An Invitation to Kill

The following is an extract (which may contain some language that could offend) from ‘An Invitation to Kill’ by A. P. Grozdanovic which is available to read on Kindle or Kindle app now!

He slammed the car boot shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, floored the accelerator and left the scene at speed. He retrieved the cigarette he’d jammed into the air duct earlier and took a long pull, inhaling the noxious smoke deeply.

What had he done? What the hell had he done? Shit! This wasn’t the plan!

Nick Mason’s Intermediary, Kosinski, had texted him a couple of days earlier from a burner phone and arranged to meet. They always met at different locations, never the same. Routine was dangerous in their line of work.

Kosinski got out of his car as Mason parked up. Kosinski’s squat, overweight figure looked as if it was going to burst out of the ill-fitting suit as he walked the length of the car park to the restaurant entrance. His bald head seemed to grow straight from his shoulders, with no discernible neck to hold it up. Mason joined him, and with a nod, they went inside.

The Star, a restaurant-cum-bar on the main arterial road, north out of town, was new to them both. On the right of the entrance was a small seated area. The bar was straight ahead, covering most of the back wall. The main dining area lay to the left. Light streamed in from the windows that stretched around three sides of the building. The parquet floor and wooden tables and chairs gave it a rustic, but spotless feel. A waiter welcomed them as they entered and asked if they would be dining.

‘Is the beer garden open?’ Kosinski enquired.

‘Yes, sir. If you’d like to come this way.’ They followed the waiter out of the side door, to the left of the bar, and into the beer garden. Kosinski had picked this location carefully. The garden was walled-in by a high wooden creosoted fence. A pathway split the grassed area in half. Wooden tables lay either side of the path on the grass. All the tables were available, meaning they would be alone. Kosinski chose the furthest table from the building. The waiter dropped two menus in front of them.

‘We’ll both have a Club Sandwich and a double brandy.’ Kosinski ordered without looking at the menu or conferring with Mason.

‘I’ll be back in a moment with your drinks, sir,’ nodded the waiter.

They remained silent until the waiter had disappeared inside the building.

‘So, what’s the urgency?’ Nick asked.

Kosinski looked nervously towards the door to the restaurant. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. ‘We need a hit doing.’

‘What?! When?’

‘Like yesterday.’

‘It can’t be done,’ Nick cautioned. ‘Your people will have to wait until I’m ready.’

Kosinski’s hand slammed down onto the wooden table; his eyes blood-shot. ‘It can’t wait! Not this time. You’re gonna have to, I don’t know,’ he wavered, ‘condense your planning.’

‘No, can do.’

A tiny trickle of sweat ran down Kosinski’s forehead. ‘Do you want the job or not?’

‘Keep your hair on!’ Mason said, with the thinnest of smiles. Leaning in, he confirmed, ‘I’m interested. Look, when you say “yesterday”, what does that mean exactly?’

‘This person needs to disappear permanently.’ The agitation in Kosinski’s voice was palpable. ‘Like now!’

The door to the restaurant banged shut. It was the waiter approaching with their drinks. The conversation died between them while he placed a glass at either side of the table.

‘Your food will be here shortly, gentlemen. Is there anything else I can get for you?’

‘No, that’s fine.’ They paused for the waiter to leave before Kosinski continued. ‘Look! It’s a simple job.’

‘What you’re asking me to do is way out of my comfort zone. I’m a driver. I normally only do surveillance, drop-offs, getaways. That sort of thing.’

‘But, you’re perfect for this job.’ Kosinski took a gulp from his glass. The drink took his breath for a second before he continued. ‘There are hundreds of deaths on the roads every year. What’s better than someone dying in a car accident? Hit and run. Happens every day,’ he said casually.

‘A hit is a completely different ball-game, though.’

Kosinski looked around before adding, ‘Look, Mason, stop playing hard to get! What did you say to me when we first met?’ His question was met with silence. ‘I’d better remind you. “I don’t have a red line”, you said. “Anything goes”, you boasted.’

‘Killing is different,’ Mason admitted. ‘It’s not something I do regularly.’

‘But for the right price?’ Kosinski rested his elbows on the table, his question hanging in the air.

