What am I supposed to do, perform bloody magic? He thought as he lay in bed. The hotel room was a depressing beige with moth holes in the blackout curtains covering the balcony window.
Not that there was much of a view, the barren car park, and the back of Sainsburys. 8am and the sun shone into the drab room like bullet holes. The thought made his chest ache.
An envelope lay on the bedside table. He’d turned it over in his hands a hundred times during the night. He’d sleep much easier once it was delivered instead of sitting there, like a ticking time bomb. The issue was delivering it. He couldn’t let it out of his sight and so a courier of any kind was out of the question. But the two of them couldn’t be seen together.
It had been 17 days since he’d made contact. It was too soon to involve the police. Stick to his orders, report back, and get paid. Money was an issue. Let the client decide on how to proceed, just get paid, and move on.
His thoughts whirred. Surveillance at a designated drop off point may be the only option. The phone rang on the desk. He leaped up like he’d been electrocuted. Throwing on his jeans, shoes, and shirt, he pulled his phone charger from the plug socket, grabbed the envelope and his jacket, and quietly slid open the balcony door.
“Shit” Stuffing the iphone charger cable into his pocket he realised the plug was still in the socket, covered with his fingerprints. Hitting the ground from the first-floor balcony stung the soles of his feet. He rounded the corner, attempting to button his shirt and look as normal as possible when he heard the crackle of the police radios. Envelope in hand, he ran.
Kate Reilly James 