Chapter 1:

Part 1
I ran out of the main doors, my heart hammering in my chest and sweat pouring down my face. Everything had gone wrong. The alarms echoing through the building behind me, plus the visions of the murders I had committed barely 15 minutes ago, were filling my mind. I was nowhere near the calm state I thought I would be in. Neither would any other normal person after murdering someone. I thought I would be able to handle it; carry out the deeds with a cool head. My head wasn’t very cool now. I recalled what had been going through my mind at the time, and I recognised it as madness.
I ran down the stone steps of the building, an endless What have I done?! What have I done?! trying to push out all rational thought. I needed a place to think things through again, and plan a course of action now that I was identified as the killer. I headed for a bus stop, slowing my pace and trying to regain some of my composure. The number 42 bus was just pulling in, and I climbed on board. Thankfully the bus was almost empty, and choosing a seat near the back, I tried to relax.
My name is David Mearson. I am an aspiring business man at Bolin Ltd., and have risen rapidly through the ranks of our corporation. I am also a very ambitious man, and in order to reach my goals, I am willing to do anything – and I mean anything – to overcome any obstacles in my way. Now, being very confident of my abilities, and having out-performed everyone else to an exceptional level in the business, I saw no reason as to why I could not – in time – become chairman.
Through years of hard work, and some instances of blackmail and extortion, I had ascended all the way to vice-chairman. Many people would themselves have been very happy with this, and would have shaken my hand and said “Well done, David! Congratulations!” But being vice-chairman isn’t exactly being “chairman” is it? Not the same salary, not the same power. So it’s not good enough. Thus, on an unusually bright Thursday morning in November of the year 2006, I went up to the top floor of the building, to the chairman’s office, which was huge; spanning most of the width and length of the building. The most attractive feature was a large window-wall overlooking the Thames. Although it could be said the Thames itself was not a very exciting bit of viewing, being a dull greyish-brown and bobbing with the odd crisp-packet. Neither were the clouds of fumes and smoke making up the all encompassing smog of Central London. It didn’t bother me in the slightest since it was not that panoramic view that I was becoming chairman for.
I mentioned my opinion to the present chairman – Mr. Alan James Bolin himself, founder of Bolin Ltd. I was sure that, due to my superior and flawless work record (at least, officially), the chair man would surely consider the idea, and be more than willing to offer me his position as soon as he retired. After a short and silent pause, in which he had closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, he got up from his chair, walked around his desk to face me, and said “You’re fired”.
It turned out that he had never liked me since he first set eyes on me during my interview. He claimed that he could not only see it in my eyes, but also sense the craftiness and sneakiness of a mad man who would shoot him on the spot with no qualms or regrets. Someone who knew what he wanted, and was more than ready to do anything it took to get it. Until then, I had never met anyone who has me sussed so accurately. All the time I had worked there, he had his suspicions of the black mail and extortion schemes I executed, and had been trying to find ways of getting me fired for the last seven years. I had been working there for 7 years and one day.
Now, at this point, any other plain old businessman would have taken the bus home, walked slowly off at his stop, and then suddenly realize that he’d left his suitcase on the seat next to him. The now retreating bus still being in sight, he would most likely run after it full pelt, intending to catch it before the next stop. But years of sitting behind a desk, eating fast food and drinking either coffee, Diet Coke, or beer, would mean that he only manages about 20 metres before having to stop; hands on knees, shirt already soaked in sweat, trying to get air back in his lungs, and trying harder not to faint. On arriving home, he would immediately flush down the toilet the chain that used to hold his ID card, morosely stare at his own face in the bathroom mirror for half an hour with the tap running, then collapse sobbing onto his bed. After that, the inevitable 18 hour a day at the pub for the next two months would begin, drinking something he couldn’t ever for the life of him remember after regaining his consciousness again and again in the same field. I prided myself on not joining the countless morons who went down that pathetic road.
