Time to Try

London, England.

They had been off the plane for over an hour, and already he felt his irritation heating to anger.

They hadn’t got their bags and were far from being able to leave the airport. Stephanie had flirted

with one of the British Customs guards, called him ‘a cutey’ and almost got her passport denied,

that had taken half an hour to sort out. All the while he had not heard on damn British accent. Most

Americans – all he knew – boasted about how nice the British accent was, how posh it sounded,

how they all sounded rich, classy and intelligent. That might have been the case, if there were any

English people. More often than not, Lyndon Kaller thought it was a conspiracy, that really there

were no English people. That they put them on T.V. or you occasionally met someone with a better

class of accent than the one you yourself possess, you question why and so the government tell you

they’re from England. England was like mars. There really was no natural life on it, nope it was

imported. Stephanie finally finished messing about and they collected their bags slowly moving

through the crowds of people and out of the airport, taking a cab from the airport to central London.

“So where are we staying?”

Stephanie spoke in a giggly voice, and it didn’t matter what she was saying, or what mood she was

in. She argued in a giggly voice and would tell someone that their husband or wife had died in a

giggly voice and a smile on her face. She always smiled. It was like she had been through plastic

surgery in order to keep her lips in that position. Other than that, it would have been rather hard to

have an objection with her. She was a woman of average height, five feet and four inches, she had

long blond hair which reached her back and bright blue eyes under make-up coated eye lids. She

was slim and wore elegant clothes.

“Stay wherever you please.”

“Your father has booked a double room,” giggle giggle. “He’ll be annoyed if I leave you all on your

little lonesome.”

“I’m sure he is aware I can look after myself. Considering my career choice.”

“Oh about that, I want to discuss it with you, have you thought of changing jobs… maybe to

something more appropriate for you.”

He spun on the spot stopping in the middle of the street, people stared, people sighed but they

walked right on. He glared at her, eyes cold as eyes an annoyed expression on his face. “Listen

Stephanie, you do not, I repeat. Do not tell me what to do, you do not suggest careers advice and

you do not play any part in my life. You are not my mother and I am not here on holiday, I only did

not leave you in America because my father told me that you had to come and that you could help,

but I am begging you to mess it up for me because I swear you won’t be going back there.”

“But my visa runs out in three weeks.” Giggle giggle.

He rolled his eyes walking on as fast he could, desperately trying to leave the annoying woman

behind. Yet despite wearing 5 inch heels, she was keeping up with him with little effort. He took a

back road off Park Lane and down to the entrance of the hotel checking in for them. They handed

him a key and sure enough, double room. He would let her have the bed, not because he was being

a gentleman, no. Instead because he would then perhaps get ten minutes of pure heaven, where he

didn’t have to listen to her stupidly annoying voice.

She fell asleep almost instantly when she lay down, not to say that meant that she laid down the

moment they got in. It took a painful amount of time before they progressed to that, she had

unpacked, showered and changed – and the entire time Lyndon had not been able to escape that

voice which made neonates want to kill people. Thank God she wasn’t a mother, who would want to

see the results of that? The child would be the definition of pure evil.

Lyndon spent his time now listening to her snores, snores which shook the world yet still better than

her voice. He opened up his laptop logging onto the WiFi, opening up a word document he made all

the notes he could from the email his father had sent him. Encrypted, no one other than they would

be able to read this email, no one would be able to see what had been sent.

On the document currently was a woman’s name, her age, a picture of her – or three, her address

and her occupation. From this Lyndon was able to use his skills to be able to find her telephone

numbers, the last person she had called, his name was Pete. The last person who had visited her

house, Pete and who she was in a relationship with – Yep, you got it, Pete.

Yet this was the mediocre stuff, Lyndon could craft the internet into his own personal spy device,

and soon enough he had been able to find what she had for breakfast this morning, and most

mornings for that matter and where the food had been bought. By this he could conclude, she lived

quite the life… No wonder really that someone had hired him to, uh, work with her.

Lyndon Kaller had an occupation which most people who did not fully understand it frowned upon,

but those who understood thought was an art form. Not everyone could kill people, take another

person’s money and move on with their life like nothing had happened without the police so much

as knowing their name or what they looked like, and that is why it is considered an art to those who

understand it. Those who are good at it can craft wonderful things, they can spend more time, get

to know the people and make their jobs fun.

Everything was ready to go, tomorrow first thing he would go and get breakfast at Harrods and

meet his new best friend, the lovely young lady Rebecca ‘Bexii’ Sommers.