The Job

Mason Parker is screwed. He's broke, living in a slum-city on the edge of revolutionary mega-metropolis Valhalla, and out of work. Just when he's completely hit the edge, he recieves a phone call asking for his detective skills to work on a case valued at £30,000,000. It's a miracle. But as the details of this job become more and more sinister, Parker realises that his life is in more danger than he thinks. The killer he seeks to catch is now trying to murder him. But then a name crops up. A whispered phrase. "The Worker". A serial killer who effortlesly assainated high-ranking police officers. Is this the killer? Or is this something darker, sacrier, worse than Mason's greatest nightmares?

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5. Done all Wrong

The song that seemed to perfectly recount every sodding detail of my life softly slipped out of my broken radio. I say broken, but it wasn't really. Ever since the earliest moment in my childhood I have described something that's not new as 'broken'. I'm not sure why, exactly. My mother has always said that I have a slight problem with imperfections.

So I guess I was 'broken' then, if I described everything old as broken. Going on twenty five I was.

The thought made me feel slightly sick, almost claustrophobic. I was nearly twenty five and so far I had not accomplished a single thing in my life. Sure, I had tried to solve mysteries, catch maniacs, stop crime in its hastening tracks.

But somehow I had never succeeded.

But here I was, trying again. All I ever did was try, but sometimes just trying was never enough. You couldn't try and catch a serial killer, it just didn't work like that. Some strange, insignificant part of my brain told me that maybe this time, things would be different. But come on, this was the country's, or even the world's top serial killer. And so far in life I hadn't been that lucky.

For a moment I just concentrated on the song, listening to the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club like it was the Holy Grail. Anything to stop me thinking of her. The words echoed painfully in my head:

Done me wrong

Done all wrong.

Beth had died two years ago now. Killed in a car crash, just north of Valhalla, coming to visit me for dinner. It was only when she had finally breathed her last in the hospital bed that I realised how horribly meaningless that offer had been.

Beth had been everything to me. Ever since we had met in the old abandoned train station just off south street she had been everything. I remember she was investigating the crumbling limestone for her uni project, I was sleeping rough. For as long as I lived I would never forget her beautiful, chocolate hair, falling over her eyes so perfectly it made me want to cry. And her eyes. God, her eyes. There wasn't a colour, a word, anything that could describe her eyes.

Turning off the main road, I made a dangerous swerve down the corner of Ferrel Street. My knuckles gripped the wheel so tightly they were turning white.

For the third time in two minutes, I pondered exactly why I was doing this.

Was it the money? No. I didn't care about money anymore.

Was it the attention I would get? Well, partly. I needed to know that people knew I existed.

Was it the man?

Yes, it was the man. It was the fact that this guy, this monster, was going around killing people for the absolute sake of it. The thought made me feel sick. There would be people like Beth, innocent, beautiful people who had died because this man had silenced them.

I needed to do this for them.

I needed to do this for Beth.

As I pulled up to the secret location to get my brief, the quiet whisper-like voices resounded in my ears deafeningly. 

All the wrong I've done will be undone in song...

 

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