1st Prize - Short Story Competition 2016
"A Job Well Done" by Dorothy Cox
Well, of course I'm nervous. Isn't everyone when they go to an important interview? I've spent hours debating what I should wear. The understated, efficient, no nonsense charcoal suit, white blouse and black courts? Or the once seen, never forgotten purple jumpsuit and wedge sandals? And what about my hair? Swept back into a sophisticated pleat, or left free to drape on my shoulders? Specs or contacts?
It is very difficult. For one thing I have no knowledge of the opposition. The interview has been set up by the friend of a friend, you know the kind of thing. A throw-away line in a casual chat in the bar leads from one thing to another, and suddenly there was this phone call.
'Be in the bar on Friday, if you are still interested, that is. You'll get all the details then.'
But the friend wasn't there. Disappointed I left. As I reached my car I saw him beside it.
'Sort this and you'll be in with a chance.' He gave me an envelope.
'What is it?'
'Look on it as a sort of test. See how good you are, that sort of thing. If you pass he won't be wasting his time, will he?'
I didn't open the envelope until I got home. I read the contents quickly and then more carefully, three times actually. It spelt out exactly what I had to do and made it very clear that if I should stray a millimetre from the instructions then I could forget the whole thing.
I was a little disappointed. The job was hardly a challenge. A few calls later - a pay-as-you-go untraceable phone is essential on these occasions - and I was ready to go.
A week later, job done, I was back in the bar. An hour passed, two. The barmaid came across to collect my empty glass.
'16 Newcastle Avenue, next Tuesday, 4.30. Use the back entrance.' She didn't look at me and her voice was no more than a whisper.
Which brings me back to the wardrobe problem. In the end I settle on compromise. Black trousers and top, red linen jacket, low heels, and my hair just tied back loosely.
It is a miserable day. 16 Newcastle Avenue is actually part of a small parade of shops on an estate on the edge of town. More than half the shops, including number 16 are boarded up. I park the car, offering up a prayer that the wheels will still be there when I return. All the rear entrances look pretty much the same but a roughly painted 10 and 12 appear on two of the battered wooden gates so I can work out which is number 16. The yard is filthy and neglected but the back door looks to be pretty solid. As I reach it, it opens a crack.
'I'm ... '
'I know who you are.'
The door opens just wide enough. The room is, no, was once, a kitchen, but it is obviously a long time since it served any culinary purpose.
'Through 'ere,' says the huge man who has let me in. Off the dismal hall leads a small, grubby, square room. A table and two chairs stand in the middle. Heavy curtains cover most of a window and the scene is illuminated by one central low wattage bulb.
Big Man closes the door and opens it again as we hear footsteps coming down the hall.
'Ah, Miss Kendrick, thank you so much for coming. I don't have a lot of time so I'll come straight to the point. Do you have it?'
He isn't what I was expecting. At least two inches shorter than my 5'6", and quite unremarkable, he would easily pass as an accountant, a solicitor's clerk perhaps.
Rimless glasses, grey hair, plain, expensive suit, highly polished shoes. He sits at the table and motions me to the other chair.
I pass him a brown envelope.
'It's all there. £80,000 just as you asked.'
He pushes the envelope to one side, unopened. He stares intently at me. I feel uncomfortable under this intense scrutiny.
'May I ask a question?'
'Of course, my dear, of course. Anything you like, although I can't promise to answer it. '
'Why just the money, when you must have known about all the other stuff in that safe?'
'It was just a test, my dear, just a test. I have to be sure that you are as good as they say you are, and that you follow instructions. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm all for a bit of initiative when the occasion demands but I insist on absolute loyalty. Now, if there's nothing else...?'
He stands up, picks up the envelope and offers me a perfectly manicured hand. His grip is surprisingly strong.
'Goodbye my dear, we'll be in touch.'
Big Man opens the door but gestures to me to stay where I am. The footsteps recede down the hall and a door slams. Big Man then allows me to leave. I know he watches me until I drive away.
I don't know what to think. I put it all to the back of my mind and carry on as usual. At the end of the week I drop into the bar again on my way home. None of the usual crowd is there so I don't stay. As I cross the car park I hear a shout.
'Wait, just a minute ... '
The barmaid totters across to the car.
'Tomorrow evening, 7.30. You'll be picked up from home, by taxi. Bring everything you need.'
By 7.15 I am ready. Dressed in black, head to foot, hair tied back out of the way. Under my jacket is the belt which carries all the tools of my trade. At 7.30 exactly a taxi hoots. The driver is Big Man from Newcastle Avenue. He drives confidently and fast. There is little traffic on the motorway and the car is warm. In spite of myself I find I am getting drowsy. Glancing at my watch I see we have been driving now for almost 3 hours. We are no longer on the motorway but driving more slowly on narrow country lanes. Suddenly the car slows and turns in through an impressive gateway. Stone lions top brick pillars on either side of open wrought-iron gates.
The mansion stands at the end of a long drive. I know there will be no one at home. Others are there before us with a van. We go in through a small side door. I follow Big Man through a maze of gloomy corridors. He opens a door and leads me down into a cellar and there it is: a huge old-fashioned 'FireKing' safe. There aren't many safes I can't open and this certainly isn't one of them. It takes me just 15 minutes. The contents are emptied into black heavy duty sacks and we leave. No one says a word. In just 25 minutes we are back in the car and heading back to the gates.
But something is wrong. The gates are no longer open. This might just be the occasion for a spot of initiative, I think. As the car slows I open the door and roll out into the bushes and undergrowth at the side of the drive. Head down in the dirt I lie still as all hell breaks loose. Sirens scream, shots ring out, car headlights light up the scene. The two men in the van make a run for it but are quickly apprehended. Big Man is quickly brought down by a couple of hefty PCs only yards from the car. Only when I am sure they are all safely restrained do I come out of my hiding place. I walk to the gates and seek out the man in charge.
'Excuse me sir ... '
'Ah, Detective Sergeant Kendrick there you are. Nice to see you again. I was wondering where you had got to. Well done, that was excellent work. Good planning, that's the key every time. Already got the top man, thanks to your information. Debriefing 9a.m. sharp tomorrow. Don't be late.'
'Yes sir, thank you, sir. Er ... any chance of a lift home?'
The End