Eleanor's Dead

The Alley

"And she's sixteen, you say?"

"Around that age, I think."

"Bleached blonde?"

"Exactly, she's called Isabel but goes by Izzy."

The two men had taken refuge in the dingy alleyway in between the happy-go-lucky pizza place, the sign of which cast colourful neon shadows that danced on the pavement as the light levels flickered and faltered, and the abandoned cinema that had been shut down since 2001, it's non existent security provided a good place for underaged teenagers to drink and smoke their putrid cigars without risking getting caught by the police. Indeed, despite the heavily soundproof walls, one of their blaring parties could be heard now as the emergency fire escape door banged open and shut, the lock that kept it in place having been broken just weeks after the bankruptcy.

The taller of the two - a young lad that looked to be in his early 20s - glared reproachfully as a giggling group of girls passed and entered the rampaging disco, banging the thick metal door behind them. The sharp scar that crossed the bridge of his nose reflected the faint red and yellow glow better than the rest of his scowling face, making the thin line pop out even more than it usually did.

"How much has he paid?" He asked, extracting a notebook of thin sheeted paper and a clear plastic bag which crinkled in his hands.

"Nothing yet, he promised me a fair amount when we got it done though." The other said, leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed protectively over his chest.

"So you are dumber than you look." He stated, not looking up as he sprinkled a line of the dark green substance over the paper.

"He wouldn't try anything, we've known each other for years."

"Another one of your flaws, Areineil." He tutted, licking the paper shut and clasping the cigar in his lips as his dark eyes met Areineil's shockingly blue ones. "You trust too easily."

"You don't know him the way I do," Areineil said defensively, uncrossing his arms and letting them swing to his sides, a trace of sharp, shining metal glittering from inside one of the oversized sleeves of his worn-down black leather jacket.

"No," he replied, pulling out a matchbox from his dark blue jeans, "You're right, I don't." He struck a match against the honeycomb red surface on the side of the box, curiously observing the bright flame that sparkled in the reflection of his eyes, before holding it out to the tip of the cigar. "Which is why I won't do it."

"I have a lighter if you want, mate," Areineil said, scrunching his nose and tilting his head, causing his limp blond curls to fall from their even side part.

"I don't trust lighters." He said as if proving a point, letting out a long puff of air and following the swirling trail of smoke with his eyes as it fled into the sky.

Areineil sighed, "You're one hell of an enigma Vincent."

"I try to be," Vincent responded as he dropped the remainder of the smouldering cigar onto the concrete paved ground, smothering its heat with the tip of his polished black shoe.

"So, you'll do it."

"I'll give you till sunrise to convince me."

"So it's a no then."

"It's a no, Areineil," Vincent said, smiling faintly, causing his scar to jag slightly to the right.

"Well, then I best be off," Areineil sighed, pushing himself off of the wall and sticking his left hand out to Vincent, who awkwardly shook it with his right, "Call me if you change your mind."

"I wouldn't stay up waiting!" Vincent called after the retreating figure, who turned and gave a final wave before disappearing behind the pizza place corner.

Vincent smiled again, running his slender fingers through his dark auburn hair before dropping his hand down. From the inside pocket of his rough brown jacket, he fingered the cold gun that was pressed against his chest. Dropping his grin, he strolled through the bouncing emergency door, the vision of badly bleached hair and the partying figure of an 'Izzy' fresh in his mind.