THE MONEY SHOT

“Take the shot…”

I heard the words ring out from the shadowy hillside. They resounded loud and clear, like a riotous foghorn cutting through the mist. Yet, something about the way he looked back at me felt decisively unsettling. His eyes were a portal to a sudden world of sadness. It was like peering into the sunken depths of a broken man.

“Take the damn shot, kid…quick, before the cops show up!”

Still, my fingers refused to move. I could barely think straight. My legs continued to stay hunkered down like two stubborn tree-stumps locked in the mud. And somehow, that was not the worst of it. What scared me most were the doubts, the sudden barrage of quarrelsome voices tumbling through my head. They pulled at me mercilessly. Asking whether or not I still had the stomach for this dirty line of work...

"Quick...let's go already!"

Perhaps it was time. Time to concede defeat on this shameful, sordid affair once and for all. But, then again, who was I kidding? Things were only just getting started out there on the cold ghostly slopes overlooking the Big City. And deep down, I knew that I could never walk away.

This was it…

…my moment had arrived.

*

Tell me, have you ever witnessed something that you probably shouldn’t have? Have you ever been caught in the crossfire? Looked the wrong way at the wrong individual? Or seen a certain development occur that was never intended for your naive, innocent eyes?

Come on now, don’t be shy.

You can trust me…

Perhaps you have caught your mother in bed with the milkman? Or your father swapping glances with your sister’s new, flirtatious friend? Maybe you have pretended not to notice that dodgy deal taking place on the corner, that irate couple constantly fighting outside your apartment, or perhaps even that time you saw your boss sneaking notes from the till?

Or, maybe you have no idea what I am talking about. Maybe your eyes have always been closed. And maybe, just maybe...

...that is for the best.

Whether or not you entertain such morally ambiguous affairs is none of my concern, ultimately. For it is my duty to be moved by such matters. I am a journalist with a camera, you see. A reporter with a notepad. A columnist with countless comments to correspond, and a writer with plenty of big ideas hidden up my sleeve.

At least I was, that is…until I learned one crucial lesson about our humble trade that has always stuck with me through good times and bad. In my line of work, it does not suffice to merely report the truth. No. Instead, we must make the truth. Form the truth. Fashion the facts and legitimise the lies, you could say.

It might not be right.

It might not even be reasonable, in-fact.

But rights and reason seem to matter very little in this murky world of crimson-eyed crooks and coldblooded corruption. When attempting to capture the stories, the scoops, or any other insidious exposé one can stumble upon out there...you simply have to get your hands dirty. One way or another.

So, that’s how we found ourselves occupying our time that night, crouched behind the wheel outside the Grand Plaza Hotel on Main Street. We were fashioning the facts as it were, my partner and I, on a story so big…it was sure to hit the morning newsstands with all the verve and subtlety of a ten-tonne battering ram.

“What did ya get…?” my partner asked abruptly, his head rearing up from the bargain bucket family meal for one perched between his knees.

“Just the usual, McCluskie…” I replied with a sigh, “…six wings, burger, fries, and a cool tall boy I still had left over from last night.”

McCluskie gave his usual nod of approval, as if there were something tangible to agree with in the first place, before finishing off his meal like something akin to a farmyard pig with his head buried halfway in a trough. He was a rough character, my partner. Someone who never professed a penchant for taking any prisoners. His real name was Gerald something…if I remember correctly, but everybody had taken to calling him ‘McCluskie’ because of some old-timer detective show he used to watch as a kid.

It was an apt description, I guess. McCluskie certainly thought of himself as an investigator of sorts; one of those hard-boiled private-eye types with that all too familiar look of woe about him. But in reality, he was far more creative than that.

My quick-witted companion was a rogue who understood the ropes of guerrilla journalism far better than anyone I knew. He was taller than me. Broader than me. More rugged looking and far more experienced among this particular line of work than I could ever dream of becoming. Then again, however…

…you wouldn’t exactly know it from his eating habits.

