Abacus

they’re alive.” These were the only words to come from his mouth for the next two years. His pain was unimaginable.
    Young Randall was powerless and helpless then. He would carry the burden of guilt for not having done anything for the rest of his life. He was no longer the young, helpless scared kid under the table. He was a strong hardened man who would stop at nothing for revenge.
    Now totally satisfied that the street was s afe, Randall got up from the bench seat and crossed the road to the post office. Standing in front of his box, he looked over his shoulder both ways before sliding the key in and opening the small door. Perched on top of a pile of junk mail, he saw two envelopes. He picked up both and could feel that one had a heavier and more bulky feel to it. He looked both ways down the street as he put the envelopes into his inner jacket pocket and walked back to his car.
    Sitting in the driver ’s seat, he checked his mirrors. Full moon tonight so quite easy to see. Two parked cars down the entrance to the lane, both look empty. One has a flat tyre and leaves surrounding it on the ground, it has been there for some time. Rear of the house two doors down on the opposite side has lights on, can’t see movement inside. It is the only house with the bin still out in the lane, inside light must be a timed security one. They’re away. Occasional car driving past the lane on the main street, can’t see the same car more than once. Cat came out of the drain in front. Once satisfied he was not being watched, he eagerly ripped open the first envelope. He read the content of the typed piece of paper and whispered, “Michael Malouf, okay, let’s find out about our next target.”
    After readin g all the information, he pulled off the small passport sized photo that was stapled to the bottom of the page and studied it carefully. Quite recognisable he thought. Male, Middle Eastern background, shaved head and a tattoo of a snake on his neck and wrapped around his head. What a winner. Large scar above left eye. Eyes quite closely set. Gold earrings in both ears and a thick gold chain around neck .
    He opened up the second envelope and saw a plastic sachet that contained a light tan-coloured powder. Flicking the envelope to agitate the lethal powder, he whispered, “And then there was no more Michael Malouf.”
    * * *
    Half an hour later Randall drove around the car park of Balmain Park and scanned the area. No cars, no people, very dark and quiet. Light pole at far end has a blown globe, perfect spot . Taking advantage of the cover he parked beneath it and stared into the darkness. A gentle tap on the passenger’s side window startled him. Randall reached across and unlocked the door. “Job on?” Irish asked.
    “Yep, but first thing s first,” Randall said, reaching across, and quickly patting the outside of his T-shirt and shorts. Now happy their meeting was not being recorded, he handed over the background paperwork and passport photo. “Here are the details and this is what he looks like.”
    Irish held up the photo and looked at it carefully. “He looks like a bad bastard.”
    “Well , you need to have a good look at him and remember him, you know the drill.” Irish punched the details into his phone. As a safeguard, Randall never left the original paperwork or photo with the bait. “All right, hand it back,” Randall ordered. Irish handed him back the document, which Randall stuffed into his pants pocket. “So you’ve got it all now?” he asked, looking around the car park.
    “Got it , Detective.”
    Randall lifted up the cons ole. “And here is the gift, same as usual. Don’t fuck up, don’t hit it up. I will call you in a couple of days.”
    Irish looked into the consol e, pulled the sachet from the envelope and held it up to look at it. “Nasty, nasty stuff this is,” he said, stuffing it into his shorts pocket. “Okay, we’ll speak in a few days.”
    Randall never liked to handle the drug him self. He did his utmost to not leave any evidence such as fingerprints or DNA on anything to do with DL assignments. That is why he always had the bait pick up the drug from the console. He never trusted the bait, and for very good reason.
    * * *
    When he finally reached home, Randall was beat. He staggered into his bedroom, dropped his bag and jacket on the floor, and fell face first onto the bed, fully clothed. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep, but it wasn’t a blissful