Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

In the following series of blog posts, you can find the stories from the shortlist of twenty. This particular post will feature the stories from Edward James, Victoria Hunter, Stephanie Percival and John Wilson. 

The Great Escape by Edward James

This is to inform you that you have been shortlisted for the post of A3 in DGV at the European Commission in Brussels.  Your next step should be to contact your Director-General at the address overleaf.

John Smith

Director of Personnel (European)

I had had letters telling me that I had been shortlisted for prizes in competitions for which I had never entered, but never before had I been shortlisted for a job for which I had never applied.  I rummaged in the crevices of my memory for something that might have provoked this inter-office memo.

Yes, that must be it!  Months ago I had been sent a circular inviting staff to ‘express an interest’ in working with the European Commission in Brussels.  Well, who wouldn’t have expressed an interest in escaping this drab little box of an office overlooking the graffiti scarred squalor of a south London shopping centre, where downtrodden mothers dragged fractious toddlers around dreary supermarkets while I seeped away my life administering the British government’s policy on War Widows’ Pensions.

Government policy on War Widows’ Pensions consisted essentially in resisting demands to improve them.  My principal duty was to reply to irate elderly widows who wrote in contrasting their late husband’s sacrifice with the government’s parsimony.  One told me she was so disgusted she had allowed her daughter to marry a German.

I replied explaining government policy and wishing the young couple every happiness; I replied again when she wrote to my boss and he passed the letter to me, and again when she wrote to the Minister and he passed the letter to my boss and he passed it to me. The same happened when she wrote to the Secretary of State and then the Prime Minister and then to the Queen.  So as not to give her an undue sense of importance I was allowed to sign all these letters myself, following the formula ‘The Prime Minister/ The Queen/ Whoever has asked me to reply to your letter of . . .’

I also read postmortem reports on ex-prisoners of war to confirm that there was no link between the cause of death and the experience of captivity that might give rise to a War Widow’s Pension. At that time ex-POWs died at the rate of about four a day, so I developed a routine of reading through two of the bulky reports before tea break and two more before lunch.  I never found any links, for these were aging veterans from a war that had ended thirty years ago.

My most exciting activities were occasional outings to Bolton or Basildon to sit on local War Pension Committees.  Brussels seemed positively exotic.

I turned over the memo and to my disappointment saw that my putative Director-General had not yet taken up his post.  He was still at his office in Hammersmith. All I was getting out of this was a ride on the Piccadilly Line.

                       -----------------------------------------

I showed Diana the memo and a booklet they had sent me called ‘Brussels Briefing’.  It said nothing about what DGV was or what an A3 did but the pay scales translated into Sterling at four times my current salary.

‘I shouldn’t get excited’, she said.  ‘Who knows what that would buy in Brussels.  We’ll discuss this when you get offered the job.’

She spoke with the soothing commonsense with which she silenced over-excited children at breakfast and made them eat up their cornflakes. As far as Di was concerned I already had a good job – reasonable pay, regular hours, good holidays and an excellent pension. My day dreams were not her concern.

        ---------------------------------------------

The future Director-General’s office took up almost an entire floor in a skyscraper office block.  A secretary opened the door and I had a distant prospect of a great desk beyond a sea of carpet with a small man with a bald head peeping up behind the desk.

I waded across the carpet and stood in front of him.  He rose to take my hand.

‘Ah, Mr Edwards – may I call you James? – I don’t suppose you know anything about this job, do you?’

‘Er – no’ (should I?)

‘Well let’s look at this organigram then – I expect it would be one of these.’  He spread out a very complicated organisation chart across the desk.  ‘Bring your chair round, James, and we’ll look at it together.’

‘It could be this’, he said, ‘or this, or this’.  He ran his stubby pink finger over a line of boxes with titles in French.

I tried to look intelligent. ‘Tell me about this one’, I said, jabbing at a box at random.

He explained the duties of the post.

‘No, you’d need a pure economist for that’, I answered.  ‘What about this one?’

He made some notes and then explained the next job.

‘Could be’, I said, ‘but you’d do better with someone with more welfare experience.’

He made more notes. ‘What about this one?’ he said, explaining a third job.

