The Hitnan: A Tale of Blood and Canes

by Wez Wallie

"De transfer's t'rough Ms Walker, shall we go now?! De marks will be finishing dere day soon enough!"

  "Exactly, Peter. Look, Bognor can't get their act togevver and wire through the payment in good time then they don't get the job done, do they? I'm a professional son, and I ain't no mug. They pay for the best, and Dotty Walker don't do no rush jobs. We'll do it tomorra, 'cos I've still got me afters to come yet and Countdown's on at 4..." (She held up her pocket watch with the presenter's face inside.) "...And if you make me miss my daily fix of Nick Hewer, well, you know how I get, son."

  "Ah, Jaysus naw, Ms Walker, we can't afford anodder meltdown, like! I'm runnin' outta excuses fer de neighbours. Dere's only so many times ye can say I'm practisin' me metal music and smashy drumming! Maybe we should leave it 'til tomorrow den..."

  "Good." She slapped him hard. "And don't take the Lord's name in vain!"

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Dotty and Peader were holed up in the back of the cab once more, planning the day's jobs.

  "Now remember, Ms Walker, dese are all local jobbies, y'understand? Low profile kills now. Dat's why de clients really wanted youse fer de gig."

  "Naturally," she said, browsing her phone. "I'm the best hitter in the game right now."

  "Dis isn't a game, Ms Walker. Dis is bidness. And if we're not seen ta be professional, we'll be seen ta be a liability. And ye know what happens if de Agency deems a contractor ta be a liability now..."

  The Hitnan rolled her eyes and conceded.

  "Good. Okey. So jobbie number one: Postman Patrick McGinnon, (and naw, Ms Walker, I am not makin' that up!) Age 59. Height: 5'10. Waist: 42 inches. I’m told dat de client is house No.6 down de road dere, and de lady tinks he stinks and is opening her birt’day cards when he delivers his rounds."

  "Scoundrel!"

  "Now now, Ms Walker, ye know it's not our place ta judge, like. We get de jobbie done and say nuttin' more."

  "Yeah yeah: 'discretion' this, 'don't go on the Youtube and update me fans about me day,’ that. I geddit, Peter."

  "Argh, yer not back on de Youtubes again, Ms Walker?!"

  "Only sometimes..." she said coyly, before excitedly showing him her page stats on the phone. "Look, me 'Dotty's Diaries' channel is going from strength to strength! 1.3k subs - can you believe it?! I'm monetized now too! Besides, I have to keep me Dotty's Devotees updated so they know I'm still alive and that."

  "But Ms Walker, did’je ferget we got fined only two months ago by de Agency fer dis kind'a ting?!"

  "Relax, scrote, that's because I uploaded a diary vid with copyrighted music on it. How was I s’posed to know I had to contact Ja Rule before uploading it?!"

  "Naw! It was because ye filmed it on de site of our merder scene wit a selfie-stick an’ fergot ta blur de background full of blood!"

  "Yeah, but Youtube were fine about that. I just told 'em it was ketchup."

  "Dere was a severed toe sticking out de corner of d'shot!!"

  "Yeah, that was unfortunate. I thought it was a thumb. Just remind me to crop it next time."

  "Jaysus!"

  "Don't make me bitch-slap you again, Peter."

  "Well now, Ms Walker, ye don't half make me work fer me livin'!"

  "Don't worry. Now I've got an audience, I can move to other social platforms and start monetizing me vids there. There's loads of these kind of places! I mean, only the uvva day I saw a site called 'OnlyFans' on your web history, so I fink I'll sign up to that one later today."

  "NAW MS WALKER, DAT'S A VERY SPECIAL KIND OF SITE!"

  "Awlrite, keep ya flat-cap on, son."

  "Ahem, apologies, I jus’ mean dat uh, dere's not much money on a site like dat and uh, well, see, de Youtubes punish ye if yer use more dan one site, like, odder dan dere's, like..."

  Peader was sweating through his fucking eyeballs. Dotty was too busy getting involved in a comment-section spat again to notice.

  "Poxy Bluebell2012(1), twat-face minger - what the fack you know about tending tomarta plants..." She continued typing furiously to this rando account on the internet, who had had the audacity to say her tomatoes were "sub-optimally lit" and thus "ripened to weak character."

