The recording machine had been switched on. Names of those present, the date, and the time had been noted. Arthur was informed that he was being held on suspicion of the murder of Michael James Waters. When asked if he wished to contact a lawyer, Arthur shook his head.
The inspector leaned forward. “Mr Martin. This enquiry could lead to very serious charges being brought against you. I would strongly advise legal advice.”
Another slow shake of the head. “I’m guilty. I want to make a full confession. I don’t want a lawyer.”
“Very well, Arthur. But… if you should change your mind …”
The inspector paused and leaned back on his chair. “Where’s the gun?”
“The allotments. Priory Road. In a shed. I broke the lock. It’s got a blue door. The gun’s under a flower pot on the bench.”
The constable got to his feet. “I’ll get uniform onto it right away, sir.”
He crossed to the door and opened it. After a brief conversation with someone outside, he returned to the table. The inspector seemed relieved.
“Ok, Arthur. Now, perhaps you could tell me exactly how you came to be in possession of this weapon?”
“It was in the park. Alexander Park. It was raining.”
*
It had been a bad day, a very bad day. Mary getting the telephone call from Anne, their distraught daughter, that morning. The frantic rush to the hospital. Their teenage granddaughter, bruised and battered, eyes blackened, ribs cracked, arm broken. And that evil, violent, animal still free to walk the streets. The second time in six months he’d put her in the hospital, and God knows how many trips to casualty in between. They’d tried everything, the police, the courts, formal warnings, restraining orders. But now, with the girl too terrified to testify against him, it seemed nothing could be done.
They stayed at the hospital until early evening. There was little they could do. The girl was sedated and barely awake. Mary and Anne sat at the bedside. They spoke in hushed whispers. They held hands. They cried. Arthur tried to comfort them as best he could. He needed to stay strong for them, but at times their frightened, tear-streaked faces were almost more than he could bear. It was the dreadful feeling of utter helplessness. What could he do? Seventy-five-year old Arthur Martin with an arthritic hip, a wife with a weak heart and a daughter without a husband? How could he put an end to this sickening round of threats and violence?
*
The summer evening air felt heavy and oppressive and it was almost dark when the taxi dropped them back home. Arthur helped his wife inside. He drew the curtains, opened a can and fed the dog. He made tea and set it on the kitchen table, his pent up anger and frustration showing in the clumsy clack and rattle of cups and saucers.
Mary sat, staring at the Formica table top. “What are we going to do, Arthur? What are we going to do?”
He snatched his jacket from the back of the chair. “I don’t know! What the bloody hell can we do? Nothing! That’s what we can do. Nothing! Bloody nothing at all!”
“Where are you going? Arthur! Where are you going?”
He pushed through the kitchen door, stumbling down the hallway in his haste to leave the house “Out! I don’t know! I just need some time!”
“But where are you going? Arthur! It’s getting dark! Arthur! Don’t…”
Her shrill voice was cut short by the full stop slam of the front door.
*
Arthur strode, head down, hardly aware of his surroundings. He reached the end of the street and crossed the Queens Road, ignoring the hoots and shouts of angry motorists who braked to avoid him. He turned right and headed for the park. He needed space. Time to unwind. To calm down. The darkness wouldn’t bother him. Walks with the dog, twice a day for years, meant that he knew the park’s meandering pathways like the back of his hand.
*
Shortly after Arthur entered Alexandra Park, the storm that had threatened all evening finally broke. A sudden glare of lightning revealed trees and bushes in stark relief. A deafening crack of thunder announced a sudden deluge of heavy rain, hissing and drumming through the foliage, bouncing and splashing up from the narrow, tarmac pathway. The intensity of the storm took Arthur by surprise. He grabbed his lapels, tugged his jacket up over his head and looked around for some shelter. A second lightning flash lit the small, densely-leafed tree set among the tangle of undergrowth. Not the safest refuge in a thunderstorm, but he felt a desperate need to get out of the rain. He stepped off the path into the darkness and pushed his way between the bushes. Cold water ran from the leaves, soaking his clothes and running down his legs. Twigs and branches clawed at his face and hands. Reaching the tree, he ducked under its low canopy, sank to his knees in the mud and rotting leaves and began to cry.