‘That’s more my line’, I answered. ‘I think I’ve the experience for that.’

‘Right’, said the little great man, ‘so it’s the Social Security job we’re talking about.’

A secretary hovered.  I sensed the interview drawing to a close and I had a cold feeling in my stomach.  All at once I knew that I could not handle this job and that it would blow apart my quiet, well-ordered life.

‘But – but – don’t you want to know anything about me?’

‘I think I’ve enough here already’, he replied, tapping a bulky file on the corner of the desk, bigger than any of my post-mortem reports.

I made a last bid for failure.  ‘I – there’s something I ought to tell you – I don’t speak French very well.’

This was one of the great understatements of my life.   I had joyfully abandoned studying French at sixteen to escape my teacher’s sarcasm and my schoolmates’ ridicule.

It was a false move.  He draped an arm over my shoulder.  ‘Got the same problem myself, Old Boy.’

‘When will I know?’ I whispered.

‘I’ll contact you in a fortnight.’

        ------------------------------------------------

A fortnight and forty post-mortems later there was still no news.  Perhaps it had been a dream – perhaps I had misunderstood him – perhaps I shouldn’t have lost my nerve and thrown it away.

Three weeks after the interview. My phone rang.

‘Robert here.  It’ll be the Social Security job, OK?’

‘OK’, I answered meekly.

‘Next month then.  See you in Brussels.  Bye.’

        --------------------------------------------------

That evening Di flatly refused to go.  The next morning she told the children we were moving to Brussels.  None of them finished their cornflakes.

        ---------------------------------------------------

In the next few weeks we unravelled one life and took up the threads of another.  At last the day came and it was all really happening.  I swore my oath never to bring the European Commission into disrepute (so I can never write my memoirs!), I was given my carte de service and my almond-eyed Italian secretary ushered me into my new office.

It was all mine – the high chair, the leather bound desk and the plate glass view over the Brussels skyline.

The title on the door read Chef de Division but my secretary called me Capite de Divisione, which sounded much more dashing.  She didn’t seem to speak English, but with a girl like that who cared?

There was one letter in the in-try.  It was addressed to the President of the Commission and I was to write a reply on his behalf.  I sat down to read it.

Dear Monsieur President

I am writing to you on behalf of the war widows of Great Britain to tell you how badly our Government treats us. I have written to everybody I can in Britain, including the Prime Minister and The Queen, but always my letters are answered by the same civil servant.  Now that we have joined Europe I can at last get past him, to reach somebody who will listen . . .

I read no further but began to draft.

Dear Mrs Courage

The President of the European Commission has asked me to reply to your letter of . . .

Self-Portrait, In Charcoal & Tears, by Victoria Hunter

Lying beside me now, your tiny face is screwed up in the concentration of sleep. I draw you every day. But art can’t express the memories I suddenly need to relive, or bring back the woman – closer than my own lost mother – who changed my life and helped found the moments that led me to you.

Neither can it show you the precious things that she taught me; things that must, one day, be shared with you.

So, for now, I’ll write them here – so that when that day comes, she will touch your life as she did mine.

* * *

Her name was Rosalynn Carter and the first time I met her, I was barely seventeen. I had reached that point in growing up where every focus is suddenly turned to what will come next and how you will walk successfully down life’s glittering paths of opportunity.

For me, art was my only talent; I had always had a sharp, keen sense of the ephemeral, a knack for capturing a fleeting expression or a stolen second... Only, after I impetuously cast all other professions aside, my gift suddenly began to fail me.

And so my art teacher recommended I visit Rosalynn.

She had been a portrait artist in the ‘50s, with famous exhibits that people flocked to see. But then unappreciative ‘modern art’ sprung up, photography outdid portraiture – and Rosalynn Carter’s star dimmed, flickered hazily for a moment, and then went out.

Only history reincarnated her; flying back through the years to reignite her once-renowned name to the new buds crowding the garden of artistry. The past sucked Ros up and deposited her in the here and now, ensconced within the house of her youth: a huge, towering manor, red-bricked and old-fashioned, with brightly sugared plates of glass bordering the windows and wooden framework everywhere.

