No Peace for the Wicked
The first old man died on the beach. Huddled in a blanket, he watched gulls screaming over a plastic bottle bobbing in the choppy water, while under a heavy sky a tanker plodded up the Channel. The beach was deserted. Too early for day-trippers and too cold for beachcombers with their wretched metal-detectors. He wasn't interested in seagulls or tankers. The birds were noisy and demanding, like people, and the tankers too remote. He had long ago given up interest in anything much, surrendering instead to deliberate and ill-tempered isolation. Now all he had was the creeping disease of old age, made bearable by the few bits of comfort a well-stocked bank account could buy. As long as the account received regular additions, that was all that concerned him.  A car approached along the promenade and he instinctively sank deeper into his deckchair, pulling the blanket tighter around him. If he'd wanted strangers stopping by for chit-chat he'd have hung out a sign. Maybe it was Willis. His minder was due about now with a flask of coffee laced with something that would truly piss off his doctor, if only he knew... A door thumped shut and pebbles crunched as someone dropped down from the promenade. A man. Heavyweight, by the sounds of it. It wasn't Willis then; he'd recognise his footsteps anywhere. The hairs on his neck stirred as the footsteps approached, bringing faint memories of other times when danger had moved against him. Well, he'd faced that before and usually walked away laughing.  The newcomer stopped just behind him, so close he must have been staring right down at the crown of his head. He fought a strong desire to turn and look. Damn him! He'd sit here and defy the intruder to come round and look him in the eye. Whoever it was didn't bother. Instead the old man heard a rustle of cloth and a familiar metallic click. It turned his blood to water. Then the seagulls and the wind, the impending rain and the tanker all ceased to matter.