0 comments/ 11586 views/ 5 favorites The Last Cigarette By: NoJo Hi Smut-lover, this is a non-erotic story, which just to labour the obvious, means exactly what it says. I often wished Literotica had a "Thriller" category. I'd love that. If it had a "Psychological Thriller" or "Mystery" category, that's where this story would go. I'd love it if you could read this, my first story for five years, and let me know if you found it entertaining, could follow the plot, and whether you'd guessed the ending before you reached it (assuming you can read to the end of it - damned iPhone-sized attention spans these days!). My usual themes are here: paranoia, non-communication, death, hate, murder. Yannow, all the fun stuff. Thanks, Joe. ***** G zipped up his track suit to his chin. Plastic bags flew high above him, riding the icy gusts that played around the tall offices in Sheldon Square. Office workers hurried past, aiming for the relative warmth of the station. But he was headed in the opposite direction, away from the city centre, out to the west along the towpath. It was a three or four mile run. He walked to the canal's edge. The rippled water was black and amber. He coughed and spat steaming phlegm into it. He started off at a steady six miles an hour, his head lowered against the wind. He enjoyed running along the towpath, which ran alongside the canal for its whole length, hundreds of miles, to Birmingham and beyond. He ran most days, simply for pleasure. But today was different. Today he was on an assignment. He passed the Kensal gasworks. The towpath here was deserted and silent, except for the harsh calls of the coots that fluttered irritably out of his way into the water as he padded along. Only a few boats were moored along here, every hundred yards or so. He thought about his target, and how best to kill him. The obvious way was drowning. G would be far away by the time the body was found. He checked his stream of thought, speeding up a little. He didn't like to plan his assassinations, preferring to simply turn up and let circumstances choose the most appropriate method. That made it harder for his actions to be detected, appearing to be random and spontaneous crimes. Which in a way, they often were: His first contact with his targets was also his last. It wasn't as easy as he'd expected to locate the canal boat. It was a wide-beam moored along an unlit stretch of the towpath near Scrubbs Lane. Its colour and name were barely visible in the gloom. There were no other boats nearby. Perfect. He rapped on the cold metal on the side of boat nearest the forward hatch and waited. The hatch opened, and he stepped across the bow onto the swaying front deck. He stooped and entered, descended the three steps into the front of boat. It was cosy and warm. A wood-burning stove smoked in the corner. Before him stood a tall young woman. He'd seen her before. She was a new recruit. She was dressed for the cold, wearing winter boots, gloves and a white floor-length padded winter fleece. Her hair was blonde. A wig. He examined her face momentarily to check that he could trust her. Her eyes were wide with fear, but he was not the cause of it. She was inexperienced. It takes a while to acquire the sang-froid that G possessed. As she passed him to leave, he asked "What time will he be here?" "Eleven-thirty." That was all G needed to know. He felt like asking her how long she'd been with the Agency, but they both knew the rules: Never talk about yourself, never quiz a colleague. Ever. The woman climbed the steps and stood at the threshold, hesitating. She didn't turn around. "I - Be careful. He's strung out." "I will." The boat rocked as she stepped off the deck. G wondered what her body was like when it wasn't bundled up head to toe. G wasn't wearing a watch. He looked around for a clock, found one on the wall-oven. Ten-thirty. He yawned, and looked around at the boat with mild interest. Done up like a Las Vegas hotel room, all very gaudy. Except for that anomalous wood-burning stove, which was too rustic and cottagey. He watched the glow of the fire through its grille. He felt vaguely unsettled by that stove. He paced the corridor than ran along one side of the boat towards the stern, back along the side of the boat, passing the doors to a little bathroom and to another room done out as a tiny office with a desk and a laptop. At the back the corridor ended, opening out into a relatively large bedroom which spanned the full width of the boat. It had a king-size bed. He noticed a neat coil of black mooring-rope on a shelf. Chains with manacles at the corners of the bed. Kinky. He considered using the rope to strangle the target, but found something even better in a long low cupboard that doubled as a window seat: a metal-headed mallet with a long handle, used to knock mooring pins into the ground. He swung it. The handle was too long for him to swing it quickly. He finally decided on an iron mooring pin. Heavy enough to knock a man out. He waited in the bathroom, with the door shut. He made as himself comfortable as he could. The boat rocked wildly, waking G. He'd fallen asleep! He was slumped on the floor jammed between the wall and the little bath. Before