The tears helped. Slowly the pent up anger and frustration eased. Numb and exhausted, Arthur leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes.
*
A wailing of sirens nearby, growing closer. Louder. Arthur sat up, stiff and cold, a dull, persistent aching in his hip. The rain had eased. Mary would be worried. He must get back to the path and go home. The sound of the sirens reached an ear-splitting pitch. A screech of brakes on the road beside the park. Headlight beams. Flashing blue lights. People running, crashing through the bushes, shouting, yelling.
“Stop! Armed police! Stop! Armed police!”
Arthur slid forward, face down onto the wet ground.
The pounding of feet on the path nearby. Someone ran past, panting, gasping for breath. For a moment the footsteps faltered. A sudden crack and snap of branches in the tree above Arthur. Something heavy dropped through the canopy and landed with a soft thud close to his feet.
*
Mary must have heard his key rattle in the lock. She had almost reached the door before he could open it.
“Arthur! Thank God! Where have you been? I’ve been so worried! Look at the state you’re in! Whatever happened to you?” She moved towards him and reached out to hold him.
Arthur raised a muddy hand to stop her. “I’m all right love. I went to the park, got caught in the storm. Tried to run for cover and slipped over in the mud. But I’m all right. A hot bath, some clean clothes, I’ll be fine.”
“But your face. It’s all scratched! And that’s your best jacket…”
He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. “I’m really sorry, Mary. Storming out like that. I didn’t mean to upset you love, but things just got on top of me… but I’m all right now… I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go and put the kettle on. I’ll nip up, run a bath and get myself sorted.
*
Arthur locked the bathroom door, turned on the taps and sat on the edge of the bath. He took a hand towel, laid it across the toilet lid and, reaching inside his jacket, retrieved the bag from under his left arm. Small, with a drawstring. The sort of bag a child might use to carry trainers or football boots. He loosened the top, tipped it up and allowed its contents to slide out onto the towel. Something solid, heavy for its size, wound loosely in a cloth. Arthur suddenly realised what it was. Hands trembling, he pulled aside the wrapping, revealing the black, snub-nosed handgun and a small, clear plastic bag containing five bullets. He took the gun by the handle and picked it up. Two years National Service and a short spell with the Territorials meant that he was no stranger to firearms, but the solid, cold weight of the weapon gave it an almost tangible air of menace. He checked that it wasn’t loaded, then sat staring at it for a while before putting it, along with the cloth and the bullets, back into the bag. He stood up, took it over to the cupboard under the sink and hid it behind the clutter of sponges, cloths and bathroom cleaners. Tomorrow, he would smuggle it out to the garden shed and examine it properly. He turned off the taps, stripped off his wet, muddy clothes and stepped into the steaming water.
It was while he lay in the bath, thinking over the events of the day, that Arthur decided to murder Michael Waters.
*
Arthur pulled the elder
ly, reluctant dog behind him, struggled up the last flight of worn stone steps and stopped to regain his breath. This was the third evening he’d undertaken the long climb from Stonefield Road to the top of the West Hill. The third time he’d lied to Mary, saying he was off to the park, before climbing up to the stretch of green high above the Old Town. Arthur’s chest ached. A sharp pain gnawed at his hip, but these nightly efforts were necessary. A murder needs careful planning.
The actual killing shouldn’t be difficult. He had the weapon. A Ruger five-cylinder revolver. Not a gun he was familiar with, but it looked fairly new and seemed to be in perfect working order. Deciding a time and place for the shooting, with no witnesses and a fool proof escape route, would be more complicated.
He needed to know more about Mr Michael J Waters. His habits, times and places. Where he went, pubs he used. People he met.