“Pass the ketchup, kid…” he spoke sluggishly, with a mouth full of food and his face covered in sauce, “…and the mayonnaise too whilst you’re at it!”

“I don’t think there’s any more left…” I told him.

“No…?” McCluskie peered up in surprise, “...well, give me yours then kid!"

In the end I eventually bit the bullet and did as my partner had instructed, handing him the last remaining sauce sachet from my brown paper bag.

I always did as McCluskie told me. If he said jump, I would ask how high. If he said sit, I would sit like a trained mutt waiting on a snack. And if he told me to push a blind man from a ten-storey balcony just to make a snappy news headline for the following morning, well...I suppose I would do exactly that.

It wouldn’t be the first time…

“Ok kid, quit your jabbering…” he subsequently posed, “…look, we’ve got company.”

As McCluskie disposed of his empty fast-food wrappers and proceeded to reach clumsily for his camera, I rubbed my eyes...ready to follow his lead.

It was true. All the top names in the local Big City celebrity-sphere were beginning to convene just outside the plush building across the street. The site was in the process of hosting an annual 'fashion gala extravaganza' for all the pompous big wigs and wanna-be A-listers around. And soon enough, many of those self-obsessed posers and vainglorious prima-donnas would come out to play...followed by their loyal entourages of sycophant hangers-on, of course.

You could say it was to be expected. The Grand Plaza Hotel was one of those huge, fancy joints with beaming spotlights cast all across the exterior. A real showstopper of a place. My eyes flitted freely between the open-bay windows set out along the terrace, the tall towers and arched spires reaching several stories high, as well as the small grassy patch out front, which had already been mudded by dozens of frenzied reporters.

But hold on…let’s just get one thing straight, ok?

McCluskie and I were not like those other journos. We did not hide behind mega companies or high-profile press agencies in order to put our point across. Unlike them, we were not in denial over the mercenary nature of our trade. We embraced it, in-fact. When the public called for a brand-new scandalous story or yet another tantalisingly titillating tale, they did not turn to those naive schoolboys and girls with their daddy’s second-hand cameras strung around their necks.

No, they came to us.

And for good reason too…

“Look at that, kid…” McCluskie spoke up from the front seat, “…we’ve got ourselves a live one.”

I quickly sought out my camera and began snapping away.

A young country-bumpkin actress by the name of Thandi Thompson had just emerged from her hired limousine. Never quite the brightest bulb in her mock crystal chandelier, the two of us already knew Thandi rather well. Just last year for example, McCluskie and I managed to capture the dim-witted actress surrounded by bundles of poorly cut cocaine and a whole heap of dirty money, as part of an elaborate sting.

It was an interesting ordeal to say the least. But these days, all of that funny business was firmly in the past. Miss Thompson had somehow survived the scars of public scrutiny after being unveiled as the new poster girl for an upcoming designer shampoo range. Meanwhile, the world of crude tales and celebrity-fuelled tittle-tattle continued to rattle on like nothing ever happened…

“And another one…” McCluskie prompted, “…look over there!”

He was right. In walked an elderly gentleman with silvery hair, withered hands and a pair of watery eyes that made him seem endearingly soft and helpless. This was Terrance Trenchpole, of course. He might have reminded you of your grandpa in certain aspects…if your grandpa had been caught loitering outside a school playground and swiftly reprimanded for falsely impersonating a police officer, that is.

Trenchpole was a high roller and one of the top-ranking governors here in the Big City, however. With a job title of such powerful esteem, countless friends in high places, and enough money in his back pocket to rival that of a starving third-world nation…scandals such as his tend to stay securely behind closed doors.

Right where they belong…

“I saw Trenchpole speaking to some reporters the other day…” McCluskie spoke candidly, “…you know, about the accusations.”

“Oh yeah?” I probed, the camera still held up to my face.

“That’s right…” he nodded, “…a real messy one that.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where any of those…accusations came from, would you now, McCluskie?”

My partner turned towards me and shook his head.

“Damned if I know, kid…” he replied with a certain twinkle in his eye, “…but take a look will ya, they're all coming out now!”