You see, what old Alan Bolin didn’t know, was that I had a Colt .45 silenced handgun tucked into my belt. So after he’d turned around, evidently very pleased and content, and was walking towards his chair, I casually pulled out the gun and shot him five times – twice in the heart – from behind. The silencer reduced the shots to whispers. I remember the scene quite clearly: his back arched and he stumbled, his hand gripping his chest where blood was spurting out the most. He turned slowly round, his eyes wide with shock, and opened his mouth as if he was trying to say something; but no sound came out. He stared at his blood-covered hand, and the red stain spreading rapidly down the front of his white shirt. Then he sank to his knees, and keeled over sideways, ending curled up on the floor in front of his desk, in a pool of his own blood.

Part 2
I didn’t panic at first, even though the pool was growing. I put the gun back into my belt, the muzzle pleasantly warm from the shooting, and walked to the door, taking a peek into the corridor outside. The deceased chairman’s secretary was at the far end behind his desk, typing away at his computer. No one else was about. Leaving the door open, I walked back to the desk and slid it slowly across the floor until it blocked the unsightly view of the late Alan Bolin. If anyone now came in through the door, they would see an empty room, so long as the pool of blood didn’t grow too big. I could only hope that no one would find it odd that the desk was now near the middle of the room, and for no reason at all walk towards and around it. With that done, I turned to admire the glints and flashes of sunlight reflected from the crisp packets in the Thames.
After a few minutes I walked back to the door, then turned for a last check, and seeing the bullet holes in the wall with blood spattered around them, heaved a sigh. There were five of them. Great! I thought, shot right through him. I debated with myself whether to just leave the mess and go, or clean it up. I didn’t know what would buy more time when the investigation began. I decided to leave it. I had lingered far too long already and had to be as far away as I could be before he was found, after which the building would be in an uproar.
I went out into the corridor and softly closed the door. The lift was right next to the secretary’s desk, and as I made my way towards it he looked up. I nodded at him, trying to act as if everything was just fine, but by that time the panic had started to trickle through me. I began to consider the various ways I could be linked to the crime scene. There was the secretary for one, he would know I was the last person to see the chairman. As the lift doors opened, I found myself thinking whether I should do away with him too (he was looking at me strangely). Just one shot to the head, and there’d be no one else who knew I had seen Mr. Bolin. But I think sanity broke in through a back door into some part of my brain, because I decided against it, and walked into the brightly lit interior of the lift, its doors already open.
As I pushed the button for the ground floor I glanced at my face in the mirrored lift walls – nice and calm, good; no sweat or wrinkles of worry. The lift hadn’t responded. I pushed for ground floor again, and again nothing happened. Sweat broke out on my forehead and my breath quickened. Horrors came to my mind's eye: The lift doors slamming shut...the light going out...rich evil laughter. I closed my eyes, telling myself to not panic, and not be stupid. But the unwanted thoughts flashed relentlessly through my mind: The secretary standing outside, pressing the lift immobilisation button, calling every police force in the country and telling them I was here, trapped on the top floor, and laughing while he did it.
I caught a second glance at my face, and the lines of worry, plus the sweat were there now, as well as wide eyes and slightly heaving torso. What was the matter with me? I took a deep breath, rearranged my features to show mild surprise, and stepped back out of the lift. I looked questioningly at the secretary, who slowly raised his arm and pointed to the “Out of order” sign on the wall. I grinned, trying to make it look like I’d planned the whole thing, and changed my expression to one that said What? Can’t you see I’m just joking around? Inwardly, I was cursing myself for having completely forgot that I’d come up the stairs because the damned lifts had not been working – and what a climb it had been too. I casually walked round his desk to the staircase, his eyes following me. I grinned at him again just as he started to get up, after which I walked through the door…and stopped. He was on his way to the chairman’s room, and I knew I wouldn't have enough time to get out the building before he found him. I spun on my heel, but walked slowly back through the door, and found him still standing there.
“Problem?” he asked. I smiled once more and shook my head.
“Everything’s just dandy” I said with a flourish.
