A Good Day to Kill. 

The wailing sound of a siren jolted Gordon awake. He glanced quickly at the bright red numbers on his bedside clock. It was twenty minutes before he was due to rise.

For weeks, he was nervously waiting for this day to arrive. The sense of anticipation was nearly palpable. His mouth was bone dry. He guzzled a large gulp of water from the glass beside the clock.

Swinging his tall, lean frame out of the bed he stood up and stretched his body toward the sky. He went through a regular routine of neck and shoulder rolls to loosen out his upper body. He needed to be as limber and flexible as possible.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water several times on his face. Once he had dried his face with a small towel, he made sure to dry up the marble countertop. He then opened a banana that he had left there the previous evening. The day always went well when you prepared properly.

In the cabinet outside the bathroom, he donned his running gear he had laid out piece by piece. He started from the bottom up.

All the lines from the famous brand maker lined up symmetrically up and down his body. That pleased him. He pulled the black balaclava down over his head and fixed it so no part of his face was visible - apart from the eyes.

Having checked and double checked his gear, he chewed on some nuts and seeds. Disposing of one layer of running clothes in a bin along the way would be easy. Picking out the right bin without CCTV coverage was crucial.

Confusion, camouflage and speed would aid his escape. One slip up on his behalf could lead to his arrest. Alleyways and tunnels were his best friend. Sewers were a last resort.

He was already sweating just thinking about it.

Walking into the living room he sat down and studied the routes in and out of the park. He knew the park well, but wanted to absorb everything. Cameras would be monitoring his every move but that's where the excitement lay. The elusive chase. He would be one step ahead of them.

Once Gordon was sure of the route and backup routes to slip and slide into, he sat with his back against the front door. This was his sixth time weeding out the slack jawed imbeciles that congregate and clutter the running lanes of Central Park at the weekend.

With twenty deep breaths relaxing his every core he visualized committing the act. And then he saw himself bobbing and weaving, escaping their clutches.

It was time.

He picked up the map and burned it in an empty metal can. Slipping on latex gloves he removed the slim ultra light blade from it's plastic wrapping and slid it into the scabbard concealed in his left arm sleeve. Placing leather gloves over the latex, he now was ready to step out into the frigid air.

It was time to remove another annoyance. 

  

Search for a Good Samaritan.

He scratched the back of his near bald head as he seemed to scramble his brain for that last number. He exhaled loudly, drawing a blank.

“Pick the winning ones,” I offered.

“If only it were that easy!” he responded.

My ash walking stick made a loud clack against the tiles underfoot as I tried to prop it up against the neighbouring lottery stand. He kindly, quick as a flash, spun around and lifted it from the ground for me.

“Thanks a million son – if I bend down for that I might never get up again! Age is a terrible affliction, don’t you know!”

“Ah sure listen I played football last night myself and I’m creaking in places that I didn’t know I had places!”

“And why would you be aching at your young age?”

“Oh, I’m older than I look, despite the lack of growth on top!”

He smiled a broad mouth of yellowing teeth, yet his eyes were soft and luminescent. They were a deep brown colour, contrasting against his pale complexion. He was a beanpole of a young man, definitely a foot above my miniscule five foot frame.

“Jaysus I can’t remember the last number she always gets me to do! Can you believe that? We’re together twelve years and I do the same numbers for her every week – what the hell is that number?” he pondered.

“Well what numbers have you got?”

“I’ve got 2, 6, 10, 23, and 28 - but can’t remember the last one.”

“Is it a birthday, house number or special date?”

“No, it’s none of those. Jaysus what do I do now? She’ll kill me if I just throw a number in.”

“Can you give her a quick ring? Then that way she can’t blame you.”

“No, unfortunately I can’t – she’s at work.”

“Well you have to pick something. It could be lucky.”

“Jaysus I wouldn’t win an argument. It’d be like my luck to be the actual week where her numbers come up and I have one of them wrong.”

“Oh sure doesn’t everyone dread that scenario? To see your numbers come up when you haven’t had time to do them.”

“I think I saw an article in one of the Sunday papers where this guy was in hospital getting some operation done and couldn’t get out to do his lotto. And then guess what? His fecking numbers came up in the one week he didn’t do them!”

“Ah jaysus, that’d be hell. Talking of not getting a chance to do them – where is the eejit behind this counter to serve us? I’ve a bus to catch at ten to four.”

“Yeah you’re right. There hasn’t been anyone at this counter for some time.”

The large bustling post office was heaving with customers and four staff tended to them in rotation. Another couple waited in line to process their lottery tickets too. We waited another minute or two patiently.

“What time is it there son?” I asked of the young gentleman.

“Eh, it’s twenty minutes to four exactly.”

“Ah I can’t wait much longer – my bus could be early and I can’t afford to miss it. If I don’t catch it I have to wait another hour. And the cold of the evening drives my arthritis wild.”

“Yeah its mad how quickly the evenings are drawing in, isn’t it?”

“Every year passes more rapidly than the last. Make use of your youth, if I can pass on any advice to you.”

“Have you far to travel?”

“Not too far – the next town over. The bus ride takes about half an hour, depending on traffic and how often it stops.”

“Do you know - I might go up and ask them to tend to us. We’ve been waiting here for over ten minutes.”

“I genuinely can’t wait much longer son – I better go as crossing that road to my bus stop with this dodgy hip of mine will take at least five minutes.”

“Are you sure? Do you want a hand?”

“No son – I’m well able to look after myself despite my whingeing. Good luck to you – whatever number you finally decide to pick.”

“Pick a number for me then before you go? Then my wife can’t blame me if I get it wrong. I can blame you – the anonymous stranger.”

“Go for number 13. And my name is Philomena. So you can blame that doddery old woman.”

“Thanks for that Philomena. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to you. Nice chatting to you too.”

I waddled out of the post office into the main thoroughfare of the shopping centre. People, young and old, stepped around me milling about to their destinations. Everyone seemed to be moving much faster than I. The chilly November wind assaulted my very core as the automatic glass doors opened to the street.

A police officer stood on the opposite side of the road, clapping his hands together for warmth. He smiled warmly as I took my time crossing the black and white pedestrian lines. Traffic waited for me as I scuttled across. From there it was about a hundred yards downhill to my bus stop.

The bus shelter was thronged with young men and they sat on the narrow bench, oblivious to my presence. They played on their phones, unaware of the world around them. Thank god I had my stick to keep me up. I propped my back against the window of a disused shop window for further support.

As I saw my bus approaching at the traffic lights a couple of hundred yards away, I spotted someone familiar jogging across the middle of the busy road. The bus pulled up to the stop as I recognized my friend from the post office. He held out his hand.

“Good luck to you Philomena!” he said, slightly out of breath.

I stood incredulous. What was he handing me?

“What’s this?”

“It’s my good deed for the day. You didn’t get a chance to do the lottery. You never know!”

“You didn’t have to do that!”

But he was gone before I got a chance to finish my sentence.

And that’s why I need to find that Good Samaritan.

Because I owe him half.

Creative Daily Scribe: BIG I, SMALL f. Why didn’t I stop? What emotion o...

Creative Daily Scribe: BIG I, SMALL f.
Why didn’t I stop?
What emotion o...: BIG I , SMALL f. Why didn’t I stop? What emotion on her angelic face assured me that she was okay? What if I had stopped? Would ...

BIG I, SMALL f.

Why didn’t I stop?

What emotion on her angelic face assured me that she was okay? What if I had stopped? Would it really have changed anything? Or was her mind made up?

Would she have told me to “mind my own business”? Or would she have reluctantly accepted a kind ear from a helpful stranger?

And now, because of my selfish inactions, a fourteen year old girl called Eve, killed herself. She was lying on a cold metal table in a sanitary morgue while I sat in my own kitchen, clutching a mug of hot coffee. I wondered why I didn’t take five simple seconds, for a truly troubled teenager.

My indecisiveness pricks my conscience, asking the same questions over and over again. Like a woodpecker chipping away at a tree – my own self-worth is eroding hour by hour.   

Years of training, clinical practice and common sense were absent when needed most. I saw the hopelessness in her face, gait and eyes. But I ignored it, consumed with my own issues.

In that brief moment when I glimpsed Eve’s tearful face, I should have stopped.

I know that now.

Her young enchanting eyes told a tale of desperation. Hers was a story of lost hope and of those who let her down. Her head hung, heavy from the weight of continual disappointment.

It is hard to describe, how you let someone down that you really never met or spoke to. A glance was all I got, but I saw the fear, apprehension and anxiety in her face. And I did nothing about it until it was too late.

I stopped working immediately after informing the Police. I couldn’t face patients or the smarmy idiots I work with. While they said all the right words, I knew they meant none of it. They said they understand my situation and condescendingly state the phrase “we’re all human.”

But I know that some of them may have acted differently. But they weren’t in my position. Self-righteousness oozes from their pores, reveling in my torment.

I know that some of them are now forming papers in their head, about my situation. How can they possibly profit from this sad scenario? Apart from my boss, most of my workmates are vultures. They bicker about everything and would clamber over each other just to get ahead.

The hateful cynicism I have towards them courses through me. They are not worried about Eve’s parents or the mental wellbeing of the idiot who passed the poor fourteen year old – just before she jumped from a bridge to her death.

Our lives are short. That’s one thing that I will take away from this mess. The biggest thing I have learned is to always trust your gut. If it screams that something isn’t right, you should listen to it – no matter how silly the situation seems or how proud you are.

