Cash and Blood

Part 1 - The rules

Jason had never seen a gun in person before, but the one on the table was

definitely real. So was the graze on his temple where the pistol had been jammed a few moments ago. Sitting at his small kitchen table, under sterile white light, he felt like he was in an interrogation room - the kind where you leave by confession or not at all.

Opposite him was a woman dressed in black, from her smart shoes to neat leather gloves. Her hair was in a meticulously tidy bun and her expression a poker face. She seemed calm but Jason knew she would be on him in an instant if he tried anything, like grabbing the gun. She was probably taunting him by leaving it there, like setting a mouse trap. Jason didn’t like being the mouse. Also within his reach was a bulging envelope which the woman had produced from her jacket after withdrawing the gun from his temple. The room was quiet except for the buzzing of the fridge and the suburban sounds outside, where everything was normal.

"Open it", the woman finally said in a measured tone.

Hesitantly and with trembling hands Jason drew the envelope nearer, his fingers inches from the gun. He glanced at it, then back to the woman. She stared back smirking. She wanted him to grab it so she could break his arm. Defeated, Jason's eyes sank back to the envelope. He peered inside. Money. Actually a shitload of money. If only there weren’t a spring-loaded psychopath holding him hostage this would be perfect. What the hell was going on? Who was this woman? What did…

"It's $20,000", she stated curtly. Her persistent eye contact instructed Jason to respond.

"W-w-w..", he cleared his throat, composing himself. "What for?".

"It's for you. You're going to help me". Again her demeanour prised words from Jason.

"For me? Help you how? You must have the wrong guy, I don't kn.."

"Precisely", the woman interjected. "You don't know who I am and, as far as anyone knows, I have no clue who you are."

"What do you know abo.."

"I know, Jason, what matters to you, like the safety of your estranged wife, your daughter, Lily. Let's leave it at that”. The woman paused deliberately while the words sank in. “That money is yours, to do with what you wish. Although, I wouldn't recommend a cab to the police station or anything silly". The poisoned glee in her eye as she looked at the gun accelerated Jason’s heart rate. Focussing back on Jason's eyes she added: "This gift is, of course, not completely free", at which she revealed a little black notebook. Its edges were frayed and the page ends yellowed. She again decreed Jason to "open it", sliding it to the table's centre - their Checkpoint Charlie.

Jason opened it to a blank page. Flicking backwards he arrived at some text. The first 20 pages contained lists of names and addresses, all accompanied by a passport-sized photo. Many entries were struck out. Jason didn't know whether to read the book, say something, or just scream. He was so tense and shaky he could barely focus on the words. He recognised no names or faces, but various addresses were nearby.

"Those crossed out have been killed". The woman's tone was more relaxed than the words warranted. "I need you to cross out another name". At this, Jason cocked his head. Words danced on his lips, but the woman answered his question before he could ask it: "by killing someone". Jason almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. He smacked the book closed, pushing it and the envelope back to the woman.

"You can't be serious", he chuckled nervously. "I've never even had a bar fight. Keep the money, I promise I won't go to the police, no one will know about this". He was rambling now and the woman remained incredulous: "I-I can't do that, there must be someone else, you've got...", but before he finished his appeal the woman whipped her hand forward, painfully grabbing a handful of his hair, and slammed his face into the table."

Time stopped.

The pain was instant.

The shock stifled Jason's scream of pain and distress to a choked and teary "fuck". The crack of his nose on the table was horrific, how he imagined the gun would sound, and the blood flowed rapidly. His blurred vision registered the woman settling back into her seat and thrusting the notebook, with the money, back at him.

"I apologise for giving you the impression you had a choice". She handed Jason the towel hanging on the draw behind her. Jason's nose burned and was definitely broken. He was dazed but extremely alert, flinching as the towel was offered to him. He gingerly tended to his injury, feeling like a child who'd just fallen foul of a stunt always doomed to fail in the eyes of an onlooking parent.

The regular household sounds around them were peppered with Jason's grunts and sharp inhalations of pain.

"This is terribly simple, so I’d listen from now on. You will contribute to my organisation by erasing a name in that notebook, as a token of appreciation you have received $20,000. How you do so is up to you, it can be anyone from the book. Afterwards, I will return to collect the book and you will never see me again". She paused, and Jason realised he was meant to confirm he understood. He decided to just hurriedly nod.

"I’m sure you know the implications of deviating from your task". Jason instinctively dropped his gaze and cowered, clearly pleasing the woman. She stood up to leave and collected the gun, ensuring Jason looked down the barrel.