He began to frown, and I knew he was beginning to think There's something wrong here.... His eyes flicked to the telephone on desk next to the computer, then back to me. “Can I help you with…” he began to say when I slowly pulled out the gun and pointed it at his face. I was unnerved when his eyes didn't widen in shock, and he didn't fall on his knees and begin pleading for his life, or dribbling, mumbling and sweating, but instead only looked at me, his mouth closed, the frown gone, and replaced with...was it calm? It was as if vice chairmen pulling guns on him and smiling was something he'd long gotten used to.
I didn't do anything else, because I had no idea what to do next. I didn't have anything to tie him up with, and I didn't think it would be wise to trust him with the order Stay right there and don't move for 15 minutes while I escape. I was just beginning to consider clubbing him over the head with the gun and being done with the whole thing when he darted sideways, his hand reaching for...the security alert button which would close all fire doors, neutralise all codes and set off alarms through the entire building...which I had completely forgotten about. I fired a shot at his computer screen, which exploded, and he stopped.
Looking him in the eye, I said “You move one teensy bit more towards that button, and your brain will end up on that out of order sign”. He stood up straighter, and I was beginning to wonder whether clubbing him over the head was the safest option. I took one step towards him, then the phone rang. He lunged for it, and so I shot him. First in the arm flying towards the phone, then in the neck. He fell on the desk, knocking the phone onto the floor with his wildly scrabbling other hand, after which I quickly walked behind him and shot him three times in the back. Or at least, I would have. But after the one shot the magazine ran empty. The secretary was slowly raising himself off the desk, blood pumping out of the wound in his neck, and dribbling from his mouth and nose. His body shuddered and he made a gurgling noise, then his arm went limp, and he slid listlessly to the floor.
I stood very still, staring at what had become my second homicide in barely ten minutes. I could imagine, maybe 50 years or so from now, the regulars at the local pub saying Remember that Mearson who worked up in that Smith. Co building...yeah killed the whole lot of 'em. One hell of a murderer wasn't he? Murderer... The word echoed in my mind, but I shook my head and stamped my foot furiously, as if it would help. OK, think rationally I thought, and began to walk back towards the staircase, when a voice rose up from floor behind me. I froze, terror rising up, heart beat tripling in a matter of seconds, nerves screaming, waiting for...cold breath on the back of my head, bloody finger's closing round my neck...NO!! I spun round, waving the empty gun wildly at...nothing. The voice came again, and I jumped, trying to look everywhere on the floor at once and backing up at the same time. I finally zeroed in on the sound and discovered it was coming from the phone. The receiver had been knocked off, and the person who had called was now wondering what the hell was going on.
I wiped sweat from my face, and went to pick it up. “Hello?” I said.
“Who's this? Where's Mark? I thought I called Smith's secretary. What’s your extension number?...”
“Erm...” I replied, and then immediately a voice in my head said What are you DOING you fool! Why aren't you already out side calling a taxi! Why are you still at the crime scene! YOUR crime scene! Your SECOND crime scene! Answering a bloody PHONE! after which I a squeak escaped my lips, and dropping the phone, I sprinted out the door.

Part 3
I was now sweating profusely, and as I thundered down the 72 flights of stairs I thought My cover's blown. The person on the phone recognised my voice for sure. I'm caught. When I get to the bottom, all the police in the city will be there, armed with pistols…shotguns…tasers…I might be able to kill a few of them. If I’m going down I’m taking some of ‘em with me... My foot slipped on a stair, and down I went, my momentum rolling me down the stairs three at a time. I hit the landing and rolled into the wall, the back of my head smacking into the plaster.
My vision went fuzzy, many parts of me were bruised and aching, but my mind got a grip on reality again. I lay there for a while, my right cheek on the cool marble floor, my hands gently massaging the various bruises, my mind still trying to panic and only panic. Once my eyes could see clearly again, I stood up and saw that I was only on floor 47, not even a third of the way down. I slowly continued my descent, determined to remain calm and pay attention to my feet. Then I remembered that there were not one but two staircases that led to the top floor. I was only in one of them. Any number of people could have also made their way to the top floor whilst I was laying down. What if the chair man had visitors? Chair men always have visitors! Visitors with phones to call the police with! By the time I had reached the 40th floor, I was running again.