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Fiction Short Story

by Margaret B. Davidson

Assassin

Unable to concentrate on grading mid-terms, Neville sighed and threw his marker down. So much still to do, and the department chair had made it clear that if his grades were late again it would not be appreciated. Neville knew the only thing saving him from being fired was that he had tenure. He got up, shrugged into his tweed jacket, exited the building and strode across campus.

It was close to noon and the Cap and Gown was crowded. Barely acknowledging greetings from colleagues and students, Neville shoved his way through the throng and plunked down on a stool at the end of the bar. A double Dewars, neat, was placed before him, and after a healthy swallow he stared into the amber liquid and mulled over the events of the previous night.

He’d had a glass or two of Scotch while waiting for his wife to come home. Perhaps it was more than two; Hannah was late, and he’d lost track. When she finally came in, the scathing glance she cast toward his empty glass made him cringe.

“You’re late, and I was worried,” he’d said, trying not to sound too accusatory.

“I have class Monday nights.”

“Yes, but …”

“Some of us hung around to talk.”

“You’re never home any more, Hannah.” He tried to steady his voice, but succeeded only in sounding tremulous. “You’re involved with somebody, aren’t you?”

She ignored his question, instead glanced meaningfully again at his empty glass. “I’m going to bed.”

Hannah stalked out of the room. Neville heard her climb the stairs, and then the inevitable sharp click that told him she’d locked the bedroom door.

When he’d awoken on the couch this morning, Hannah had already left for her morning jog. There was a terse note on the kitchen table informing him she’d decided to spend a few days in Chicago with her sister, Jane. She was leaving on a late afternoon flight.

Neville’s thoughts returned to the present. Taking another sip from his glass, he held the liquor in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed, appreciating the spread of warmth as the liquid reached his gut. He knew he should cut down on his drinking, but right now it was the only thing that brought him solace. He didn’t think for a moment that Hannah was going to visit her sister, but there was no point in calling to check because he knew her sister would cover for her. Neville finished the remainder of the Scotch in one gulp, and signaled the bartender for a refill.

It was an hour later when Neville glanced in the mirror that ran along the back of the bar. What he saw as the crowd parted for a moment was a woman, sitting at a table in a corner of the room, in deep conversation with a man. He could see only the back of her head, but he knew it was Hannah.

Wobbling slightly, Neville slid from the stool and threaded his way to the back of the room. There was a table with a vacant chair directly behind Hannah, and Neville sat down, his back to her, but close enough to hear some of her conversation.

“A gun would be the quick …” Laughter erupted from a group at the next table, and the rest of Hannah’s sentence was lost.

“I’d opt for strangulation. Less messy.” The stranger’s voice was resonant and easier to hear.

“I’m not sure, Matt, strangling means you have to …. It sort of turns my …”

“It’s not as if you’re doing it yourself.”

“True.” Hannah laughed.

There was a buzzing in Neville’s ears as he came to his feet, and the room seemed to swirl around him in a scarlet haze. He stumbled to the door, not caring who he shoved out the way in the process. He staggered outside, swaying on his feet as he took a gulp of fresh air.

Somebody took his arm. Neville tried to free himself. Unsuccessful, he took a swing at his assailant.

“Okay, okay, it’s just me — Peter. You’ve overdone it again, haven’t you, Neville? Come on, I’ll get you home.”

The next thing Neville remembered was somebody standing behind him as he retched over a toilet. He groaned.

“Take it easy, old chap. Can you manage on your own for a bit?”

A few minutes later, Neville shuffled from the bathroom to find his friend Peter in the kitchen scooping coffee into the pot.

“Ah, here you are. Feeling better?”

Neville dropped onto a chair as the horror of his situation came flooding back.

“Peter, I need to call the police.”

“What on earth for? Your getting drunk again was downright stupid, but it’s hardly a police matter, although if you keep it up you might not be so lucky next—”

“Hannah is trying to kill me.”

“Now why would she want to do that?”

“I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise for years, but now I think she only married me for the money.”

“Money?”

Neville sighed. “My mother left me quite well off, you know. If I were to die Hannah would be a rich woman.”

“But she’s already spending your money, isn’t she?”

“Peter, I heard them talking. She’s hired somebody to kill me. Don’t you see, she’s involved with somebody else, but if she divorces me she loses everything.”

“Here, take a swig of this.” Peter handed him a mug of coffee. “You’ve really gone overboard this time, old chap. This has to stop, you know.”

“I’m telling you, I’m going to be shot or strangled—”

“Don’t be an ass, Neville. Come on, drink up and then go lie down. You’ll feel better in an hour or so.”

Neville lay on the couch, but was afraid to sleep. What could he do? The police wouldn’t believe him anymore than Peter had. His reputation as a drunkard was well-known, the sergeant himself having escorted him home a time or two. In spite of himself, he fell asleep.

Neville awoke with a start, jerked upright on the couch. “Oh, my God. That’s it!” Hannah was taking a writing class, right? She had a writing partner, right? It was a story the two were writing. A story! He couldn’t believe what a colossal fool he’d almost made of himself. Neville lay back again, overwhelmed with relief. He was on the verge of dosing off again when he was aroused by the ringing of the doorbell.

Peter was waiting on the doorstep. “Thought I’d better check on you again,” he said.

“Listen, I’m sorry about what happened—”

“You gonna leave me standing here, old chap?”

“No, no, come in.” Neville closed the door behind his friend and turned to face him. “I’ve made the most colossal fool of myself, Peter.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word. Mind if I pour us a hair of the dog, old chap? Want to talk something over with you.”

“College business?”

“In a way. I’m retiring from academic life.” He poured two Scotches and handed one to Neville who’d sank back onto the couch in surprise.

Once settled in the chair opposite, Peter smiled. “Drink up, old chap.”

Neville took a swig, closing his eyes in enjoyment. When he opened them he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Awfully sorry about this old chap. But you gave me the idea yourself, you know.”

“But—You— I thought—“

“We’ve been friends a long time, Neville. But then I began to fancy Hannah.”

“You’re going to kill me because you’re having an affair with my wife?”

“Well, it’s really more because of the money, old chap. In any event, the way I’ve got it planned is she’ll come home day after tomorrow to find you dead, but by then I’ll be safely abroad where nobody is likely to find me. After a suitable length of time Hannah will join me, after your estate is settled of course.”

“Peter, I’ll give you the mon—”

There was a small popping sound, and Neville slumped forward, the smoky flavor of Scotch still on his tongue.


About the Author
Born and raised in England, Margaret B.Davidson now resides in upstate New York. She has about 300 stories published in print and online magazines. Margaret's husband provides moral support for her writing, but has long since given up expecting that her endeavors will help pay the mortgage. Margaret may be reached at MargaretDa@aol.com.