The Sound Of Crying

by Nigel Cooper

  ‘Ok, the key thing to remember here is to relax your body, totally, and to breathe very gently. So I want you to take a minute to try and settle into a relaxed position, think of yoga or meditation,’ he said. ‘If you shoot while you’re breathing you’ll miss, so just relax and get into that place, then focus on the black circle in the scope. It’s what we call getting into the ‘bubble’.’

  I hung onto every word he said, I relaxed as much as I could and I tried to shake off any emotions that were going through my body. Now that I was lying down and nobody else was paying me any attention I started to settle into it a little.

  The rain was not lashing sideways anymore, but it was still coming down pretty hard and there was a lot of mist between me and the target 600 yards away, which made the little black circle appear grey and hazy and somewhat out of focus. The glass on the scope was dripping with water. I shifted my eye back a little to look at the droplets of water on the glass.

  ‘Here, use this,’ he said, handing me a small chamois leather.

  I wiped away the water, it made a difference. I then settled back into my position and concentrated on getting the crosshair of the scope smack bang in the middle of that little black circle. I shook the thought of the rifle being a vicious little racoon and, instead, I thought of Derek Stanton and what he’d done to my children – it helped.

  ‘Ok, what you’re going to do is breathe slowly, relax, then when you’re ready I want you to slowly breathe out all the way, then when you get to the end of your exhaled breath, hold it for a moment, then gently squeeze the trigger and take your shot.’

  ‘Is the safety off?’ I asked, just to double check, or maybe I was just delaying.

  ‘Yes, you’re ready to go.’

  I breathed, slowly, and relaxed, just like Peter had instructed. The crosshairs of the scope were, from what I could see through all the mist and rain, bang in the middle of the small black circle. The rain poured down, the haze and mist making it hard to focus. I pulled on the trigger ever so slightly until I could feel its resistance. I took a few more relaxed breaths, and then decided that after the next breath I’d fire. I focused, concentrated, nudged the chin rest a trifle to get the cross hair bang in the centre of the black circle, then I slowly breathed out, gently, until my breath reached a natural conclusion and my lungs were mostly deflated and my chest perfectly still, apart from my heartbeat. I held it, then gently pulled back on the trigger until I heard a sharp muted bang and felt the recoil of the rifle kick back against my shoulder. It wasn’t as loud as I thought it was going to be, considering a .308 calibre cartridge cap had ignited and the gunpowder exploded just a few inches from my right ear. Also, the recoil wasn’t that bad either, quite gentle, considering. That was it, I’d fired my first shot from a real gun. I looked up at Peter, questioningly, not having a clue if I’d even come close.

  ‘Nice shot,’ he said, looking through his tripod-mounted spotting scope.

  ‘Did I hit it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ I said, in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, just a little off center, but you hit the black circle just fine. Want to try again?’

  ‘Hell, yeah!’ I said. It felt frigging great now; I’d actually hit a target the size of somebody's fist from 600 yards away – wow.

  Peter showed me how to eject the empty shell using the bolt-action of the rifle. Then by sliding the bolt back into position the rifle automatically loaded the next live bullet.

  As before, I got back into position, used the chamois to wipe the rain water off the scope, relaxed, took aim so the crosshairs of the scope were bang in the middle of the black circle again, breathed out slowly, held it and then gently pulled back on the trigger – bang, another hit.

  ‘Well done,’ said Peter. There’s another three in the magazine, want to use them up?’ he said, smiling.

  I didn’t need asking twice, I threw the bolt back to eject the second spent cartridge and watched it leap from the rifle and land a few feet to my right on the ground sheet a few inches from the first one.

  I took aim, for the third time, following the protocol I’d been taught by Peter. I focused on the black circle again, slowly exhaled, held it and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a very quiet click and no recoil whatsoever, what happened? I thought. I looked up at Peter for an explanation.

  ‘Don’t worry, it was just a misfire, you probably weren’t firm enough with the bolt when you drove it home. Make sure the bolt is firmly home. I checked and he was right, I hadn’t driven it home all the way, but now I had.

