I'm walking down the street. Everywhere I look I see crime. The man chattin' to that kid with a hungry look in his eye, the hookers swaggering about.
Upon reflection, it was clear from the start what I was getting myself in for. Yet I was in so deep I couldn't tell which way was up. I was well and truly trapped. Yet was I insane to chose this lifestyle? Somebody needed to see it, to let the world know what was happening, to fight the corruption and the injustice that was decaying the heart of this city. The wound was so deep now it was spewing out into the rest of the place, heros fighting to the last, villains given way too much playtime.
None of this interests me right now, I have other business. Business I'm being paid for.
I reach the old, dilapidated house. Every window is smashed and stained with dry blood like someone's punched it in a rage. The door is tightly locked which means I'll have to unlock it, obviously.
I get out my instruments from a pocket in my long brown coat and work quickly.
They say to be a good thief you have to be a good liar above all things, same can be said for spies. I was a spy once, and I was a great liar. I had a wife and I had a little baby girl. Both lie dead six feet under the ground. I never think about them if I can help it, except at night, I always think about 'em, dream about 'em when the moon comes up.
The door is unlocked, I open it slightly and squeeze through the small slither of space I've made for myself. Instantly I'm hit with waves of damp and sweat. All around me funiture lays broken and disused in mouldy heaps and the place is thick with dust. Dust is dead skin, I involuntarily shudder.
The stairs are directly ahead, my intuition tells me this is the place I wanna be, so I quietly take the steep steps upstairs. The landing is narrow, a flimsy banister rail seperates the deep drop and the creaky floor. I place my toes to the edges of the planks, hoping that there is still some strength in the old girls to stop 'em squealin' at the slightest touch. My time and dedication serves me well. I made zero noise. An amazing feat since I'm wearing black, pointed leather shoes.
At the end is a shut door. Now this is the tricky part. If I open it and there's someone in there, I lose my advantage. I open the door a crack and pull out a spoon from another pocket. I poke it into the room and stare at the reflection. I can see only a dark mass. Around the edges of it I can make out a headboard and ash-ridden fireplace.
I'm fascinated by the object, what is it? A coatstand. It shuffles slightly, as if there is a breeze.
Suddenly the mass gets bigger. There's an unearthly squeal and the door is almost pulled off it's hinges. The figure lunges at me, punching the fuck out of my face.
I try to push him off, I can feel blood gushing from my nose, my lip is split in the middle and I can taste and smell the sickly tang of iron. His face comes near mine as he licks it from my cheek.
He goes at me with inhuman strength and will, determined to kill me.
I knee him in the stomach and he keels over. I overpower him and turn him round, smashing him in the face to let him taste his own blood. I quickly take the revolver from my belt and shove it in his face. Whatever primitive urges push him to do this, even they understand that this means massive threat.
I take a good luck at the guy. He's got black hair and red-rimmed eyes, bloodshot to hell and full of cataracts making his lids and brows and oozy mess. His face is so pale it gives off a faint light. His whole body is stick thin and malnourished. The crazed look on his face makes him seem almost wild... rabid.
He's limp now and susceptible to anything as I dig the barrel into his temple.
"I'm looking for a missing girl bud, you gonna tell me where she is?" he doesn't speak and just glares at me. A massive anger fills me up with hatred like a car in a petrol station which is suddenly ignited. I smack him in the face. For a minute he tries to fight back before the gun is at his forehead and he stops again, "silence aint gonna get you anywhere bud, tell me where she is... or at least show me."
His eyes flicker to the wardrobe. I don't look, I know better than that. So pointing my gun at him and grabbing his arm, I pull him up and twist it behind his back. Making sure he always knows exactly where that gun is.
I reach the wardrobe.
"Open it!" I order and with his other arm, he pulls it.
There is a little girl lying naked on the bottom. She has bruises everywhere. I know exactly what he's been doing to her and it makes me sick inside. With the gun, I smack him on the side of the face and he falls to the ground. I aim the gun, real tempted to shoot.
Part of me believed he deserved to be shot, to be dead. Part of me thought he deserved at least some torture. Part of me thought I should just get this thug locked up and try and help this poor girl. Like I said, I didn't know what was right anymore.
I kicked him and punched him till there wasn't a part of his body that wasn't bleeding. His face was so fucked up it was yellow and covered in blood and ooze.
Eventually, I rein myself in and phone the police. Pretty soon they get there and ask me to give a statement. They see the girl, they realise what he's done, they chalk up the clear GBH to his own stupid accident. I carry the girl down the stairs and take her to the hospital.
She too was malnourished and in shock. Her body refused to wake up for a long while. Eventually her little blue eyes, hiding behind her dirty blonde hair, flutter open. She smiles at me and I return it. She was called Molly, we soon found out she had massive internal bleeding that wasn't spotted in time. She dies holding my hand.
I can still remember the way her eyes drifted upwards and her fingers slackened around mine.