I would have been daunted if I knew how my life was about to change, but I didn’t really know what that feeling was back then. I had been on my own so much that I simply lived inside my head – always thoughtlessly pressing forward...

* * *

‘So you’re the new hopeful.’ It wasn’t a question; issued at the first opening of that great oak door, Rosalynn stood straight-backed and steely-eyed. Grey hair straggled around canvas skin of fading papyrus – a face creased at the edges, staining coffee-cream. She stepped back, allowing me entry like it was a privilege. ‘Well, come in. Let’s see what you can do.’

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t taken aback. Within minutes, an easel was facing me, a whole array of brushes, paints and pencils at my disposal. The sitting room was all chintz and chiffon. With a flourish, her every movement precise, Rosalynn set a mirror before me.

    My portfolio leant, discarded and forgotten, against the front door.

    ‘Draw.’

    With that command, Ros seated herself in a chair a little way from me and waited, dark eyes sharp as a hawk’s. I cleared my throat uncertainly. Rosalynn sighed.

    ‘How can I assess your potential if I don’t see you draw?’

    ‘I – I brought some of my work with me –’

    She waved my protests aside with a snort.

    ‘I need to see how your art comes. That’s where talent lies. Now: draw.’

    ‘Myself?’

    ‘Who else?’ She frowned.

    ‘But –’

    ‘How can you draw others, capture their very heart in their eyes, their face, if you cannot even set your own soul free across the page?’

    Somewhat thrown, I hesitantly surveyed my pale, wide-eyed features in the mirror. I looked the picture of blankness, framed by straw-coloured curls. A plain angel. My reflection preened vainly, the person I suddenly wished I was.

    With a surge of discontent, I selected a pencil.

* * *

An hour later, I smudged a last wave into a strand of hair and sat back. The entire, silent time, I had been fully conscious of Ros’ eyes upon me, shrewdly attentive, as though mentally painting her own portrait of my character.

    I reached for my sketch, but she was already behind me, looming crow-like over my shoulder. I froze, waiting, as her gaze roamed over my work, expert and critical. Then, just as abruptly, she stepped back.

    ‘It’s a start. Come back next week. We’ll see if we can’t progress you further than simply drawing the technical points of what’s in front of you.’

    My heart plummeted. I ran a glance over my portrait. It was good – better than I had recently been capable of at any rate. Was I really so bad, in her professional opinion?

    Something in my expression must have caught Ros’ eye, for she sighed wearily, mouth crinkling with disparagement.

    ‘You have potential. You just have to free your talent from your fears.’

    The next thing I knew, I was up out of my chair and in front of the door, my portfolio handed to me as though it were a childish plaything.

    ‘Come back next week. We’ll try again.’

* * *

After such an odd introduction, I can’t say exactly why I did return the following week. My reception was no different; Rosalynn swept me into the same sitting room, placed the same mirror before me and issued the same instruction. An hour later, I again received the barest compliment of having ‘adequate technical skill’ before being told to come back next week for another attempt.

    Two more weeks passed.

    Nothing changed.

    By the fifth week, I was certain this was a joke to her.

    ‘I was told you’re the best – that you would advise me! So far, Mrs Carter, I’ve just drawn myself repeatedly, received no comments for improvement and seen nothing of your own work!’

    Her commanding self-assurance didn’t even falter.

    ‘How can you improve your style by looking at my work?’ A sigh. ‘You are drawing well, but you are not seeing, girl. Until you can see yourself, truly and without predilections, and show it in your portrait, you will never possess the freedom to capture anyone else as they truly are satisfactorily.’

    I had no response. The teacher-pupil back-story I had conjured in my head for when I was famous in future years was rapidly self-destructing. Ros nodded appreciatively at my silence, folding her arms in that wise manner the older generation have unspeakably mastered.

    ‘I do not improve people, child. One day, they simply find themselves. Now come back next week.’

* * *

Months began to pass. Father went away on business more and more, unable now to look at me; every day that went by simply modelled me into my Mother and it broke his heart. My art faltered massively. Each week, I felt I was tripping ever closer to something, just beyond my reach, and Ros’ dismissive attitude to every drawing only made the longing ache worse.

