John Ferrier - Minister of Finances, was found dead yesterday afternoon in a bar restroom. Ferrier was thirty-eight when he died, and leaves behind a wife, Margaret and two children, Thomas and Sandra. He was stabbed in the heart as well as the eyes, and was laying flat on the floor. Anyone with information…
“Impossible, we’ve been married for a year…”
“She was mine, at least, until you came along. We were in love. Yet, the day she met you, everything was over. She moved out, she filled for a divorce and I never saw her again. Now,” His he’d a calm tone all the while, forcing it so, despite the screams of rage he wanted to emitted. How horrible life had been without dear Mary! No one to make good meals, no one to talk to him after a hard day, no one to kiss and love, no one to speak of children to, to go to mass with. All there was left was an empty void where his heart had once been, the organ ripped out and chewed before being spat back onto the street.
Quent sat at the bar on a wooden stool and ordered his pint of beer. The place was just as bad as it looked on the outside, cramped, dusty and with the heads of moldy, dead animals hanging from all sorts of places. Luckily, it was still quite early to drink, and there were only a few people, each dressed like Quent himself, with whatever they could afford. Perfect, this only kept getting better. None of these folk would care if John - who looked very out of place with his suit - suddenly disappeared, and none would even suspect him, Quent. He looked too, well, normal.
Instead of going home to his wife (a thought that made Quent’s blood boil), John Ferrier instructed the cab driver to do something very out of the ordinary for a government official, especially at this time of day.
“Driver, take me to the nearest bar.”
The ride was a mere ten minutes or so, but John Ferrier’s - that was his name - feet might of been on fire, at the speed in which he dashed out of the cab, slammed a fistful of decently sized bills and coins into Quent’s hand and entered the building. Now that his adversary was gone, Quent sighed and felt himself shaking, willing his body to not spring into action and capture that man right now, for everything he’d done. No, he told himself, he would get what he deserves soon.
It was a rather cold day that one October, the streets were encased in the damp, wish-wash of a common early morning London shower, the mists of the night before still hanging over the cramped cobblestone streets like a suppressing wave of darkness and calm. The city was all but deserted, saved from total loneliness by a few coach drivers and their steeds and a couple of stray cats hunting for breakfast. It was just about time, as the sun began to stretch over the horizon with it’s golden rays, for him to get to work.
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