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Who Killed the Ship’s Captain?

A Murderplay by Chris Martin & A. P. Grozdanovic

All aboard and batten down the hatches for a murder-mystery of titanic proportions! The luxury cruise liner ‘the Celebration’ is the pride of the ‘Blue Triangle Shipping Line’, yet she’s sailing on choppy waters… and there’s an iceberg-sized scandal looming over the horizon!

‘Who Killed the Ship’s Captain?’ is set in the passenger lounge of the (fictional) ship ‘the Celebration’. It’s 1912, just 3 months after the sinking of the Titanic, and there’s more trouble brewing out to sea. Edward Pearson, the ship’s captain, is becoming increasingly unpopular. Ever since the disastrous voyage of the company’s rival, he’s had a sinking feeling of his own. Pearson’s become distracted, irritable and argumentative. Something’s clearly on his mind, but what? And more importantly, who would want to kill him? Could it be…?

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Elizabeth, his frustrated wife?

Cheerful cabin boy, Jack Bailey?

William Earnshaw, Pearson’s ruthless second-in-command?

Catherine Earnshaw, William’s pushy wife?

Ian Jackson, the ship’s doctor with a ‘complicated’ past. Or…

Pamela Davies, the captain’s (overly) personal secretary.

When the ship docks at Southampton, Inspector Peach from Scotland Yard is called in to sift through the flotsam and jetsam of a disastrous voyage. Life on the ocean wave has never been so turbulent… or as deadly!!

‘Who Killed the Ship’s Captain?’ is a one hour ten minute play for 8 actors- 3 male, 3 female, and 2 of either. Although still a comedy, the piece is murderplays’ most reserved, least frivolous, play, making it a popular choice for more ‘senior’ groups or those simply relishing the opportunity to ‘glam-up for a life on the ocean wave’!

Please CONTACT US to request a FREE copy of Act 1 of this play by clicking the link below:

Going Home

The following is an extract from Going Home, a short story by A.P. Grozdanovic, that is available on Amazon Kindle…

The message had been straight-forward, ‘Zdravo. Prošlo je dugo vremena.’ – Hello. It’s been a long time. That’s how easy it is to connect these days. Someone you haven’t spoken to for decades can come straight into your home and metaphorically shake you by the hand.

Pero Saric had only joined the social network revolution to promote his business. He had been reluctant to take part in the continuing craze for social media. More fearful of the unknown than excited by the possible. But he had been convinced by the staff, who had said it was too easy an opportunity to raise the profile of the elderly care home he owned. He had relented and signed up. If it made the staff of Easy Living Care Home happy, it was okay by him.

Families, friends and God-knows who, had liked or followed the Profile Page within days. The staff, overseeing the pages for him, were pleased with the response. They had advertised the annual fête the Home was hosting and within hours lots of people had committed to attend and contribute items for sale. The pages had cost nothing to set up and they were paying dividends almost immediately.

Up to the day of the fete the staff had been working long hours to get the place ready. Pero had recognised this, filled in where necessary, and let them finish early where possible. He’d try to make it up to the staff at bonus time. But his attention had been taken away from their efforts and the fête itself on that very morning. Having picked his morning coffee and toast up from the kitchen he settled at his desk to plan for the day ahead. He always started with the days physical correspondence, then incoming email. He had now added the social media aspect of the work to this morning routine and as he was going through his online content, he had noticed the message from Selma Sokolovic. He had neither seen nor heard from Selma, the only girlfriend he’d ever really known, in over twenty-five years. She still lived in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia Herzegovina, formerly part of the Yugoslav Republic – Pero’s birthplace.

Pero had tried to suppress his feelings for his homeland since the Balkan War of the early nineties. The death and destruction, especially the siege of Sarajevo which lasted from 1992 to 1996, bit into Pero’s heart deeply. He’d watched on the news daily how his countrymen had killed neighbours and seized land. His former country had now split into six independent republics. Never had Europe witnessed so much barbarity since the Second World War.