he could stir the door floor flew open. The man was big. G saw the knife-blade and was instantly awake. But he didn't stir from the floor. "Where's Clare?" Adrenalin made G's mind work fast. The man was referring to his accomplice, who let him in. So she called herself Clare. "She went out. She - she told me to wait for her. I - fell asleep." "Get the fuck out. Now." G's heart raced as he stood. The man looked ready to strike. The man bundled G out of the boat and almost threw him onto the towpath. He slammed the front hatch shut. A few minutes later, G, who had been lingering a little way down the towpath, frantically considered his next move. Failure in an assignment was not an option. He would have to try again later. No. Better do it now. G recalled what had just happened: The man had accepted G's hasty lie that he was not an intruder but was there to see Clare and was waiting for her. He hadn't even bothered to ask who G was and what he was doing here. So his pretty colleague, "Clare" must have let the man know earlier that she would be getting a visitor. The man had been angry, but at her for being out, not at G for being there. G decided he could go back and confront the man, risking his anger. G returned silently to the boat. He smelled the acrid aroma of skunk smoke. He rapped on the side. No answer. He rapped again. "What the fuck do you want now? Fuck off." "I left my phone." No answer. G stepped onto the deck. The boat rocked. The hatch banged opened as though hit by a cannon-ball. "I told you -" G struck hard with his fist, cracking the man's jaw. The man slumped against the gunwale. G grabbed the man's hair and smashed his forehead repeatedly against the cold metal. He yanked his head back with such force he heard his neck crack, and tore out great tufts his greasy hair. He got a better purchase and smashed the man's face onto the gunwale, again and again. G heaved him over the side and watched for signs of life. The man didn't stir, floating face-down. G felt his heart slow to normal as he stepped back onto the towpath. G's instructions were to head back along the towpath, to Little Venice where he would get his next directive from the agency. Twenty minutes' run. G spat. He padded along, grateful that the cold westerly wind was now behind him. After a few minutes, the image of the little black stove in the houseboat came to him. He slowed down. Why had it disturbed him? Something about his target too disturbed him: G had a good memory for faces and was certain they'd never met. And yet the man had spoken to G almost as if they knew each other. He felt he'd forgotten something important. Back at the boat. He struggled to recall, to recall ... what? His strength and resolve to run ebbed. He stopped, exhausted breathing heavily. He fetched out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pants pocket. There was one left. He popped it in his mouth and - - froze in horror. He didn't smoke. He'd never smoked. And he was about to light it as though it was the most natural thing for him to do. "What's going on?" He said it aloud in the windy night, and his voice sounded small and unreal to him. Suddenly he remembered: He was meant to have taken the laptop from the office, and to deliver it to his agency contact at the assigned rendezvous. The light was on in the office. A half-smoked spliff lay in the ashtray. G felt at the pack of cigarettes through his pocket. Again he fought the urge to smoke. The laptop was open on the desk, switched on. The man had evidently been using it when G had returned to kill him. He studied the screen. Lots of thumbnails. Images? No. Videos. They were webcam recordings. He opened the most recent one. A view from a camera placed in the ceiling near the front hatch. It was G entering the boat! The man had installed motion-activated cameras. If the laptop had been found by the police... Before G unplugged it, he changed the password to the laptop. That way it could be hibernated or switched off and still be able to accessible once it was turned back on. He picked it up and crept out of the boat. His legs felt cramped. He stretched them until he felt ready for more running, then jogged back along the towpath, the laptop under his arm. G was the first customer of the day at the Starbucks in Sheldon Square. He found a seat in a back corner and opened up the laptop. He took a sip from his tap water. He wanted coffee, but he had no money on him. No wallet, no phone. In G's line of work, you don't carry anything that can identify you. He watched the videos. People entering and leaving the boat. All men. Each had stayed for around an hour. He looked at the list of files. There were hundreds of them. Okay, he got the picture, Clare's cover was a hooker. He got the picture, but no sound, so no revealing conversations or names. He closed the explorer window of the list of files. The screen revealed a second window that had been open behind it. More files. But from a different camera. This one was evidently situated in the bedroom. G, checking quickly he was not being watched, opened a video at random. Loud voices from the computer. These had sound! G hunted frantically for the volume control on the