The Lafferty's house was on the other side of town, a 20 minute bike ride from my house. I disguised my gun in a makeshift guitar case which I strapped to my back, in order to keep suspicion to a minimum. A teenage girl cycling through the middle of town with a gun strapped to her back would be a silly idea; for the obvious reasons. I reached Bourton Drive at 6pm.
I parked my bike up against an alley way wall and walked down the street, keeping my head down. Marcus Lafferty's house was number 8, at the end of the street; directly opposite a dilapidated house. Brilliant! I'd been down this road a few times and that house had always been empty, the doors boarded up and the windows broken in many places, with newspaper plastered over them. I skilfully crept into the back garden on the house and stood in front of the back door. It was broken in a few places, but the glass remained intact. I slid my guitar case from my back and produced my sniper rifle. I used the end to smash through the bottom panel of glass then picked out the rest of the glass carefully. I quickly crawled through the gap, careful not to kneel or tread on the shards of glass on the kitchen floor. Hopefully I wasn't too loud but still it might attract the attention of the neighbours. I had to be really quick with this kill. Aim, shoot and run. I headed upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time into the master bedroom that faced the Lafferty's house. The damp air hung heavy, the ancient wallpaper tearing off the walls, the soft scuttle of rodents from the bedroom next door and the smell of rot catching in my throat. I shivered. This place was disgusting. The window in the far corner had been smashed. I ran to the exposed window frame, hoping there were no other animals or creatures in this house. I wasn't afraid of blood, or guts, or gore, but I wasn't too keen on slimy animals. I shuddered again. Something about this house freaked me out. The way the blown out light fittings seemed to hang lifelessly from the rotting ceiling, the way the stairs creaked every so often, the way the whole floor seemed to buckle under my weight as though it were about ready to completely fall through.
Marcus was sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought, his face buried in a book. He looked almost peaceful, but the way he sat suggested he was on edge, not completely at rest. Almost like he knew what was coming. I sniggered. If only he did know. It was his own damn fault for getting involved with them. From a quick TAG search, I knew Marcus lived with his wife, Jean, 39, and two daughters, Mandy, 12, and Lillian, 8. I felt momentarily sorry for him and his family; how they would feel when they lose him, whether he really had been involved or just on the side lines. He looked like a normal respectable man.
But an image of Tyler's face filled my mind and I lifted up my gun. I'd given myself two shots, any more and I would have risked getting caught. I always used two bullets, one spare just in case the other failed. I peered down the length of the rifle through the scope, aiming right through the window, across the street and to his room. A quick shot to the brain, execution style. A simple death. It was the least I could give him. My slender finger traced the trigger then I pulled down.
BANG! The noise shocked me and I jolted so that my gun now pointed to the grass beside his house. My bullet plummeted straight into the grass. I cursed and bent down quickly; hiding myself behind the wall then after a few seconds heard a terrified shriek of a woman. I glanced through the window to see two children stood beside their dad who was most definitely dead and an older woman, his wife, leaning out the window screaming down the road, searching for something. With that, I bolted up and ran. I ran down the stairs three at a time, nearly tripping over then scurried through the whole in the door then sprinted down the garden, grabbing my guitar case and jumped over the low fence onto the alley way that lead to the row of houses behind. Left or right. Left would take me to the forest. Right would take me to the main road, where I parked my bike. Right. I ran until I got to my bike, shoved my gun in the case and just as sirens blared out from half a mile away I hopped on my bike. I raced all the way into town, and then slowed down as I rode through town, not wanting to draw attention to myself. As soon as I reached Overton Street, the end of town, I peddled my fastest home.
I dumped my bike in my garden, locking the gate behind me and ran into the house. I locked all the doors to the house, fumbling with the keys and heaved my breath back. I had made a quick getaway luckily. Narrowly missed the police. I got dressed in my pyjamas when I went upstairs then tapped in my code to open my wardrobe-communication point and the door slide open. I slipped the sniper rifle out of the case and checked the barrel. I always did, normally to take out my second bullet that I'd put in. I had always been a good shot, but there was no harm in being cautious.
I opened the barrel and cocked my head to the side. What? One bullet remained. But I only put 2 in? And I used one to shoot him and another to shoot the grass. I definitely shot into the grass. So that left one bullet left meaning .... I didn't shoot Marcus Lafferty.
So who did?