  ‘That was really impressive, Natalie, you really are a natural at this,’ he said.

  I looked up at him, thinking he was joking because of the misfire, but he wasn’t, what he said next both surprised and pleased me.

  ‘Seriously, I was watching you very closely when you took that shot and because of the misfire there was no recoil or loud bang, but when you pulled the trigger you weren’t to know that, you were expecting a bang and the recoil, yet when they didn’t come you didn’t flinch, you didn’t even blink. That’s rare, most people flinch and blink when they fire, even experienced snipers. Even when there’s a misfire most people still flinch in anticipation, but you didn’t. I wouldn’t have noticed that about you if it weren’t for the misfire. I’m seriously impressed.’

  ‘Wow, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Ok, carry on, let’s see if it fires now you’ve pushed the bolt all the way home,’ he said.

  ‘I put my cheek back up against the rest and took aim, basking in his compliment and totally enjoying having my sniper ego stroked like that. I relaxed, breathed out, held it, and squeezed. This time it did fire, and as with the first two shots, I hit the target again. The magazine Peter had in the AX308 held five rounds and I fired all five and, more to the point, I hit the fist-sized target that was 600 yards away, in the pissing rain with a fairly strong side wind, with all five shots. I was beside myself; I’d discovered an all-new sort of high. The AX308 was fast moving from the rabid racoon end of the spectrum towards the loving end. I was actually starting to feel a connection with the rifle as I got into the ‘bubble’ while engaging the lifeless circular target in the scopes.

  Peter was full of praise as he explained that all five of my shots had a very good ‘grouping’ i.e. were very close together in a small group, even if they were two inches off center of the fist-sized black circle, my grouping was 138 millimetres, seriously impressive for somebody who’d never fired a gun in their life before, in fact, Peter told me that it would be very good grouping for even an experienced sniper.

  I’d taken to this like a duck to water, a natural as Peter had said, and, eventually, I’d thoroughly enjoyed it, especially once I started picturing Stanton in my sights and with my new knowledge that I was capable of putting a bullet into either his chest or head from 600 yards away. I was going to avenge my boys’ death and send that evil fucker straight to Hell, where he belonged. But it’s vital that I don’t let my guard down, that I don’t slip up, and that I keep up the pretence of being an author researching a novel and, hopefully, get Peter to fall for me so I can get closer to him and, in turn, his rifle and ammunition. The word ‘bitch’ sprang to mind when I considered what I was doing, using Peter like this, especially as he was such a decent man, gentleman even. It didn’t make me feel good, but, needs must when the devil drives…

  Afterwards Peter and I went up to the cafeteria, which was on site, and talked about military and sniper stuff, and a bit of author stuff too. I was absolutely soaked to the skin. I could feel water squelching between my backside and the plastic chair, which I was practically sticking to, but I didn’t mind. Peter explained to me that during the Second World War many of the snipers were women, this surprised me, I thought it was a male domain. He explained why women made good snipers and he relished in sharing his knowledge with me, and knowledgeable he was too.

  Peter had bought me a coffee and asked if I’d like a
nything to eat, I politely declined. As we talked, it was obvious that Peter had taken a shine to me, he wasn’t exactly flirting with me, but I could tell that he liked me. He was probably eight or nine years older than me and under a different set of circumstances, who knows, in a different life I could quite easily go for a man like Peter. Not because he was ex military, or because of his strong arms and firm pecks beneath his green t-shirt. No, it was because he had a surprisingly gentle demeanour about him, for an ex Para. He was gentle, kind and I hadn’t heard him swear a single time. In fact, if anything, I’d found myself watching my own tongue in his presence.

  ‘So, is there a Mrs Jackson?’ I said, then immediately regretted it. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from, I’m just making conversation,’ I said.

  He laughed, ‘It’s ok, and no, there isn’t a Mrs Jackson,’ he said, blushing a little. He lifted his mug of tea to his mouth, almost hiding behind it, sheepishly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ I said.