    And then that day came.

    The day my other dream, the one outside of art, came true.

    For three years, I had been hideously infatuated with Aaron Dennis, my imagination growing in its loneliness with every school day that whirled past. He would sweep me off my feet at the parties we attended, holding my hand, his hair a golden halo and his words perfect, like him. But, in reality, he’d never noticed me; the plain, abandoned angel.

Except he did.

At Susie Jenkins’ eighteenth birthday, the music blaring and the alcohol uninhibited, Aaron Dennis came to me and told me that I was all he wanted. His tall, muscular body in front of me – a dream come true – he was my knight, my hero... The only one to ever want me at all.

Now I realise his talk of love was self-indulgent, his actions simply those of a dare.

Hindsight is a terrible thing, Ella.

That night, he wanted me – a thirty minute doomed romance.

After that night, the last tattered shreds of my self-confidence withered, caving in – and, five weeks after that, something else in me died too.

* * *

My whole life felt erased. I had always been solitary, but now it crushed me. I continued sessions at Rosalynn’s, but I couldn’t draw. It was worse than before. Every time I looked in that mirror, all I saw were deadened eyes – no longer even the plain, abandoned, fallen angel. The nothing suddenly revealed in me burnt a ceaseless fire of humiliation – each time I walked to school; saw his cruel face; or saw my own naive, childish reflection.

    Sitting in Ros’ parlour, charcoal snapped between my fingers.

    In the glass, Rosalynn’s expression, one that had grown strangely familiar, suddenly softened for the first time.

Then – an oracle – she asked me the one question I needed, but could never have expected.

    ‘Why are you so alone, love?’

    Her pitying words struck my heart, a painful bullet of undeserved sympathy. I slumped forward onto the table, dye and pastel smearing my face – and I cried. I cried for my foolishness, my shame, my failure... my betrayed, unborn life.

    I felt hands on my shoulders, gnarled fingers that would never draw again; my mortification deepened. I was a waste. Then a forehead rested against my lank hair and Ros’ voice, unexpectedly soft and maternal, whispered in my ear.

    ‘You wanted to know why I always make you draw yourself? Because you need to stop thinking you are empty, worthless. The face is the entrance to the heart, my love – and the eyes are the windows to the soul. Your eyes told me what you have given up, and I’m afraid it will always scar you. But you don’t live through years of fame without realising a few things, so trust an old woman on this: as alone as you may feel right now, it’ll get better...’

    I clung to her, to her words, tears staining the blank paper beneath us as I howled.

    And then, as she smoothed my hair, she spoke words I will never forget – the words that changed my life.

    ‘Someday you will understand, darling – you’re free now. Today is the day that you have finally seen yourself.’

* * *

Six exhibitions and one marriage later, I travelled once again, now heavily pregnant, to Ros’ house. Nothing had changed except the flowers trailing the trellises and flowerbeds; it felt like journeying a decade back into the dusty past.

    Over the years, Rosalynn never stopped helping me. She held my hand as I stepped into the world, steadily nurtured my talent into bloom and watched encouragingly from afar as I finally stumbled across success – and love.

    And she never once admitted her part in it, continually waving away my gratitude. Rosalynn Carter was always adamant: she didn’t teach people, didn’t help them – they helped themselves. Once, ever-modest, she told me tutoring was simply another artistic project, keeping her busy.

    But she couldn’t stay busy forever.

    The night she went, I held her hand, paper-thin and frail, the face I now knew as well as my own peaceful as she quietly slipped away. From that first second, I missed her more than I could stand.

    In the following weeks, as I cleared through her memories, I came across a room I had never been in before. Sunlight streamed in through a wall of bay windows, dappling the huge array of portraits that lined the room. For a minute, I thought they were Rosalynn’s own works, until I remembered she had donated every last one to galleries the world over.

    Then I realised.

    The faces gazing down at me, warm, full of life, were all the souls Ros always claimed she “hadn’t” healed; the people she “hadn’t” helped. In their eyes, I could see that streak of happiness that only comes from her touch. My throat hurt, and I pressed a hand to my stomach, wanting you, Ella, to share in this final moment with Ros.