  "Come ooon, Ms Walker, de Postman dere is already halfway t'rough his round, and he's almost at de sweet spot ta do dis ting."

  "One minute, Peter - this bitch thinks she can call me out and act the tough girl all because she's hiding behind an anonymous troll account -"

  Dotty gasped a shriek as her wrinkly eyes bulged in fury -

  "ME TOMMIES ARE NOT COMMUNIST!"

  Dotty threw the phone down and lobbed Peader's laptop at him - "You better find the real name of this horticultural hack - (emphasis on the WHORE!) - so I can belt her ‘til her bells are well and truly blue!"

  "Really, Ms Walker? It's prob'ly jus' sum quack who still lives in dere modder's back bedroom, like, jus' wantin' ta get a rise outta ye. Don't give dem de sadisfaction, now!"

  "Gawd, I need a fag!"

  "Naw, Ms Walker, don't give in, yer doing so well resistin' dat Beelzebum fella now."

  "True. Let's just get to this bloody job, so we can get the rest of 'em done and then I can go 'round that libby luvvie's gaff and fack her shit right up! Right - gimme me cane, fackface."

  Peader shook his head and then felt around in the footwell for the long brown walking stick. "Here ye are, Ms Walker. I'm sorry, remember I lost yer odder one to a doggy-bandit; a real pooch-pilferer, like. But look, I dug yer old one out of de closet. It's not as fancy as de modern one ye were usin' but it'll get de jobbie done."

  She studied the cane. It had long lost its varnish and shine but was sure a sturdy son'a bitch. Hand-crafted with the bark of elder wood rumoured to be from Britain's oldest tree, this cane was handed down through the generations of old fogies in her family. Her recent one was crimson, shiny and modern, and by contrast, bland and factory made. This one though was splintered from decades of use, and by its wear bore character and stock, carrying a history within its wood. It felt familiar in hand and brought back many memories. She thought she had lost this years ago though, and had grieved its loss and moved on, so this was a rather emotional reunion for The Hitnan. She was now grateful Peader had surrendered the other one to a mutt-mugger.

  "I took de liberty of upgradin' it ta how yer odder one functioned, wit de basic slot fer poison darts an' dat, so it should be good ta go. Mind how ye go out dere."

  "Fanks, Peter."

  "Peader, ma’am."

  She left him in the car to do his work, as she set about to do hers.

  It was a slightly overcast day, and he was walking towards her down Wrenthorpe Street, a quiet and personless road where she could do her business. She fiddled about with her clear plastic rain bonnet, the kind all old ladies wear when there's wet in the air. The Postie approached her turf as he looked down having a good nose through the bundle in his hands, and she bumped into him with a rudeboy shove, (like the kind Year 8s do thinking they're hard).

  Letters went everywhere; birthday cards flying off in the breeze!

  "Oh, I am terribly sorry, dear, I felt the tiniest spit-spots of English drizzle so I thought I'd better pop on my bonnet, you see."

  The Postman was on his knees, trying to collect it all up. "Alright, alright, it happens dunnit..."

  His attire looked like an even scruffier Boris Johnson, but he had an egg-shaped head with a small tuft of hair around the sides. Why people like that don't just concede and shave it all off, I don't know, Dotty thought. And sod me, No6. was right - this geezer faaackin' reeks!

  "What was your name, dearie?"

  "Uh... Pat. And don't start love, I ain't got time for the bleedin' jokes. Ah man, my boss is gonna kill me for this!"

  Dotty grinned up at the Lord. She loves a bit of dramatic irony. "Ooh, I'd love to help you down there, dearie, it's just my poor hip doesn't allow me to bend these days..."

  "Yeah, alright leave it to me, old girl."

  She smirked and gently placed the
bottom of her cane on top of his left hand, and softly clicked a button underneath the crook.

  "Ouch!" Patrick withdrew his hand on reflex.

  "Oh, what happened dear?"

  "Erm... nothing..." he said, wiping the top of his hand. "Just got an electric shock off your walking stick I think."

  "Oh, not to worry, love."