With that the pair of us unsheathed our lenses and began taking shots in wild fashion.

Everything was captured from our little shadowy perch across the street…with McCluskie pinned behind the wheel, me hunkered down behind him, and countless air-headed celebrities swanning around in their expensive frocks and diamond-trimmed tuxedos.

Up first was Richie Rowens, a former athlete famous for injecting a little ‘performance enhancing’ fun into his life. The poor guy had only recently made it out of rehab on account of his widely published steroids addiction. Now, he had a new book coming out; 'My Life and the Needle', which explained his latest appearance outside the Grand Plaza Hotel.

Next came Henrietta Hardcastle and her movie-star husband, Clarence Copper. The pair were just about to take the tabloids by storm with the announcement of their new bouncing baby boy. But, if the rumours can be believed to be true…and let’s face it, most of the time they can…Copper might not have been the father, and Hardcastle might well have been playing games with the supposedly innocent pool boy behind her husband’s back. It was intriguing, sure. Somewhat riveting almost. But nothing we had not already plundered a thousand times before...

No, we had our eyes on somebody else that night.

Someone who could be considered a far greater prize…

“There he is…” McCluskie spoke gruffly, “…get ready kid.”

Enter Mr. Richard Riddles...

A bald-headed man wearing dark sunglasses and a double-breasted dinner jacket had just exited the hotel. But this was not just anyone, you understand. This was an individual who could seemingly do no wrong. An altruist by all regards. A loving family man too, they say. Something of an all-round 'good guy'…

…even in the eyes of his most distant admirers.

Mr. Riddles was the latest billionaire philanthropist to make a real name for himself here in the Big City. And boy, was he flavour of the month right about now. Fingerprints of his good deeds could be spotted in local schools and homeless shelters all over town, with his most recent act of kindness culminating in the construction of a brand-new hospital wing for disenfranchised children.

Yep, this particular samaritan was about as incorruptible as they come. A rare example of someone trying to live a pure and pious life among the many deadbeats and scroungers that had besieged his city. But wait, let's just hold our horses for one moment now. For since when has it been our job…

…to only see the good in people?

"Look at him..." McCluskie snarled, "...he thinks he's untouchable, doesn't he!?"

I sat forward, peering up at my twitchy partner through the rear-view mirror.

" Are you sure about this?" I asked, "...we can turn back right now if we want to."

McCluskie shook his head, maintaining his laser-like focus on the hotel steps.

"Sure, I'm, sure..." he replied, "...just hold onto your camera and get ready, kid. We need to cut this fool down a peg or two. And I need to be able to count on you out there…alright!?”

I guess seeing the good in people doesn’t always come naturally...

In reality, such a task has never been the responsibility of a pair of high-minded truth-seekers like McCluskie and I. To us, someone like Riddles served only as an attractive invitation of sorts. A tempting trophy just waiting to be toppled from his perch, if you will.

And let's face it, shall we? Benevolent acts and heartfelt words of affection only sell so many subscriptions these days. What the people really want is scandal! They want drama, disgrace…and dynamite defamation all wrapped into one! They feed off everything from ignominy to infamy. Backbiting belittlement with a dash of dirty laundry thrown in, just for good measure.

The outcome was, therefore, simple. Mr. Riddles had a reputation that was sincerely up for grabs. And if the two-time public personality of the year failed to play host to any particular skeletons in his wonderfully rare mahogany-inlaid closet...well then, you already guessed it my friends...

…it was our job to try and put some there.

“Good…” McCluskie proceeded, “…he’s heading towards his car now. This should cook up a juicy headline or two, right kid?”

“What are you thinking, partner?”

“Oh, I dunno…” he replied wistfully, moving his finger and thumb in the air to form an invisible pen, “…how about, ‘Late Night Bender for Big City Spender!’, or ‘Tricky Ricky in Booze Cruise Blues’?”

“It’s decent…” I said, “…but I’ve heard better.”

The pair of us proceeded to eyeball the target as he made his way down the steps and slowly into the driveway. Riddles appeared to be leaving the show early, staggering somewhat as he searched drunkenly for his driver.

