakable, one of old-school philosophy and belief.
Fucking spik
.
Sanchez could imagine the words seething from her shortsighted, racist eyes. She probably thought he was going to mug her or attempt to sell her a burrito. The lift doors closed, erasing the woman from sight. The car shunted as it started its ascent.
After a moment, the car eased to a halt. The doors slid apart and Sanchez stepped out onto the fourth floor. The hallway, one deprived of a reception desk and waiting room, was silent, the minimal bustle of hospital staff merely a background noise.
Again, he stepped to the wall opposite and waited once more.
He checked his watch. After a minute, a hospital cleaner rolled a cart around the corner and headed his way.
Right on time.
He pushed the button for floor 5.
Sanchez rolled the gum on his tongue and, lifting a hand to his lips, spat it into his palm. The man walked to a bin, lifted the lid and emptied it into a swelling, transparent trash bag. As he did, Sanchez dropped the gum onto the floor, in line with the trash cart.
Sanchez backed away, giving the man room to pass, who nodded at him, thanking him silently. He rolled the cart past the elevators, the wheels missing the gum. However, his shoe caught it and stamped it flat, pushing it into the grip of his sole.
After a few hindered steps, the man stopped and hoisted his shoe in the air, looking for the cause of his sticky walk. "For fuck's sake," he cursed under his breath, the words carrying on the near-silence. He bent down and untied his shoelace, plucked the shoe off his foot and rooted in his cart for a suitable tool to remove the gum.
Sanchez stepped forward; the man's back turned, lifting the bunch of keys from his belt buckle and pocketing them in one movement. Three seconds later, the lift doors slid aside. Sanchez stepped into the car and waited. The doors closed and the car, once again, shot up.
He was on the fifth floor within seconds.
Sanchez exited the lift and turned left. Glancing left and right, the hall was empty bar one police officer. He reclined on a metal chair reading a magazine. As expected, he was guarding the chef following the previous murder attempt.
Nice and simple
, thought Sanchez.
He took a USB stick from his jeans and placed it against the keys in his pocket. It buzzed twice in his hand. Separating the two, he walked past the sentry slowly and paused, stopping at a vending machine several feet down the hall. The chef's door was wide open, closer to him than the police officer.
Aside from the sentry, the hallway was deserted.
Quiet day
. Sanchez smiled.
The timing was everything.
He thumbed two coins into the machine and pushed the same button twice. Two cans of Sprite dropped into the chute. Collecting them, he walked back the way he came and stopped before the officer, who looked up. Sanchez saw his shoulders tense. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Sure. I just bought a drink from the machine and it gave me two. I wondered if you fancied it. Since you're doing your civil duty and all. We all hate hospitals."
The officer narrowed his eyes and smiled. "Sure thing, thanks. Much appreciated."
"No problem." Sanchez nodded and began to walk away. The officer followed him, several steps behind, as expected.
Perfect.
Sanchez walked into the next room. The officer strolled by, oblivious, and Sanchez stepped back into the hallway silently. The officer rounded a corner, disappearing, vacating his duties for a moment.
Sanchez walked back towards the chef's unguarded domain and stopped, tossing the keys into the room. The magnetized bunch of metal skated on the tiled floor and landed next to the electrical machines that rose and streamed above the bed. Within seconds, the machines started to buzz and whine, the strong magnets going to work on the complicated waves and technology within.
Sanchez looked down the hallway. Still quiet.
He pulled a silenced Sig Sauer P228 from his coat and fired twice, hitting the chef in the head both times, a quick double tap. Blood spattered his pillow and blanket, the unconscious man thrashed in the bed, the bullets thrashing him like an electrical current. He died instantly, the silenced
whups
buried beneath a racket of noisy machinery. A flat line indicated his demise, but was soon lost beneath a cacophony of buzzing and beeps.