  The puncture mark is too fine to be seen with the naked eye, and the envenomation will now seep and spread in his system over the course of the next two hours. Based on the leaked designs of the legendary CIA "heart attack gun", the Agency had developed an invisible poison of their own, using a chemical mix of Wolfsbane and venom extracts from the Golden Dart frog. Once penetrated into the skin, the minuscule poison-laced flechette would disintegrate and dissolve into the bloodstream, resulting in the target suffering a "natural causes" heart attack within 120 minutes, and by which time the victim will be far away from the murder site and no-one will have witnessed anything out of the ordinary, (even if someone had been around to see). By the time any official investigation into the demise is undertaken, the deadly agent will have denatured and become virtually undetectable. No trace of foreign substance will show in toxicology results; no autopsy shall reveal a trace of foul play. A totally clean kill. Yes, the Poison Cane was a reliable tool, and one of her favourite methods of marky-murders, even if it could be considered lazy, and a little too 'easy'. (Well, she is 82 now - sod all that bending!)

  She handed him a single letter she was able to grab before it flew off, which was now slightly damp from the light spittle of rain coming down.

  "Oh, thanks. Look it's alright love, you get on home, and I'll get all these. Don't want you catching a cold, now."

  "Okay, well if you're sure, sweetie."

  She hobbled off back the way she came, maintaining the elderly gait and pace 'til she turned the corner and was out of sight. She threw herself into the back of the cab: "Well?!"

  "Oh, hey dere, Ms Walker! Dat was quick – did’je do it, den?"

  "Course I did it," she said, trying to peer at the laptop screen that Peader seemed to be trying to hide a little. "Just used the usual ticker-clicker, nothing big. Far too easy really - oi, why you googling how to delete your internet history, Peter? I rely on that to find those Irish comedians you watch and whose names I can never remember!"

  "Ohh, I, uh, let's see: Dara O'Brien... uh, Farder Dougal McGuire, and uh, yer man Leo Varadkar... all funny jokers y'know and well easy ta remember, like. No need ta go snooping – uh, I mean, searching fer tings dat way now."

  "Whateva. Come on, get behind the wheel and let's get on with the next one. I'm gonna do some more sleuthing on this Bluebell broad seeing as I'm guessing you've got nowhere."

  *

  Dotty was gloved up and sneaking into the rear kitchen of the local bakery through the rusty window. She knew the two married owners closed for lunch every day at 1pm sharp, and here she was to take sweet, sweet advantage.

  Unfortunately, The Hitnan had a sweet, sweet tooth and began gobbling up all the Viennese Whirls, combo cupcakes, and the caramel shortbread squares laid out on the table before her. She would have had an orgasm right there and then if her oven hadn't sealed up decades ago. (Though she probably could save the couple a fortune on yeast.)

  She was starting to feel a bit iffy now, almost as if she could feel the diabetes forming in her veins and the sugar melting her surprisingly sturdy gums. She was brought to the verge of vomit though when she noticed the "Gender-Neutral Gingerbread Person" sitting watching her from the vegan shelf.

  "Faackin' liberal luvvies! What they gonna ruin next?!" These two have got to go!

  The client had wanted to get rid of these two ever since they changed the recipe of their mainline dough to eliminate gluten, which subsequently had made all of their bread too heavy and "faddy." Also, they apparently lied about the number of calories contained in their personal flapjack creation, which they called the "Mac 'n Jaq's Guilt-Free JaqFlaps," the client allegedly intaking 345 calories instead of the advertised 340 calories a-piece.

  No matter what the couple had done to incur the wrath of their customers, Dotty was happy to be the Allfather's tool of judgement.

  Mac 'n Jaq were already arguing before they sat down at the table in the backroom to munch on their cheese and flour sandwiches, (flour got into everything in their line of business), with the moustachioed Mac asking why his wife can't keep her critiques about his kneading to herself for five minutes, and the only slightly less moustachioed Jaq asking why her husband keeps icing his own paunch.

  This is gonna be fun!

  Dotty was under the table, trying to decide what she's gonna use to do them in with. She had some leeway here, given the whole town knew these two hated each other's guts. So she had license to get somewhat creative. But how should they go? Smother them in dough, maybe, or even just drown them in icing sugar?

  They were still bickering as she tried to decide, and quickly grew frustrated when she could no longer hear herself think. The shrill voice of the wife went right through her bones.

  "Now look what you made me do!!" she said, picking up the stray slice.

  "You can't resell that, Jaq, you dropped it in the mouse poo!"

  "Oh, don't have a heart attack, I'll put the usual ‘pensioner discount’ on this batch - the oldies' taste buds barely work anymore so they just swallow down whatever's put in their gobs! Trust me, they never know the difference!"

