Submitted for the July 2024 prompt: This Mortal Coil

“Mr. Sharpe, I have a job for you!” the man shouted.

 

Sharpe opened an eye, not bothering to lift his head off the couch.

 

“How the hell did you get in?” he asked, somewhat perturbed.

 

“The door was unlocked,” the man explained. “And it is the office hours as displayed…”

 

Sharpe took a second to absorb the information before sitting up.

 

“Sorry,” he offered. “I must‘ve forgot to drop the latch when I came back from the bar last night…”

 

He stood up, rubbing his brow to stimulate his brain. “You said you had a job?”

 

“Yes,” the man responded. “I need you to find a man who claims he’s immortal...”

 

Sharpe let out an involuntary snort. "Alright, who put you up to this?”

 

“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Sharpe,” the man responded. “His name’s Marcus Grey and I need you to track him down immediately.”

 

Sharpe grabbed a glass and filled it using the sink next to his desk. “Sounds like a load of crap."

 

The man took out an envelope brimming with banknotes.

 

“I came here because I heard you were the best,” the man imparted, turning towards the door. “But if my custom isn’t welcome…”

 

Sharpe put a hand on the man’s shoulder and ushered him back to the couch. “I’m sure we can arrange something, Mr….?”

 

“You can call me Harlan,” the man replied.

 

“OK, Harlan. Lemme take a couple of aspirin, and I’ll start looking for your everlasting man…”

 

* * *

 

Once Sharpe’s splitting headache began to clear, he immersed himself in the search for Marcus Grey. He combed through databases and chased down leads across the city.

 

The trail wove through decades-old records and the faded memories of people Grey had met.

 

Sharpe interviewed an elderly woman in a modest apartment, her recollections painting Grey as an enigmatic figure.

 

A shopkeeper shook his head, remembering a time long past when Grey had been a regular patron.

 

A police officer, swayed by a few bills, slipped Sharpe a crucial lead: Grey's last known address.

 

* * *

 

Standing before a weathered townhouse, Sharpe straightened his tie before knocking.

 

The door creaked open to reveal an old man with a hint of caution in his eyes.

 

"Can I help you?" the old man asked.

 

"I'm looking for Marcus Grey,” Sharpe replied.

 

The old man raised an eyebrow. "Why do you seek him?”

 

"I'm a private detective,” Sharpe explained. “I’ve got some questions for him."

 

The old man scrutinised Sharpe for a few moments before fully opening the door. “Come in,” he offered. “It’s been a while since I’ve had some company.”

 

Sharpe stepped inside, scanning the cluttered living room. "How long have you lived here, Mr. Grey?"

 

"Long enough to see this city change," Grey chuckled, gesturing for Sharpe to sit down.

 

Sharpe took a seat, intrigued by some historical photos on the wall. "You seem well-traveled. Ever witnessed any notable events?"

 

Grey’s smile faded slightly, his gaze distant. "I've seen my share. History has a way of finding me."

 

"Have you ever had any near-death experiences?" Sharpe pursued.

 

Grey’s expression turned serious. "That’s a very unusual question to ask..."

 

Sharpe hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "This may sound dumb, but someone hired me because they think you’re immortal."

 

Grey laughed out loud. "Immortal?! That's a good one!” He leaned towards Sharpe, his face filled with sincerity. “I assure you, my friend. I’m just a regular old geezer…”

 

As the words left Grey’s mouth, the front door burst open. Harlan stormed in holding a silenced pistol.

 

"Enough of this shit!” he bellowed. “Hand it over!”

 

Sharpe stood frozen, shock etched into his features. "Harlan?! How did you— “

 

“I knew a hungover bum like you wouldn’t notice me tailing you,” Harlan interjected, as he pointed the gun at Grey. “And didn’t I tell you to get the device?!”

 

Grey raised his hands slowly. "Alright, alright. Nobody needs to get hurt."

 

He walked over to a bookshelf and slid open a hidden compartment. He took out a small box, opening it to reveal a curved white headset.

 

"This is what you came for," Grey stated.

 

Harlan inspected the gizmo, his eyes wide with fascination.

 

"How does it work?" he asked.

 

“It's a culmination of my life’s work,” Grey explained. “It enhances cellular regeneration, continually prolonging life."

 

Harlan's satisfaction was palpable. "This changes everything,” he muttered. Without warning, Harlan shot Grey in the head. Blood splattered, and Grey slumped to the ground.

 

"This device probably doesn't account for a bullet through the brain," Harlan quipped, as he aimed the gun at Sharpe.

 

“And with that Mr. Sharpe, I must bid you adie— “

 

Harlan stopped in disbelief as Grey stood up.

 

Grey took a deep breath. Somehow, the bullet hole in his temple healed and closed shut.

 

"Nice try, young man,” he uttered, before raising his hand.

 

Grey snapped his fingers. Harlan's face turned deathly pale, and he collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

 

Sharpe stared in horror, unable to talk for several seconds.

 

"What the...?” he finally managed.

 

Grey smiled, a small glint in his eye. "Let’s just say this device has some... side effects."

 

Sharpe’s mouth hung agape with shock. “Was that some kind of telekinesis?!”

 

“That, my friend,” Grey began. “Was a good excuse for a cup of tea.”

 

He scuttled off towards the kitchen, casually dodging Harlan’s body as he went.

 

“Do you take milk?” Grey asked as he filled up an electric kettle. “And is it one lump or two?”