Hymn From A Village (18 page)

The High Street’s empty. Better that way. It’s why I get in early. No distractions.

Straight down the middle is my line, a metre from the walls and one from the road.

Oncoming vehicle, Ford Mondeo. One passenger, male, shouting at the driver. One driver, female, focusing on the road and wiping away tears.

Clear.

Opposite side, old lady (clear), two power cleaners taking a smoke between stripping gum from the stones (clear), group of students (just out of bed, lazy fuckers, clear).

Baby’s buggy ahead. No baby. Stop. Look for wires, lumps, anything out of the ordinary. Clear.

Check back down at the cracks. Step carefully. There’s a speck of something on my boot. Stop. Bend. Wipe. Stand. Look ahead. Step.

St Georges Shopping Centre. Turn right.

Automatic doors slide open. My mind whirrs with the stimulus of change. Settle. Take it slowly. Deep breaths. Easy does it.

Two security, too fat for ex-forces, playing with their walkie-talkies. Mothers and toddlers.

Nothing to see here.

Too early for the hoodies. Too late for the business rush.

Pulse slows. 90,  80,  70, 60. Clear.

Todd’s Sports on the right. Turn right. Onto carpet. Relax.

Heaven, this place. All the trainers you could want in the one shop. Smells new and shines white.

I’m straight round the back to the classy stock. The imports. The must be seen in. Kept round there just in case anyone daft enough rips the chain from the wall to run off with a left shoe.

There’s a soft-topped box by the rack. I sit on it and just look at them all. Reminds me of the time I went into an art gallery. People there did the same.

This is my safe place. I come here often. Never buy. Never talk. Just feel the peace inside.

Maybe I drift off, but the voice is a shock.

“Sir,” someone says. “Sir. Are you all right, sir?” The voice is high for a man. Probably a teenager.

I’m all eyes and ears soon as. Bright and ready for action.

Looks like the old guys sent the new, young buck over to sort things. Reminds me of my first days.

“I’m thinking about getting a pair,” I tell him.

The boy straightens. Squares the shoulders inside the shell-suit. Trying to be a man.

I’d tell him that men don’t need the tramlines in their hair, but what’d be the point?

“They’re beauties, aren’t they? You won’t see a better selection outside of London.”

He goes over and handles one of them from the top row, the Gold Nike, Super-Soles range. Way he’s taken control impresses me. Sort of guy my unit’s always looking for.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m thinking about the Silver Puma retro. Two-twenty-nine-ninety-nine.” It’s like my serial number.

“Top of the range, brother.” He picks it from the stand. Rubs the leather uppers with the right amount of respect. “Want to try them on?”

“Size 13,” I nod. Reckon he’s impressed.

I set to unlacing my boots. Check my reflection in the toe. Beaut.

When the kid returns, he’s got the box, lid open.

Reflex kicks in. I look it over. Tissue. Shoe. Clear.

He hands to me. I take it. Bend and smell the thing before putting it on. There’s nothing like the whiff of new kit.

“Oh yeah,” the kid says. “Nobody’s going to miss you in these. You know your footwear, sir.”

“I know my footwear all right.” I’ve seen all kinds. “Came across something like this in Afghanistan.” It all flows back. The heat and the glare of the sun from the dirt. The kids watching like we’re the entertainment. “Didn’t need the metal detector or a dog to tell me that one was a wrong-un.”

The boy says nothing. Just looks confused.

“Clever buggers had changed the laces for wire.” Hadn’t seen one like it before. Took a good look around it like I was taking a photo of it in my mind. Alerted the rest of the team and we got together. “Told the boss all about it and he went in. Cocky sod, he is, Tony. Tony the Tiger we call him.”

The kids face hasn’t changed. Just looks confused.

“Thing is, I missed something. Missed it because I’d got complacent. Buried in the wall a couple of feet away another device. The real sting in the tail. Blew Tony’s legs clean off. Bugger didn’t even scream.”

“Jesus.” I like the kid. He cares.

“Hence, the thing with shoes.”

I get hold of my boots and stand. Walk over to the display, grab the chain on the Puma and pull it from the wall.

I put my foot into the shoe and admire the pair. “Thanks,” I say, and leave.

“Enjoy the shoes, sir,” the kid says. He’d make a great searcher one day.

The security-men seem alert, pulling in their stomachs and getting ready for business.

I walk straight over to them, the chain following me on the floor like a pet snake.

The guys in uniform take a step forward.

I stop. Look at each in turn. Watch them step back.

I walk straight between them as if they’re not there.

Out on the street, I head for home. I walk quickly now, careful all the time to keep my feet in the centre of each slab.

T
here are many things to love about the short story. Among them is the way a short story can be a social animal in the way a novel rarely can. It rubs shoulders with other stories in magazines, on blogs, in anthologies and collections. The placing of a story in different positions gives it a slightly different feel and that’s a wonderful thing.

I’ve been lucky and delighted by the success of my work. It’s appeared in places that still make me very proud and occasionally rather disbelieving.  To thank individuals scares me, for they are so many and my mind is so small.

What I can do is try and list titles and homes to which I’m extremely grateful.

Mammoth Best British Crime Stories

The Reader Magazine

A Twist Of Noir

Snubnose Press

Untreed Reads

Shotgun Honey

Things I’d Rather Be Doing

Beat To A Pulp

Nightfalls

Protectors (stories to benefit Protect)

Off The Record

True Brit Grit

Crimespree Magazine

Crime Factory

All Due Respect

The Drowning Machine

In On The Tide

I’m grateful to all the good folk involved in these projects for their time and energy as well as for their inspiration.

I’d like to also acknowledge the short-story community, particularly in the noir community, for their ability to see the word from so many different angles and to be able to write about them with such originality.

Thanks also to any readers out there who’ve stuck with me – you keep me going, so please don’t stop hanging around.

a Sea Minor Publication

© 2013