  "That's well dodge. But what if it's someone who works for Food Safety from the council pretending to be an oldie?"

  "Well then they must be used to eating rat shit by now."

  Dotty was furious! She had eaten here loads of times and had only ever purchased pensioner-discounted items... this was one evil bitch! The Hitnan would be doing the community a goddamn public service by taking her out.

  By the time Dotty had calmed down, the foghorn had changed the subject, and the pair were now arguing about a potential vacation destination as Jaqui flipped through the pages of a brochure.

  "...Why are you always like this, Mackenzie?! No matter where I suggest it's never good enough! This one is 4* with an infinity pool; how can you have a problem with that?"

  "It don't have a slide, woman! You know I can't enjoy an 'olidy without a swimmy-slide in the pool!"

  "God, I knew I should've gone to dinner with Antonio Banderas that night..."

  "Oh mighty, would you shut the fudge up about Antonio bloody Banderas! It was thirty-odd years ago! And he only asked you out 'cos he was pissed as a newt and thought you looked a bit like Salma Hayek."

  "I did look like her, thank you very much!"

  "Yeah, I agree. You had a face like her hairy armpit!"

  The pair threw down their half-eaten sandwiches and shot up, planting themselves opposite whilst yelling into each other's faces and finger waving with fury through the ensuing flour-cloud.

  Under the table, Dotty had settled on making the whole thing look like a murder/suicide pact, maybe she would even leave their corpses sitting in front of their Gingerbread children and holding hands, presenting a clear and memorable tableau for the feds... anyway, she couldn't wait to do these two in, especially Jaqui. She now had a personal score to settle with her! (And that was without her taking the Lord’s name in vain.)

  Dotty crawled out from under the table as the haze began to clear, putting her hand to her head feigning Alzheimic confusion and asking, "Where am I?", when she opened her eyes to see Mac ‘n Jaq both slumped over the table with rolling pins shoved down each other's throats.

  "Aw," she said, dropping the act and frowning. "Well, that's no fun."

  She was about to head to the window when she saw the batch of Tottenham cake with what appeared to be chocolate raisins within the spongey part but were slung in the corner of the counter on top of the rodent mess, with a Post-It note that simply read: "For the fogies."

  Dotty blew her sodding lid. She trashed the whole place tip to top, and rippe
d the heads off the Gingerbread People, leaving them not only gender non-conforming, but now humanoid-non-conforming to boot.

  "Yeah! That's what I fink of your vegan PC-claptrap!"

  She turned to Jaqui's unmoving carcass, still offending The Hitnan by releasing the cheesy flour-fed whiffs of botty-gasses, almost like one last 'eff you' from beyond the grave. "Right, ya little shit!"

  At first, she was gonna stuff a JaqFlap between Jaq's flaps for a sort of poetic justice, but she thought that was a little obvious. So instead, she just shoved a Chocolate Finger up her pink wafer and called it a day. She don't often interfere with the cadaver's on a job, but this bitch had it coming.

  She went back out through the window and gave them both one last petulant middle finger, before returning to the cab.

  "Oh, hey dere, Ms Walker, how was -"

  "Don't ask. Right, come on - last one."

  *

  The descending sun had come out over the sea, and the salted tides were sparkling below the horizon: a nice visage, which only fed into the lingering deception of reality - which was that of a bitter chill and a wind that could blow your molluscs off. Unfortunately, Marion and Shonny had joined them for the job. (Peader had casually mentioned on the phone to Mal that they were heading over to the seaside to get some "fresh air" and they said they'd like to tag along.)

  After a walk along the shoreline trying to spot the mark with binoculars, Peader whispered to Dotty that he had located the last target and passed her the equipment to see for herself. Unfortunately, when he brought them down, they had left two giant black rings around his eye sockets.

  Shonny was laughing herself silly.

  "Hahaha, Uncle P! You do know those were the toy ones I bought at the joke shop a few minutes ago?!"

  "Watty?!"

  Shonny showed him his face in her pocket make-up mirror, and he saw the black rings making him look like a fat Celtic panda.

  "Argh, I feel a right eejit!"

  Mal was chuckling behind a polite hand over her mouth, but it was not in a spiteful way. She seemed to genuinely enjoy the calamity of the man.