His screams became bubbles as his head was submerged.

We watched in silence, the three of us, me in the middle. His legs, tied together and to the crane hook, moved back and forth like the little mermaid’s tail. He must have known this was it, his good night, but he struggled fiercely nonetheless, using every ounce of air and rage left in his lungs. 

I glanced at the crane operator—up in the box, cigarette hanging from his mouth—watching me for any potential hand signals, up or down. The mermaid continued his futile attempt to swim to safety. I would wait, wait until he stopped splashing about in the murky water. He was of no further use.

It occurred to me that I may have plagiarised this idea. Some Japanese film from the nineties. Sonatine? Yes. Good film. I turned to the others, both born in that same decade. They probably wouldn’t know the film, wouldn’t give a shit. I used to love going to the cinema, seeing new and old films. I don’t remember the last time I went.

The mermaid was still struggling, just about, but the dying of his light was close. I find such theatrics, this way of killing a person, a bit uncouth, but I suppose there’s some beauty in it. The kids seemed to enjoy it, anyway; there were small, psychopathic smiles on both of their faces as the poor bastard stopped moving.

That was Friday anyway. Things were going okay at that point.

#

If I was to compare the criminal organisation I’ve been a part of for over thirty years to a film set, I would be the first assistant director. This role is often abbreviated to AD and is basically the director’s right hand, and that’s what I am to the gaffer. I plan the film schedule, as it were, after breaking down the gaffer’s script, analysing it for what will be needed in regards to cast, crew, location, and equipment. I lead recces, going off to locations to assess their suitability for filming. Managing the set like this helps the gaffer to concentrate on the bigger picture. I understand the gaffer’s vision and am able to co-ordinate with various departments and other external players to make it happen, communicating clearly to let a wide range of people know exactly what is required of them and get them to work together to realise the gaffer’s vision. I have to be a great multi-tasker, paying close attention to what is happening in one scene while getting ready for the next one, while, of course, thinking of creative solutions under pressure when something unexpected happens. An important, trusted role I’ve held for twenty years.

The gaffer had consistently maintained that I’d be allowed to retire at 50. This milestone was a month away from that Friday with the mermaid, and everything was prepared—the villa down on the Spanish coast was set up and my español was actually half-decent. I’d never been worried that the gaffer would go back on his word. He was a murdering, jealous, narcissistic psychopath, no doubt, but he had a proven track record on keeping his word.

However, on the Saturday after the crane kill, 29 days before my big 5-O, the gaffer died at the grand old age of 86, sleeping peacefully next to his beautiful young wife in his million pound property.

His son is younger than me (as is his son’s mum, in fact) and was in line to takeover. He is everything his dad was, but, to borrow an insult from my late dad, he had the added bonus of being a complete bombaclart when it came to honouring his, or anyone else’s, word.

#

I was seventeen and had just come out of a late showing of Full Metal Jacket. I’d gone round the back of the cinema for a piss, as the toilets were too busy inside, but this space was also occupied—by someone getting the shit kicked out of him by two guys. I leaned against the cold wall, replaying Kubrick’s mesmerising battle scene tracking shots in my mind, as I waited for the beating to end. After a couple more minutes of grunts and cracks and moans, I left them to it.

The gaffer had been watching me. When I’d emerged, fully relieved, from the privacy of the next alley along, he’d beckoned me over from the backseat of an expensive-looking car. He was almost as old as I am now.

Your reaction to my men giving that thieving bastard a good braying intrigued me.

My eyes narrowed, meaning what do you mean?

You didn’t seem to have a reaction at all, lad.

Again, I didn’t say anything. I’d had the odd teacher and social worker show a passing concern for this kind of thing, this apparent indifference to violence, as I was growing up. My mum, too, on her better days.

Look, son, what’s the home situation? You got a mam and a dad looking after you?

Just my mam and me at home, sir.

Where’s your daddy?

Prison.

The gaffer nodded, with what I still believe was a genuinely-felt sigh, before saying Often the case with you black folk. He paused briefly, perhaps waiting for a reaction from me; one I didn’t give. He gave a thin smile. That must have sounded like some old white bloke being a racist cunt, eh? It’s society that’s racist, lad, not giving these black dads a chance. The racism is institutionalised, see, to keep your lot down, allus keeping that boot on your faces. I’m lucky enough to be white, so I ain’t had it so bad, but I’ve tasted that shit-encrusted boot, growing up working class, understand. My dad stuck around and had a job all his life, but it killed him; killed him before he were much older than I am now, it did. It taught me that society, these rich cunts in power, weren’t gunna give me owt, so I’d have to take it. And I did. And I do.

