Jack strolled up to the front steps
of his former abode with his hands in his pockets, whistling the theme tune to
the science fiction TV puppet show, Stingray. He had always loved it as a
child, watching it religiously every morning during the long school summer
holidays. The opening music was the best part as the secret goodie base that
looked like an innocent collection of office buildings folded back on itself,
secret compartments opening up inside to the military installation below.
Stand by for action! Anything can happen in the next half hour!
Never were those words truer in his
life than now, as he stood about to enter his old home. The plane ticket was
booked at Heathrow. After a brief stop here it was straight to the airport to
check in, then he was going to be taking to the skies, sailing across the Atlantic
Ocean toward the United States.
He had committed a murder two days
earlier and this house was still the metaphoric bear trap he had known it to be
when he returned twenty four hours earlier. If anything, the spring on the trap
was wound even tighter now, ready to snap shut instantly, and once it was
closed it would never open up again. He paused, one foot hovering shakily over
the first stone step, fear and what was probably a cross between
self-preservation and common sense telling him to think twice.
Why risk it? Why not go straight to
the airport and make a getaway? Every moment he was here was a moment the
forces bearing down on him could close in. If he turned around and walked away
then he was safe. But maybe that was the reason that he needed to go inside.
Jack was an optimist, there was no denying that; he tried hard to look for the
good in anything, however bleak. He tended to visualise what happened to him in
a positive way then define his own reality around that. That way he lived the
life he wanted to lead. It was what he had always done and it was what he was
doing now… since the murder.
He’d managed to convince himself that
Fate was keeping him free for a higher purpose, but he was no fool. He might
define his own reality by choice but he knew enough to know there was always a
chance he was wrong. That was why he was here. This was the last test that the
course he was on was real. After he had left the country, any forces after him
would be more than hard pressed to track him down. Here was their last and best
chance to do it. If they caught him here he was wrong about everything and
deserved whatever punishment was in store. If they didn’t then he would finally
be sure.
And besides, he had unfinished
business.
He walked up to the front door and
let himself in.
“What the hell do you want?” snapped
Jameson, Jack’s old landlord, nursing one of his massive hands in the other at
the far end of the hall. “I’ve already got someone else moving into your place.”
Jack pushed the front door back against
the wall of the hallway, letting the morning light spill in around him. “I left
some things here yesterday Mr Jameson,” he said, “and I have an account to
settle.”
“That pissing cat just raked me
again,” said Jameson. He pointed to the scrawny ginger thing on the stairs with
its wet and muddy fur. It was scowling.
Jack picked it up and it relaxed
instantly, purring in his hands. “She’s great.”
“She’s a bitch.”
Jack dropped her back down. She
curled round his legs. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “How
much do I owe you?”
“More than you’ve got dipshit!”
Jack smiled. “I’m sorry I couldn’t
pay before but I just came into some money. I can pay you now.” He started
counting it out in twenties.
The door swung shut behind him and
once again, the rusty, tetanus-riddled jaws of the trap quivered, but did not
snap shut.
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