“It’s done.”
“W-what…you mean…?”
“Yes. It went exactly as planned, no one saw. Just get down here and sort this out will you? We’ve got to clean this up before anyone suspects something.”
“O-OK.”
“And Jimmy?”
“Yes?”
“Do me a favour and don’t tell Michael.”
“But he’s going to want-”
“I know, but this stays between me and you.”
The line cut off before Jimmy could say anything else. He stared at the receiver in his shaking hand and swallowed hard. Right then, he thought, time for work.

--

Annoyingly, it wasn’t the actual sound of the buzzing of the alarm clock that woke Dr. Robert K Stevens up, but rather the sound of the alarm hitting the floor and breaking, making a deranged sound like a strangled beaver before finally cutting out. Stevens stared at the grey ceiling above his head darkly. He was trying to remember ever setting his alarm on for such a ridiculous time, because his shift had just ended. After a few moments of blinking, and replaying last night’s events in his head, he concluded that he must have set his alarm for 11am rather than 11pm. Stevens rubbed his forehead. Perhaps it would have been more unfortunate if he’d actually been having a good dream.

--

It was hard to think straight when you’d just seen your Dad pull a gun out of his pocket, then throw it on the bed. Jennifer wasn’t an expert on the topic of guns, but she didn’t imagine that throwing them around was a good idea, never mind the fact that her Dad was just a suit, what was he doing with a gun??
He was scratching the back of his neck as the voice on the phone was explaining something to him.
“Yes, that would explain it. They must have hit me with something; I can barely remember a thing.”
To Jennifer’s horror he reached over and picked the gun up, pushing the phone into his ear with his shoulder as he checked it over.
“I fired two, but I’m not sure if they hit anything. I think it came to old fashioned blows quite quickly.” He said before putting the gun back on the bed.
“I’m fine. Did they take it in the end?” he asked, his hand in his pocket, concentrating. Jennifer watched from the corner that she’d backed into. “I don’t have it. I thought maybe if you were there now-” He grimaced and swore under his breath. “I’ll get on it right away.” He said before cutting the line. The phone joined the gun on the bed, and he rubbed his eyes. Jennifer pressed back into the wall further and made the cupboard doors shut properly, making them clatter and he turned on her quickly. He’d obviously forgotten that she was there, and after a moment he swore again.
“What’s going on Dad?” she asked in a small voice.
He regarded her for a moment, before breathing in deeply, as though bracing himself.
“First things first, I’m not your Dad.”
“What?” she said in the same small voice. “Who the hell are you then?”
He gave a sort of laugh, bordering on nervousness.
“That’s not as easy a question to answer as you might think.”
“Why?”
He looked at her quietly again, and it looked like he was trying to think of the best way to put something.
“This is going to take a while to explain, and I fancy a cup of tea, and I’ll bet that you do too.”

--

Derek felt sick. He didn’t know what it was, it’s not like he’d had that much to eat, but he felt sick. He couldn’t understand it, but it’d felt like there’d…it was like there’d been something in the air which he’d just breathed, something other than the nitrogen, oxygen and carbon dioxide and the normal things you find in air. It didn’t have a smell, but it felt like something had just sort of hit him, and felt weighty in his lungs before the feeling disappeared. And now he felt ill. He felt like he couldn’t see, and his stomach was turning, and his head was suddenly pounding. What the hell was going on? Why was he suddenly feeling like this?

He tried to get up, he had to go somewhere, get some help. He wasn’t alright. His feet had bled, and he’d been fine. Heck he’d tried suicide before, and he’d been fine. But he wasn’t alright now, and he admitted that this time he needed help. He was on his knees, reaching into his bag and pockets, fumbling for his phone. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he see clearly? Why was he feeling dizzy? Why couldn’t he feel his hands anymore?

Finally he’d reached his phone, and his bag fell beside him on the floor. Come on, he told himself, just press 999, and tell them what’s happening. What are you going to tell them? That you’re at the cemetery? Like they’re going to believe you. No, come on, phone them, and admit it, for once you need help.
He’d only just pressed the second ‘9’ before his sight went completely and he felt the damp grass suddenly start pressing into his face as he fell onto the ground with a soft thud in between his parents’ graves.

--