At first, he didn’t know whether to answer or simply ignore the communication. What on earth could Selma want after all these years? He clicked on her profile. Nothing was hidden. Her photos and friends’ list, some of whom he vaguely recognised, were all visible. His staff had told him that it was important for personal social media sites to maintain a sensible security level. The business page didn’t need the same level of filter as they desired visibility. Selma, it appeared, was a little cavalier with her online activities status. Anyone could open her page and see where she had been and who were her friends.

The weeks passed, and then out of the blue, Pero received another message. Again, it was a simple opening line, but this time in English: 

‘How are you?’

Pero still didn’t know whether to respond or not. Over lunch he had mentioned this second message to the staff. To a person, they sat bolt upright.

‘Of course you should respond,’ said Gail.

‘What have you got to lose,’ demanded Jane, crunching through a slice of toast.

He had no response to their enthusiasm. What could he lose? He concluded, absolutely nothing.

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Stalag Britain

The following is an extract from Stalag Britain, a short story by A. P. Grozdanovic, that is available on Amazon Kindle…

’On this historic day, the twenty-six of June 2016, the British electorate has spoken,’ the news anchorman declared, ‘and it’s a definitive rebuff to the Remainers. The UK has turned its back on the Prime Minister and the European project. By a margin of 51.9% to 48.1% Brexit is now a reality. For some analysis on what this means, we’ll go over to Darren Reynolds, our Chief Political Correspondent, in Downing Street. So,’ the anchor momentarily paused in thought, ‘what does this mean?’

The camera cut to the reporter in Downing Street.

‘Put quite simply, Michael, no one knows. We can take a wild guess: market turmoil, factory closures, years of renegotiating trade deals, university funding cuts due to the number of foreign students falling. The list of negatives seems endless. 

‘But, of course, some will see this as scare-mongering. They say that this is the beginning of a whole new chapter in the relationship we have with the entire world, not just Europe. One where the British people decide for themselves what they want. From trade to immigration, from law to subsidies. And there are champagne corks popping across the country in celebration at this new opportunity.’

‘And what about the Prime Minister?’

The reporter gave a definitive, ‘He’s toast! The Prime Minister staked his whole political career on a referendum that many new he couldn’t win. Polling shows that not only were the electorate voting to leave the EU, they were also voicing their dissatisfaction with the government and its austerity package. Quite simply, he put himself in a no-win situation.’

The camera cut back to the studio.

‘Do I smell the whiff of resignation?’

The camera returned to Downing Street.

‘It’s more a stench than a whiff, Michael. Some say the Prime Minister won’t last the day.’

The camera cut back to the studio.

‘So that’s it, folks. Once Britain triggers its formal intention to leave the EU the countdown begins. Historic times indeed. Goodbye from us.’

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Aftermath, Extreme Measures 2

The following is an extract from Aftermath, Extreme Measures 2, a short story by A. P. Grozdanovic, that is available on Amazon Kindle…

Maybe this was the happiest day he’d ever encountered in his whole life. He felt at peace. Maybe it was the last place he would like to see before…

Glenn had learned from watching a plethora of action movies that you don’t pull a trigger. You caress it. You squeeze it gently. Contrary to that advice, at this moment he wanted to pull it hard. Hard in the hope that the bullet would come out of the muzzle so fast, with so much explosive power, that it would rip through George Forester’s head and make a real mess of it.

But first, he wanted to see Forester sweat, and to suffer the reality of the situation they both found themselves in. He needed Forester to understand he had no control over his own fate. And to be fair to his captive, he was in serious distress. As Glenn stood over Forester, the last words he heard Forester bleat out like a frightened child he was were, ‘Glenn, no! Don’t! Please!’

He’d let the girl, Anna, go. How young and naive she was, they all were. He couldn’t have kept her any longer. She’d been beside herself. It wasn’t until she’d left that Glenn realised how much he needed a woman’s touch. He’d forgotten how distant he and Elena had become in those last turbulent months. Of course, before he’d let Anna and John McCarthy go, they’d tried to talk him into giving himself up. But it was too late. The dye had been cast.

And at the precise moment Forester was screaming ‘Please!’ Glenn had made peace with what he had done. He didn’t believe he’d chosen this particular path. It had been forced on him. 

Glenn was content. 