Sanchez walked back to the other room and stepped in, holstering his weapon, just as the police officer returned with several nurses, all rushing to the chef's aid. They passed him without a thought. Sanchez looked at the comatose old lady in the bed before him, stroked her wrinkled face, and smiled.
He stepped out of the room and disappeared, the noise and chaos around him providing the perfect cover. No one saw him leave.
*****
"Dennis, I'm going to order pizza. What do you want?"
"Plain for me." Dennis was sitting in his armchair, reading the new Stephen King book, immersed, and not even looking up.
Carla nodded and turned to Teddy. "What do you want?"
"Ham and pineapple?"
"Okay…gross, but okay." Carla walked to the foot of the stairs and shouted. "Dani?"
A muffled voice answered. "What?"
"I'm ordering pizza. What do you want?"
"I'm not hungry…"
"You will be though, what do you want?"
A pause. Carla heard her daughter sigh before responding. "Pepperoni, please."
"Good." Carla dialed the pizzeria number into her phone and ordered the food with a side of wedges, nachos and garlic bread. After a moment, she hung up and slumped onto the sofa. "Dani is really going for it with her course. Never thought I would see a kid work so hard." Carla smiled.
"She's a right boffin," said Teddy. He was doing a puzzle on the carpet, confused by the fact it was two sided. The same image on both sides made it extremely difficult. His tongue was protruding from his mouth, firm with concentration. He currently had the edges pieced together and was now working on the centre. Carla frowned. "That's not a nice thing to say about your sister."
"So? She calls me doucheface all the time."
"No she doesn’t," said Carla, lying. Dennis laughed in the background, exposing his wife's lie. Carla groaned. "Well, it's still not nice."
Teddy placed a piece in the jigsaw and punched the air in celebration. He scooped another handful from the box and placed them on the carpet. "I saw Dani cry today."
Carla and Dennis both looked at their son. Dennis flicked his eyes towards Carla and nodded, his eyes speaking clearly.
This sounds like a girl problem
. Carla nodded. "When, honey?"
"When I got back from football. We couldn’t play because of the rain so I came home early. I went to my room, that’s when I saw her." Carla nodded and stood up, preparing to pay her daughter a visit. Dennis looked over. "Leave her be. She likes being alone, you know that."
"Why would she cry?"
"Who knows? She's a teenager," he replied.
"She's a strong teenager, not like many I know. It must be serious."
"She'll be fine. If it's boy troubles, all kids need it. It makes them sensible."
"Parent of the Year over here," Carla smiled. "I suppose you're…oh, hang on."
Muted footsteps sounded on the hallway floor above and Dani emerged on the stairs. She stopped halfway down, leaning on the wooden bannister. "Mum, what weekend are we going away again?"
"The 16
th
. Why?" Carla looked at Dani. The tear streaks were all but gone, darkening her normally vibrant eyes. The normal electricity in those brown orbs was vacant.
"I have a field trip, and I really want to go. I think it's the week after, so cool."
"How much is it?"
"Thirty pounds, that okay?"
"I'm sure we can stretch the purse strings a little." Carla smiled.
"Thanks, Mum." Dani drummed her fingers on the bannister.
Carla frowned. "You okay, honey?"
"Yeah…yeah, nothing I can't handle."
"Okay. If you need a chat…"
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Thanks though, for the trip. I'm looking forward to it."
The doorbell rang. Carla stood up and checked her watch. "My, that was quick." She ambled over to the door. Teddy ran over to the stairs and started to harass his sister. "Hey, it's dobber boffin face."
"Seriously? Go away,
squirt
."
"
Never
, I'm here to harass you until…"
BLAM
.
Carla's shredded body flew across the living room and smashed into the TV, knocking it to the ground with a huge crash. The attached cables wrenched boxes and units from the shelf above, sending them toppling to the wooden floor. One bounced off the dying woman's face with a violent clonk. Blood sprayed and sluiced in all directions from a multitude of ragged holes in her tattered torso. Blood frothed from her mouth and a loud gargle signaled her final throe.