    Because there – central amid the faces – was me.

    And I was smiling.

You Promised Me A Mockingbird by Stephanie Percival

      My confinement began nearly nine months ago. Now I am on the brink of release. Blood pounds through my vessels and my heart beats harder. As I’ve grown I’ve become aware of the world outside. I am hungry for escape. I want to kick out and not be restricted by these walls.  

    In the beginning I was suspended in space only conscious of the Beat, beat; Beat, beat of mother’s heart. Over time, my hearing has developed so I can listen to the talk and perceive movement in the world outside. It sounds exciting.

    It has been quite comfortable here, I am kept warm and fed, but now I am too big for my cocoon. I crave freedom. My eyes see nothing except red darkness yet I am aware of changes in light which alter with a regular pattern.

    I think mother’s name is “Bitch.” The loud voice calls her this.

    “Where’s my tea, Bitch,” “Get me a cigarette, Bitch”,

“Stupid Bitch.”

    When the loud voice is near there is a change in my body, my blood quickens with a sensation that makes me dizzy. Though I did not like this at first, I do now.

    The loud voice is easy to hear. Mother is much quieter. In fact she rarely speaks, but I know her because of the noises her body makes, the sounds that drift through to me. Pop, pop; little bubbles I can feel moving around me. She is not often still but when she is sometimes I can feel her hand pressing the skin above me so the fluid compresses and I am aware of its warmth. That’s the first thing I remember; stretching my finger buds towards her through the barriers of skin, trying to sense more than fluid around me. 

    Occasionally she will sing, “Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.” And I wonder what a mocking bird is and become restless with anticipation again, for all the wonderful things waiting for me.  I like those moments because I know she sings just for me.

     There are other voices. They make a lot of noise. Especially Little Shit who says, “Don’t want to, don’t want to,” and cries and wails. The loud voice shouts, “Shut up, you Little Shit,” all the time. I can understand why. The crying is very annoying. It upsets mother too because I sense the walls around me become tense.  A vibration ripples through my chamber as if pressure is building. Mother becomes so still I wonder if she has stopped breathing. When that happens my heart beats faster.

    “I’m going down Pub, Bitch.”

    Then there is a loud slamming sound and mother starts to breathe again, the crying stops and my enclosure becomes calm once more.

    We are always on the move so sometimes it is difficult to rest. But there is a routine which my body has learnt. A pattern when mother gets up and when mother lies down. My body follows the rhythm of her heart beat.

    Mother has been lying down and then a voice calls,

“Mummee, Mummee”.

    The loud voice tells mother to go and sort Little Shit out, and mother does as asked. I am tipped up when she stands so it takes me a moment to orientate myself. The motion of her legs initially is stilted; our shared blood system sluggish so neither of us can feel truly awake. But we bump along and down wards and I can hear sloshes and swishes and rattles. The noise increases as all the voices speak at once, Little Shit crying and then, “Where’s my breakfast, Bitch?”

    Everybody is quiet. Mother’s heart is beating more quickly and now I’m awake.

    I know when we go outside because the sounds change and the air reacts differently. I think of endless space where I will be able to stretch my legs out and move my arms. It must be cold as mother shivers. It pulses through the fluid and I respond with a similar shudder. Other sounds come into range, strange shrieks and rumbles, the chattering of voices speaking different conversations. When we return, it is only mother and me. The other voices have gone.  But we don’t stop moving, up and down, rattle, swish, stretching upwards. Even when she is not walking her arms and hands are busy. I sense her limbs becoming heavy, the sack of my weight dragging her forward. This is tiredness when the blood runs thinner. And my heart beat is out of time with hers.

    Sometimes, we leave the house alone. We move but mother doesn’t walk. There is a rumbling vibration that makes every part of me ache. A stench fills my body. It is sour and thick, tainting the blood as if it is clogging my veins. It is not like the fresh air of the world I like to imagine and my head feels dizzy. I wriggle but it does not help. Mother remains standing and we swing from side to side. Then suddenly we stop and I am shunted into the wall of flesh around me. It happens again and again, but finally ends. I am glad. Mother does not rest though, she walks and we go inside. We must be in a big space now because I am aware of the repetition of every sound. It reminds me of when I had so much room the noises I heard echoed.