Glenn could guess what was going to happen next. There would be a police marksman out there somewhere just waiting to pick him off. He’d searched desperately through the setting sun, but failed to get a glimpse of the man who would be his executioner. He’d concluded some time earlier that once he made the move to kill Forester he was more than likely signing his own death warrant.

And now the time had come. A calm descended over him. Despite his earlier inclination, he took the advice and slowly squeezed the trigger…

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Extreme Measures

The following is an extract from Extreme Measures, a short story by A. P. Grozdanovic, that is available on Amazon Kindle…


… It wasn’t a secret why Glenn had been called into head office to meet with George Forester, the Principal Officer. Like the rest of the workforce, he knew his fate. He had attended the council meeting in the public hall recently. He had heard the councillors discussing various options, essentially privatisation of the services. They all spoke fluently and with feeling, about the services they were overseeing, typical of the politicians they were.

Glenn couldn’t help feeling that they didn’t give a damn about the staff they employed or the people they supplied a service to. With every weasel-like statement about how hard it had been to sign off on the current proposals, Glenn was inclined to punch each speaker. One by one they clicked the little button at the base of their personal microphone, their light came on, and an amplified rebuttal of claims of council mismanagement and central governments unfair demands ensued. He found it nauseous. Glenn had had his fill well before the meetings conclusion. Holding his tongue ’til the end of the meeting would have stretched his sanity to breaking point. He left early. A stint in the pub with the self-serving union figures didn’t appeal either. For all their good intentions, they got absolutely zip done.

Anna Parkin returned with two plastic cups of water, cold from the fountain outside. One, she placed on the desk, the second she gave to Glenn. Before leaving she said: ‘MrForester will be along presently.’

Glenn took a sip. The sanitised office did nothing to ease his anxious disposition. Knowing what was coming wasn’t always for the best. He could hardly bear to be in the room. He found the place stifling.

The door opened behind him. The athletic purposeful figure of George Forester, the Principal Officer, strode past him without a word. He was tall, his darkhair groomed to an inch of its life and teeth whiter than any toothpaste company could possibly promise. He sat behind the desk, moved the pad to one side and laid a beige, nondescript file on the desk in its place.

‘Glenn. how are you?’ he enquired, exhibiting his usual insincere smile.

Going through the motions had started. They both knew why they were here.

‘Fine, thanks.’ He wasn’t.

‘Let me cut to the chase, Glenn.’ He paused for a second, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘Well, as you know, the outsourcing of the service has been brought forward. The time-frame has been cut dramatically and we have to act. Pressure from those all-knowing people in the clouds, as it were, has forced our hand. Budgets have been constrained. In fact, they’ve been strangled.’

Glenn had the feeling this was a speech recited before a mirror. Forester’s facial expression was, to put it mildly, actor-ly with those sparkling white teeth, as he delivered his script.

‘In the present climate, which is positively Baltic, there’s no room for manoeuvre.’ He took a sip from the cup that had been left for him. ‘The old maxim, that we’re all numbers, has never been more true. In this modern financial nightmare of a job we’re in, we’re all expendable.’

Glenn couldn’t help but cut in, ‘Except I’m not in a nightmare sort of job, financial or otherwise, am I? I work with people, you know, human beings not figures on a piece of paper, and I quite like it.’

‘Yes, you do. That’s what we’re all here for: people, isn’t it?’ Of course, the question was rhetorical. He continued, unabated by Glenn’s interruption. ‘And on that note, I’d like to place on record our gratitude for the work you’ve done over the years. Everyone in the office feels that your dedication has been nothing but first rate. Your work with this particular client group has been an example to us all.’

Glenn took a drink of his water. He wanted to drift off, perhaps into the planetary system this guy resided. Wherever it was, it wasn’t in Glenn’s universe.

‘Before I go over the particulars of the package that’s on offer, Glenn, I’d like to have a short discussion with you. Get to know why we’re at this point.’

‘Go ahead.’ They were still paying. He had no desire to cut the supply of finance prematurely.

Forester opened the folder in front of him, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with its contents.

 ‘You’ve indicated to your manager that the restructure of the new organisation isn’t for you. Why is that?’

This was all a tick-box exercise. It was no surprise to Glenn. Forester hated being here just as much as he did. Protocol dictated they sit opposite each other today and have a cosy chat, both knowing the inevitable. But human resource manuals wanted questions answered, and for that questions must be asked.

