11 June 2012
1/2
I clip the wire fence with diagonal pliers then return them to my jacket pocket. Silently I slip through the hole and enter the shipping yard. A wave of salty air suddenly stings my nostrils, as though the fence had somehow held it back before. The shipping containers surround me from all sides, some stacked as tall as buildings, others just taller than me. In the distance stand colossal ships that eclipse the horizon. Towering cranes lift containers of assorted colours in slow motion, placing them expertly onto the ships. The entire area moans and sighs like some metallic creature.
I walk briskly past one particularly weather-beaten wall of containers. My eyes take note of each serial number automatically.
CXIU790026
PSSU210949
I check my watch. Late. My middle and forefinger tap together nervously. Fourteen years without missing a job; I can’t ruin it now. I stop, close my eyes and concentrate on slowing everything down. My finger tapping begins to decelerate, and with it my breathing. The pulse in my neck steadies to its usual and regular calm beat. I open my eyes and continue. The gritty wind blows erratically as I momentarily walk out of the shelter of the containers. The sign above reads ‘Lot B’; this was where the container was. This is where she would be.
As I round the corner I see a man and woman in florescent yellow jackets, talking together and pointing at some of the upper containers. I duck behind container PSSU303910, peering around the side to analyse the threat.
5”5. 5”4.
Brunette Greying hair.
Mid-30s. Late 40s.
Glasses. Chubby.
Clipboard.
I return to my original path and walk past them, eyes fixed forwards. They continue their conversation, only glancing over at me once. No one ever questions a man in a florescent yellow jacket. They are out of view now; I pick up the pace and check the writing on my hand.
-.-. - -..- ..- ...-- .---- ..--- ----- ..... --... .-.-.- / -... .-.. ..- . .-.-.-
I closely inspect the serial numbers on each container. Finally I reach the right one. A faded white stencil on the side reveals the code: CTXU312057. I take a quick look around and then open the already unlocked door, leaving it slightly ajar behind me.
“You’re late,” her voice reverberates in the empty space from the other end of the container, shrouded in darkness. I take a step forward but she stops me.
“Stay there.”
I feel my skin alive with an electric sense of distrust. It was usual for my clients to try and retain a sense of mystery, but I still never let my guard down. In my pocket I hold my gun, trigger at the ready. The darkness suddenly spits out a brown envelope which slides along the floor to my feet.
“Her name is Leslie Valentine.”
In the shadows I see the slightest glint of red; a ruby necklace. Expensive and large, authentic as well from the looks of it. I open the envelope and feel inside, eyes still fixed on my invisible client. £10,000. Feels about right.
“She leaves work at 6:00 p.m. and takes Riverview Avenue on her way home. That will be your best shot. Make it look like a mugging.”
I feel inside the envelope for the picture she had given me then turn and leave without another word, closing the door behind me.
Scenes - Shipping Yard • Opuss № I