Turn around and ask the question.

“Are you okay?”

Those three words can mean more to someone in despair, than the other three words famously depicted in movies. It gives a lifeline to those that are literally, teetering on the edge. It gives them hope that someone somewhere, is looking out for them.

That’s why my ignorance in those few brief seconds, now makes me doubt myself.

Who will trust my professional or educated opinion, if I barely trust myself?

Two days ago, I ignored my instincts. In that moment, my life as I know it, changed.

I had just completed an eleven hour day, dealing with the needs of others. I returned home to a mountain of housework, dinner to make for the two boys and a wicker basket full of clothes to wash. Doing everything on my own this past year or so was beginning to take its toll.

Just after 8pm, I went for a jog to wean out the days’ stresses. By pounding the pavement, I would drain the negativity of the day out through the balls of my feet.

My body was only warming up in the first half mile when I saw Eve.

It was her seated position that first piqued my interest. Why would someone sit on the grass, facing a small, boring, concrete wall? You could tell from behind that she was a teenager, due to the slumped shape of the shoulders and thin physique.

I initially guessed that she was listening to music, under the mop of thick black hair, escaping the world’s loud droning soundtrack. Her tousled hair poured over her shoulders and lay upon a red and black lumberjack shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a dark t-shirt of some kind.

My squeaky, spongy trainers announced my approach toward her. I had gone running in the rain two days previous and not all the water had drained from the soles. Even through the gaps in the narrow railings, I could see the desperation etched all over her face as she turned to meet my gaze.

Those piercing, ice-cold blue eyes penetrated my core. And yet when I think back, how could I have ignored them? The bewitching brightness of her misty eyes contrasted sharply with the dullness of the grey concrete wall that lay behind her.

It took mere moments to take in such vivid detail. But I continued on, forcibly silencing my gut to turn around. Why I did that, I may never know.

I ran down the hill, over the bridge and past the football pitch. I ran for the next two and a half miles, wondering about the emotive face of a troubled teenager

I ran a loop just so I could check back on her. But she was gone.

In more ways than one.

I returned home and thought no more about it. I put the kids to bed and ignored the flashing light on the answering machine. It was probably my soon to be, ex-wife.

The following day I checked in for work as per usual. As I pulled my car into the underground car park, the news report over the radio glued me firmly into the drivers’ seat. I felt a cold unnerving chill rake down my spine, despite the heat of the summer morning.

“Police are appealing for information on the whereabouts of fourteen year old girl Eve Taylor. Eve was last spotted in the…”

I knew straight away.

I just knew it was her. The pained expression on her face. The sense that no one listened or cared. I had a chance to try and prevent it, but my own problems came first. This is what stung most.

Was the empathy within me gone?

My legs felt heavy climbing the one flight of stairs to the ground floor of our offices. I was out of breath too, but quickly realized I was hyperventilating. Luckily for me, my boss Shirley spotted me struggling. She hooked me from under the crook of my armpit and led me into her office.

I told her about what I thought I had seen. I trusted Shirley’s judgment implicitly. She was always calm and assessed everything rationally. She advised that the best course of action would be talking to the Police.

She simply stated that my information might not be pertinent to their investigations into the young lady’s disappearance. I might have seen someone else entirely. I was jumping very quickly to a sudden conclusion, she said.

But I knew my gut was right.

Half an hour later I was sitting in a communal grey office of the local Police station. I talked to the Sergeant in charge of the case. He didn’t say much, but I could tell by his body language that he didn’t approve of me. No matter how many times he said there was nothing I could have done, I knew deep down inside, there was.

Put yourself in the Policeman’s shoes for a moment. How do think it would look when a Clinical Psychologist doesn’t stop to help a young lady – who is clearly in emotional dire straits? And then this person feels the need to explain himself the following day?

I could see his analytical brain ticking over. I knew questions like “Did he know the girl prior to the incident?’ and “What had he to gain by not stopping?” were running through his head.

I knew guilt was written all over my face and that’s why he was suspicious of me. As he asked more questions of me, I drove myself further into trouble.

As I fell further afoul of myself, his radar picked up. His probing instincts told him to delve deeper. As I spoke, I wondered if he would start investigating me after I left the station. What criminal record of mine would surface that I didn’t know about? I knew I wasn’t guilty of anything, but what would they dig up on me?

Would he investigate my motives for coming to the station? Why would I ignore a teen in despair?  I knew he was judging me. But my own self-judgment was far more important. Self-loathing was now atop my conscience.

An hour later I left my office for the day. My boss, despite her deep concern for my mental state, told me to take as much time off as I needed. I wasn’t sure how I would cope with this. I had the haunting image of Eve behind my eyes. I had to start coping with it and didn’t know where to start.

