AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the previous episode, Rhoda Crwys dangerously doubts the unlikelihood of unacknowledged tunnels. Now, a murderess reflects on her career.

The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 42
It had been a simple assignment: find the target and then kill him. OK so normally she’d have preferred not to have to do the finding bit, she’d rather just stick with the killing. But then again they were offering big money this time, €1,635,178 – enough for her to finally call it quits and retire. Sure, it had been fun: bumping off, wiping out, assassinating, executing, liquidating, murdering, exterminating, eliminating, finishing off, doing away, rubbing out, butchering, obliterating, slaying, putting to death, killing and inconveniencing people… but a girl couldn’t do it forever. ‘There has to be a point where the killing stopped and the living began’, she’d tell herself each morning. She was particularly proud of that little line and was determined to use it sooner or later.

This one had seemed a simple assignment – but it was proving more and more complex. She’d had to inconvenience at least twelve so far and still she wasn’t sure she’d got the right one! In fact she was sure that she hadn’t got the right one. The killing would just have to go on at least until the task was complete, if not beyond.

This was less than ideal on a number of counts. The least of which being the fact that leaving a trail of deceased bodies in your wake would, sooner, or probably later, begin to attract the attentions of the police. She just didn’t have the time to kill them as well. If it had been for any other client she’d have demanded extra money by now. She felt the risks involved were bigger than the pay check she was receiving. But then again there were more important motivations than money. She hadn’t let on to anyone (partly as there was no one near to let on to) but this job was personal. Or that was what she thought.

Of course she was getting better at identifying the fakers, or the fake fakers, (or the fake faker fakers to be exact), and dealing with them accordingly. As a rule they were not the brightest of sparks. ‘And tell me,’ she’d coo sweetly into the ear of the latest unsuspecting suspect, once she’d lured them into some compromising position or other, ‘…are you very big in Chattanooga?’

Only the real ‘victim’, the target, the mark, would give the right answer. Anything else would result in a near death experience that was often much nearer than those receiving it had ever have bargained for. So near in fact as to actually result in actual death itself. And on she’d move, continuing her search… her search of the rightanswer to the wrong question.

It had been a tiresome task to date. Without support she had also had to make arrangements for the disappearing of the remains. Under normal conditions this would have been handled by the client and not been something she had to consider. Just go in, do the job, make the call and exit. All and any mess she’d made up to that point would be neatly and efficiently taken care of. But with this job there was no support. She was having to operate alone and unaided and it was taking up precious time when she could be out seeking the real fake faker and doing away with his false existence. It was all very degrading, she was a professional after all. All very frustrating too, having to do your own ‘cleaning’.Very frustrating. And if there’s one thing you don’t want coming after you it is a frustrated female contract inconveniencer.