Neil White - FALLEN IDOLS

When he returned, the buyer was on his shoulder, smartly dressed in a black suit, but nervous, twitchy, looking around, walking slowly. A large holdall clunked heavily as it was set down on the floor. The buyer took in the view from the window, the blinds clinking shut as Sophie exchanged shrugs with Ben. They had a weird one.

‘Isn’t it a great view?’ Ben said, with saccharine sincerity. ‘It makes this property a popular one. In fact, you’re the third one today.’

The buyer turned around, smiling. Maybe guessed the lie. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I’m sorry.’

Ben flashed a look of disappointment as the buyer rummaged in the bag, looking for paper to make some notes, words coming out as a distracted mumble.

But then Sophie sensed something was wrong when she saw Ben’s eyes grow wide. Then she heard him splutter, ‘What the fuck?’

‘Scream and I’ll shoot.’

It was said polite and slow, as if the buyer were making conversation.

Sophie looked. She saw two handguns, one in each hand, long and mean charcoal steel, pointing straight at their heads.

Henri Dumas walked quickly through Soho, baseball cap on his head, hiding behind Gucci sunglasses, dodging between the tight T-shirts, admiring glances, men on the hunt.

As one of the biggest football stars in the Premiership, it was hard to walk around. Autographs, photographs, shaking hands. He preferred his car, with its tinted privacy. He liked Soho even less. Streets came at him from all sides, dog-legged twists of neon and movement; he was always scared of being photographed looking into the wrong shop, the wrong bar.

He sensed the mutter as he walked past pavement cafes, past busy pubs, alleys, sex shops, clubs. Men smiled at him, tilted and flirted as he passed them. If he just kept walking, he could get there. Get away from the glare, the seediness.

He thought about turning back, but he knew he had to get to the meet. He thought about his fiancée, the other half of a new celebrity brand, millions in the making. She sang in a band, he played football, and the press loved them, the new golden couple. They bought their contrived paparazzi snaps, so-called secret pictures set up by his agent and rehearsed until the look was just right, and filled the column inches with every new style or story. The press loved his Gallic verve, his brooding dark eyes, strong jaw, flowing dark hair. Their engagement was great business. On his own, he kicked a football. Together, they dominated the glossies, every word they spoke worth something.

He checked his watch. He was going to be early. He didn’t like that, but he knew how the English liked to be on time. And if he didn’t get there, his life as a tabloid hero would be over. At least, in the way he’d known it.

He stepped up the pace.

Back at the apartment, Ben was facedown on the floor, his hands behind his back, his nose pressed against the cherry wood. His eyes were wide, his breaths hot and heavy. Sophie was astride his legs, binding his wrists with silver duct tape, tight and strong, her tears falling onto his back, hot and wet. There was a gun pressed hard into the back of her neck, the other one aimed at the back of Ben’s head.

Once she’d finished his bindings, Sophie looked round. She saw the muzzle of the gun and shrank back.

‘Get on the floor, face down.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ wailed Sophie, tears streaming down her face. She was scared, the sounds coming in fast, her instincts running faster.

The gun was pressed harder into Ben’s neck.

‘Sophie!’ he yelled, his voice quivering.

Sophie dropped her head, the tears now a stream.

The buyer put the other gun softly under Sophie’s chin and lifted it, her streaked face coming back into view. Sophie opened her eyes slowly, the sparkle gone.

‘Do as you are told or I’ll kill him.’

It was said calmly, almost gently.

Sophie nodded, understanding, and she felt leaden inside. She lay down on her stomach, felt the buyer sit astride her, and then her wrists were strapped together by the duct tape. She was pulled onto her knees, then Ben as well, the buyer panting, straining.

Sophie watched as the buyer picked up the duct tape once more and walked over to them. She knew what was coming, and so she dipped her head to her chest, vainly trying to get her mouth out of the way.

She shot a look as she heard Ben gasp, coughing in pain. The gun was pushed into his throat, lifting up his head slowly. Ben was gulping back tears, the buyer over him.

Sophie closed her eyes as Ben closed his, and then she heard the rip of the duct tape, heard Ben’s grunts as it was stretched over his face.

Sophie opened her eyes when she sensed the buyer standing over her. She glanced at Ben. He was red in the face, breathing hard, trying to get his lungs to catch up through his nose, his chest heaving, tears running over the silver tape. Sophie stared up at the buyer and then put her head back. The duct tape went over her mouth as well, but Sophie’s eyes stared hard, trying to show she was strong.

Sophie watched as the buyer wandered over to the window and checked the time. The light breeze fluttered around the apartment for a while, before the buyer stepped back from the window and removed a tripod from the bag, opening the legs out on the floor before pulling out a collection of rags which clunked heavily. As the rags were unfolded, Sophie saw the pieces of a rifle.

She closed her eyes and prayed as she listened to the rifle being assembled, the soft clicks joined by Ben’s deep breaths and the chatter and movement of Old Compton Street, the soundtrack to a glorious afternoon in Soho.

Henri Dumas looked around and checked his watch, a TAG Heuer. Five more minutes and then he was gone.

He saw people looking at him. He shuffled nervously. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Some kids across the road were staring at him, pushing each other, egging on one of their number to speak to him.

He checked his watch again. The kids started walking over the road, one of them being pushed to the front, camera in hand.

Shit. Not what he needed. He pulled out his phone.

The crowds didn’t hear the crack of the rifle. Neither did Dumas. He just felt the hot slice of the bullet and then went to his knees as it crashed through him. His breath caught, his hand went to his chest, the view of the street slammed into a blur, the neon and movement changed into rainbows, just streaks of colour as he turned. The crowd rushed back into his head, a loud murmur of concern as he bent over, trying to work out what the splash of red had been. It was by his feet, a tail of splashes that tracked his spin as he sank to his knees.

He took a breath but it didn’t come. A waiter started to come towards him. The kids had stopped in the road. Dumas looked up, confused. Why was he gasping? Why was he burning inside?

The waiter didn’t get there in time. The rumble of the crowd made way for the sound of the second shot, a loud crack, and then the people around him began to scream when his head shot back, away from the cafe, a spurt of blood spraying an arc in the air as he crumpled onto his back, coughing blood onto his cheeks.

Henri Dumas was dead before anyone reached him, his Penck phone tumbling from his hand, soiled silver against the grey of the pavement.

Sophie could hear feet banging on the floor, shuffling, scared, then she realised they were her own. She could hear the screams from outside, the sound of panic spreading, people trying to get off the street. She put her head back, began to moan. She glanced over at Ben. His eyes were wild, his breaths trying hard to keep up, the gag making his face go red. Her ears still rang from the shots. The first shot had bounced around the room until it seemed to come back at itself. Then the second shot had filled her head, and she knew from the way the buyer relaxed that what had needed doing was done.