This is going to be a new irregular series of fiction set in the present day about a woman named "Marie". Warehouse worker by day, assassin by night.
This will either be very good or very poor. We shall see.
Tuesday 27 July
She opened the door to her flat in a tower block somewhere in the heaving, cloud-covered metropolis that called itself London.
Removing her denim jacket and hanging it on the coat rail, she looked at her answerphone. Two messages.
It had been a horrible shift. Mike was making utterly crude remarks and insisted on reading the Daily Sport in her presence. Flat on the table, so she could see everything in there. What a... Philistine.
Marie - not her real name - was amazed that she remembered that word. Mike was a large brute of a man who would appreciate a stone in his head.
She played the messages. One was a call reminding her about her pedicure tomorrow afternoon.
The other was more urgent.
"Marie, it's Simon", the male voice said, sounding very desperate, "I'm in some serious trouble. Come quickly".
Not again, Marie thought as she headed for the bathroom to get her revolver.