Gill the Hitwoman – a humorous story.

Gill is a very nice genteel member of my writing group – the most unlikely hitwoman you could imagine. I wrote this little humorous piece for the amusement of the group. I quite enjoyed it.

Gill the Hitwoman

 

‘They were the best times,’ Gill thought miserably, taking a sip of her camomile tea and slumping back in her armchair to watch ‘Strictly’. She really did not want to be watching ‘Strictly’ at all. She wanted to be out there doing something, but the phone, the secret one she always kept safely hidden away in her inner pocket, had not rung for a number of years. She might have to accept that her days of excitement were over. They no longer needed her.

Being on her own this week had made her nostalgic and miserable. This life was not at all satisfying. Somehow the cover story had become the reality. How had that happened? She’d gone along to her writing group, read her beautifully crafted story and played the part. It had been amusing to have this ordinary life until it had become real. The phone hadn’t rung for ages. Now her other life seemed like a dream. She did not like it – not one bit.

‘Yes,’ she sighed, her eyes not really taking in the TV at all, ‘they were the best times.’ She absently rubbed the four scars on her chest and stretched her leg. When the weather turned cold the old scars played up and the plates and screws were making her leg ache. ‘There were some pretty bad moments too,’ she admitted. Four bullet wounds and a completely shattered leg were bound to leave some after-effects. ‘It was the price you paid,’ she muttered ruefully to herself, rubbing away and grimacing. She would have given anything to be back out there in the thick of the action. She missed the adrenalin. This life felt empty.

She kept herself in shape and lived in hope – but working out in the gym seemed so futile these days if there was no application.

She flicked the TV off. She couldn’t stomach ‘Strictly’ tonight. She was too fed up.

Gill mooched off upstairs to inspect her arsenal. Opening the door into her special room always lightened her mood. Just stepping through that door created a radical transformation. In here she was herself. In here she was the trained professional, tuned in to the slightest nuance, her mind focussed and methodical. She even moved differently, lithe like a cat, cool and graceful.

On the wall there were the racks of weapons – the guns, knives and grenades. Gill first went to the wardrobe. Her cat-suits were hanging up there, the disguises and operational gear. She inspected them morbidly. It was hard to think that she might never need to wear them again.

The room had a reassuring effect. She could relax in here.

She sat at her bench and began to work her way through the weapons, expertly breaking them down, cleaning the parts, oiling and putting them back together, sharpening the blades, checking the mechanisms, one after the other. It was a familiar task in which she was fully engrossed. The professionalism, the training, took over. Here she was completely immersed so that life and sad thoughts no longer intruded.

The hours passed. Finally, when everything was done, she rose, shut the door on that life and took herself to bed.

It was three days later that that phone vibrated.

‘002?’ the familiar voice purred.

‘Owl,’ Gill replied. ‘Good to hear from you.’

‘We have a little task,’ Owl said, ‘do you think you are up to it?’

‘I’m up for anything,’ Gill replied. ‘I’ve been bored to tears, champing at the bit.’

‘Ha,’ Owl chuckled. ‘Good to hear it.’

‘Jeremy has been in contact,’ Owl informed her. ‘In the national interest it seems we need to need to remove a few obstacles.’

‘Intrigued,’ Gill murmured.

‘Johnson, Gove, Fox, Rees-Mogg and Davies would do for starters,’ Owl explained.

‘Might prove slightly controversial,’ Gill replied, thinking of the impact that might have.

‘Not if it’s done in the right way,’ Owl said cheerily. ‘That’s why we thought of you. It seemed right up your street. You always come up with the ideas.’

‘I’m not sure how I’d get all those characters together for such an unfortunate accident,’ Gill reflected.

‘We can help there,’ Owl replied sweetly. ‘There’s a vote next Tuesday. Old dear friend Jacob is holding a champagne celebration round at his place. We’ve got you an invite.’

Gill’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’

‘Catering staff,’ Owl explained. ‘An unfortunate accident to one of the normal crew. Might be an opportunity for a spot of ricin in the grouse or polonium in the pop?’

Already Gill’s mind was working overtime – bodyguards, escape routes, disguises, body searches. A big smile lit up her face. This was the life – or at least the deaths – that she was craving.