Photograph
It was the song that saved him. See, I never get sentimental. I got a scolton laser aimed at your noggin, you’re already rat meat. Guess I’m lucky it was a mission for myself, not a contract.
The guy was some kinda Earthophile, collected stuff scavenged from Earth. And apparently he had this photo of me, from before I left. Or a photo I was in, anyway. Last picture of me in existence. Thought I’d erased them all, then I heard about this one. Can’t have stray photographs lying around in my profession. Don’t want people being able to recognise you when you’re paid to kill them.
So I tracked him to Garasene, this desert planet. Seriously? He couldn’t have lived somewhere central galaxy, with hotels and jacuzzis or something? Nope, I had to poncho up and get sand in my boxers. I knew there was a reason I never worked on Edge planets.
He lived out in the middle of nowhere, in this sandswept cubby house a mile from the nearest village. Sand dunes piled up against the outside like frozen waves. The house — if you could call it that — had no doors or windows, just holes that feathers of sand sometimes blew through. I wanted to shoot the holes. Put something in them mate. Block the sand out.
I stepped inside, unholstered my laser. Wiped sticky sweat from my forehead. The sand dunes carried on inside like lumpy carpets. Paint peeled off the walls and fell onto the shabby walnut cabinets that rose out of the sand. Books were strewn over the cabinets. A fan hung limp from the ceiling. It wasn’t even connected to anything.
I whipped my laser up in a flash. “On your knees.”
He’d come through a doorway in front and to the right. He froze, his back to me. I had the scolton pointed straight at those wafting strands of grey hair still stuck to his scalp. His sweater had wide gouges in the fabric. It looked like it might be a genuine antique Earth sweater. No wonder he had this wretched bolt hole full of sand and wind. Probably needed something to mask the smell of the all the old stuff he had here.
He slowly levered himself down on to his knees. His sandals flopped off at angles from his feet.
“Hands behind your head. The photo of Bristol spaceport-where is it?”
He complied and pointed to a cabinet on the left. “In the top drawer.” His voice was like gin poured over gravel. I stepped sideways, foot over foot, laser still leveled at his head. I saw the edge of his hook nose in profile, and the lines creasing his neck where the leathery skin flapped loose.
And that’s when I heard the song.
It drifted in through a window hole in the wall. Maybe from a room behind, I don’t know. Some old Earth folk song that mum used to sing to me. Stupid really. Just some guy with this scratchy voice noodling on his guitar and singing something about have you ever seen the rain? Course I have, idiot. But I wasn’t the most popular kid back then. Some days I’d come home without my shoes. Maybe without my shirt. And mum would make me a drink and a hug, and she’d put this song on and sing to me. And I’d imagine all the bad things that happened were like this guy’s rain, imagine they were just cleaning me down until the sun came out and dried me off.
I just stood there and listened, one arm held out towards the drawer. Stood like that through the whole song until it faded out to silence, and I knew I wasn’t going to kill him.
And then one of those old Beatle songs came on. I almost shot him.
And that’s it really. Left him there on his knees with his photos and his songs and his ornamental ceiling fan. It’s funny you know, but I could’ve sworn I saw that fan move when I turned and left. Just out the corner of my eye.
Me, I’m still kicking around the galaxy. More stealth stuff these days. In-out, get some shady stuff and disappear type jobs. I mean, I’m not completely clean. A job goes south sometimes. That’s just how it happens. I take the odd job on the Edge planets now too. Some pretty places out there — wouldn’t want to live on them, but nice for a visit now and then.
Not Garasene though, never been back there. Bloody sand. I like to wonder if Earthophile’s still out there in his desert-shack though, with his photo of Bristol spaceport.
I always imagine he is.
This story was based on this week’s writing prompt:
