Scimitar

by Terry Wheeler

  Arthur wanted to leave school and get a full time job to help out, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘If your father wanted you to stay at school, that’s what you’ll do,’ she said. ‘Even if it takes every last penny.’

  William served his time and came out an embittered man. Any slim chance of finding a job in the mines was snatched away from him when the mine closures began. In a few brief months he had gone from being a powerful Union representative to an out of work, ex-convict.

  Everything was in a state of flux. The street began to change and instead of lines of men walking to the mine in the early light, instead of being a place where children played, it became the refuge of prematurely grey men shuffling to the dole office. Not so long ago the doorsteps had been clean, washed each day, a sign of the pride that held the community together. Now rubbish littered the street, paint began to peel from the doors and window frames, windows were broken and patched with newspaper.

  Arthur’s brothers left home, searching for work. The miners’ club closed, depriving William of his audience. There seemed to be nothing left for him to live for and he became increasingly bitter and withdrawn.

  People Arthur had known since he was born, their neighbours and friends, were moving away like rats deserting a sinking ship. Houses were being boarded up and the rumour was that the mine owners were going to sell the whole street for clearance. With no job, and no prospect of finding one, and with his health deteriorating, William stayed put. Arthur’s mother found work cleaning in the posh houses on the other side of town and she took in washing and ironing.

  Arthur passed his A levels and won a scholarship to university.

  ‘My life might be over,’ his father said bitterly, ‘but yours is only just beginning. At least I’ve done that for you.’

  Chapter 6

  It was late one Sunday morning and he was at a loose end. He’d walked to the edge of town and found himself where the old factories were located. Most of them were empty now, long since deserted and in a state of near collapse. The fencing was coming down in places and he slipped inside just to have a nose around. After all, he had time on his hands and nothing better to do.

  The derelict factory site was a desolate place, haunted by ghosts of the past, the remnants of entrepreneurial dreams that had blossomed, flourished and failed. Progress seemed to have passed it by and gradually the empty buildings had been boarded up, heaps of rubbish had accumulated and not even the gangs of kids bothered to come here any more. At least, not during the day although he knew that they inhabited its shadows during the long nights. The evidence was left for all to see, empty beer cans, cigarette packets, syringes, used condoms and empty bottles of spirits. Picking his way through the rubbish gave him a vicarious thrill and made him feel as if he were part of the scene.

  He pushed through the bushes that had taken root in the accumulation of rubbish that the wind had blown against the dirty grey concrete walls, old sacks, dead leaves, cardboard boxes, branches and anything else it had managed to pick up. The walls were covered in graffiti; weird, distorted pictures and slogans jostled for place amongst the rusting pipework and smashed windows.

  Stepping round a broken pallet, he glanced through an open door and saw the back of a man standing hunched over a stack of boxes. Neat piles of bank notes were lined up on them, weighted down with stones to stop the wind from blowing the notes away while the man counted yet more.

  Taking care not to disturb the man who was totally absorbed with counting the money, he crept in silently and concealed himself behind a stack of crates, watching as the man straightened yet another pile of notes and searched for a stone to put on it. There were empty beer cans and sandwich packets on the ground and he guessed that the man had been here some time. Taking another handful of notes from a holdall, the man straightened them and began turning the ones that were upside down. He squared the stack and started counting.

  An old coat and a balaclava had been carelessly thrown on a box behind the man and there was a gun resting on top of the coat. As he stood behind the stack of crates, it dawned on him that he was watching a thief at work. Why was there a gun? Where could the man have found so much money if he hadn’t stolen it? Had he raided a bank? Had the man killed to steal the money? Perhaps he’d stolen the takings of a shop, maybe a supermarket, or held up the staff at the dog track. There hadn’t been anything on the news about it so perhaps the man had come straight from his robbery.

  He began to think what he could do with the money if it was his. Keeping one eye on the thief, he was becoming intoxicated by the sight of so much money. It seemed as if it would enable him to do anything he wanted. He began to get angry. How could it be right that the thief had so much? The thief had made more money from a few moments work than he could expect to earn from hours of honest labour. His frustration knew no bounds because there was nothing he could do about it.

  The thief was clearly nervous. He turned away and lit a cigarette; his hands were shaking as he drew deeply on the cigarette, looking about him, checking lest anyone should creep up on him; there was no sound apart from the moan of the wind through the empty factory. He took a few more drags on the cigarette and then stubbed out the butt on the floor with the toe of his boot. He turned back and sorted through another handful of notes beginning a low, tuneless whistling, a bit like the noise a kettle makes when it begins to think about boiling.

  As he watched the thief counting his money it was as if he was watching a scene in a film. The camera pulled back and paused on the gun before sweeping back even further to reveal the young man hidden behind the crates. The action froze; only the thief’s fingers moved, counting through the pile of notes.

  Then it happened.

  The wind blew the door shut. The thief jumped, knocking over the box he’d been counting the money on and the notes scattered across the floor. He looked around, cursed and moved towards his gun. The young man panicked. He was sure he’d been seen and since the door had blown closed he couldn’t run out. Adrenalin pumped through his veins. It felt as if he’d suddenly been supercharged. He pushed the crates he was hiding behind and as they tumbled towards the thief he dashed out towards the gun, grabbed it, raised it and fired.

  The shot threw him backwards. The sound echoed through the deserted factory as he tumbled over the fallen crates. How he managed to keep hold of the gun he never knew but he wanted to have hold of it in case the thief came at him again.

  Everything became still after the shot although the sound of it still rang in his ears. It took him a moment to gather his wits and scramble to his feet. He’d cut his knee, banged his elbow and had a few bruises but otherwise he wasn’t hurt. There was no noise from the thief. He was lying on the floor — with a hole in his head — in the centre of his forehead, right above his eyes.

  The sight of the thief lying dead on the floor and the fact that he had just shot him should have filled the young man with panic. Strangely, he felt just the opposite; not elated but curiously calm. All the tension of the last few moments had gone, evaporated into thin air, and he was alone, standing in the silence of the disused factory with just the moan of the wind and the rush of blood pumping in his ears to keep him company. A puddle of blood was forming, running away from the back of the dead man’s head, finding its way along the slope of the floor. The wind had blown some of the notes into it.

  Looking at the dead body on the floor he still couldn’t take in that he had killed a man; somehow, it was the gun that had taken the man’s life, not him. He came to, out of his dreamlike state, and realised that he had to do something. There was the money, there was the body and the gun; he had to take care of all of them.

  His finger prints would be all over the the gun, he had seen enough detective films to know that, and if he threw the gun away it would probably be traced back to him. He needed time to work out what to do and decided to keep the gun for the time being and of course he was going to keep the money. Using the man’s b
alaclava he wiped the gun, keeping it pointed well away from him. Then he picked up all the money and packed it into the holdall. Some of the notes were of high denominations and he reckoned that there must have been thousands of pounds in the bag. A number of banknotes had blood on them. He gathered them together, took out his matches and set light to them.

  Normally a handful of five pound notes would have seemed like a windfall and he laughed as he watched the money burning. He had no need to worry now, there was plenty more. The notes were used and quite mixed so he guessed that they weren’t marked and that it would be safe to spend them. Stuffing a few in his pocket he fastened the bag and that left him with just the body. Apart from the gun the only other things he had touched were the crates.

  He moved the dead man’s overcoat and found a pair of gloves underneath it. Slipping them on, he picked up a crate and carried it to another part of the factory. Systematically he moved each one, putting them as far apart as he could and he even dumped one outside. He decided to leave the man where he was. If anyone came in they’d think it was a gangland killing or something like that. Because his flukey shot had hit the man so exactly between the eyes the police would think it was a professional job. Pushing a couple of notes in the dead man’s hand, he turned on his heel and left the factory.

  Chapter 7

  Jack was two weeks into his first term at university. Initially the euphoria of escaping from the claustrophobia of his home life was enough for him. The last few months had been difficult but now, at long last, he felt that he was free and, hopefully, free from the recurring nightmare of the dead man he had found all those years ago when he’d cut out of school.

  It wasn't the image of the dead man, it was the voice of the man who'd caught him outside, that was what woke him.

  'If I ever find out you’ve said anything there’ll be trouble and you’ll be sorry.'

  Well, he'd never let on about his secret to anyone, not even Arthur, but that didn't help. It was the veiled threat and the notion that the man was watching him.

  'And if you cut school again I’ll know and you’ll have me to deal with.'

  Over the last few years the dream had come less and less frequently and Jack had worked out a strategy for dealing with it. When the dream came he switched on his bedside light and read, knowing that it would be hopeless to try and go back to sleep. With the light on he could see his room and he could relegate the man back into his dream. It worked and Jack read a great many books.

  The halls of residence at the university were single sex. Jack had always been a loner and found it difficult to form friendships with the other young men in his hall; he wasn’t a keen drinker so the constant rounds of the local pubs which occupied most of the other students in his hall held little attraction for him. Free from the scrutiny of his parents he wanted to live a little, to experiment and to find out what life was like — or as his tutor put it, to find out what he wanted from life.

  He was often at a loose end. The style of work and the lack of supervision gave him more free time than he knew how to use. He took to walking round the town, visiting shops and drinking innumerable cups of coffee in the cafés that he found in the side streets. Life on the campus was impersonal; he knew few people and found it difficult to make new friends.

  More than anything, he wanted to meet a girl. He’d led a sheltered life at home and he hadn’t mixed with the girls from the local girls’ high school. Now, with the rest of his year pairing up, he felt the need to have a girlfriend. Sex was beginning to fascinate him and he wanted to move on, to have sex with a girl. It seemed so easy when he listened to the others in his hall talking about their exploits but Jack had no idea how to go about it. He looked at the other students in his tutor group, trying to assess which one would be most likely to go out with him.

  He was in a group making its way to the coffee bar at the end of a lecture and he hung back, watching the easy way the other students chatted with each other. He didn’t find it easy to make ‘small talk’ and was so shy that the task looked impossible. He tagged along, bought a coffee and sat on the fringe of the group as they discussed the lecture. He was attracted to the girl sitting across at an angle from him.

  She seemed so confident and at ease with everyone. He envied her that; if only he could be more like her. Gradually he was drawn into the discussion. It was a subject that lay close to his heart and on which he held strong views. He realised that he was in a minority with the group but he persisted with his line of argument. After all, what had he to lose? It wasn’t as if they were all close friends, it was just a discussion, an airing of their views.

  When the group broke up, some of them left for their next lecture and others went off to the library. Jack and two others were left sitting on the sofas; Jennie, the girl sitting opposite him and Dave, who had been at the far end of the group. The conversation died and Dave stood up to go.

  ‘You coming Jennie?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ll stay here for a bit. See you later.’

  Dave left and Jennie turned to Jack.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not a lot. I’m done for today. I’ll probably go back to hall.’

  ‘You could come round mine if you want,’ she said. ‘I’ve not got anything until the end of the afternoon.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jack said. ‘I’d like that.’

  Jack’s mind was buzzing. Was this his chance? He’d been dreaming about hooking up with a girl for so long and now it was about to happen. The problem was that he was inexperienced. All his fantasies about girls had been tied in with having sex with them and Jennie didn’t seem like the sort of girl who would just leap into bed with him on a first date. Even worse, he hadn’t the first idea what was expected of him, either in the way of sex or just making polite conversation. What could they talk about? He began to panic.

  He tried not to think as he gathered his pile of books together. Jennie was waiting for him, her bag slung over her shoulder and her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.

  Jennie’s room was in one of the older halls of residence, a venerable, red-brick Victorian building. Jack looked round the entrance hall with its high ceiling and ornate plaster work. The ambiance had been changed by the insertion of a porter’s office and the huge set of mail boxes along one of the walls but the wide staircase still commanded respect.

  ‘Are you allowed to bring boys in here?’ Jack asked, not a little awed by the building’s grandeur.

  ‘Any time up to 10 o’clock,’ she said. ‘I think it’s the way they pay lip service to the old moralities and it keeps our parents happy.’

  ‘So you can sleep with boys but only during the day?’

  ‘That’s about right,’ Jennie said, ‘but when I have a boy in my room, sleep is the last thing I want to do,’ she added with a mischievous grin. ‘Come on.’

  She set off up the stairs and Jack followed. They reached the second floor landing and Jennie turned to the right and set off down a long corridor, stopping outside room 332.

  ‘This is my den of sin,’ she said. ‘I haven’t cleared up so you’ll have to excuse the mess.’

  The room was bigger than Jack had expected; bigger than his room. The bed was set against the wall and heaped with discarded clothes. Jack noticed a black lace bra and turned away, embarrassed. The other side of the room had a desk with shelves over it, a wardrobe and a comfortable chair. Next to the window at the far end of the room there was a basin set into a vanity unit cluttered with makeup.

  ‘I haven’t had time to make it look homely,’ Jennie said. ‘What with all the ‘getting-to-know-you’ things and visiting the local pubs I haven’t been in that much.’

  She swept the clothes off the bed on to the floor and kicked them under the bed.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll tidy them later. Or you could have the chair if you’d rather.’

  ‘No, the bed’s fine,’ Jack said.

  Jennie searched in the c
upboard of the vanity unit and retrieved two mugs.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said even though he was still swilling from the mug he’d drunk in the coffee bar.

  Jennie took off the chunky jumper she was wearing and Jack couldn’t but help notice her figure beneath her tight T-shirt. Visions of the black lace bra floated before his eyes.

  ‘You don’t have much to say,’ Jennie observed as she filled the kettle.

  ‘I’m not much good at small talk,’ Jack said.

  ‘We’ll have to concentrate on big talk, then.’

  She plugged the kettle in and came and sat on the bed. He felt the warmth of her body and caught a hint of her perfume as she settled next to him. The mattress bowed under their weight, leaning them in towards each other. Jack’s heart was beginning to thump with that familiar mixture of excitement and fear. Should he put his arm round her, he wondered, or try to kiss her? He began to panic again as he realised that he didn’t know what to do.

  He was saved by the kettle which came to the boil. Jennie got up and made the coffee.

  ‘It’s too hot,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them on the desk until we’ve finished.’

  ‘Finished what?’ Jack said before he’d had time to think.

  ‘Get real,’ Jennie said. ‘There’s only one reason why we came up here in the middle of the day when we could have stayed in the bar.’

  She kicked off her shoes and started to unbutton her jeans. Her openness caught Jack off balance and he froze. She pulled off her T-shirt, revealing her black lacy bra; Jack was relieved when she left it on. The curve of her breasts above the bra was already affecting him. She slid out of her jeans, kicking them off her feet. This is it, Jack realised, I’m going to have sex.