He looked at me, his eyes burrowing, before giving a small laugh.

You fancy making some money, son?

I nodded. It seemed to be my only option.

#

Two days after the gaffer’s funeral, and 21 days until my retirement, I was summoned by the son.

His gaff was big, tacky, and incredibly secure; the first two of which could describe the son himself. When I was eventually cleared by two burly security guards at his gates, I was led to his predictably decadent indoor pool. Even though he’d immediately spotted me, he continued his aggressively fast back and forth for several minutes. There was a statue in each corner of the chlorine-soaked room, all cast in the son’s form; naked and muscular like Greek gods. The rocking of el agua against, and sometimes slightly over, the pool’s edge consumed my attention, until, as if there was a sudden edited cut, he was by my side. He looked down at me with a searching look, water sliding down his hairless, toned torso. At six foot myself, he still had a few inches on me. He motioned for me to sit down on one of the cushioned chairs, as he grabbed a towel. He remained standing.

You understand you can’t retire yet, he told me. Even I was surprised by the lack of pleasantries. Not even a hello. Straight to it. I can’t lose both you and my dad within a month.

I never get angry, not really. Definitely not in the way I’ve seen others do. Colleagues and victims and lovers, I’ve seen all sorts over the years, from mildly vexed to full on aggy, directed at me, directed at others, directed at themselves. Sometimes there’s warning, it gradually bubbles up, other times it is like a switch out of nowhere. But in that moment, the moment el hijo went back on the gaffer’s word, I felt a flicker, just for a frame or two, as it rose and fell. If the feeling had lasted any longer, I’d have held his head under the pool’s water until he drowned or I was shot by his security, or both.

But it didn’t, so I just nodded, nodded and said I understood.

#

Some property developer was looking to finesse us out of winning the bid on a development the son was Under no fucking circumstances going to lose out on. Among other things, this developer owned a cinema chain. I sat outside one of them, parked across the street on a recce, having been tailing him all morning. He’d been in there some time, giving me plenty of opportunity to study the film posters lining the outside wall. I didn’t recognise most of the names or faces plastered across them. The few I did looked old.

My birthday, the day before, had come and gone like any other day. Sólo otro día. It no longer held any meaning.

The developer eventually came back out onto the street. He shook hands with another guy, all teeth, and they went their separate ways. A car pulled up and the driver stepped out. The developer got into the driving seat and pulled off. Excellente.

It wasn’t long before I was following him into a high rise car park and, as if I was writing the events to suit my plans, up onto the empty top floor. I immediately parked behind him.

His eyes flashed up to his rearview mirror, not yet scared, and he sprang out his car with the confidence of a lion.

I subtly revealed my gun, nestled into a holster under my jacket, as I marched towards him. He stopped, wide-eyed, before he started to reverse like the gazelle he was.

Wha’gwan, brudda? I would channel my dad, maybe pepper in some more youthful speech patterns too, playing up to my audience. He, my said audience, stopped at the barrier. I got right up against him, my body lightly touching his. People found that kind of proximity uncomfortable. He smelled of the latest film star.

All right, all right, shit, what do you want?

I took a small step back and he straightened up slightly in an attempt to compose himself, fastening a button on his jacket. His suit looked almost as expensive as mine. The gaffer had always insisted I use some of my wages on top quality, tailored clothing.

We need you to back out the Quayside deal.

His eyes were baffled, but his lips started to form a tentative smile within his well-groomed short beard.

Who do you work for?

That an ok or a fuck you? I stepped forward again, sucking my teeth, and forcing him to lean back over the edge of the car park. I could tell he was scared but his small laugh seemed to come from another, more confident, place.

If it was fuck you, will you be hanging me over the edge by my ankles?

Maybe in my younger days. I leaned forward again. His blue tie, caught in the wind, danced vertically beside his head as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer. Man might no longer have the strength to hold you for long enough, you get me?

He looked at me, still with that unusual mixture of confidence and fear.

I know who you are now, who you work for.

Is it. Then best believe the son is much less reasonable than his father was.

I know that you were going to retire and he stopped that.

That flicker again, for one twenty-forth of a second.

