MING

He was on the balcony waiting. She’d arrive on a motorbike, it saved money. She was part Chinese, a creature of repetition. She was left handed but held her gun in her right hand and drew it from behind her back. He knew her every movement. It started to rain, a sudden deluge that became a torrent. He stepped back from the railing, there she was pulling up on the back of a motorbike. He put down his soda and walked to the exit. There were sixty three stairs down to the street, he’d get her halfway up the stairs. He got to the top of stairs and looked down, she was halfway up shaking her umbrella. He raised his gun to fire, she was twenty steps away when he heard the first shot. He thought he’d fired, but hadn’t pulled the trigger, he felt his knees buckle and his hand could no longer hold his gun. His arm felt limp. He fell forward and was dead as he tumbled past her on the stairs a trail of blood behind him down to the street. The moto drivers didn’t know whether to run for cover. Ming came down the stairs, gun in hand. The moto drivers were frozen, unsure if they’d be next. She knew he was dead, but it was always safer to check. She knelt beside him feeling his coat pockets and found it. She wanted his phone.

‘Call the police’. She called out to know one in particular, but three moto drivers had the number on their speed dial. They were relieved, whatever had happened, she’d stopped shooting.

She ruined a good umbrella, there was a burn hole where the nylon was torn by the bullets thrust. She’d wanted to play pool and relax for an hour, now she’d have to answer police questions, ‘what a way to start a Friday night’ she thought.

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