The Assassin Sonnets: A to J

A: ASSASSIN

It is the simplicity that always
leads him astray. The clean lines of a gun;
the narrow focus upon the heart, or
the tricky head shot. He catches himself
dozing as he oils and cleans the barrel.

For Jon Kopek, these are halcyon days:
One man’s tragedy is another’s fun,
as he sights along Glastonbury Tor
and whispers ‘any prize from the top shelf’
for hitmen with the hippest apparel.

His own trademark is a vintage guitar
case, stolen from the wreck of Bolan’s car.
Into his crosshairs – laughing, blonde and tanned -
steps the latest martyr to quit a band.

B: BULLETS

No death is natural. We could all live
forever, if not for the cool agents
of entropy in their mirrored glasses
and mannered clothes. But Kopek does not give
a fuck for fashion, if mere style prevents
him from hitting home: To kick fat arses
with a pointy toed Italian shoe
is a fitting use for hand tooled leather.

Bullets are not bee stings. There is magic
in murder, commensurate with the pain
it brings. He is not too troubled whether
the outcomes are just, deplored or tragic,
so long as there is change. ‘What is the gain
without loss?’ he asks. ‘When will it be you?’

C: COUNTING

He counts the shots, for each spent cartridge must
be found and taken from the scene. As dust
still settles, he is already long gone.

For one moment, reflected sunlight shone
from his telescopic sights and he feared
discovery, but no police appeared.

Two hits to the abdomen; upper right
chest; neck; left eye and a clean miss. His fight
or flight reflexes kick in and he runs.

Six, he thinks. Six, as he unscrews the gun’s
silencer, scorching his fingers on hot
metal. Descending the Tor at a trot.

He conceals the weapon up his coat sleeve.
A crowd gathers, but no-one sees him leave.

D: DESTINY

A hippie girl offers to read his palm;
cordite stains and all. She fails to divine
any hint of death in his destiny.

Instead, she fixes on what she believes
he is carrying. No, not some karmic
weight. Rather, she is fooled by the decoy
of a cheap guitar and talk of music.

Kopek is hyper from his kill, yet calm
on the surface. Marc’s spirit gives no sign
how close the girl is to eternity.

Oblivious, she holds his hand and weaves
a web of wishful thinking round the lie
that is his life. He is loath to destroy
her world. Besides, he needs an alibi.

E: EJECTED

Her name sounds like a joke: Diane De’Ath.
What were her parents on? he wonders, as
the light of candles on her hennaed hair
gives it a sheen like blood.

Like blood, her hair
pools round her head, resembling a mortal
wound too much for his comfort.

Discomfort
with this image makes him more aware than
ever of the brass shells in his pocket,
digging into his skin.

His skin feels cold
with fear, yet hers is cooler. Her copper
bangles ting with the same dead note struck by
ejected cartridges hitting the ground.

‘Ground yourself,’ she urges. ‘Breathe deep and slow,
while concentrating on a candle’s glow.’

F: FORENSICS

Outside, in the Glastonbury mud, there
is a tent raised over the remains. White
garbed forensic officers seek in vain
for clues. Other than the angle of fire,
there is little to report. No motive
is obvious for this professional
hit. Police start to interview the crowd.

No-one is permitted to leave, but there
is no way to stop them breaking the white
and blue tape barriers. It is a vain hope
that a few stoned hippies round a campfire
will provide much assistance. Yet motive
must be found, or else professional
pride is dented and law lost in the crowd.

G: GNOMON

‘Peace, man.’ He splits his fingers in a Spock
salute. ‘How are things in Olde Dock Green?’

The copper stays expressive as a rock
and asks, ‘Where were you at 3 o’clock, son?’

‘You shock me, bobby. Am I a suspect?
I’m just here to rock. So chill out, my friend.’

‘There’s no need to mock. A man is dead, so
answer my question or I’ll lock you up.’

‘Look, I ain’t got no clock. Concepts of Time
are fascist thoughts in which I place no stock.’

‘Between Hillage and Hawkwind’s Sonic Shock,
then. Or is the linear too baroque?’

‘Touché, bluebottle. Let’s not measure cock.
Ask me again and I won’t knock you back.’

H: HIDING

This interrogation comes far too late,
for the evidence is now well concealed.
He has flushed the shells down a chemical
toilet and exchanged his coat for a pot
of lentil soup. The gun is broken up
into components that form integral
parts of his guitar and case. His clothes are
grimed enough so they don’t look designer.
He smells of incense, patchouli oil and
sweaty sex. If there are powder burns on
his hand, they are contaminated by
honest dirt. Diane doesn’t know what day
it is, let alone the time they first met:
Fucked into endorphin based amnesia.

I: INSPIRED

His spare gear is stashed in a locker at
Taunton station. He has a wash and shave
in the public toilets. He is not sure
whether to keep his hair long, so ties it
back with an elastic band. He changes
clothes in a cubicle and emerges
wired: Ready to move on to his next hit.

He could leave Diane behind. She is sat
beneath the destination board and would
not notice him, unless he gave a sign.
She smells of violets. Her voice is pure,
as she sings a song from the hit parade
that he can’t stand. Something changes: His heart
surges and he feels inspired to trust it.

J: JOURNEY

‘I thought you were a local girl,’ he says.
It is a question. ‘The whole world is my
home,’ she answers with evasion. ‘I go
where the Goddess wills.’ Her eyes are wide with
kohl and pagan zeal. ‘I am not the road;
I am the wheel.’ Oh yes, he thinks. And my
life is a roller coaster ride of kills.

The chrome finish of his car is argent,
clean as maidens’ tears. There is music in
this man; raw and urgent, that no-one hears
but her. She breathes the antique leather trim
and swallows travel sickness. The grey clouds
of his eyes cast a shadow that obscures
his slickness. The Goddess says, ‘Go with him.’

(Parts K to Z to follow)