  ‘No, don’t worry, you haven’t embarrassed me, I’m just not used to being in the company of a women, especially such a good looking one, and such a sharp shooter too!’ he said, laughing. I laughed too.

  I was feeling a little guilty about what I was doing, but this was a means to an ends, it had to be done, I had to get closer to Peter so he could give me some more shooting lessons and educate me more about the rifle, but more importantly, I had to get close enough to him to be able to get my hands on a rifle and ammunition, maybe even his rifle and ammunition.

  ‘Peter, I really appreciate you inviting me down here and for all your help, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, I mean, on the shooting range,’ I said, looking down, pretending to be embarrassed by my purposeful slip.

  ‘Me too, it’s been really great, we should do it again sometime,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like that, but on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You let me treat you to dinner, as a thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, super, that would be really nice.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ I said.

  ‘Round the north side of the M25, St Albans. How about you?’

  ‘I’m in Bedford,’ I lied. I didn’t want Peter knowing that I lived in Cambridge. I’d given him my fake name of Natalie, so as far as he was concerned, I was black-haired Natalie from Bedford.

  ‘Well, I could drive up to Bedford,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure there are nicer places to eat in St Albans,’ I said, smiling. ‘Besides, I love driving, I just feel at one with my car and I’m always looking for excuses to get out of the house.’

  ‘Of course, I assume you work at home, being an author?’

  ‘Yes, and I do get cabin fever sometimes.

  ‘Ok, if you don’t mind driving,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all. So when are you free?’

  ‘Anytime, really. I don’t have anything on until the end of next month now.

  ‘Ok, great. Well, you think of someplace we can eat in St Albans and I’ll check my calendar and send you a text to arrange a date,’ I said, making a point of using the word ‘date.’

  Peter walked me back to my car, which was most embarrassing, a seventeen-year-old Honda Civic. But Peter didn’t seem to notice; he couldn’t take his eyes off me. I gave him a kiss goodbye on the cheek, thanked him again, and then got into my car. I watched Peter walk across the small car park to his car, a huge great shiny black Land Rover Discovery 4. It made sense really, an ex military man owning a whopping great off-roader like that, given that a lot of the sniper training he does is in pretty remote areas. I started the engine of my crappy little Civic and pulled away.

  Chapter 24

  Father Derek Stanton left his mid-terraced house at the Bridge Street end of Thompsons Lane – a house he’d since bought after being defrocked and removed from the ministry by the bishop – which is standard practice if a priest is arrested for allegations of abuse and goes to court – and, in turn, losing the house that went with his old job.

  Even though Father Derek Stanton’s case didn’t actually get as far as finding him guilty per se, Stanton’s bishop, and the diocese had decided – with all the bad publicity that Stanton was bringing to the catholic table – that they had no choice but to let him go.

  Stanton turned right into New Park Street and continued to the end before turning left into Lower Park Street. He eventually came out at the corner of Park Parade and headed along the footpath into Jesus Green. He only walked a few feet before he stepped off the path to his left and onto the lush, recently cut, green grass where he settled on a bench that was shaded slightly by some large trees. He checked the bench for bird droppings, fallen leaves and the like, and then sat down, his back to the row of terraced houses along Park Parade.

  He placed his carrier bag – which held his plastic Tupperware container with his lunch in it and a flask of coffee – on the bench and soaked up the view on this warm sunny day. Across to his left there were a dozen or so children aged around six to eight years old, playing football, piles of clothing for goalposts. Beyond the football-playing children Stanton could see the tennis courts, most of which were occupied with athletes of varying abilities, both male and female. Across to his right eight well-ripped young guys had set up a volleyball net and beyond that, more lush green grass and rows of large trees.

  He removed the plastic cup and unscrewed the cap from his flask and poured himself a coffee while enjoying the views, the sun, and the gentle symphony of the trees rustling in the breeze just behind him. He looked northwest to the far side of the park, beyond the tennis courts, towards the river Cam, which was not visible from his ground level position. He imagined the river and the ducks and swans instead, as he imagined many things, some good, some not so good – not good at all.