So yesterday evening, I reluctantly walked down to the bridge where I thought Eve may have abandoned hope. The old stone wall had gritty jagged edges on top, but enough space to wedge a shoe into. I couldn’t bring myself to look over the edge to the fast flowing water below, but its deafening rumble was enough to know that the current was strong and forceful.

This morning, after a restless night without sleep, the news on the radio reported that Police divers had located a body. It reported that it was that of a young female. I knew once again it was Eve. She was somehow speaking to me, from beyond the despair.

The body had been found downstream, close to the mouth of the river that washes into the sea. It wasn’t confirmed yet whether it was her, but basic geography told me that her river washed toward the sea.

If they hadn’t found her, she might have been swept out to the ocean, never to be seen again. Her parents will see a bloated version of their beautiful daughter - but it will still be their daughter.

At least I am grateful that at least her parents will have a body to bury. Not having that closure can be excruciating.

I’m don’t know whether I should attend the funeral. But I need closure too. Or am I being selfish? And do I mainly want to apologize to young Eve?

I wonder if the Sergeant told the family that they had a witness to her last moments. Were they told that I could have intervened? And my actions could have or might have saved her?

How do I move on?

How can I function as a father?

How can I EVER trust my own judgment again?

Creative Daily Scribe: Wife of a Terrorist. I ran out of the house just t...

Creative Daily Scribe: Wife of a Terrorist.
I ran out of the house just t...: Wife of a Terrorist. I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few...

Wife of a Terrorist.

I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few blocks but I soon gave them the slip. Here I sit on a wooden park bench, wanting the pounding rain to cleanse my forever tarnished soul.

My chest heaves as tears mix with the waters of the puddle beneath my feet. For a moment I am lost in thinking that when the storm clouds clear, my DNA will evaporate into the sky along with the rainwater. Right now, I wish I could float away too. I have never in my life, felt so alone.

My makeup is starting to run on my pale skin. My mascara is smudged all over. I really don’t care anymore. I dig my nails into the flesh of my left arm, just to check that I am still alive. It takes blood to flow before I feel pain. I didn’t think I could feel possibly any worse, but now I do. I try to use my sleeve to wash some of the salt from my eyes.

The adrenaline-sapping past couple of days have tested my own convictions about life. Mainly about how some people view it as a cheap resource. Am I just a pawn in telling the morbid tale of my bastard husband?

How did I not know? How could I have lived with this monster for eleven years and not suspect him of such unspeakable acts? How did I not see the telltale signs? Did I turn a blind eye to anything remotely off?

Forever I will be judged by the hatred in people’s eyes, wondering if I ever knew. They will wonder if I was complicit in the gruesome tragedy. I do not care about what they think, even though deep down inside, I do. I know I am innocent of their accusing glances.

Even my own direct family has had their suspicions, but no one shares their thoughts. I can tell by the way they shuffle about and avoid my gaze. This, above all other times, I need their support. Instead I get mutterings and shrugged shoulders.

We shared everything together. We were the picture of happiness. Was it all just a façade? Or was it evil lurking behind toothy grins?

I hope our two children of eight and six years old, are not affected by this. I don’t think they fully comprehend the situation, but they know that their Daddy is in some sort of trouble. They have been shielded, to an extent. I honestly hope they are young enough to forget this all in time. But snippets and snapshots of history will forever know our surname – all because of him.

How could I not have spotted any sign of such vulgarity, racism and ignorance? Were there any signs that he was capable of such atrocities? He was always so kind and thoughtful. Where did he hide his weapons? Where did he fund the cash needed to finance such a vendetta against innocent men, women and children?

The police have drained me mentally and physically. Here the rain is reinvigorating my body, washing away the insinuations that have been thrust upon me. They don’t believe me. They could not believe that I had absolutely no inkling. In my heart I know that I am innocent. I was not complicit in any of that bastard’s dive into depravity.

My solitary moment in the park is interrupted by an ever eager journalist with a camera. It is pointed in my direction as the reporter speaks into a microphone from about one hundred yards away. They’re trying to be quiet, but are making more noise than the howling wind and bone-chilling sheets of rain.

I don’t care if I look like shit. People have made up their minds about how dark my soul must be anyhow. So a brief glimpse of a grainy picture of a soaked woman, sitting on a park bench crying her eyes out - won’t change their minds anytime soon. They’ll just think I’m even more mental than they first thought.

I sit back and spread my arms out up to the sky. This is the first bit of peace and quiet I have had to myself in almost a week. No insane or inane questions. No arguing - defending my own good name. I can hear my own heart beating, fuelling my empty stomach and soul. I stop crying. I pull down the rolled up arm of my blouse to cover the drops of blood on my arm. Hoisted aloft, the blood falls toward my armpit. My sense of desolation deepens – no one can help me or answer my questions.

I walk toward the cameraman and his bubbly blond sidekick. I look directly into the lens of the camera and politely ask that they leave me and my family alone. The pint sized blond fires questions at me, just like Albert did from his guns one week ago. I ignore them all and walk back toward the house.

My cameo in the park is already running on the news as I re-enter the house. I walk up the stairs and turn on the shower. I step into it, still fully clothed. My mother has followed me, concerned for my wellbeing.

I crawl into a bawl. I rock back and forth in the tub. The feeling of pounding water seems to soothe me. My mother turns off the shower and holds me close. Despite her frail frame, she manages to squeeze me tighter than I ever remember. The hug takes me and I cannot cry anymore. I wail.

I disrobe the wet clothes and scuttle under a warm duvet. Reassurance from my mother distracts me from the shivering. How does life move on from here?

Will this nightmare ever end? When will the sins of his actions be washed away? Will life ever be the same?  

Frantic.

The iron metal side gate clattered loose. It clanged repeatedly, hard against the open latch. The first bang woke me, but the repetition made me sit bolt upright in my bed. 

The security gate could only be opened from the inside.

My pulse started to race. I gulped down the glass of water on my bedside locker to calm myself. I tried to switch on the bedside lamp but nothing happened. I tried the main room light but that too failed to illuminate.

The howling of the wind outside confirmed to me that either the power was gone in the neighbourhood - or something else was at play.

Glancing out the bedroom window I couldn't definitively tell if it was a neighbourhood problem. Rain lashed the pane in intermittent sheets of thick and misty ocean spew. Visibility was less than fifty feet. I powered on my mobile phone and quickly saw that I had little or no reception. Was this just coincidence?

I threw my heavy cotton dressing gown on over my t-shirt. Before unlocking my bedroom door, I took a deep breath. My hand shivered as I grasped the handle. I hesitated, knowing I was going out there without any defence. History had taught me to be me cautious and less impulsive.

I wheeled around and reluctantly pulled open the second drawer of my wife's old bedside dresser unit. Unwrapping a thick white bath towel, I revealed my newest line of self defence.

It gleamed despite no lights being on in the room. I loaded the shotgun with six shells and placed six more into the right hand pocket of the dressing gown. I slipped my mobile phone into the other pocket. I grabbed the small yet powerful torch from the top drawer of the bedside locker and sellotaped it to the barrel of the gun. It shined a bright path in front of the gun.

The last time something went bump in the night inside my house, I ended up in hospital with broken bones and multiple bruises. The mental torture of night terrors took longer to heal. Every bump for many nights left me sleeping with one eye open.

There were no guarantees of safety once I stepped out onto the landing. My ears were listening out for any semblance of anything that didn't belong. I quickly scanned the landing, swishing the shotgun left and right. The torchlight showed nothing blatantly out of place. I flexed my left hand, trying to stop it from shaking.

The old oak floors creaked and groaned under my weight as I nervously shuffled down the stairs. The banister inched a little as I grasped it for support in the dark hallway. Reaching the front door, I started clearing the rooms from front to back. I felt a cold rush of sea air brush my bare toes from underneath the door.

It was then that I first heard the sound of branches scraping off the window of the study to my left. It made me wince but kept the adrenaline flowing. I moved slowly, checking every space that could hide an intruder.

As I reentered the hall, I heard something move in the kitchen.

I paused before turning the knob. I flicked the safety off the shotgun. My finger quivered on the trigger.

I moved quickly the aim of the gun from left to right, covering all angles. The dog flap fluttered. It flapped once again, making a somewhat similar noise I had heard in the hallway. But I wasn't convinced that it was the same noise. Not that I wanted to go outside, but I had to go investigate.

My dark green gabardine coat was on the hook at the back door. Putting it on and stepping into my navy wellies, I braced myself for the weather assault. Hearing anything above a roar would be difficult.

The flowerbeds under the windows were badly disturbed, as were the stones at the base to the iron gate.

Twigs and light branches flew left and right. The sound of waves crashing against the nearby rocks only added to the cacophony of sound. The smell of salt lingered in the air, dulling my senses further. The gate led out to a path that in turn led to the steep cliffs.

Nothing stirred - apart from everything.

Stepping out onto the shale path, I checked left and right. A bare sliver of moonlight eked through the rumbling clouds of discontent above. I checked the public car park to my right, which was entirely empty apart from the swirling mini-tornado of leaves.

As I made my way back to the gate, something moved, just out of sight.

I spotted a dark shadow further up along the path. I shouted out, but no one responded. I flicked the light to and fro along the path, but saw nothing. But I definitely saw something move.

Fighting my conscience which told me to go back inside, I nervously walked along the cliff path. The slippery shale stones were unsteady underfoot the rubber soles of my wellies. The overused, over trodden pedestrian path wasn't safe, but my instinct drove me onward.