He knew where Waters lived. Priory Road, up on top of the hill. It seemed a good place to start. A bit of a struggle getting up there, but he could walk the dog on the grass, sit on a bench and take his time. Keep an eye out for Waters who, with his reputation as a heavy drinker, was certain to pass by on his way to visit a pub sooner or later.
Plenty of time. Still a couple of hours’ light left. Arthur, breathing a little more easily, gave a gentle tug on the lead. “Come on, Barney. Time for walkies.”
*
It was Waters, heading across the green. The squat, swaggering body. The shaved head. The lurid Arsenal T-shirt. Carrying a long, thin box. A pool cue perhaps? Arthur got up from the bench and checked his watch. Seven thirty-five. He stepped onto the path and began to follow Waters downhill towards the Old Town. He’d thought he might need to walk slowly. Keep well back so as not to be noticed, but it was soon clear to him that the problem would be keeping up. Waters was younger and fitter, in spite of his lifestyle. He moved quickly down the slope and started down the steps that led to Exmouth Place.
Arthur, desperate not to lose sight of his quarry, dragged at Barney’s lead and broke into a stumbling, limping run. He reached the stairs just in time to see Waters turn right into Hill Street. It was no good. He’d never catch him now. He was probably already halfway down the long flight of steps into George Street. Once there, he’d soon be lost in the hustle and bustle of an Old Town Friday night.
Arthur cursed his age, his hip and his own stupidity. He should have realised his own limitations. Following Waters was not going to be easy. Though there was little chance of finding him now, he made his way to the top of the steps and began the long, narrow descent between the high retaining wall and the back of the George Street buildings.
*
Arthur stepped out into George Street and looked around. Lots of people enjoying the warm summer evening, but no sign of Waters. Maybe he should walk up and down for a while. See if he could spot him. But… no! He felt exhausted. He needed to sit down. Take the weight off his hip. And poor old Barney looked on his last legs. There was a large dog bowl of water set out on the Pump House step. He took the dog over and waited as it drank. He could do with a drink himself. He’d go into the pub. Get himself half of bitter. Rest for a bit before the long walk home.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. It wasn’t too crowded.
Arthur made his way to the counter and waited while the barman served another customer. As he stood, leaning on the bar, he heard it. Above the hum and buzz of conversation, a familiar sound. The click and clack of pool balls. At the far end of the room, Waters stood at the table chalking his cue.
Arthur moved around the bar, out of Water’s line of sight.
The barman raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “What’ll it be sir?”
“Half of Guinness, please. No, on second thoughts, make it a pint.”
The barman went to the pump and began to fill a glass.
“I see you’ve got a pool table. Is it open every night?”
“Yes sir, but if you were after a game tonight I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The pool team are having a bit of a practice. Big semi-finals match on here tomorrow night.”
Arthur took his beer over to the small corner table, tucked Barney underneath and sat down. A real stroke of luck. He’d not only managed to find Waters, he’d also learned where he would be tomorrow evening and the route he’d be taking to get there.
Arthur sat, sipping his Guinness, resting his legs, thinking things over, working things out. By the time he had emptied his glass and got up to leave, he had decided when and where he would carry out the murder.
*
Saturday evening. It was raining. He stood in the wet grass under the umbrella that Mary had insisted he took. His feet were wet. The dog was soaked through. At least the weather might keep people indoors. Less chance of someone taking notice of an old man and a dog, standing in the rain.
Arthur had positioned himself close to the short stairway to Exmouth Place. This wasn’t where the shooting would happen. He’d let Waters pass. Let him go down the steps. Wait until he turned into Hill Street, then follow after as fast as he could. It was important to catch up with him just as he reached the top of the steps down to George Street. He’d shoot Waters there then turn back, but instead of climbing over the hill, he’d carry straight on, down Cobourg Place into the High Street. Once there, it was only a hundred yards to the sea front. A nice steady walk along to the town centre, time to catch his breath, calm himself down a bit. Then, up Queens Road and home.
Just an old man out walking his dog. No bother to anyone. Who’d even notice him?