  He took the lid off his Tupperware box and removed a sardine sandwich and proceeded to take tentative bites from it, while soaking up the sun and enjoying the park, the views, the various games and sports activities and those who participated in them; especially the younger ones playing football.

  What Derek Stanton failed to notice however, was the woman wearing black jeans and a black North Face hoodie and large sunglasses, who had followed him, and was now watching him from a distance – thirty feet or so back up Lower Park Street, hidden behind the white corner house. This wasn’t the first time that Helen Kramer had followed Stanton here; it was the sixth time in two weeks. She’d waited, patiently, outside his house – well, up the road from it and out of sight – on Thompsons Lane and waited. When Stanton had left his house, she’d followed him, being careful, keeping a good distance, so much so that even if he’d turned around he wouldn’t have spotted her. Whenever he got to a corner and vanished out of sight, she’d pick up her pace, running to catch up with him, then she’d wait until he was far enough away again before she continued following, unnoticed.

  From what she could gather, Stanton came here, to Jesus Green, and sat on the same bench every day at noon, to eat his lunch, and, for all she knew, to pick out his next victim, or victims. There were a few other places that Stanton regularly went, or visited, during the week, and at the weekends, but they were more random and with no fixed time. The bench on Jesus Green, however, was regular, like clockwork. Armed with this new information, of his regular whereabouts at noon each day, Helen figured this would be the place where she could kill him, even though it was a little public and out in the open. But, that didn’t matter, as Helen wasn’t going to be standing right next to him when she took the shot.

  She continued to watch him, as she’d done several times before in recent days, and, as always, Stanton didn’t appear to have a care in the world. You evil bastard … you monster, she thought. Helen was livid, livid that he was just sitting there, eating his lunch without a care in the world and with no hint of remorse for his evil crimes, and here, in a park, where her children should be running around, playing,
laughing, enjoying the sun and the park along with all the other complete families. She crept forward a little and looked over to her left, she noticed the young children playing football, her blood started to boil at the thought of this man being in the same physical space and breathing the same air as them. It took all her willpower to stop herself from grabbing up a large brick and walking up behind him and smashing it down on his skull. She fantasised, imagined the sound it would make as his skull cracked open. She imagined lifting the large stone high above her head again and driving it down onto his head, so hard it would leave a crater in his skull with blood and grey matter seeping out and onto the park bench. She could kill him that way, for sure, but she would be caught and sent to jail for a long time. No, Helen Kramer was going to stick to her meticulous planning, she was going to be careful and considered in everything she did, planned and executed.

  She looked at the few terraced houses just to her right, and the trees beyond them. Then she looked to her left again, along Park Parade, right to the end. Then her eyes followed the path across the middle of the green, right to the other side, and beyond that, across the river (which she could not see, but knew was there out of familiarity of the city) to what she knew was Chesterton Road and a building just on the other side of it. It was hard to make out what the building was from this distance, three or four hundred meters perhaps. But, at maybe three or four storeys high from what she could see from this range, and what looked to be by far the tallest building in the vicinity, it might just make an ideal building to take her shot from, once she got her hands on a rifle and some ammunition of course. Based on the 600-yard shots she’d taken at Bisley Camp shooting range in Surrey, which looked much further away than the building across the park, she was confident that she could kill Stanton from this range, across the park, across the river, across the road. The building seemed ideal, depending on what the building was of course and how easy it would be for her to access the – what looked to be from here – flat roof. The conditions would be perfect, Stanton was facing, square on, the building so she could aim for his chest from the front, or his head, depending on how confident she felt on the day, when she had him lined up in the centre of the crosshairs of the rifle scope. The sun was over to the right, or left from the potential shooting position, so Stanton would not be silhouetted by the sun, making the shot more difficult. In fact the sun would be lighting him up nicely and it would be far enough to the side so as not cause glare in the rifle’s scope.