The sound of the waves was getting louder as the nearer I got to the cliffs edge, as was the intensity of the mist which was becoming incessant.

Then I saw another movement in the corner of my eye.

Sitting on top of a cliff side grassy verge was my dog, Max.

The poor frightened thing barked back at me, half apologetic. I lowered my gun and ran toward him. The poor thing was shivering cold. I threw my coat over him and carried him back to the house.

Max was spooked by neighbours letting off fireworks in the run up to Halloween. He had been left outside by accident, and in his panic had somehow managed to unlatch the gate trying to get away from the local pups throwing bangers into neighbours houses.

I lit the fire and sat in the rocking chair with a cup of hot chocolate. Max dried off with the heat of the hearth and fell asleep at my feet. Meanwhile outside, the storm raged on through the night. 

He had frightened the bejaysus out of me, truth be told.
 

Assault.

Assault.

I could feel blood oozing from my mouth and nose. I knew at least two of my fingers on my right hand were broken, or dislocated at the very least. My ribs felt as if a truck had rolled over them and it was proving difficult to breathe. I tried to shout for help, but all I heard was gurgling and wheezing.

The sound of fast flowing water was very close by. I tried to roll onto my back but couldn't feel my legs. Why weren't they moving? I needed help, but the overpowering dullness in my head was clouding my perception. With no real sensory feeling in my right hand and wrist I tried to use my left hand to try to find my phone.

That's when I saw that my left hand was already badly bruised. It made me concentrate on focusing on one thing and not several points of pain all at the same time. The thumb on my left hand was facing a way it shouldn't naturally. It actually made me laugh for some strange reason.

That's when I saw the street light on the side of the bridge. As I held my hand up, the light of the lantern silhouetted my misshapen hand. The bridge had never before looked so beautiful in the moonlight. The faint blue under lighting, quiet stillness of the night and wisps of summertime mist gave the village a surreal haunting look.

I don't know how long I stared at such a stunning sight. Never before had I taken the time to view such beauty, but how often had I been in this spot?

I think I may have drifted off as I do remember not hearing anyone cross the bridge for some time. The opening of a pub door and traditional music wafting out into the night, reawoke me. Pain coursed through my every orifice and I tried to sit up. Everywhere hurt, and I mean everywhere.

Moving at all made me wince and moan. But only I could hear my own screams - the deafening roar of the river beside me hid my whining. Using a large flat stone for leverage, I tried my very best to prop myself up. But it was to no use - I was far too weak and sore to move. What scared and hurt me most was my right leg - it was definitely broken.

I had managed to crawl about twenty feet to the underside of the bridge, along the waters edge. Shouting didn't work as my head had been kicked in so badly, it was probably affecting my vocal chords. God only knows what my face looked like. My phone was nowhere to be found, unless it had fallen out of my pocket as I crawled along the riverbank.
    
The night had started out so well. We had just won the county championship by two points yesterday and I had scored six of those in the final. The fact I had played for the losing team three years prior did not sit well with everyone. I was called every childish name under the sun by the losers and their supporters. Mere sticks and stones - but then they went and most likely, broke my bones.

I spotted a muddy bank, lined with all manner of briars and weeds, that led to the top of the bridge and the road that crossed it. My only chance of survival and getting help quickly, was to clamber up through the undergrowth.

A light path of sorts was my runway through my current hell. Dragging ones own body weight up a slippery slope of mud and blood sapped my energy. I had to take several little breaks en route to conserve vital pockets of resistance. I did slip downward on two occasions, but like in life, I didn't let a tiny setback halt my determination for salvation.

As I came within ten feet of that bridge side lantern, I took my final break before my final assault on my night's mountain. With broken bones but strong spirit, I somehow managed to struggle to the summit. Gripping the edge of the path on the roadside was like I was planting the Irish flag on Everest. I fell back against the wall of the bridge and propped myself upright.

Twelve hours later I woke in a hospital bed, surrounded by friends and family. I couldn't feel any pain, mainly through the haze of powerful drugs. But I do remember one thing.

I somehow managed to mumble how I had been punched, dragged, kicked and then thrown off a bridge to my death by my ex-team mates. And the best part?

On top of that bespoke old lantern on the bridge?

The town's solitary two CCTV cameras.

Justice would be mine.    

Andrew’s Day.

The wasp buzzed loudly outside my window. It hung around the mirror like it was some type of strange looking flower. Cynthia was getting tired in the seat beside me. Where was Mum gone?

We had a great day – I built seventeen sand castles. The biggest one was the twelfth – that’s also my favourite number. I had three big white shells on one side and three black ones on the other. I had little sticks sticking out of it like poles without flags. It was brilliant looking!