“That's it…” McCluskie proclaimed, dusting off his hands as he re-engaged the engine, “…he’s heading to his car, kid. Are you ready? We’re gonna fry this guy!”

I nodded my head and strapped in. With my camera safely secured and the onrush of rabid reporters now beginning to fade in the rear window, I felt about as ready as I would ever be. It was time, alright…

…time for some good old-fashioned scandal making!

*

The Big City was soon thrust upon us in all its vibrant, vulgar glory. No longer were we bathed in the bright, celebrity infused lights of the Grand Plaza Hotel on Main Street. Riddles was now leading us on a merry dance through the beating heart of the dirty downtown district. It was the kind of place where screams and sirens tended to dominate the airways. Where traffic often ground to a halt in a choir of filthy curse-words and angry car horns.

Where even stray dogs thought twice before waltzing out after dark...

The flickering street-lamps did little to light our path. Instead, every guilt ridden gutter and seedy sidewalk came gloriously illuminated by the assemblage of naughty neon signs filtering in from all around. They told tales of carefree cabarets and discount peep shows, of all night sex clubs hawking the best erotic dancers and burlesque beauty queens from far and wide. Yet, even in the midst of his drunken stupor, with this myriad of lustful temptations lurking in every direction, Riddles appeared to show no interest in such carnal pleasures.

“I’ve got something in mind, kid…” McCluskie spoke somewhat out of the blue, “…something that’s sure to test the resolve of this so-called ‘family man’.”

Before I could ask my partner to elaborate, or begin to fill me in on any of the finer details on the matter, the sleuth-like McCluskie was already reaching for his phone and dialling in a number with one hand steady on the wheel.

“Stacey…?” he called loudly down the line, “…Stacey!? You there, darlin’? Good. It’s time. Get yourself over to the corner of Parkview and Holloway right away! Yep, our guy is already approaching in a blacked out four-wheel-drive. That’s right, fluff those curls for him, Stacey! Riddles surely loves a girl with all her best assets on show…”

With that McCluskie shut the phone, tossing it to one side.

“This’ll be great!” he announced with a smile, “…watch and learn, kid. Riddles is gonna stumble headfirst into this one! Just you see…”

And that’s the way I felt things would play out at first.

Riddles, still largely intoxicated with his head bobbing lifelessly through the backseat window, was currently heading for the nearest stop-sign. The road outside was teeming with untold pedestrians shuffling to and from the sidewalk in their hasty attempts to make it home for the night. McCluskie, meanwhile, was busy whispering to himself. My partner prayed desperately for the lights to remain their deep shade of ruby red. And fortunately for him, they did.

“That must be your girl…” I stated, as the lady on the corner soon pumped up her chest and began to approach the side of the car...

“Uh-huh…” McCluskie replied casually, “…that’s Stacey alright. Right on time…”

She wore a pair of tall high-heeled white boots, a bright pink wig…and aside from some furry green hot pants just about clinging to her waist, very little else it would seem. Stacey was hardly the most subtle sex worker I had ever laid eyes upon. As escorts and pretty girls usually tend to go, this one was in a league of her own.

“Get your camera ready, kid…” McCluskie declared, “…if Stacey enters the car, it’ll be all over the papers this time tomorrow!”

Yet Stacey never did enter the car.

In-fact, she barely even got close…

Despite a few seductive glances shared between the pair, despite the hung-dog look on Riddles’ face, and the unmistakable interest shown in her rather loose fitting attire…Stacey failed to strike up as much as a simple conversation with the guy.

His driver had clearly gotten wise. Once the stop-signs returned to green and the way began to open up again, Riddles’ vehicle sped off into the space ahead without another moment wasted. Poor Stacey had been abandoned on the side of the road with nothing to show for her efforts. And, somehow…

…McCluskie and I were left empty handed.

“Ok Riddles..." my partner spat, “…so that’s how you want to play it, is it!?”

“What’s next?” I asked pensively, watching his eyes skitter uncomfortably.

