I had
only ever required one permit for myself, ten years ago on my father. My mother
had died of cancer four years earlier, a painful process that made her wither
slowly before my eyes. My father’s love for her had faded long before that, preferring
short-term lust with young women. He had been in the pub woeing a future conquest
as I sat in the hospice, watching my mother breathe for the last time.
I wanted to run but I dreamed of justice
instead. I went home and waited, informing the stumbling, drunk, waste of space
his wife had died when he finally decided to return at six a.m. He paused a
moment, then grunted and disappeared upstairs.
Before my mother has been diagnosed I’d
completed a beginner’s course at the local archery club. I was eighteen when
she died, two weeks before starting my accounting course at the university. I joined
their archery club immediately, starting an early part-time job setting up a
bakery before my morning classes. For three years I worked, studied, practiced
and saved my money.
My graduation was a wonderful day
spent celebrating with friends and starting a relationship. A beautiful woman named
Claire, who had been experimenting between men and women for the last year, had
been dancing around me for six months. My sexuality had never been a secret,
but I wasn’t interested in people still exploring their preferences. Claire,
however, was too much of a temptation, and a way to escape.
Our relationship only lasted three
months, but I spent two of those living in a shared house with her. My father merely
grunted as I left, eyes never leaving the T.V. After Claire and I parted I
found a different shared home, preferring to save as much money as possible. For
a year I worked, attended archery practice in the evenings and tournaments at
the weekend, improving my skills until I was winning trophies.
On the fourth anniversary of my
mother’s death I filed for the permit.
Target: My father, Alan Phillips
Justification: Was a terrible husband
to his dying wife. Remains a terrible father, is wasting his late wife’s money and
running her house into the ground.
The woman at the desk nodded, stamping
the form as approved.
‘Good luck. Remember, you only have 48
hours.’
I gave her a cold smile, ‘I only
need four.’
My father was still sleeping off his
latest drunken indulgence when I let myself in. I had my recurve bow in its case.
I took my time assembling it, glancing occasionally at his bloated face, drool
on his chin, the TV’s light reflecting on his red complexion.
I didn’t bother waking him, didn’t
bother with a speech. I was so close there was no way I could miss his heart. He
died instantly. I felt no guilt, no satisfaction. I felt lighter, and relief.
There was a number to call on the back
of the form. In fourty-five minutes two men had shown up to remove the body and
the chair stained with blood. All that was left was blood on the carpet and an
invoice.
The paperwork afterwards was a lot
more exhausting then the murder. Eventually I was transferred the ownership of
the house and its mortgage. My hard-earned savings secured a manageable billing
situation, as well as enough to redecorate the entire house.
For six years I was happy. I had relationships
that ended, but none bad enough to need a permit. I never wanted to kill anyone
else.
Until…
‘I just didn’t think it would be that
hard!’ Claire sobbed as I handed her another tissue, ‘He’s such a prick, and
the stuff he’s done to me…but I just couldn’t do it. And now my permit has run
out.’
Claire had run through her
experimental stage and married a bitter newsagents owner five years ago. They had
a beautiful daughter, Lara.
‘He doesn’t do this sort of thing to
Lara, does he?’ I asked, waving at the burn mark on her arm.
Claire gave a bitter laugh, ‘Trust
me, if he’d ever even hinted about doing this to her, I wouldn’t have
waited to get a permit before killing him.’
‘Does he still come home after work
and sit on the outside decking for a drink?’
‘Yes, he stays out of the way until
dinner’s ready.’
‘And you’re still good friends with
your neighbour, right? The single mum with her own business?’
‘…Yes.’ Claire said, frowning. ‘Why?’
‘I’ll kill him for you. You just
need to make sure Lara is staying somewhere else, and your neighbour lets me use
her upstairs window.’
So three days later, on a Friday, I took
a half-day off work and took my form to the Legal Murder Office.
Target: Tom Hill
Justification: Physically abusing
his wife Claire Hill, my friend.
It was quickly approved and I made
my way to Claire’s neighbour’s house, walking instead of driving in case Tom
recognised my car. Carrying my big bow case was awkward but years of archery had
given me strong arm muscles.
Claire’s neighbour Susan was waiting
with a buffet of food and the kettle ready to boil.
‘I thought we could celebrate, you
know, after. I hate that bastard.’
I set up my bow upstairs and chatted
for two hours with Susan as we waited. Eventually Tom opened the back door and
settled into his favourite chair. The angle was a little awkward, I had to
shoot him in the back three times through his chair before he stopped moving. I
waited five minutes, looking for any twitches, before calling the number on the
back of the form.
Susan watched with me as the men
took the body away.
‘You’re pretty good at this,’ She
remarked, matter of fact. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in killing my
old business partner? She conned me out of a lot of money.’
I watched as Claire stared at where
her husband had died, crying. Were they tears of relief or grief? I wasn’t
sure.