Jason's nose throbbed and he winced as he spoke: "Why me?", which came out quietly, "what did I do?". The woman faced Jason, brandishing a smile of pity. "Nothing, you didn't do anything. You're a nobody, with no job and no close family or friends. You're responsible for no one. You may be a father but only in spirit”. She sighed. “You're a ghost, Jason. No one is going to miss you, or wonder why you're acting strangely as you complete your task". All this came out in the indifferent, cold tone of their whole interaction. Then, harshly, she continued: "you're a useless fuck that I've been following for a while, sizing up, watching you have nothing to do in your life. You're perfect for this", as a mean smile tinged her lips she said: "I will see you again in one week, or less if you are efficient". Finally she looked at the envelope of cash and added: "We’re not monsters, you’ll thank us eventually", with which she exited the room the way she’d come in holding Jason at gunpoint. Then he was alone with his thoughts and broken nose for company.

Part 2 - Complete the task

Sleep was out of the question. Jason paced around his kitchen, hovered by his phone desperate to dial…, well anyone, poured drinks and punched the walls as he came to terms with how trapped he was. Finally, in the small hours of the morning, numbed by alcohol, he slumped at the kitchen table with the notebook and cash. His hair was a mess, his front covered in dried blood and his face gaunt. His anger was giving way and he felt tears welling up in his eyes. Soon he was sobbing.

After some time, Jason started to feel more collected. The notebook sat so innocently on the table before him. The book of the dead and damned, he mused. He didn’t want to look inside, that would make this all too real. But he knew he was past the point of pretending this wasn’t happening, and realised he had been the moment he opened the door to the woman. Biting the bullet and opening the first page he found a Michael Broderick. There were some notes under his personal information and photo: he went by ‘Raz’, dealt cocaine, and his common hangouts were listed. He looked away in despair and wondered what this woman’s organisation was. Was she trying to help get drugs off the street, to do good? Yeah, right. She was probably from a rival drug cartel trying to increase their market share, getting nobodies like him to do the dirty work.

Flicking through the pages was like walking through a cemetery and realising that under every headstone was a person who had hoped, dreamt, sinned, loved. This feeling of sonder struck him in his tired drunken state. The people in the notebook were all criminals, so maybe it didn’t matter so much if he did kill one. At this thought he stopped. Was he really considering this? The inevitable answer to this question loomed over him. Of course he was, what other choice was there? He could just kill himself, but that would be a death sentence for his daughter. What was the chance of him living through this anyway? He sipped idly on his drink while time seemed to race by, offering up no solution to his problem. He was strapped in for the ride and there were no brakes. He didn’t dare look out of the window, certain there would be a black sedan ominously watching him, like in a gangster movie.

The more Jason stewed over his situation, the less it shocked him. He was ripping through a bottle of vodka. In different circumstances he might have felt good being given a purpose. He’d been drifting for the past 8 months since losing his job, living on welfare and his scraps of savings. He started to think, was he really anymore fucked now than he had been sitting on his ass with no prospects? This wasn’t the first time he’d dived deep into the bottle and seen no way out. Besides, he’d been paid this time. 20 g’s was a lot of money. 30 years in prison would be a lot if he got caught. Still he’d rather that than know he left his daughter to die.

The following day was rolling in and by now one thought had cemented itself into Jason’s exhausted mind: “fuck it”. If he got away with this, everyone would be safe and he could use the money to get back on his feet or have some counselling for having killed a man. It’s a win-win really. Jason was not a small guy either. Years in a warehouse had made their mark in his solid figure. He noted the cracks he had punched into the doorframe. That could be a man’s skull, some low-life drug dealer. Jason could take someone like that. In this sudden wave of conviction, even confidence, Jason fetched the notebook and began to rifle through the pages. “There we go”, he said aloud after a few minutes. Don Chealey, a.k.a Reggie. A weed dealer, known to do business only a few blocks from Jason’s place and, importantly, a skinny guy who often smoked himself. Still with his nose aching, a hangover starting to creep in and resigned to this fate of kill or be killed, Jason’s last thread of rationale snapped. He was going to kill a man.

It took a simple phone call to set up a deal with Reggie, for 1 AM in an alleyway off of Main Street. It took Jason just 10 minutes to walk there, a knife concealed up his sleeve. It took Jason 8 seconds to unsheathe the knife. It took Reggie only 5 seconds to pull a gun. It took the bullet 23 milliseconds to rip through Jason’s abdomen.

In the cold night Jason lay, on the verge of unconsciousness, bleeding out. As his last breaths counted down, he saw the woman approach. She reached into his pocket, taking only the notebook, ready to pass it to its next unlucky victim.