laptop, turned the sound down to barely audible. He watched as Clare, dressed in pantyhose, sprawled on the bed while a man stood at the end of it, trousers round his ankles, stroking his dick. She was laughing and teasing him, occasionally stretching out a long stockinged leg and pushing her toes into his groin. G's dick stirred. She was gorgeous, lithe and playful. It was more than just professional curiosity that prompted him to watch more videos. He watched five or six more, and his lust for Clare grew to an obsession. She was a different person with each John, a sneering dominatrix with one, coy and girlish with another, passionate and wild with another. G knew how he would want her: Naked, gagged, manacled and spread-eagled on the bed, arching her back while he licked at her pussy till she screamed a muffled cry of ecstasy into her gag. Then he would... G, oblivious now to his surroundings, launched another video. The John was him. And the scenario, though not exactly what he'd pictured, was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. He wished that he wasn't so bulky, as it often obscured his view of her. But even when most of her was hidden, he could imagine the feel of her under him, her nipples pressing his chest, her cool hands resting on his thighs and ass, his hot dick in her smooth tight pussy... He came to his senses, and realised what he'd just seen. He had no recollection of ever being on the boat, let alone of being with that woman. He fought off terror and confusion. He ran out of the Starbucks and found a secluded bench a little way along the towpath, by Little Venice. He sat heavily. The day was bright and brisk. He shivered with cold. He'd been awake for - how long? He hadn't eaten anything. He opened up the laptop, turned up the volume, and watched himself on video. There was a lot of grunting, sighing and squealing, but no talking. Until later on, after G had shot his load into her mouth, her pussy, and her pretty little ass. He watched. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. He lights a cigarette. Clare, naked, walks over to him, sits on his knee and puts her arms around his shoulders. Like they're lovers. They talk. The conversation was almost impossible to discern, even at full volume: G had to replay it several times. He still didn't get it all. "How are you, honey?" "Great". He kisses her lips gently and lovingly. "You shouldn't smoke. It's stupid." "I know." From this point the conversation became completely inaudible, except: "Promise, you'll go and see her tomorrow? For me? "Yeah, yeah." G stirred. "Go and see her? Who?" He suddenly realised: He'd been drugged. He couldn't remember where he lived. He couldn't remember his name. He was too tired to think any more. He thought of checking into a hospital. There was one just around the corner. He stretched out on the bench and instantly slept. Hours later, G awoke. It was mid-afternoon. He felt sick and exhausted. He still couldn't remember his name, but now an image of a houseboat appeared to him. Was it his own home? He frowned, and finally managed to recall that it was nearby. G found a high black gate on the other side of the canal. Behind it was a hidden row of big static houseboats, all far bigger and more comfortable than the boat he'd just been on. They overlooked the canal, and were fronted with little gardens full of crocuses and daffodils, blossoming in the bright winter sun. G buzzed at intercom. After a minute, a woman came to the gate. "Hello, G, how are you?" She was stern but kind-looking, around sixty years old. She looked good for her age. Slim, like Clare. She called him "George". And she knew him. And he knew her, but from where? He struggled to remember her name. It began with L. Lee! Her name was Lee. And she was a friend... no, not a friend, a friend of, of... "Hi Lee. Is... Clare here?" She didn't react. Yes, she was a friend of Clare. And she was okay. He could trust her. He could trust her. "Clare? No. She's out shopping. Was she expecting you?" "No. Look, can I come in?" "Of course, of course! I think I know why you're here." G stared sharply at her. "Don't feel bad if you've started smoking again. It doesn't always take the first time." "No. It's not that. I... " - He thought quickly - "I'm locked out of my place until tonight and I'm starving!" "Oh! Well, we can soon fix that." Lee fussed around the kitchen and made him sandwiches and tea and biscuits and sat him in her comfy chair. He polished off the food quickly. "How are you, dear?" He relaxed, for the first time in days. Yes he could trust her. He decided he could tell her everything. She would understand. She would help. "Much better thank you." He felt himself unwind, as he gave in to his exhaustion. He looked languidly at his host. "Lee, do you know, do you know what Clare does-" "—does for a living? Yes, G I do. And I can't say I approve." G felt like laughing at her mixture of tolerance and prudishness. "No I can't say I approve. And as for that horrid Vince..." She shot him a glance. Who was Vince? G didn't care. G relaxed further. A crackling log in the fireplace sparked. Then, as he stared at the fireplace. He remembered. He remembered. But it didn't