*
From the moment Arthur saw him coming across the green things began to go badly wrong. Waters, anxious to get out of the rain, was almost jogging along the path. By the time Arthur had struggled with the catch, closed the umbrella and looped it on his wrist, Waters had reached the top of the stairway and started down. Arthur broke into a run. He must keep up. Everything depended on him staying close. He staggered, two at a time, down the steps. The dog dragged behind. The umbrella banged against his legs, threatening to trip him. He turned the corner. There was Waters, but too far away. He was too far away! In just a moment he’d be gone, out of sight, away down the long, narrow stairway.
Arthur shouted! A loud, desperate bellow of frustration. “Stop! You! Waters! Stop!”
Waters stopped, turned and saw Arthur limping towards him, trying to wrestle the gun from his rain coat pocket where it had tangled in the lining.
“Stop! Wait you bastard! Stop!”
The gun was finally free. Waters saw it. His eyes widened with fear. He spun around and began to run down the steps. He was almost at the bottom of the first flight before Arthur, breathless and shaking, reached the top, started down and, roughly aiming the gun in Waters direction, pulled the trigger.
The gun shot! The deafening sound! Like a physical blow in the narrow space between the walls. Barney let out a high-pitched howl of terror and made a desperate attempt to break free, lunging on the lead, dragging Arthur backwards down onto the wet steps.
He struggled to sit up, and fought to control the terrified animal. Below him Waters, on his knees clawing at the wall, trying to stand. He must shoot him again! He must finish it. He mustn’t leave him alive. Arthur raised the gun, but with Barney bucking and heaving at the lead it was impossible to aim.
He fired. The mind-numbing sound. The scream of the bullet as it ricocheted off a wall. Waters, almost on his feet… the dog lead snapped. Barney, still howling and mad with fear, raced to the top of the steps and away into the street. Arthur shook the umbrella free from his wrist and, using both hands to steady the gun, aimed and fired, once, twice. Water’s head jerked back. A spray of dark blood on the wall. He toppled slowly, rolled a short way down the steps and lay still.
He had to get away. Arthur pushed himself upright. It was difficult to breathe. His whole body was shaking, but he must move. He gripped the handrail and dragged himself upward.
He reached the top of the steps and set off, staggering a
nd stumbling into Hill Street. Head down, he almost ran into the middle-aged couple. They saw the gun. The woman screamed. The man stepped in front of her and raised his hands, fingers spread, as though they could deflect bullets.
Arthur broke away, turned left and ran towards the stairway and the long climb up over the hill.
*
Early morning. The first, faint gleams of light pierced the cracks in the rough wooden walls. Arthur got up from the rickety chair, took off the sack that he’d wrapped around his shoulders and opened the shed door. It was raining. A stiff breeze blew in from the sea. It was cold. He wanted to go home, but knew he couldn’t. Mary would have called the police last night and reported him missing. What could he say when they questioned him? Asked where he’d been? He’d thought it all through. There was no way out. No way to argue against all the damning evidence stacked against him. The fingerprints on the umbrella, the eyewitness’ and Barney with his broken lead. Poor Barney, with his broken lead still attached to his collar. The narrow leather collar with its little silver disk stamped with his name… and Arthur’s telephone number.
Arthur stepped out of the shed, closed the blue door behind him, turned up the collar of his raincoat and started across the allotments, heading for the police station.
Piranha Woman in the Supermarket Checkout
by Melvyn Grant
There was an old woman with a face like a piranha,
Who was slowly eating a large banana
And young Daniel watched with growing dread
When she’d finished that banana, would she chew on his head?
Would her lips draw back all stretched and thin,
Revealing a nasty black hole and lurking within,
Teeth all spitty and pointed, an ugly bunch
That’d bite clean through with a single crunch?
He watched her chin as it moved to and fro
And noticed some whiskers give an eerie glow
As her fish-eyes swivelled with every munch,
Did she eat little boys for Sunday lunch?
Did she boil them alive or make a pot-roast?
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