The Assassin (1)

The writer hit the alarm clock, switched on the bedside lamp and thought about the day ahead. He intended to begin a new story that morning, and this was a disquieting prospect. However, he was always nervous at this stage of the process, so he also felt strangely calm.

He brought his arm back under the covers because the room was cold. He remembered that he had woken at some point during the night and seen his wife standing at the window.

‘What’s the matter?’ he’d asked.

‘Nothing,’ she’d said. ‘It’s snowing. Come and see. It’s beautiful.’

But he had been very comfortable where he was and had declined her invitation.

His wife was asleep. He fitted himself against her back and put his arm round her.

He decided to sketch out the opening sentences of the story in his head before getting up and going downstairs to his desk.

The writer hit the alarm clock, switched on the bedside lamp and thought about the day ahead. His wife was asleep. He fitted himself against her back and put his arm round her.

Outside, a character from his new story was walking through the snow. Glancing up at the house he saw a faint light through a gap in the curtains at one of the windows. He imagined a bed in that room, with a man like himself lying in it. Perhaps there was someone there with him, a wife or lover. The man would not want to face the day, cold and snowy as it was. He’d prefer to stay in bed, warm and safe. But he’d have to get up, because he was a writer and he intended to begin a new story that morning.

The man outside was not a writer. He did not yet have a name, or an occupation. These were things over which he had no control: he might turn out to be a farmer, or a policeman, or a tramp, or even a hired assassin. This was a disquieting prospect. However, he was always nervous at this stage of the process, so he also felt strangely calm. If he was required to kill someone, he would do it.