LIFE: Play The Game

Sunday, October 1st 2017
Darren Pinkman stood naked atop the precipice of steel and glass. Park View executive residence. Twelve floors of west London luxury where the monied elite quaff Dom Pérignon to toast each faux success.

Muted sounds of the waking city rose to greet him. An aggressive clatter of bottles tossed into refuse trucks punctured the early morning air, an uncaring alarm call for slumbering neighbours. The watery light of the October dawn spread slowly over the horizon, seeping through the sparsely populated streets and courtyards below. A softly veiled mist hung loosely over the city, a translucent night blanket soon to be discarded exposing its inhabitants to the cold light of a new day.

London. Its secrets hidden behind respectable facades. The fresh light of morning could not flush the falsehood from this place. Money controlled everything. Everyone had a price. Without money, you didn’t exist. He had tried to fight them, reclaim what was rightfully his. His entire life stripped away piece by piece by people he foolishly called friends; betrayed by the one person he loved more than anything in the world.

He breathed deeply, clearing his mind. With his final performance imminent, tranquillity washed over him, releasing him from the mental torment that had hounded his confused thoughts since....

He stopped himself being drawn back there again. He refused to be tormented in his final minutes. He would meet Death untroubled.

Legs slightly apart, arms downward, a few inches from his body, palms facing forward, he closed his eyes. Spreading his arms rearwards, he inhaled the fresh autumnal air. A faint smile played across his lips as he stood emboldened on the roof’s edge. A performer ready for his final act. In these final moments, he felt peace. No fear. His mind empty of thought. Free at last.

Darren Pinkman took his final step, bowing down to the city that broke him.



A red dot pulsed slowly as Patrick McNally recorded the fatal descent from the front passenger seat of the Mercedes Minivan. His broad face impassive as the thud of death echoed through the otherwise deserted street. His driver took the last bite of his double sausage and egg, licking his fingers as he moved alongside the death scene. Patrick held the bloodied face of the distorted corpse in frame for several seconds before zooming out to capture the mangled remains in full profile. Satisfied with his work, he brought the live video stream to an end.

‘Close that bloody window. Yer lettin’ all the heat out,’ moaned his driver as they headed to their next assignment.