The Shooting Party
I arrive (because I feel I have to look the part) in a long wheel-base Land Rover I've stolen for the occasion and that I've fitted with false plates. The venue is a large farmhouse, almost a small stately home, in the Scottish Lowlands. I give a false name on arrival that matches the booking, show a false ID that matches the false name, sign a false signature and tell a false tale about my background and circumstances. I'm shown to my room by the lady of the house (as it were) and I flirt a bit and she giggles a little. Supper's at seven, she tells me, and everyone's meeting in the hallway to set off towards the moorland at eight tomorrow morning, following breakfast.
I meet the host, a man by the name of Callum Scott, a stocky bald man who smokes cigar after cigar, stopping only to eat and sleep. After dinner he offers me one but I decline, preferring my pipe. We step outside and smoke and enjoy each other's company. I take time to compliment him on his choice of wife - who appears about twenty years younger than him. He smiles and winks and says: "She often keeps me up all night."
Next morning, after breakfast, I'm dressed and in the hallway ready to leave. We're five in the party: Callum Scott, his beater, Sean, me and two other paying guests. Americans. One (like me) is in his sixties, the other in his forties. They have a lot to say for themselves (loudly) and a lot of money and very little class. It's clear to me they've never been out grouse shooting before. I exchange a few polite words with them but it's Sean I'm attracted to.
He's a fifty-something pipe smoker with a neat moustache and wearing a tweed suit. I spot his pocket watch on a chain. I comment on the watch and he explains it's solid gold and was his grandfather's. Then Callum Scott announces that we're off. We have a walk of about two miles up through woodland to get to the open ground where the shooting will take place. With my shotgun broken over my arm and my pipe in my mouth, I take up the rear with Sean. We carry on talking and he explains a bit about the terrain and what we can expect. I ask him a bit about Callum Scott and, reading between the lines, I gather he's not Sean's favourite person.
About a mile in I stumble, drop my shotgun and call out. I'm on the floor and Sean steps over with concern. "Went over on my ankle", I say. "Give me two minutes and I'll be OK." I get up and gingerly test my foot. I limp a bit. Apart from Sean, who's standing next to me, the others are about twenty feet away: Callum Scott with his cigar in his mouth and the two Americans, none of whom are paying me any attention.
Without a word I reach a leather gloved hand inside my tweed jacket. I pull out my automatic, which I've already fitted with a silencer. In a swift movement, I raise the gun and fire off three suppressed shots, one for each of Callum Scott and the Americans. I hit each one in the head (at twenty feet, I don't find that difficult) and they drop to the floor. I turn to Sean, who is standing there with a look of shocked amazement and incomprehension on his face. I hold the pistol up and point the silencer at his face.
"Drop the shotgun," I say quietly. He does as he's told. "Let's check Callum Scott and the Yanks," I add and I take him over to where the three bodies are stretched out in the leaves and twigs. I poke each one with my foot but I already know they're dead.
I turn to Sean. "I'm sorry. I'm paid to kill Callum Scott. The Americans are just collateral damage but I enjoyed wasting all of them... You, on the other hand. Well, I like you so believe me I'm not going to take any pleasure in this."
Sean opens his mouth to speak but I don't want to prolong his agony and I shoot my fourth bullet into his face. He goes down, still with that look of shock on his face. I look around at the four dead bodies, fill my pipe and light it, sending large plumes of smoke into the air around me. I bend down and lift the gold watch out of Sean's pocket and slip it into my own. And I look down at his dead body and say, "Sorry about that, really I am."
With my pipe in the corner of my mouth I pick up the shotgun I dropped when I "fell" and walk back to the farmhouse. On the way back I stop and take a moment to think, perched on the fence dividing the farmhouse garden from the woodland. Eventually, with regret, I make a decision and walk up to the farmhouse. Callum Scott's wife is alone in the hallway and I approach, my leather gloved hands behind my back.
"Oh, you've come back!" she says, as if it wasn't obvious. I say nothing, bring the silenced automatic round from behind my back and drop her with a shot to the face. I make my way up to my room and pick up my bag.
My husband warns me about getting attached to people I know I'm going to have to waste. He's right, of course, but I can't help it. In Sean's case, I was really getting to like him. I'm soppy like that.
I refill my pipe and light it, fire up the engine and drive the Land Rover down the lane to the highway. They probably won't be found for hours, possibly not until the next day. By that time I will be back home, entwined in the arms of my husband. He'll ask me how it went. I'll give him the pocket watch as a present. The more I tell him about the hit, the more turned on we both get and, when fluids have been exchanged, we'll both light out pipes and settle back for a good smoke before we go to sleep.


