matter. He'd met Lee only yesterday. She was a hypnotherapist. She'd helped him with his smoking. And he wasn't a spy. He was an IT technician. "Lee, I think I've done something bad..." She came to him and pressed her cheek against his own and rocked him slightly. She knelt next to him, placed her hands over his ears and kissed him on the forehead. "No. Not bad. Brave. Thank you." He smelt her fragrance. Classy, and exotic. "You must be so tired. Close your eyes. " G slumped back in the armchair, and closed his eyes. "The tea..." "Yes, George. I put something in the tea to help you relax. Breathe deeply, deeply and slowly. Feel yourself fall deeply, deeply, into relaxation. That's right..." After a few minutes G was hypnotised. He heard her talk of cigarettes, how acrid the taste was. He felt a burning in his chest. He pictured his lungs caked with tar. "Good. Now, go deeper. That's right. Deep down. Deep into hypnosis. Good..." She brought him back to consciousness. "How do you feel?" "Great. Great. Thank you." G had an idea that he had to be somewhere, some unfinished business. He remembered what it was. "Can I ask you just one more thing?" "What?" "I've had this feeling since yesterday that I need to go along the canal, to the aqueduct, you know, that goes over the main road over by Park Royal." "Any idea why?" "None. But it's felt like I have to do something there. Something to do with - what I did last night." "I can't really help you on that. Why don't you go there, maybe you'll remember when you get there." G rose. Lee looked surprised. "Are you going there now?" "Yes, it's bugging me. Tell Clare I'll be back later." "Wait! How are you getting there?" "Running. I feel like it." G left. He felt refreshed by the rest and the food, and felt he could run for twenty miles. An hour later Clare arrived at the houseboat, laden with shopping bags. She dropped them to the floor and took off her coat. "Has he been here? Have you heard from him?" Lee looked sadly at Clare. "No, darling. He's probably in hiding, it might not be safe." Clare noticed something black leaning against the armchair. Vince's laptop. "He was here! He was here. Where is he? What did you say to him?" "Nothing. I - Look. Darling. The police need a murderer. But we can't risk the police questioning him. So he's, he gone, darling. Forget him now." Clare's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" Then Lee told her what had happened. "Clare. He's dead. G is dead." Clare sat heavily in the armchair, stunned. "He told me everything. He seemed very agitated when he came to see me. He said he had something I could help him with besides his smoking addiction, but then he clammed up. So I waited until he was under hypnosis. Wait..." Lee disappeared for a moment, returning with a small MP3 recorder in her hand. "I recorded the session. I always record them. He's a bit incoherent. Listen:" Clare, dazed, heard snippets of Lee's voice on the recorder while she fast forwarded to the part she wanted her to hear: Lee's voice, a gentle sing-song: "G, you said there was something else, not just the smoking. You said you'd tell me later. Can you tell me how I can help you?" A long pause. Then, G's voice, slurred and slow: "I want, I want to kill him. Vince. We've done, we've been doing bad things." "You're not bad, G. What have you done? You can tell me, G. Trust me." "He, we're bad people. He took Clare. He got her into gear, he pimps her out. And she, she..." "I know what she does, G. But you didn't do anything. Did you?" "I help him, and he gives me... Clare. I have to help him, and he lets me have Clare." "How do you help him, G?" "He makes me do things for him. I did his cameras. So he can watch Clare and her tricks. Blackmail them. I drive him around and I get smack for him." "Why do you let him do this to you?" "Because I'm a bad boy and he has to look after me. Mum said so. I'm a nutter. I'm not right." The Last Cigarette "Is Vince your brother, G?" "Yes. I can't do it. I can't kill my brother." Another long pause. "But you want to. Don't you." "Help me. Please..." Clare looked up. "He begged me, so I helped him. While he was under, I made him forget that Vince was his brother. I made him forget everything. That was the only way I could get him to do what he wanted. He said he would only cause trouble if he got arrested. He told me he wanted to die afterwards. "I helped him with that too. Darling, he was dangerous." "But, but he saved me. He came back." Clare's voice was hoarse with emotion. "Yes, he came back. Maybe out of love. But he was right: He's bad. Bad for you. I put something in his tea to help him relax, and then..." Clare suddenly stood and grabbed Lee's arms in wretched fury. Lee was impassive. "Then you told him to kill himself. Where? How?" On the aqueduct G leant over the parapet and gazed at the roaring afternoon traffic a hundred feet below. He climbed onto it and sat down, legs swinging over the edge. He couldn't quite bring himself to jump. "I know what I need, a cigarette." But then he heard Lee's voice, from within his head, rebuking him. "Fuck off. Grant a man a last wish." He lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, deeper, deeper...