But then that big boy with his Dad and their football knocked the white shell side down with their stupid football! I shouldn’t say it ‘cos Dad would kill me if he heard me say it loud – feckers! The boys’ Dad said sorry but I know his brat of a son meant it. He even stuck his tongue out at me as they walked away. I’d never do that! I’d get a slap on the back of me legs!

I made the next five bigger and better just to show that boy that I wouldn’t stop building – my Dad says that us Treacys’ are made of stern stuff. I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds serious.

Cynthia grabbed her dolly tight – she was now about to go asleep. It was still hot outside so I tried to open the window just a little to cool us down. The window  was slightly open in the seat in front of me but I was afraid to touch that button just in case the wasp got into the car. And we didn’t want that to happen! I hated them even more than Cynthia!

My window didn’t open ‘cos Mum hadn’t stuck the key in the starter thingy. She was gone what seemed like a long time now. She had promised us ice-cream if we got in the car without any fuss. She seemed a bit angry and tired too so neither of us wanted to annoy Mum – it had been a great day all along.

My day started when Jodie – our dog – who is older than me by the way – came into my bedroom and licked me on the face to wake me up! That was disgusting with the slime all over my face but I love Jodie. He is a great dog and has the shiniest black coat. He gets that from the little bit of oil in his dinner every day, so Mum says. My hair is shiny too, but Mum says that’s from the shampoo we use. I don’t understand adults all the time – not everything they say makes sense.

Anyhow – Cynthia and I had breakfast  in the front room watching TV while Mum and Dad talked in the kitchen. We watched Dora for Cynthia and then Bob the Builder for me. Bob is great – he’s a brilliant builder and has friends that are both cars and trucks too. But as we sang Bob’s song, we heard the shelf in the kitchen fall.

When I ran in to see if everything was alright, Mum was picking up the dishes that had fallen off it. They were all broken except one big plate – the one that holds the turkey at Christmas. Mum said the hinge had come loose and that Dad had gone out to get stuff to fix it. He left quickly in the car to get another hinge. I don’t know what a hinge is either but we must need it to hold the shelf up. 

I got the sweeping brush to help Mum tidy up the broken pieces while Cynthia watched another episode of Dora. Then we put on our clothes to go to Nanna’s. It was getting very hot so I asked Mum if I could wear my new Manchester United shorts and jersey. Dad bought them for me a while ago – was it after Christmas? I can’t remember but they felt nice and cool on and Nanna said I looked great in them. She liked Manchester too.

I liked playing football in them too and sliding on my knees along the grass when I scored a goal. You could slide so much further with them on. I remember doing it once with other shorts on and I hurt my knee. I had to wear two plasters for two days so I swore to Dad that I wouldn’t do it again unless I had the right shorts on me.

Cynthia likes sleeping. She wanted to go back to bed after breakfast but Mum said no. Cynthia is much smaller than me ‘cos she’s only three. I am six in September – I can’t wait for my birthday! I would like a bigger bike ‘cos I like cycling with Thomas – he’s a boy from next door who is in my class at school. He has lots of blond hair and he likes cats and the colour yellow. My favourite colour is green but I like red too. I don’t know what Cynthia’s favourite colour is. Is it pink? Yeah it is ‘cos her bedroom walls are painted that colour! Like duh Andrew!

After Mum dropped us off at Nanna’s house I played on the trampoline. I’m allowed to play alone on it ‘cos we have a net that goes around it and stops you from falling out. The net is really soft too. I got really tired and hungry after six hundred and seven bounces. I’m great at counting. The trampoline makes me laugh too – it’s a weird feeling being up high in the air.

I ate four mini sandwiches and a small piece of chocolate. Cynthia ate two and Nanna ate the same as me. Mum arrived to pick us up and Nanna wasn’t happy. They told us to go into the front room while they talked about Dad. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I heard Mum crying.  

In the car going to the beach, Mum took some tablets to help with her hay fever. She drove without her seat belt on, as the bing-bing noise of the car kept ringing in the few minutes it took us to get there.

I asked Mum if we could get some jelly and ice-cream after the beach and she agreed. Normally I have to plead with Mum, but she said yes and gently rubbed my face. She looked deep into my eyes and before we got out of the car she asked me if I knew how much she loved me and Cynthia? Like, of course we do Mum.

Anyway, myself and Cynthia now sit here waiting on Mum.

I hear the sound of a fire engine, just like Dad's, and see one fly right by us heading toward the pier. Then I see an ambulance going up the road and then over the sand, in the same direction. There's a lot of people on the pier, pointing toward the water.

Where is Mum gone?

This Old House.

The old oak floor groaned under the weight of Tom Deasy finally lowering himself into his favourite rocking chair. This might be the last time he sat in this chair, in this old house. He blew out a loud sigh that filled the air with frosty breath.  The cold shook him all the way to his toes. He fastened the second loop of the handcuffs to the radiator. There was no going back now. They would have to rip out the rickety brown-stained heater from its fastenings in the wooden floor.

Here sat a seventy-one year old man with blankets over his shoulders and knees. How the mighty had fallen hard. He zip-tied the table to the radiator too, just to make it that bit harder for them to shift him.

Tom allowed himself a brief smile, comfortable in the knowledge that he could have some sort of comfort in his last few hours. He had strategically placed himself here to face the door – just so he could look the feckers in the eye when they crossed the threshold. On the table within arm’s reach, were the flask of tea and a pack of stale jammy dodgers.

His great grandfather had bought the house with inheritance money belonging to an aunt of his. She had married well and passed the proceeds onto him. Four generations had been brought up in this dwelling, and he was to be its final occupant.

The heating and electricity had been turned off months ago. His wood and turf had run out in the past few days, and the old house had suddenly lost its last source of heating fuel. In the hearth lay the embers of burnt remnants, to stay there for however long it took for the next owner to come clean it out.

Tom rubbed his wrinkled hands together to generate some heat in his weary bones. He nodded off at 8pm as the deadline came and went. He would be ensconced in the chair for one more night at least. Relieving himself seated wasn’t a major problem. Only creaky boards minus carpets lay beneath his feet and chair.

The sound of liquid dripping from his shoes echoed the empty cavern of the hallway and front room. He regretted doing it the moment he finished. Those feckers might think he was incontinent, and he didn’t want to give them the added pleasure of literally rubbing his face in it. He threw the smallest blanket over the spill.

Alone with his thoughts, Tom reminisced. How the house seemed so big to him as a child. Playing hide and go seek with his older brother, who had died three years ago from lung cancer. They would play for hours on end as their mother tried to get them to come to the table and eat dinner using proper napkins and tableware. Those were the days of cooks, nannies and servants. That was a long time ago now.

Bringing up his only son Jack, Tom employed a lady by the name of Suzanne as a throwback to when he grew up. She occupied all three roles and did so with aplomb. She was now dead too.

As for his son, he had long abandoned hope that his only flesh and blood would ever return. Last he had heard, Jack was living in Peru with another man called Carlos. That type of thing never happened in Tom’s day. It was spoken about in hushed tones and explained to friends and family that their son was taking a “sabbatical”.

The person he missed most was his wife and soul mate, Anne. She was the quintessential mother and provider. She was the one who organised everything and was his rock. He missed her presence, beauty and smell. Pulling a photo from his wallet, he caressed it gingerly. Under the photo of his wife and young son, a white business card fell to the floor. The logo faced upward. Irony was something that haunted him his entire life.

The Anglo bank fiasco and plummeting world markets threw Tom into disarray. Slowly but surely, every last cent of his fortune slipped through his fingers. He could do nothing about it.

And the most annoying ironic bit?

He had once sat on the board of Anglo.

Not even the old dogs and pals that were once his cohorts in the trenches around St. Stephens Green could help him out. No dig out like the “Golden Circle” got. No whispered word in the ear. Like a freight train running completely out of control with madmen at the wheel.

He lost absolutely everything.

The house in the south of France was first to go. The boat moored in Howth then went. The golf club membership was discontinued. The apartment in Galway for the races went in a heartbeat. Membership of the Rotary Club went too. All his shares in Anglo went up in a puff of smoke. The remainder of his portfolio was cashed in to maintain dwindling losses - they soon became savage losses.

But the bills kept coming. And bankruptcy soon followed. He tried to put the house in Jack’s name, but to no avail. They got ahead of him on that, those NAMA bastards. And then one morning last week, they came while he out and took every single piece of furniture. Apart from his chair and the table, where his elbows now lay upon. Only he pleaded with the creditors, he wouldn’t be sitting in the chair.

Had it really come to this? Would they throw an elderly man out on the street with no family or real friends left?

Tom soon got his answer.

As he began to drift off once again, a key was slipped into the lock. He glanced at his watch, seeing it was just after midnight. He steeled himself for a final fight, knowing they probably had bolt cutters. His resistance might be in vain but it would be firm.

But what came through the door was not what he expected. What came sauntering in the door was his knight at the eleventh hour.  

His son Jack walked in with the deeds of the home in his hands. His hands were shaking, expecting a rebuke from his father and his outdated thinking. He wasn’t alone as Carlos stood supportive behind him.

Tom lifted his handcuffed arms up in relief. Jack rushed to his stricken and seemingly broken father. They embraced more out of long endured separation, rather than awkwardness. Jack explained that Carlos had used his own money to bail them out.

“As long as a Deasy lives here, I don’t care who does. You’re more than welcome here Carlos. And thank you. Jack, I'm sorry for being a stupid old fool. Your mother would berate me for letting my pride drag this idiocy on so long. Thank you both for saving a man’s soul – and this old house.”