Wet Work

My Dad taught me to shoot when I was about 14 years old. He was a lovely man, gentle and popular. He had learned to shoot during a long and highly decorated career in the army and it was a passion of his, one he could not share with my mother who was always unkind to me, mainly I think, because she resented my relationship with him. I was good at shooting pistols and long guns and he encouraged me a lot. At University I joined the gun club and became even more proficient. When I was old enough, he took me shooting deer and wild boar in Central Asia. I was, he said, a natural at stalking and shooting. I felt as proud as I ever had. When he left the army he took up a position as a lecturer in Fine Art at the local University. His students loved him but not as much as I did; nobody could. My sexuality never bothered my father. He was not remotely surprised when I told him but we both knew that it would be another nail in the coffin of my relationship with mother and so it proved to be. I left home, bought a flat with Dad’s secret help and lived, briefly, with a woman which was fine until I caught her in my bed with another woman. I had come home early from a course I had attended in London, hoping to surprise her and I certainly achieved that particular aim. I sneaked up to our bedroom and thought I could hear the TV. I was wrong. When I opened the door, there was Sylvie, her legs wide, her mane of golden hair spread across the pillows and a red head bobbing between her thighs. The situation was made worse when I realised her companion was wearing my nightdress – the special one I wore because it made Sylvie so horny. I watched, unable to move as the red head moved and hands went over Sylvie’s, my Sylvie’s breasts and squeezed the nipples I had squeezed. bahis siteleri I saw Sylvie’s face and then, damn her, I heard her say the things she had said to me. I slammed the door and ran to the sitting room where I sat on the floor, back to the wall and cried like a baby. Sylvie moved out and I cried for a week. Dad’s office at the University was fairly typical; books everywhere and works of art, some valuable, some by his students, lining the walls. I was sitting in a leather chair sipping a glass of his egregious sherry. I was twenty-five years old and single. Dad went to the door and locked it. This was unusual. Her returned to his seat. ‘What I am about to reveal to you will shock you. Please, Mel, hear me out, don’t interrupt.’ He handed me a piece of paper which was statement from a Swiss bank. I immediately recognised the name of the account holder but it was not Dad’s name but the name of a character in the stories he used to extemporize for me before I went to sleep. There were very few entries on it and all were deposits of large sums, the balance was just under four million dollars. ‘This is how I was able to help you buy your flat. I have another life, Mel. The name on that account is false of course as you know but the money is very real.’ ‘But Dad……’ ‘Be patient, I am going to explain but you must, you absolutely must hear me out. When I was in the army I was not just good at shooting. I leaned many skills and operated in a famous regiment. You knew none of this but I promise it is true. Since I left I have continued to use my skills, sometimes for the government, sometimes for private clients. I kill people, Mel. I am a hired gun. I am approaching retirement, the eyes and reflexes begin to let one down at my age.’ This is, of canlı bahis siteleri course, the sort of conversation one has with a parent every day. You may imagine my surprise; no total incredulity. It was clearly obvious to him and expected. He continued calmly. ‘I know this is a lot to take in but I assure you it is true and I am telling you now for a very good reason. I want you to join the family business. You have all the skills and one particular talent that is of huge importance. ‘I do not kill for reasons of anything other than national security. I am not a butcher. I am more like a surgeon, removing cancers. I have absolutely no qualms about my work and, when I show you a few things, nor will you.’ He passed me a file with an instruction to read it carefully. I did so and as I did he began marking some essays and sipping his sherry. I asked, ‘Do you by any chance have a gin and tonic or a scotch?’ He smiled, took away my glass of sherry and replaced it with a large balloon of brandy. I read. I read of terrorists shot or blown up; of businessmen who had sold fake drugs to third world countries; of paedophiles who had escaped justice. One case was a judge who had taken bribes to free prolific murderers. Another concerned a head of state who had been involved in the systematic torture and destruction of opponents of his regime. The catalogue of vile individuals, small satans, was long and impressive. The file was made up of press reports and a few official looking documents. I still could not believe these were the work of my lovely Dad. As I placed the file back on his desk he smiled at me. ‘You still don’t believe do you?’ ‘Are you surprised?’ ‘Not at all. I swear it is true and that apart form three other people in the world you are canlı bahis the only person whom I have told.’ He took the file and placed it in a safe that I had never seen, concealed as it was behind some books. He replaced the books and sat again. He took a sip of sherry. ‘Tomorrow, Mel, we are going to London. Bring an overnight bag. We are going to an hotel where we will meet two of those other people. One of whom you will recognise, one you will not. Now, come on, let’s go and get some dinner. I will answer any questions I can over a steak.’ By the end of dinner I was convinced. I had never known him lie and I knew he was not now. My Dad was an assassin, albeit one on the right side. Why did he need me? That was the one question he could not answer all evening, despite my repeatedly asking him. The following day we went to London. The hotel was just off Pall Mall and we made our way to a private meeting room. There were two people already there, coffee pot and cups on a table between them. The man stood to greet us. The woman, whom I recognised as a very senior government Minister remained seated. The male was, it was explained to me, the head of a very secret department of the Ministry of Defence. I will call him Mr Smith. I shall refer to her as Ms Jones. Thus it was that I learned that what Dad had convinced me of the night before was entirely true as, by then, I knew it must be. Smith, tall and urbane, explained why they wanted me to join the ‘family business.’ If Dad said I had the skills it was accepted. His imminent retirement meant that others would be needed to replace him and although the military could find plenty there was a need for a female and urgently. ‘Tonight,’ said Smith, ‘you will stay here in this hotel. You must decide tonight if you are willing to join us. Whatever you decide we will respect but on no account must you say anything to anyone; understood?’ Oh, I understood alright. They wanted me, a simple art restorer to follow in father’s footsteps.