Watch Them Try

The clock had just turned one.

It was dark, freezing cold, and silent. The only sound Kevvo could hear was his heartbeat as it thumped thumped thumped in his chest.

“Fucking come on then,” he said under his breath, his face pressed up against the front door.

For hours he’d been staring through the peephole, ready for when they made their move. He didn’t know when it would come, but he knew sooner or later they’d try to take him out.

They’d been following him for weeks now – hidden away in the bushes, lurking behind corners, and driving cars you wouldn’t look at twice – watching his every move. They were clever, too. Every time you turned to catch them in the act, they were gone, vanished from sight.

To the untrained eye, they didn’t exist, but Kevvo was no ordinary geezer.

Head of the firm, he was the top boy, the big fucking cheese in the little town of Bognor Regis. Starting the building company in his early twenties, he’d quickly risen to the top of the pack, and now, three decades later, the business he’d founded had become the South’s largest building contractor.

And lurking out there were his enemies, those who wanted to see him brought down.

You don’t get to the position that Kevvo was in without stepping on the heads of those too weak to assert themselves. These snakes, the ones you have to crush to get ahead in the world, had a habit of holding onto a grudge.

His face was becoming sore as he pressed hard against the cold wood of the door. His vision was blurring, having focused on the narrow space through the tiny hole for too long. On the other side of the glass, he could see the small landing just outside his door, and to the right, the stairs leading down to the main entrance. This was the only way they could get to him. If they wanted to ambush him, they’d have no luck. From his vantage point, Kevvo had the only entrance covered.

In his hands he fingered the baseball bat. The solid wood felt good, sturdy. He’d bought it a decade ago, when he first realised he needed to be on the lookout for snakes in the grass. His wife thought he was mad, thought he was losing the plot, but she soon discovered just what these people were capable of, the things they would do to get to him.

Sarah had died of cancer almost eight years ago now. It was abundantly clear to Kevvo that his enemies had poisoned her, using some advanced chemical warfare to put the disease into his wife’s bloodstream. These people made him sick. Standing over her bed, he was filled with rage. His enemies, the people who wanted him dead, truly were some sick bastards. Poisoning his wife just to get to him.

Of course, he’d not allowed her to leave the house. Back then, living in the large, detached home, he had a spare bedroom converted to a makeshift care unit. He would take care of her; it wasn’t worth the risk of shuttling her back and forth from the hospital, risking another attack when she was already so weak.

He’d read up on cancer treatments; he knew the doctors were in on it. They had no interest in curing his wife, in saving her life, that he knew for sure. At home, she was in much better hands. With Kevvo, she’d get the very best of care money could buy.

He treated her with a daily regime of colloidal silver and colon cleansing. She lost weight rapidly, deteriorating before his eyes, but still he treated her with the cutting-edge medicine he’d read about online.

The day she died, he knew it was all their doing. When they were constantly plotting on his downfall, his treatments were in vain. There was no way he could keep her cancer at bay when they were still somehow poisoning her. Right as she’d be on the brink of recovery, they’d slip in under the cover of night and put her right back to square one.

With his wife gone, Kevvo knew he was the prime target. He sold the house and moved bases. He took up residence on the top floor of the Fitzleet Tower, hidden away from the prying eyes of the Judases ready to cut him down at any moment.

From up in his flat, he could look down on the world. Each time he peeked from the window he’d see more unfamiliar vans and cars parked over the road. He knew the little old ladies he’d see shuffling across the street were their agents in disguise. His mind raced with imagining the implements of torture they carried in their shopping carts.

These agents of doom walked through the street totally hidden from the civilians around them. It took a trained eye to notice what they really were.

Everywhere he looked, he could see them, spying on him, waiting for the right moment to attack.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

Every night for the last eight years, he’d been standing at this door. His business had fallen from his control, which he knew was another sign of his enemies conspiring against him. He knew they’d infiltrated his company and turned his best people against him. One by one, his team began to see him as the problem!

They’d see who was the problem soon enough.

Turning from the door, he chanced a look behind him. The small living room which once held a sofa and television had been emptied, the furniture dropped out the top-floor window. Now, in the centre of the space sat four large drums. Kevvo eyed the liquid floating inside, just visible through the sturdy plastic.

In his pocket, he could feel the reassuring weight of the lighter against his leg.

Everyone was conspiring against him. Everyone told him he was losing the plot. They’d taken his wife and taken his business.

Soon they’d come for his life.

Just watch them try.