Scenes - Riverview 2/2 She stands up from her desk and walks towards the kitchen area in the office to make her fourth cup of tea that day. She seems nervous, her hand shakes as she collects the mug from the cupboard and smothers the tea bag in boiling water. Three sugars, up from just the one she had this morning. Something is wrong. Does she know? She returns to her desk by the window, steaming hot tea cupped in her hands. I put down my binoculars. My hand reaches into the folds of my jacket to retrieve the envelope I was given the day before. I open up the profile and study it, making certain that everything was correct. Leslie Valentine. Sales exec at Venture Telecommunications. Lives on Tannhauser Road. 37 years old. Recently divorced. 5”5. Black hair, short and sleek. Hazel eyes. Sharp cheek bones. This was definitely my target. I look down at my watch: 184. She was meant to have left by now, what was she doing? I grab the binoculars and look up at her desk by the window again. Empty. My stomach drops. Something’s not right. Everything about this job seemed suspicious; the client, the place she chose to meet, the target. It doesn’t add up. I pack up the envelope, dispose of the binoculars and dash off towards the office block. Speeding traffic almost catches me as I run to cross the road. A Doppler of angry car horns pans past. My heart is racing but I don’t have time to calm myself now. I run towards the office’s double doors, almost slamming straight into them as they open unbearably slowly. The receptionist looks up from her desk puzzled. “Leslie,” I say trying to mask my struggled breathing, “I’m meant to be meeting Leslie. Valentine.” She smiles and apologetically responds, “She’s just left, you might still be able...” But before she could finish I had already left, heading towards Riverview Avenue. Despite its name it wasn’t actually on a river, although it was close to one. You could almost hear the running water. The avenue is deceptively dark given its quaint name, surrounded on all sides by tall buildings and grubby metal bins. Ahead I see a woman walking: 5”5 minus the heals. Dark hair. It could be her. I walk fast towards her, knife held tight in my hand. 3.5 metres away now. She was almost up to the high street. I take a gamble. “Leslie,” I call. She stops but remains facing ahead. I move in, knife at the ready. 1 metre. Slowly she turns around. The first thing I see is not her face; not her hazel eyes, the short black hair, pointed features. It is her neck. A dazzling large ruby necklace hung from it and seemed to shine even in the shadows. I hesitate. Her eyes are almost as red as the necklace, a black tear runs down her face. The moment lasted long. Too long. I thrust the knife into her chest, my face still contorted in confusion. She stays standing for a moment, then falls to the floor almost without a sound. I stay in place, shocked. My client, my victim; one and the same. What do I do? Had I gotten the wrong person? I dropped the knife and ripped out the profile. It was her. Definitely her. I grabbed her bag and threw her things on the damp concrete. Tissues, lipstick, make up. I take out the phone and look at it. A reminder was up; ‘doctors’. I click on it and up pops a calendar. Almost every day is filled with doctor’s appointments. I pocket the phone and take out the wallet. As I do so a leaflet fall to the floor. "Living with Cancer" I fold the leaflet back up and return it to the bag. Before I leave I grab the necklace, gently close her eyes with my finger tips then turn and walk away.