Delayed, I corrected. I stood back up straight.

You really believe that?

We’ve gotten off the subject.

Look, I can’t—

I casually grabbed my gun and pushed it into his cheek.

I’m honestly not saying fuck you, it—

It fucking sounds like it, bruv. I calmly pushed the gun further into his soft flesh.

I’m working for someone else on this deal, it isn’t my decision.

I removed the gun from his face, his cheek popping back into shape, and held it by my side.

You’re not making this easy.

Sorry, it’s just that—

This G you work for, he the one told you about me retiring?

I’m meeting with him this afternoon, I can speak to him?

The only outcome the son will accept is your gaffer backing out the deal. Will your gaffer back out the deal?

I mean, he’s not my boss, just—

Will he back out the deal?

No. I mean, you know, I doubt it.

Is it. What would you do, if you was me, you think?

I, I don’t know. It’s tough. The situation, I mean, shit, I just want to make money, you know, I didn’t mean to get involved in… He eyed the gun I still held by my side then started chatting about speaking to his gaffer again and meeting me at his cinema after the last showing. I listened and I didn’t listen.

This situation, these rival powerful psychopaths butting heads, was going to end with us all swimming in blood. I’d been here before, of course, always picking the options that led to the other side drowning, but I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. The schedule was laid out, the son’s script broken down and analysed, but INT. CINEMA – NIGHT was a location I’d yet to do a recce for. The scene wasn’t even in the script. I was okay with this and I was not okay with this.

#

I found myself in the cinema foyer. The lingering smell of popcorn flooded me with nostalgia.

I headed for the Staff Only door, beginning to feel vaguely uneasy as I pushed it open. I was well practised in expecting the unexpected, in thinking creatively when situations went tits up, but it felt different now, being out here alone without a director’s vision to believe in.

The corridor was dark, but the door ahead of me was ajar, faintly illuminating framed faces, old and unknown, either side of me. As I started towards the light I felt more moth than man. I corrected this feeling by relaxing my hand on my gun, still in its holster. As I closed in, a faint sound of dripping increased.

I slowly pushed open the door. The developer sat at his desk, perfectly still. A circle of red, a bullseye newly painted. His leather seat was redecorated in the same colour, wet and slowly dripping. Unexpected? Not quite.

I shouldn’t have come, thought this tired old man in hindsight.

I turned sharply but had barely taken a step before the Staff Only door started to creak open. Two nineties-born colleagues entered. Perhaps there was a window in the office. I turned back. The son stood there, smiling down at me. Mierda.

Fancy seeing you here, he said, looking down at my hand, still resting on the gun in my holster. He held his hand out. I quickly went through my options, expecting the surrender of my gun to be my best. I didn’t have to look behind me to know that the kids had their guns on me.

The son took my gun and shot me in the stomach with it. Straight to it.

I had to look down to confirm I’d actually been hit. I instinctively held my hand against my torso, turning it the same moist red that was becoming the new colour of my previously white silk shirt. I fell down on one knee as my brain caught up to the physical pain.

It took me having to shoot you, for you to finally get down on your knee in respect for your gaffer. The son seemed very proud of himself. His comment, though, was all the encouragement I needed to stand up again. I turned round, using most my strength to hide the pain from my face, and walked towards the kids. They looked past me, at the son, and lowered their guns and stood aside. 

I found my way to screen uno. Small lights on the floor were still on, guiding my way to the seating, but the screen, having been showing some modern retelling of The Invisible Man, was now a large black void. I sat in the centre, about halfway back; my favourite spot.

I am lost in the void, imagining the flicker of images that could always so powerfully make me laugh or cry or philosophise, make me frustrated or angry or triste o feliz. Nothing else in life had really compared to all that. The soft scrape of the door opening, then shutting a couple of seconds later, a set of footsteps barely audible on the carpeted floor, the screen increasingly unfocussed, my blinks getting longer. The son is standing a couple of rows ahead, framed and consumed by black, by the void. The kids must be behind me. He might be talking, it’s hard to tell. I presume the bombaclart’d prefer I let him complete his no doubt incredibly clever speech before they finish me off. Fuck that and fuck hi—

Harry Wilding writes in Nottingham, where he fantasises about planning elaborate heists that steal from the rich to give to the poor. He has had work published by the likes of Popshot, Flash Magazine and Brilliant Flash Fiction. He has recently completed a novella, which his mum thinks is great.