‘There are a few reasons that I could flag up straight away.’

‘And they would be?’ enquired Forester.

‘Roster allocation for one. The new system doesn’t help either the service user or staff. The computer programme you’ve used to concoct this new routine, I presume must tick the required boxes, but it doesn’t for one minute cater for the people we are offering a service to.’

‘An example would be?’ Forester barely looked up.

‘What about when a service user wants to go and do something not identified on the roster? Like six months earlier,’ he added flippantly. Forester didn’t take the bait. ‘Something simple. It’s summer and the weather is nice. He’d like to visit the seaside. There are lots of positives in taking someone to the seaside, you know, besides simple enjoyment. Community presence or promoting positive behaviour. They’re just a couple of the benefits. In the new system there is just no allocation of time. Previously, this would have been paramount. There was flexibility in the system. Not any more. With the cuts staff have been let go and not replaced. How are we supposed to do those sorts of activities on the skeleton level of staff that’s left?’

‘But the system has built-in mechanisms for assessed needs. We have been very careful about this.’

‘You need to go back to the people who write these programmes and allocate the time then, because it just doesn’t work.’

Forester was jotting notes down. This may have been a mere exercise in reality, Glenn knew that, but would Forester check these points out later? He had no idea whether the issues he raised would lead to change.

‘We’re just not serving the people we’re meant to be in the right way.’

Glenn waited for a response. It didn’t come immediately. Forester appeared to be in deep thought. Had he struck a chord? Or was he just swimming against a very strong tide.

‘But we found that under the old system staff were controlling the roster. Essentially, re-writing it to suit themselves not the service. Put simply, it was costing the tax payer a fortune!’

‘You can believe that if you want, but if you think for one minute I, or anyone else, wanted to work those unsociable shifts, you’re wrong.’

‘I’d like to go through that with you some time, if I may.’

‘Show me any roster and I’ll explain the reasons for staff to be present, or not as the case may be. I think if you put a roster alongside a service user activity sheet, you’ll see what was being done with the time available.’

Forester took another sip of water and sneaked a glance at his watch. It appeared he was tiring of the exercise already. ‘Okay. So what else is behind your decision?’

‘How about privatisation, or outsourcing, as you like to refer to it?’

Forester shuffled in his chair.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s not right. It’s going to reduce the service to the service user further and cut staff pay. How can that be good?’

Forester certainly wasn’t comfortable, Glenn could see that but he wasn’t concerned. Sometimes he enjoyed being unpopular.

‘Look, there’s not a lot we can do about it. Savings have to be found. Services can’t be as they were. Everyone has to understand that in the present economic climate things have to change. Budgets can’t be kept at pre-crash levels. The service just wouldn’t be sustainable. We’ve been surfing a financial wave destined to crash on the shore for years.’

‘And you’re happy with that, are you?’

‘It’s not about me being happy or not. It’s about securing the service’s future in whatever form that takes.’

Glenn’s mouth was drying, he took a sip of water. ‘And while all this is going on we’ve all just got to grin and bear it?’

Forester snapped the file shut. He was losing control of the meeting and obviously wasn’t getting anywhere.

‘No one is saying this is easy. No one wants to do this. But, understand,’ he warned, ‘we are faced with stark choices, difficult decisions just have to be made.’

‘Can’t you stand up and refuse?’

‘Refuse to do what? My job? That’s just not realistic, Glenn. Look, I think we should close the meeting; we’re getting nowhere.’ Forester appeared rattled.

He stood, moved around the table and attempted to shake Glenn’s hand. Glenn stood but declined the offer.

From his file, Forester picked out a sheet of paper. ‘You know what’s on offer from Fresh Solutions in Care, the new company. All you have to do is come in and sign this form and you’re still doing the job you love.’

‘Work for a private company? That’s not going to happen,’ he said with some certainty.

‘Well then…Good luck with whatever you choose to do next.’

Glenn turned without a word and left the room. He exited the building without speaking to anyone. He could feel the redness in his face. He was reaching boiling point. If anyone he passed had said anything to him he would surely have bitten their head clean off.

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