Mother moves again. The walls of my chamber tense with each stride as if she is pushing something heavy. It makes a loud noise which is uncomfortable to my new ears. Whir, grind, grind, Whir. Then mother turns. Whir, grind, grind, Whir, turn. It interferes with mother’s heart beat and makes me anxious the beat will stop. My sac bumps about and I kick out. Stop it, I want to tell her. Stop it and sit down. Sing to me.

    Then she does stop. I hear her make a strange sound. A low “Oo” cry which reverberates around me and the space outside for a long time.

    “Are you alright?” a voice asks. I have become familiar with the question recently.

     “You don’t want to have your baby on your nice clean floor,” the voice continues.

    “The baby’s just restless.”

    “Should you be working still?”

    “I have to. You know how it is?”

    “Well, don’t overdo it.”

    Then the Whir, grind, grind, Whir begins again, though now it seems slower. I am too tired to kick anymore. I try to sing to myself, “Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird,” to drown out the monotonous thrumming.

    It is both the familiar smell and the grunting noise that tells me we’re back.

    “Noisy Bitch. You’ve woke me up”.

     Mother paces about for a long time but finally lies down and we are peaceful for a short while. Sometimes I dream; lovely images of huge spaces filled with red bubbles floating around. Perhaps they are mocking birds. As I reach my fingers towards them they pop with a small round sound. But this time the dreams don’t come. Every part of me feels bruised by the imprisoning shell.

    When mother lies down, instead of resting I wriggle and shove and kick. I hear her groaning and moaning, so I think she knows I’ve had enough. Finally my kick bursts the bubble of fluid surrounding me. It is quite frightening then, I don’t know what I’ve started. The walls of my prison once so protective roar into a life of their own, squeezing and pressing me so I can do nothing but be forced downwards. At the worst point I repeat over and over, ‘I’ll be free soon.’   

    And suddenly I am aware of light, sparkles of dazzling silver and pale figures moving.

    “A beautiful girl, Mrs Andrews.”

    I yell with joy at my release. I suck in my first breath of sweet air. It makes me light headed it is so satisfying. And for a moment I feel anxious.

    I cling to mother and feel her reassuring warmth. Clutching my hand around her finger I look up.  It is strange to see her face-to-face after all this time, she looks nothing like I imagined. Her skin is grey as if the blood remains deep within her. Tears are running down her cheeks.

Freedom by John Wilson

He knew these alleys. By texture of brick and stone, by sound of slab and cobble. By night in the shadows. The flick of his knife reverberated through echoed footfalls as he emerged with teeth glinting into the moonlight. Carter was not his real name.

Now was the moment he relished, with his quarry fully awake to his reason, frantic and trapped and running blindly away from the only exit. As the chasing noise subsided he did not hurry. His own steps, honed by practical purpose, were slight and sure. He followed, his patience unencumbered by rising anticipation. He stroked the blade with a steady hand. Just one way out.

The telephone made him jump.

“Dammit!”

He slapped the Escape key and snatched up the receiver, the dark alley now covered by glowing text. For a moment he watched it as he listened. Moved the mouse. Clicked. The screen changed and a dead joint flared into life.

“No, I'm busy. What? Shit. Okay. Right? Look, I said okay.

Where?”

The screen went blank, and the receiver quietly replaced.

Stilton simmered before him. His stare was like the teacher's dealing with a ranting child but no teacher he knew carried a knife or had a swastika tattooed on his forehead.

He looked past the angry face. Over one shoulder was Walker, the nut-case, and on the right was Fobb, the maniac. Great. Jack considered all three were homicidal, but Stilton by far the worst. In his hand he held something to him. A sly smirk was exchanged.

“What's it it?”

“Take it.”

Jack took the gun. It felt heavy. His stomach felt heavier.

“What the fuck would I want with this?” He asked anyway but a faint click by his ear and suddenly he didn't care to find out. Fobb lowered his weapon.

Stilton stretched thin reluctant lips, the closest thing he had to a smile, “You owe me, Carter.”