“What’s next, you ask?” McCluskie replied.

“Yeah. What’s next…?”

“…plenty, kid. Just you wait and see.”

Alas, it would not be long before I found out…

The stop-sign above subsequently shone like a rare emerald over the many rows of queueing vehicles. Somehow the roads outside were almost entirely gridlocked in every direction, with drivers either throwing up their arms or quietly gritting their teeth. Elsewhere car stereos competed over one another amid the rising madness, as men in shabby suits flitted between the vehicles selling plastic roses for a dollar a piece.

Allowing his camera to hang freely from his neck, I watched on as McCluskie casually lit up a cigarette and folded his arms in nonchalant fashion.

“What are you so smug about?” I confronted him, “…I don’t see what’s so funny about all of this damned traffic…”

“Up ahead, kid…” he said, pointing an outstretched finger in front of him, “…you see that?”

“No…” I replied, “…what am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Look a little closer…you see him?”

“See who!?”

“The fella on the corner. The one standing next to that big sign there…”

The unnamed individual wore a construction standard hard-hat with a yellow high-visibility jacket slung over his right shoulder. He was stationed next to two slouched workers who were clearly enjoying the benefits of the night shift, as well as a large luminous sign that read: ‘DIVERSION’.

“What about him?” I asked, a touch naively, “…another friend of yours?”

"Never mind that, kid..." McCluskie warned, "...trouble's brewin' out there. You'd better wind up the windows while you still can."

“…what do you mean, wind up the windows!?”

“That’s exactly what I mean…” he insisted, “…do it now!”

“But why!?”

“Don’t give me that, kid! Just do as I say…”

The lights of the Big City were still watching our every move. And as we slowly turned the corner, with a scent of burning exhaust fumes delicately wafting over us, a group of fired-up protestors had suddenly gathered directly in our path.

The large crowd of angered activists had taken to the streets with clenched fists and a series of homemade placards, overflowing from the sidewalks and spilling out into the road itself. I subsequently cast my eyes towards Riddles' car just a few metres ahead of us. Unable to avoid the growing convergence of people trampling in from all around, it seemed he too had reached something of an impasse.

“What kind of regulated traffic diversion sends everyone straight down the throats of a bunch of outraged demonstrators!?” I inquired once more, “…this wouldn’t be any of your doing again, would it, partner?”

McCluskie scoffed at this latest accusation, though not without a certain rogue smile etched upon his face.

“Let’s just say that these things can happen at any moment…” he spoke deliberately, “…you never know when they might strike.”

Perhaps he was right. For pretty soon the assembly of young, angry protesters had made a sudden beeline for Riddles’ car...

The imposing four-by-four stood out like a sour thumb amid the sea of humble hatchbacks and old sedans with faded paint jobs. Its blacked-out windows and custom number plate spoke of a kind of wealth that was gravely uncommon among these parts. And man, did those protestors sense that too. They flocked towards the vehicle like a crew of hungry fire-ants…

"Here we go..." McCluskie whispered, "...Riddles is surely going to break, I can feel it. Any minute now...."

One by one they formed around the car, proceeding to jump uninvited on the hood as they clambered upon the windscreen. Scenes of wild anarchy had begun to take over. But much to mine and McCluskie’s flourishing misfortune, Riddles was no longer hanging out the window with his tongue wagging helplessly in the wind. His driver had successfully sealed up all the doors in an attempt to separate his man from the outside world. And so far, it was working.

“Oh, for crying out loud...” my partner spluttered this time, unceremoniously stubbing his cigarette out on the dashboard, “…this damned do-gooder is starting to get on my nerves right about now!”

“I have an idea…” I proposed momentarily, much to McCluskie’s annoyance.

‘Oh, and what’s that then!?” he replied sternly, “…if you’ve got a better plan, I’m all ears!”

“How about…I don’t know, we just leave Riddles alone maybe?”

“You best not be playing around with me right now, kid!”

“I’m serious!”

“No…” McCluskie spoke definitively, “…no, you’re not. We’ve already come this far. It’s only a matter of time before he cracks, kid. I can feel it!”

Whether or not Riddles would eventually crack would remain to be seen. What was clearer, however, was that the protesters…the same ones hurling abuse through his windows and climbing all over his car, had seemingly failed to provoke the target as much as my duplicitous partner had intended.

Riddles remained untouched by scandal even in the midst of such an unruly and untamed spectacle. By the time an opening in the traffic had finally given way and the road ahead became clear again, our man was free to escape unscathed.

Once more, he had slipped through our fingers.

“Right, kid…” McCluskie declared, “…this is it, now or never.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just grab your camera…” he stated, “…make sure it’s good to go, and get ready!”

I did as McCluskie instructed. I always did as I was told...

...though, this time, I felt the sudden inclination to brace myself...

...and a strange distaste for what was about to come next.

*

Somehow, we had made it out of the vast entanglement of vehicles and were now heading east in the direction of the thoroughfare. Suddenly the rain outside had begun to fall by the bucket-load. And yet, still, those tumbling hills seemed to call out to us in the distance, beckoning us forward with all the guts and gusto that had taken us this far.

“If Riddles makes it out onto the freeway, it’s all over…” McCluskie noted, “…we can kiss tomorrow’s headlines goodbye, kid!”

My increasingly panicked partner proceeded to slam his foot down, causing the wind to thrust through the windows at an alarming pace. The air outside tasted cold and lifeless, as dark clouds continued to form uninterrupted above our heads. It was a moment of sheer uncertainty out there on the slippery tarmac and rain-stricken streets.

The point of no return, I suppose.

The Big City, however, suddenly felt more alive than ever. Every boarded-up window and broken-down drainpipe appeared to glide by with the grace of a thousand ballerinas. Colours sparkled and shimmered alongside the many faceless folk racing around in the street. Whilst the road ahead, previously littered with many an immovable vehicle too numerous to mention, somehow felt empty and free.

“We need to get closer still!” my partner cried, striving to compete with the roaring noise of the engine, “…kid, get up front next to me will ya?”

“What!? You’re not going to pull over first?”

“No…” he replied affirmatively, “…just bring your camera and get up here!”

Yet again, I did as McCluskie told me.

If my partner prompted me to let a stray fox into a chicken coup just to see the farmer’s reaction...naturally, I would do it. If he wanted me to spike a woman’s drink in order to get her lips moving, I would reluctantly oblige. And if he told me to point my camera in a dying man’s face at the cost of calling for an ambulance, possibly even to save the man’s life, well…

…I suppose I would simply have to swallow my sour morals and get on with it.

No ifs, buts or maybes.

“Come on kid!” he cried once more, “…get up here already!”

Climbing over the gearstick and lifting myself into the front-seat proved to be something of a cumbersome task. But I got there in the end, without any help from McCluskie, though, I might add...

“That’s better, kid…” he continued, “…now, as soon as we’re out of this tunnel, I want you to open your window and prepare to take the shot. We’ll only get one chance at this, ok…?”

“Take the shot of what!?” I asked.

“You’ll see. Just get ready.”

"No, I don't see. Tell me what's going on already!"

"..."

"McCluskie! Did you hear me?"

"..."

He heard me alright.

But the drama of the chase had already consumed him. McCluskie would go on to grip the wheel with a pair of whitened knuckles. His eyes seemed to shine like two scintillatingly bright diamonds as we cut through the darkness. They were accompanied by the sound of his grinding jawbone, which somehow pervaded that of the engine and the rustling wheels outside.

Riddles, meanwhile, had sought out some higher ground. His driver had led us onto a narrow path overlooking the Big City in all its twinkling triumph, with the gap between our two respective vehicles now closing up significantly. I could visibly see the target clawing away at his window. And going by that strange, haunted expression residing on his face...

...Riddles had surely spotted us too.

“There he is!” McCluskie cried for the umpteenth time, “…if Riddles makes it outta here, we’ll be done for! He’ll be busy putting his feet up in his eight-bedroom mansion somewhere, and we’ll be left with diddly-squat. An absolute no show!”

“Is that such a bad thing?” I pondered, “…Riddles hasn’t exactly done anything wrong, has he?”

McCluskie reacted with a look of utter disdain.

“No…” he finally responded, “…Riddles hasn’t put a single toe out of place. He has been totally trustworthy and completely void of fault. But since when has that mattered in our line of work, kid!? It never has! And you'd do well to remember that next time you think about all your shiny writer's awards…”

Now we were almost side by side with Riddles. His eyes were filled with an unrivalled variety of fear I had barely encountered before. His face, furthermore, stood out like a ghostly white phantom, flitting in between the shadows and the spotlights as we made our approach...

“We’re gonna grab all the headlines, kid…” McCluskie proceeded suddenly, “…every single last one of them, they’re all ours!”

“What are you on about!?” I shouted back, “…slow down, McCluskie!”

“No, no…” he responded, “…not now. We’re so close, kid!”

That was it. My partner had clearly lost his mind...

“...Big City high roller meets messy end in illegal drag race!” he continued.

“What!?”

“Riddles unravelled!” he cried, “…local philanthropist found squandered by the side of the road, survived only by a tormented family still fighting for answers!”

“You’ve lost the plot, McCluskie! What on earth are you saying!?”

“You’ll see kid…” he laughed callously, “…in three…

“…two…”

“…one…”

“…it’s showtime!”

At once, a single snapshot in time was created. The moment blossomed right before us, ready to be sealed in a cold metallic frame and hung up on the wall of some lifeless showroom few would ever visit. It all began with a screech of the tires. Followed by the rush of the wheels, and thick rubber tire-marks scarring the tarmac as a result of the deadly collision that was about to unfold.

My manic-minded partner, hysterical and unhinged, would first snigger softly to himself. He would then fire up his laugh into a full-blown cackle; the kind of outburst that would not feel out of place among the abstract corridors of abandoned asylum. McCluskie would keep his eyes fixated on the vehicle ahead, with the pedal floored beneath his feet, and his knuckles tightened once more upon the dark leather steering wheel.

Then, everything would seemingly transpire all at once. Sparks flying amid the noise of screaming exhaust pipes. Splinters of cracked glass falling upon the roadside. And who could possibly forget, of course? The look of horror in Riddles’ eyes, as McCluskie prepared to slam unceremoniously into the back of his blacked-out four-by-four. Once and for all…

“Get your camera ready!” he ordered, “…fire away, kid! Quick! Quick! Quick!”

There was barely enough time to steady the lens and focus my aim. Riddles’ car was immediately thrust into a twirling tailspin. His driver had veered uncontrollably across the road, flirting with the prospect of slipping off the steeping hillside, and down into the depths below...

“Goodbye Riddles!” McCluskie jeered, “…we’ll make sure that nobody forgets your name!”

With one final swipe into the back of the vehicle, the deed was settled.

The unruly four-by-four skidded violently, tumbling headfirst off the side of the road. Within a few chaotic seconds the vehicle had come to an abrupt standstill at the foot of the jagged ridge. From there, I saw little sign of any movement. The car sat beaten and battered, with heavy smoke rising from the hood and spiralling skywards in a soft, entrancing sort of way.

Riddles remained hunkered down and crumpled in the back-seat, desperately gasping for air. His driver, on the other hand, appeared to have suffered something of a worse fate. The poor man's head lay slumped up against the wheel, interrupting the soft hum of the engine with the sharp, painful drone of the car horn...

It was official; Riddles’ journey had reached an untimely end.

*

“Take the shot…”

I heard the words ring out from the shadowy hillside...

“Take the damn shot, kid…quick, before the cops show up!”

...the words resounded loud and clear, like a riotous foghorn cutting through the mist...

"Quick...let's go already!"

…yet, the way Mr. Riddles looked back at me felt decisively unsettling…

…I had begun to ask myself the question…

…that all important question...

…did I still have the stomach for this dirty line of work?

I think I knew the answer to that, already.