by Graham Smith
Bridge Street. Emma was a regular runner and she stayed a good twenty paces in front of me.
I was a full twenty five paces behind them when Emma caught up with Briony beside the A38 which bisected town. Emma started really laying into Briony. She wasn’t using typical female fighting moves like hair pulling and scratching, she was using the kick boxing techniques she’d been studying for the last four years.
Briony was about to go down under Emma’s onslaught when she pushed Emma onto the road and into the path of a bus. There was the serpentine hiss of air brakes and then a sickening crump.
* * * *
Two days later I was given the post mortem results, Emma had been six weeks pregnant when she’d died.
As I tried to come to terms with my devastating loss, I remembered that Ian Fleming once wrote that to meet someone unexpectedly once is happenstance, twice is coincidence but a third time is enemy action. Boy did he get it fucking right!
Country Goes to Town
This story came from a news story about the demonstrations against hunting. My own imagination added the “what if” factor.
Quentin wound the handle of the vice until the jaws gripped the stock of his beloved sporting shotgun. Picking up the hacksaw he started a rhythmic motion to remove nine inches from the twin barrels. Once the amputation was complete he used a small file to remove any burrs from both the inside and outside of the barrels. His next job was to drill a hole through the stock. When this was done he fitted a bolt through the hole and affixed a leather strap to either end of the threaded bar. Now he had a harness which would allow the shortened shotgun to hang beneath his overcoat unseen.
Practising a quick draw movement against imaginary targets he developed a knack of swinging the shotgun up from under his coat and firing off two quick shots before hiding the shotgun beneath his coat once more.
Modifying the Winchester in this way was sacrilegious to him, but he had no option. The twenty eight inch barrels were just too long for what he had planned. Over the years he and his trusty shotgun had won many a clay pigeon shoot.
Duck, goose and pheasant were regularly on the menu at Scalington Estate – the family home he had inherited when his father passed away some fifteen years ago.
When there had been more money around, he’d enjoyed regular grouse shoots but the recession and the cuts to Government subsidies had put paid to that. Many of the farmers who rented farms from the Estate had not renewed their leases as larger industrial factory farming and the supermarket’s fixed prices squeezed them out of business.
Paying rates on all the properties had crippled his once thriving Estate. Piece by piece he had sold off the farms over the last five years until all the prime farms were swallowed up by industrial farmers.
A year nursing his sick wife through the final stages of bone cancer had left him almost destitute as he paid no attention to the warnings from his bank manager, accountant or his ever dependable Estate Manager.
Constance’s illness had been discovered when she had broken her hip. The break had been the result of a collision with a strapping policeman chasing an opportunist who had snatched a pensioner’s purse.
Quentin knew it was wrong to blame the policeman for Constance’s cancer, but try as he might he could not shake the feeling that he and all his colleagues were to blame for her suffering.
During the night as he had tossed and turned in the empty bed he had reasoned back and forth with his own mind until he had come to terms with her death.
Yesterday however, an item on the local news had changed his opinion. A young mother and her two year old daughter had been killed outright when a police car lost control and ploughed head first into their garden. He could have written this off as poor fortune or an Act of God had the driver of the police car not been the same PC who had collided with his wife.
Once on foot was an accident. A second time while driving a high powered car at speed was institutional negligence.
Something had to be done to raise public awareness of the dangers the police presented to law abiding, God fearing citizens.
He Quentin Forsythe, would bear the burden of being spokesperson for the endangered masses. He would carry the argument to the police and ne’er would he quail in front of their ranks. He’d stand proud and lead his one man line against the dangerous guardians of society. Never would he allow his voice to be silenced until the breath had gone from his body.
* * * *
Now that his weapon was modified to suit his purpose Quentin loosed of a pair of shots at the sky to make sure the Winchester was fully functional after the barrelectomy. Satisfied it was, he loaded it into his Land Rover then went indoors, where he dialled the local police station from the pay as you go mobile he’d bought in town that morning.
‘Don’t worry Sir. We’ll have someone with you in twenty minutes.’
A twist of the ignition key rumbled the Land Rover into life and Quentin set off towards the estate farm he’d summoned the police to.
Parking beside a disused workshop, Quentin transferred the shotgun to a bench and covered it with a feed sack.
A liveried Astra pulled up and Sergeant Hughes climbed out with a sombre greeting. ‘Morning Sir Quentin. I hear you’ve been having some bother with copper thieves again.’
‘You could say that Sergeant.’ Quentin walked towards the former workshop. ‘This is where they stole the copper from.’
‘Was it just stored in here? I don’t see much in the way of plumbing.’
As Hughes passed him by to look into the darker corners of the shed Quentin slipped his hand under the sack and retrieved the shotgun.
‘Was this shed locked Sir Que…’ Hughes’ voice fell away when he turned round and found his eyes less than a foot away from a pair of black angry tunnels.
‘Take one step back and then strip to your underwear. When you’ve done that handcuff yourself.’
‘This isn’t funny Sir Quentin. Pointing an offensive weapon at a police officer has very serious consequences.’
‘Do as I say. This is neither a joke nor unintended.’
When Hughes was near naked and handcuffed Quentin marched him to the Land Rover and locked him in the back. When Quentin had bought the vehicle, he’d had a grill bolted just behind the seats so his retrievers couldn’t clamber into the front. Today it would form the prison grating for Hughes.
Twenty minutes later Quentin pulled into an empty cattle shed at the opposite side of his estate and reversed the Land Rover tight against a wall. So Hughes couldn’t smash his way out of the back window.
Pulling on the stab vest he had retrieved from the pile of Hughes’ clothes, he fastened it around his body and pulled a cartridge belt from a bag on the passenger seat and fastened it around his waist. Next he put his arm through the strap of the shotgun and shrugged on a long poncho style overcoat which would allow him plenty of room to bring the shotgun up to his shoulder.
Before leaving he took a plain white envelope from the bag and laid it on the driver’s seat.
* * * *
Stepping off the train at Euston Station, Quentin checked his poncho was closed and started moving off towards the tube station.
Standing jammed with all the commuters Quentin worried that someone would feel the shotgun under his coat and expose him but when nobody commented or spoke out he relaxed enough to mentally run over his plan one last time.
Exiting the tube at Victoria, Quentin climbed the stairs and escalators until he was at street level.
A ten minute walk saw him join the masses already assembled for the planned march on Westminster.
Today was the latest protest organised by the Countryside Alliance against the Government’s newest raft of legislation and taxation of all things country. Some thirty thousand protesters were expected although the driving rain would dissuade many of the fainter hearts.
Quentin was glad of the rain though as it gave him the perfect excuse to wear his poncho. He was pleased to
see a few other protesters wearing similar garb, although he felt confident that none of them was concealing a shotgun and a mind full of malice.
There was a sparse police presence around the protesters but Quentin had seen one or two large vans parked nearby and he would have bet good money that they were filled with police dressed in full riot gear.
At three o’clock exactly a foghorn blared and the mob started on the march towards Westminster where the organiser would present petitions and demands to the Government.
Nearing the Houses of Parliament the marchers bunched ever closer together until they were tightly packed. At each side of the road, police lined the barricades although the protest had thus far been without incident and had a jovial atmosphere rather than a confrontational one.
Seeing two policemen in close proximity Quentin shouldered his way through the crowd towards them unbuttoning all but the top button of his poncho. His fingers tightened around the shotgun and he swung it up between two protesters.
His forefinger caressed the twin triggers and he pushed the barrel forward so he would only hit the policemen manning the barricade.
* * * *
Secret x-ray machines had been installed at all major tube station entrances and exits in London and the police monitored them with extra zeal when any march or protest was planned. A diligent observer had spotted the shotgun and cartridge belt on his monitor.
A quick word to a supervisor set wheels in motion and a young undercover officer called Grierson had fallen in behind Quentin keeping at least five paces between them.
Grierson then relayed a full description of Quentin to Sergeant Neill Marver.
Peering through a telescopic sight from a vantage point high on Big Ben, Marver watched Quentin’s head and shoulders in the crowd.
When Marver saw the twin flashes from the Winchester erupt from between two protesters he squeezed his own forefinger and sent 7.62mm of death towards Quentin Forsythe.
Author Meets Reviewer
My previous eBook releases have only had positive reviews, for which I’m extremely grateful. I do though expect a bad review one day as someone will not enjoy my work. That’s fine with me and I’m the first to admit that I’m always learning. This little tale comes from me exploring the idea of an author who cannot accept that he can’t please everyone.
It had been easy for me to track him down. First I’d followed his Amazon profile to check his other reviews which were all either five star sycophantic tributes or one star diatribes.
BigAlsReviews had shown up in search results as also being a blog site dedicated to the book reviews he posted on Amazon. A little look into the back end data using software I had downloaded free from a site of dubious origins, allowed me to trace him back to a house on
Lime Tree Avenue, Chicago. His Facebook profile listed Northwestern Memorial Hospital as his employer.
When he’d answered the door I’d been greeted by a wiry little skunk of a man whose battered face spoke of more silver medals than gold. He’d been rude and arrogant in the face of my polite questions.
It had been my intention to tackle the man about his negative review and try to use his opinions to better myself as an author. Instead he dismissed me with sneering condescension, his parting shot that I should amputate my fingers so that I could never again type caused a synapse to misfire somewhere in my brain.
* * * *
When BigAlsReviews came home tonight and switched on his computer he’d get a nasty little surprise.
How dare he dismiss my writing as childlike unstructured drivel. It had taken me two years to write my epic sci-fi fantasy romance novel and here was this jumped up nobody slamming my treasured novel the way my wife slams doors.
He was a self centred egotist who only wanted praise for his reviews. I had eighty six, five star reviews and his lonely isolated one star review.
Revenge as Ian Fleming once wrote was a dish best served cold. Well two months had passed since his review went live and my blood still ran cold at the thought of his wounding words.
Well today he’d learn my plotting skills weren’t incomparably infantile. By flicking the switch on his computer he’d send electricity through the fertiliser bomb I’d fitted inside his PC.
I’d had two months to learn how to pick locks and make a bomb. Once again my faithful research assistant Mr Google had provided me with all I needed to know.
* * * *
I returned to my motel to spend a few hours working on the sequel to Quantum Blasting the Dragons. When six o’clock came, I left the motel room grabbed a quick burger with fries at a diner and headed over to
Lime Tree Avenue.
I wanted to be there when he flicked the switch. When my plotting panned out and his instrument of insults bit back with interest.
As I sat in my car, the wet December night shrouded me in darkness. I had a window open so I could hear the boom when BigAlsReviews learned what happens to people who say my characters are one dimensional clichés who neither interest nor entertain.
A dull thump followed by a flash of light indicated the detonation of my bomb, then my world went black.
I woke up in a hospital bed. In my arms were a series of different drips and I could feel tubes poking out of every hole that they could be poked into.
‘Thank God you’re alive. I thought I’d lost you.’ My wife Stephanie was by my bedside with tears moistening her hazel eyes. ‘What happened? Can you remember anything?’
I tried to speak but my tongue wouldn’t work. I tried again, still nothing. I went to lift my hands to my mouth but nothing happened. Not even a twitch of my fingers. I was paralysed. Immobile. All I could move were my eyeballs.
Silently I focussed on Stephanie and pleaded with her to tell me what was going on.
‘Darling are you in there? Can you hear me?’
I nodded my eyes in answer to her questions. Stephanie was smart enough to get it straight away.
‘I’ll get the doctor. Don’t worry he’ll explain everything.’
She returned a minute or so later with the doctor as promised. If I had the power of speech returned to me then I would still have been silent. I was speechless, struck dumb with fear.
The doctor stood at the foot of my bed and consulted my chart before shining his penlight into my eyes.
‘Is he going to be okay doctor?’
‘It’s a little early to tell Mrs Freitts. It’s a miracle that he wasn’t killed. Thank goodness I was there or he’d have died in his car.’
‘Will he be able to walk and talk again?’
‘I don’t know to be honest. He’s done remarkably well as it is to survive the surgery.’
The doctor left Stephanie and I alone while he continued with his rounds. After a while sleep deprived me of the one working part of my body.
A pinch to my arm woke me and there standing by my bed was the doctor. Only this time he was without the bedside manner he’d shown earlier.
A flick of my eyes told me that I was alone with the doctor. Stephanie was probably getting something to eat. She was eating for two after all.
‘You know who I am don’t you?’
I did indeed. The man who was my doctor was also the man I’d set out to kill. I was being treated by Doctor BigAlsReviews.
‘When my computer blew up it flew out of the window, hit your car and then exploded.’
I could see that he was enjoying the terror in my eyes and the fact that I was powerless to even interrupt him.
‘I know it was you who set the bomb. You fucked up by putting it too close to the hard drive. It blew the whole thing away instead of shredding it. You’re not really paralysed. That’s just the effect of a little something I put in your drip.’
I tried to speak to him with my eyes but he wasn’t looking at me.
‘Sadly you are about to suffer a major cardiac arrest.’ He showed me a syringe he’d taken from his pocket.
A plea from my eyes passed by him unnoticed, as
he fitted the syringe into the cannula adorning my right hand. I was going to die because of this twisted reviewer and my failure to kill him as I’d planned.
He looked me directly in the eye and depressed the plunger with two final words. ‘The End.’
Following Full of Fear
This is based on my own worries when following an ambulance carrying my wife and infant son. All I could think about was what I would do if the blue lights suddenly came on. The story is a very honest answer.
We hadn’t been getting on at all well since Amy was born last year. Yet another row over the lack of both money and sex saw Karen stomp upstairs carrying armfuls of laundry, leaving me to watch over the fourteen month old apple of my eye.
Amy was playing with her toys and toddling around with her newly mastered chant of dadadadamamama burbling from her mouth.
We played peek-a-boo for a few minutes and when Amy carried over a Teletubbies DVD, I dutifully opened the case and fed the disc into the DVD player. As I was closing the drive I heard a thud from behind me, turning round I saw Amy lying on the floor.
‘All fall down Amy.’
One of the few things Karen and I agreed on was that we shouldn’t go running to Amy every time she took a tumble as it would just upset her further. Nine times out of ten when Amy fell over she just hauled herself back up and got on with whatever game she was playing.
I tidied the pile of DVD’s and turned round to see Amy lying where she had fallen. I nudged her gently. Nothing! I lifted her arm and let it drop. It fell lifeless to the floor. When I scooped her up in my arms I could see her lips were blue.
Somehow I remembered the basic first aid they had taught us when Karen was expecting. Drawing a deep breath into my lungs I blew hard into Amy’s face.
Joy of wondrous joys, she coughed, spluttered and then started crying a pathetic tired cry which was the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