“Right. What this time?”

Jack looked from face to face to face. No answer was forthcoming. “Well, it makes a change from the all-night shop or the one-man garage, give the poor sods a break, is that it?” He glared at his watch. “So why are we standing in the middle of an industrial estate with fucking guns at three o'clock in the morning?”

It seemed a reasonable question.

The warehouse was easily the tallest and blackest, and dangerously derelict. With two nods of his weapon Stilton despatched Fobb and Walker to meet one another around the far side. Jack watched them set off in opposite directions. He knew what was coming next.

“I need to make a call.” Stilton lifted his chin and with one hand gave a testing shake of the ladder. “You better check up there. See if either of them doors open.”

Jack looked up, “And if they do? What then?”

“Jesus man, you an idiot? Unlock the damned loading bay.

Go on, we haven't got all night. I'll check with the others and wait for you at the van.”

“Fine. And?” Jack stared back at him.

“You got your phone, right?”

He could place him by the glow and the flat dialling tones of his own mobile. Typical Stilton, close enough to keep tabs, distant enough to talk in private, and cheap enough to borrow a phone. A deep intake of the night air and Jack gripped the steel sides of the wall-ladder and tested his weight on the first rung. On the second rung something gave but held. He made the climb to an iron-cast walkway running the length of the gable-end. With every weight-shift it creaked and he groaned but it was something else that cranked his adrenaline. Something that sounded like a shotgun.

He stared back towards the van. None of them carried a shotgun. There was Stilton half-turned, his posture rigidly caught in a pale blue light, even from this viewpoint Jack could see a slow darkness seeping across his chest. He stepped back in horror, the metalwork whining in sympathy while below a dull thud and a scuttling of plastic over concrete. A light dimmed. Jack gagged, a fist jammed into his mouth, his teeth clenching tighter. In his other hand he coldly clutched the gun handle. His thoughts were swarming through a heady mix of terror and nerves. This was unreal, like a game. It can't be real.

Tears trickled cold like sweat. He fell back, squatting into the dusty brick wall, whimpering and shaking his head. Not a game. No, he could smell. He could touch, couldn't he? He could feel. His head tilted. He could die. Jesus, he could die!

Quivering to an inner chill the shock manifested itself through his body, and now his thoughts were whispering. A dream, Jack. A bad fucking dream. He froze. What was that? Sudden footfalls abruptly ended, culminating in two dull shots. The bad dream had turned into his own personal nightmare.

Beneath his weight the iron walkway shifted. The noise could not have cut any louder, a short metallic screech as of terror curtly silenced. The sound from a cop-show exploded off the brickwork. He threw up his hands and yelled.

“Wait. Don't shoot. Look, my gun, here, my gun..”

He let it drop. It clattered off the metalwork, bounced.

Beside him the tumble of a Yale lock had him redouble with renewed fright. Sliding on his backside as the steel door burst open, he drew back, pleading and peeing and not ready to die. He kept his hands as high as he could but the walkway was complaining wildly under added weight.

“Whoa no, no, stop, for God's sake, I'll come to you, Look, here I am...” He was on his hands and knees being manhandled through the opening onto another gantry, swaying just as wildly, but with the added threat of two armed heavies throwing their weight around. They looked more hell than angel.

“This one makes four, I don't reckon there's any more. We could sling 'em in the van, dump 'em all by the river.”

“Yeah, along by the reservoir. Nice and quiet up there. They won't be found there in a hurry.”

A third man stepped into the light. Jack watched the boots only, big motorcycling boots, scuffed leather with silver studs. He didn't wish to see more.

“We don't got time. Forget the stiffs, we gotta skip out. Found this damn phone, that jackass called the pigs. It don't look like it got through but we can't take any chances, they're probably tracin' it now. I got the lads loading the truck.” His tone changed. “You after our stuff boy?”

Jack answered into an oil-stained floor, “No sir. No, I don't know-” An explosion in his side had him curl up. The boots seemed bigger than before.

“The others have phones. This yours?”

Jack nodded. He was aware of the third man holding something over him.

“What's yer name boy?”

“Jack...J..James. James Player, Sir.”

