On the outskirts of Middlesbrough Town Dump, there is Middlesbrough Town Dump’s town dump.

Actually, it’s a recycling facility, you prejudiced bastards. There are quite a lot of pretty places in my home town if you’re into the decadence of industrial decay like me. But this place is actually clean and surprisingly grub-free.

The good citizens of Middlesbrough come day and night to permanently vanish away all the things others have dumped in their alleys. These responsible folk enter the facility via a roundabout from the road to Haverton Hill. The assassins enter across the marsh on the opposite side.

There is security, of course, but only up to the outer perimeter fence of the tip. Beyond, the estuary is off limits to the authorities because it is an area of ecological importance for nesting birds. Between the fence and the estuary, there is also a giant row of wooden hides blocking off any chance of viewing the approaching vans of the assassins as they tear up the nests of these birds of ecological importance. But that’s okay by the bird club, as they have carried out a detailed cost-benefit analysis on these twelve-feet hides and determined that the steady collapse of human population as a result of these incursions will provide the best hope of stability for the Royal Turd Warbler in the long run.

The regular patrols of guards along this fence are easily spotted by means of their sickly yellow jackets with “Avoid Me” printed in big helpful red letters on the back, and easily dodged altogether using the handy timetables handed to the assassins by the facility’s head of security. You must remember that this facility is run by the council, and many members of the council are secretly part of the dreadful union of men in charge known as Them, They and The Man, hell-bent on dragging down the world of the working class into eternal misery for no discernible benefit to themselves.

All these factors mean that seventy-two out of the year’s one hundred and nineteen attempts at unauthorised entry to the site have been successful, as logged by the Haverton Hill Citizens’ Watch. It is outside the HHCW’s jurisdiction to actually take any action on this, but they can ‘monitor the situation’, and so this is what they do, posted in little clumps along the muddy track leading from the public skips to the incinerator, clipboards and pencils in hand. These volunteers allow them to publish dear little pamphlets exposing fellow residents' guaranteed annihilation which are posted through unwelcoming letterboxes all over town, and which they see three days later bundled into transparent bags on the back of the council trucks inching towards the furnace. The remarkable efficiency of waste collection gives them something to talk about as they stand shivering on the mud and watching for the assassins.

Now, when I say seventy-two successful invasions of this property, I certainly do not mean seventy-two deaths. The life of these mysterious killers is spent mainly in watching and waiting. But sometimes, ever so rarely, the waiting pays off.

The waiting paid off for 3 one cold Wednesday afternoon. The battered Ford had safely reached the hides some five hours ago, and with a record twelve nests smashed to boot. They were already pleased with their new place at the very top of the Mysterious Assassin Nest Smashing Leaderboard, but now, ungodly luck shined down on them once more. The last truck of the day was merely a hundred yards from the incinerator, and the group were preparing for another hopeless night of bag slashing. But, as 3 looked across to the very rear of the vehicle, it hit the edge of a hillock of pamphlets just off to its right. Far above, a bag of pamphlets rolled away to bolster the hillock. Beneath, there lay a bag of pamphlets. But there was something else, too.

3 adjusted his balance on the roof of the hide, twiddled the focus on his binoculars, and zoomed in on the target. He nodded to himself, calculating the risk. Yes, it was time for action.

“Potential intelligence, paper correspondence, rear of truck,” he muttered into a device strapped to his wrist. “Move out. 7, 9, to front. 11, 17, rearguard.” Swift and silent as a shadow, he swooped to the track.

The Citizen’s Watch citizen watchers had to fling themselves into the slurry verges to avoid his splodge. The long hours of watching were better endured with a bagful of burgers at his side, and he was becoming rather indisposed for stealth. “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly to the grim-faced men all around him. Greetings were outside their jurisdiction, so they scribbled on their mud-caked clipboards instead and looked around pleadingly for a patrol whose success or failure they could monitor instead.

There had been a patrol, coming back from the entrance checkpoint where they had just been engaged in dismissing a very angry gentleman who had missed the last body disposal skip, but they were currently lying on their backs, quite unconscious, having phallic inscriptions applied to their foreheads by 11 and 17. 3 noted this and signalled the ambushers with a quick flick of his wrist-beacon.

It was 9’s job to cut off the escape. From his hiding place behind a convenient sign banning trespassers, he deployed the Spikey Ropey Thing just as the truck was reaching the ten feet of tarmac which the development board managed to lay before funding ran out. The metallic grinding and sudden deflation of tyres which resulted was expertly drowned out by the mating screams of the Royal Turd Warbler, as played from 9’s wrist-speaker. It was a stroke of luck that there was a member of the native fauna with such distressing reproductive habits.

As the second-most senior member of the team, 7 was given the most dangerous assignments in exchange for none of the credit. From his hiding place behind a convenient sign reminding security to check all convenient hiding places, he charged the lorry and swung open the passenger door of the cab. He grabbed the swinging arm of the panicked driver, pinned it to the dashboard, and placed the cool edge of an even cooler blade against his neck. “Your life or your rubbish,” he snarled like some urban Turpin. The offer was noble and heroic after all; the assassins didn’t kill indiscriminately. That was why they rummaged ceaselessly for the last pieces of the puzzles they were dealt like old ladies reaching for the remotes that just had to be in those carrier bags with the bits in.

This time, the driver did not resist. 7 prodded a button on his wrist with his protruding chin and announced, “Threat neutralised. No colleagues.”

“Good work. Approaching intelligence. Move in, 9,” instructed 3. Laboriously, he clambered up the rear ladder into the back of the lorry. The stink of the cargo failed to offend his nostrils after so many Saturday nights in town. The position of the bag had never left his mind’s eye. With 9’s help, he hauled it up from its pool of bin-juice and slid his own knife along the bottom.

A rain of blue pamphlets showered down into the mire, but like a vulture, 9 was there to pluck the meat from the bone. Crouching, he peered down into the detritus of life clutched in his hands. 3 turned away and checked 11 and 17’s position by the now-closed skips. The verification process was a sacred code of trust.

“Mrs. G. Wilkinson,” read 9 from a battered postcard. A half-second’s silence was all he needed. He let the greeting flutter away and beheld a fistful of brown parcel paper. “Mrs. M. Hutchinson.” Silence. An application form. “Miss D. Wall. Mr. M. Miles. Mrs. J. Johnson. Peter Brown. Mr. H. Mills.”

“Stop.” 3 remained motionless, but it was hard to miss the incline of surprise in the word. “Howard Mills, listed since 18th March.” Only one assassin per group was privy to the list. And then only to be committed to memory, for the safety of the others.

“Number?” continued 9.

“82.”

9 looked down at the slimy pizza advert. What a tiny thing to die for.

A name, a door number, a profession, a suburb or estate. All these things can be known, and yet the assassins cannot make their move until all is certain. One small mistake, a wrong door opened, and a pair of handcuffs around those tired equipment-laden wrists. Or worse still, the death of an unlisted. I’ll have you know that these anonymous murderers prowling the skips of Teesside and whittling down the terrified people as they sit trembling in their homes awaiting that soft thud of glove on their door are pretty honourable lads. They know not why the listed are listed, but their masters do, and to be uncertain is to find yourself waking up in a numberless shipping container somewhere in the iron expanse of Teesport. Bound for Newcastle.

But 3 was certain. He hoisted himself behind the wheel, activated his wrist-GPS, and entered the postcode 9 provided. 11 and 17 soon slid into the back, pleased with their ever-growing talents of body-art. 7 silenced his charge with a cold promise of a life-skills enlistment notice through his door should he talk, and departed.

“Cheerio!” called 11 as the old Ford coughed into life and fought against the wet turf of the estuary.

“Piss off,” muttered the gathered observers posted along the hides. Amazingly for the assassins, farewells were the HHCW’s only omission from the eternally amateur safety bylaws of Middlesbrough Council, and if anyone can be counted on to be a jobsworth, it is a volunteer for a concerned neighbourhood association.

The van spluttered and rattled and squelched its way to safety. Up ahead, the skeletons of colossal industrial dinosaurs loomed ever closer, and beyond, the lights of the town that used to have something to do.

“So, what you spending your bounty on?” wittered 11, horribly audible over the juddering of the engine. “Listed since March? It’s bloomin’ December! This is one careful bloke.”

“Yeah. Pay’s gonna be mint,” chuckled 17.

3, 7 and 9 remained silent and professional. They had been in this career too long to consider this instance of fortune a job well done. Mr Mills may not even be home.

The postcode led them through a vaguely undemolished suburb in the south towards the grottier bowels of Hemlington. 3 took his time. The traffic was bad at this time in the evening, and after the past thousand jobs, the police were beginning to grasp a trend. No need to arouse suspicion this close to the target.

It was growing dark as they finally turned off Acklam Road into the rows of stark facades that marked the corner of Mr. Mills’ street. 3 pulled over just outside 74 and counter-checked the postcode and street on Royal Mail, another part of the sacred policy. It was a match. He cut the ignition and regarded the deserted road. “11, take the wheel. 17, to the rear. 9, to front. Evac sign is ‘warbler’. 7, let’s call upon our friend Howard.”

They got out into the chilly air. The slamming of car doors started the manic booming barks of a guard-dog somewhere up the terrace, and the synchronised blind twitches of a cursory neb from a dozen nearby windows. All in all, nothing to raise the alert.

There hadn’t been anything from Howard’s house, 3 noted. This was also normal. It was only six in the evening, so many had yet to return from the clubs of last night. It seemed a careless enough street. They could wait a little, if needed.

Together, the two dark men strolled along to the wooden door marked 82. The muffled thump of 3’s glove on the panel was smart and efficient. The mark of an important call usually brought any nervous dwellers running to their threshold. And what visit is more important than a visit from death itself?

There would be no waiting today. 3’s delicately attuned ears immediately brought him the sound of cheap leather shoes on blue striped carpet. When you began to hear patterns, you were destined for the top.

The door opened. 3’s gaze was fixed beneath the man who answered. It was blue spots. He cursed himself for his presumptuous ambition and decided to focus on the current job instead.

“Evening gentlemen. What - what can I do for ya?” asked Howard Mills. He had tried to sound jovial and welcoming, but you can excuse him if the sight of two solid and menacing men clad all in black, hands on cruelly serrated blades in their belts, with a trio of comrades guarding a getaway vehicle further up the street, made him less than a perfect host. His eyes widened. It was a white van, for god’s sake.

3 stepped forward until he placed one enormous mud-caked boot on the doorstep. “Mills. Are you Howard Mills, resident of this address? Patron of Eazy-Eat Pizzeria?”

Howard Mills took a step back. His face sagged. He coughed and adjusted his belt, eyes drooping to the deadly belts of his visitors. “I am. I’m also getting on a bit now, and almost a Yorkshireman, so I think I’m compelled to offer you a muddy brew and a nice sit by my dangerously obsolete heater in the front room. Come in, come in!”

7 looked to 3. 3 signalled an affirmative in a way only those seasoned assassins confident in controlled cheek vasodilation would understand. It wasn’t standard practice, but it had been particularly nippy up on the hides today. One after the other, they stepped through the entrance, Mr. Mills herded before them.

With the head-twisting enthusiasm peculiar to all visitors who have just entered someone else’s home for the first time, and who must anxiously compare each fixture, fitting and used sock peeking from under the settee to their own counterparts, the assassins scanned the plain hall and even plainer room into which they were ushered. It was the same dull ordinary that 3 had seen in dozens of target’s residences. It would soon be hundreds.

As one, the pair settled with a creak into armchairs, the back-breaking give in which could provide a handy case for self-defence if this all went tits up. The heater was cosy as long as you ignored the strong stream of gas slowly circulating the apparently unventilated room, and 3 began to relax. A scalding beverage would be a perfect way to celebrate what even he could now see to be a certain success. Mr. Mills had scurried away from the room as fast as his trembling stick-legs could carry him, but only with the understandable urgency of having guests left untead. There was no dial-tone of a phone. 3 was sure of it.

It was then that 7 gave a strangled cry that instantly had 3 struggling to escape the smothering embrace of his chair. 7 was one of the best, and such articulated shock could only mean something actually shocking. 3 followed his gaze across to the little alcove that had been concealed from his worryingly low vantage point. It was plain other than a single slate hanging from the whitewashed wall. The slate said Keep Calm and -

He could read no more. Never had there been a surer sign of someone needing to be brutally murdered in their own house. He turned his head away and beheld another beribboned sign. He snapped shut his eyes, but the words Laugh Often had found their way through all the same. He decided there were indeed surer signs.

Instantly, his entire body tingled with anticipation. 7 was on his feet and crossing to the door. Ever so silently, he peered down the hall and stayed still for a long time. One twitch of a finger brought 3 to his side. In a second, he saw everything he needed to to realise his mistake.

A short way down, the hall opened up into a tiny kitchen. On one side of Mr Mills, who was plopped between his counter tops like a cork ready to pop through the greasy ceiling, a kettle was bubbling merrily. On the other was a cardboard box that the target had just extracted with some difficulty from a wall-mounted cupboard. On the cardboard box was the trade name of the teabags to be served.

“Tetley’s,” said 3. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get this done.”

Howard Mills revolved and held up his hands, panic in his eyes. “No! You’ve got the wrong person! I’m just me! I’m normal!”

“Exactly,” said 3.

7 drew his knife.