“Sir. I like that. Courtesy. You heathens takin' notes? Here, give him this then bring him round the front, and bring the shotgun. Don't touch it, it's in the black case. Firstly though, got a little surprise for J..J..James here...”

A drowsy smell of old tobacco, booze and stale living wafted over him, but before he could hold his breath a damp palm had clamped his nose and mouth, holding it for him. Inside his head the words spun around in place of oxygen. Called the pigs. Jack was struggling but that didn't seem to worry the man with the boots.

“Settle down now, everything will be just fine..” He glanced up, “Ain't that right boys?”

Audience appreciation was lost on him as forcibly rolled onto his back something was stuffed into his nostrils. Jack was fighting to breath and took his chance, he sucked through his nose and air imploded into his lungs. A burning sensation filled his head and leaked sourly into his throat. A painful hit of blue flashed behind his eyes. Over the thudding of his heart he could hear the boots walking away.

“Thirsty work, ain' it, stealing other folk's crystal. You better drink somethin' before you dehydrate. Here, take a few little sips of this.”

Whatever the cocktail was he never knew, it was poured down his neck and Jack was swallowed by ever deeper blackness.

“Sweet dreams kid.”

“We could just leave the fucker here.”

“You heard the boss. We got 'is address and we got 'is phone. Problem solved. A plump little turkey at Christmas.

Come on, gimme a hand.”

The machine-gun rattled over cobbles and came to rest in the gutter as Carter ran the length of the alley. That was stupid, not what he would normally do. Sirens in the distance egged him on. He slid smartly into a doorway as the blinking light cut through the shadows, the surrounding walls briefly giving up their secrets. The key turned and the latch lifted softly and he stepped into the cold room. It was dark and the shuttered windows were closed. Leaning back against the door he felt along the wall but found the switch too slowly, he froze, squinting as light filled the room. Then he raised his hands.

“You are trying to kill me.”

It wasn't a question. A gun protruding from the shadows postured in time with the words. Carter glanced at the square chest where he had left it in the alcove. The lid was open. There was a faint click.

“Nice weapon.”

“Ah, yes. Luger. 9mm. A late American copy. Still, it does a good job I'm sure you would agree, though given your penchant for blade-work I must confess a little surprise at finding it here. Now I realise we don't know who you are, an obvious oversight on our part. We've been aware of you for some time, or should I say, aware of your.. hobby? You prey on the lowlifes that choose to slowly die here, until you give them a helping hand, that is. We watch with, what? Yes, a blind eye, but then you raise your sights.”

The voice tutted from the dim hallway, “Careless. You should have finished what you started, but you let me get away. So, I ask myself, why would you target me? Perhaps not the half-decent amateur after all, you have covered your tracks rather too well for that. Could you be a pro, albeit a bad one? You see my dilemma.”

Silence.

“So which is it... Mr. Carter? If that is your real name?”

Another small click.

“Stefan Grogovich. Russian sleeper. Book seller. Went by the name of Smith. Not much imagination for someone who dealt with books.”

“You hit him?”

Fuck yeah, asshole.

Click.

“Jakob 'Bob' Sawicki. Polish immigrant by all accounts, in reality a hit-man, cleaner, and Russian agent.”

The gunshot fell on dead ears, and a red trail on the door slowly lengthened from head high to ankle low.

What? No. You can't do that!

“Thank you Mr. Carter, you have answered my question.”

You can't do that you bastard. Fuck you.

A roach was stubbed, repeatedly, in an overflowing ashtray.

More clicks. Moonlight falling on cobbles. Footfalls receding, bouncing around high walls. A knife discarded skittered away and Carter paused, summoning an inner calmness. He exhaled. The sirens whirred loud now, the drapes diffusing a spinning light. About his feet a black case snapped closed. Two clicks, and a weapon was armed.

The sirens stopped abruptly. Sedately he stood, his naked torso thinly outlined as he moved to the window. With a steady hand he parted the curtains, the blue lights flashing in his eyes. He smiled, stroking the barrel of the shotgun.

One way out.

You may also want to read:

Part Two: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

Part Three: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

Part Four: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition