Ten-Word Tragedies Page 3
Dan McCoubry had become a man of small routines and rituals, his days shaped by a strict schedule that rarely varied. Fags and paper in the morning. An hour in the gardens of St. George’s Square if the weather was dry, back home in the kitchen with a cup of tea if it wasn’t. Cheese on toast and an apple for lunch. The William Hill bookies by the tube station at two, then over to the White Swan on Vauxhall Bridge Road for a pint at three. Maybe a second pint, but never more than that. After that, he’d head home for his tea, apart from Fridays, when he’d buy fish and chips on the way. Then an evening spent with four cans of Guinness and a few whiskeys. As often as not he’d fall asleep on the couch, the TV spewing whatever shite was on, and he’d wake in the early hours and stagger to bed.
Routines and rituals, every day much like the last. Which was why, this morning, Dan became aware of being followed along Lupus Street on the way to St. George’s Square.
He kept his head down as he walked, his paper tucked under his left arm, his right hand in his coat pocket, holding the two packets of cigarettes. Don’t run, he told himself. Then he gave a quiet laugh. Run? At his age, and in his shape? Jesus, he’d collapse before he got ten feet.
Dan paused at the top of Ranelagh Street, looked around to check for cars turning into the corner. He waited for a van to exit the junction. Checked again, saw the man slow down, trying to look casual.
Fortyish, Dan thought. Tall and dark-haired. Casually dressed, good clothes. He wasn’t a paramilitary, he was almost certain. They would never wear good clothes unless it was a disguise. He didn’t have that look about him, whoever he was. Maybe a cop? No. Not that either.
He crossed the junction and kept walking, weaving amongst the other pedestrians. All suits and designer handbags. Pimlico had been a shithole when he moved here thirty years ago, given one of the council flats in Churchill Gardens. Back then it was ordinary people, decent people, who lived and bred and died there. Now it was full of rich bastards pushing out the poor bastards like him. Gentrification, they called it. There was nothing gentle about it.
Dan found himself getting angry. For a moment, he thought it was at the injustice of losing this neighbourhood to the fuckers with the money. Then he realised he was angry at being followed, at being found. Not that he lived in hiding, but he’d always kept to himself, avoided drawing attention.
His first months in London had been spent in near constant fear, so bad that he’d had to go to the doctor with his nerves. Every man on the street had a pistol hidden beneath his coat, every shadow held a watchful spy, every footstep behind was a quickening approach. But he got over that fear. He had to. There was no choice in the end. He changed in that first twelve months, was hardened by it. Neither the cops nor the MI5 people would look out for him. He had to do it for himself.
Now he reached the pedestrian crossing at the stop of Clavenden Street, the green man already flashing, no need to stop. Which was a pity, because it would have been an opportunity to look around, get another gander at the man who followed as he was forced to draw close.
No such luck. He kept going, keeping his pace as steady as his age would allow. Short of breath now, but not struggling. Not yet. He felt his heart knock, breathed in deep through his nose, out through his mouth, getting all the oxygen he could.
The crowds thickened towards the crossing at the Square, the church across the way. People heading for Pimlico tube station, the fancy offices on Vauxhall Bridge Road, or across the river. They bunched beneath the lights. Dan turned his head, tried to get one more look at the follower, could only make out a vague shape at the edge of his vision. He was smart, holding back, but not too far, being polite, letting others step in front of him. The light changed, and Dan let a few people stream past him until their annoyed excuse-me, pardon me, do you mind, became too much.
Dan crossed knowing that if he stopped right now, in the middle of the road, the follower would probably slam into his back. He considered it for a moment but changed his mind. Don’t show your hand too soon, he thought. Fewer people on the pavement leading down the long side of the gardens. Hardly any at all, and now the follower’s footsteps rang clear because there were no others to hide them. Dan slowed. The footsteps slowed. He sped up. So did they.
He reached the gate halfway down the gardens, the one that opened onto the path, the path that led to the fountain at the centre, surrounded by benches. That was where Dan most liked to sit, smoking a fag, reading the paper, listening to the flow and bubble of the water.
But not today.
Today was different.
Jason paused at the gate as it swung shut behind his father. Yes, it was definitely him. Long Dan McCoubry. Not so long now, slumped with age as he was. That had thrown him when he first saw the old man two days ago. All these years, his father had been fixed in his mind at young middle age, hair still black and thick with Brylcreem, always flopping over his eyes to be pushed away with hard thin fingers. Jason summoned that image. The shirtsleeves rolled up. A cigarette behind his ear. Skin red from working in the sun.
But this old man. His skin was almost as grey as his hair, his face sunken. The pallid, lined face of a smoker, his thinning white hair yellowed at the front by the nicotine.
It had been easier to find him than he’d expected. He’d had all sorts of notions about witness protection programmes, new identities, but in reality they’d just set him up in a flat here thirty years ago and let him get on with it. Jason had gone to an old school friend who was now a detective inspector in the PSNI, given him the full name, date of birth, and the knowledge that his father had gone to London. Less than twenty-four hours later, his friend had come back with two men by that name. A little checking, including a peek at the DVLA database, and the one in North London was discounted, leaving only the man Jason had followed to these gardens.
Two days, he’d been watching. Just to be sure. No, that was a lie he’d been telling himself. It had nothing to do with certainty, it was beyond certainty. The truth was that he was afraid.
Of what, exactly?
That he’d got the wrong man? The worst that could happen would be a shrug, a sorry, you’ve got the wrong bloke, mate. No, that wasn’t the worst. The worst would be if he had the right man, but the right man told him to go, leave him alone. Jason didn’t know if he could take that. Didn’t know how he might react, tears or rage, or both.
Open the gate, Jason told himself. Open it and walk through. Catch up with him. Tap his shoulder. Call his name. Call him Dad. Whatever, just do it.
He pushed the gate open, let it swing closed behind him, and walked along the path, heading back towards the church. His father stepped beneath the shadows of the trees, his pace slowing, as if he knew Jason was there.
Jason quickened his own steps, a light jog, until the old man was within arm’s reach, and now he saw just how old he was, how sloped his shoulders, how bent his back. He felt a chill as the shade of the trees covered him. He reached out, a hand on his father’s shoulder.
‘Da—’
Dan McCoubry turned, quicker than Jason would have thought possible, his face cold and empty, no recognition. Jason felt something at first cold, then searing hot, by his navel. Pain followed. Then another cold stab, and another, and another. More of them, cold, hot, pain, then something warm spreading across his belly and down his thighs.
‘Da—’
His knees folded, and he landed on his hip, then onto his side, his head resting on the path. So very warm here. The ground so soft. He wanted to sleep. Close his eyes and let the earth swallow him. But he needed to say it.
Dad.
The word never left his mouth.
Dan McCoubry turned and walked away, heading to the church, folding the blade and slipping the knife back into his pocket. Not too much blood. He glanced down, saw a spot the size of a tuppence coin on his shoe. Pity, he’d have to get rid of them. But not too bad otherwise.
No one had seen. He was sure of that. It had been quick, silent. The
bastard had tried to say his name. But Dan had been ready with the knife. He was always ready. Had to be. If he wasn’t, he’d have got a bullet between the eyes. Like that time nearly thirty years back, when the man with the Belfast accent had found him taking a drunken piss in an alley. He’d zipped up, turned, heard the man say, ‘How’re ya, Long Dan. The boys back home say hello.’ The man had raised a revolver, pulled the trigger, and nothing happened, just a dry click. The man’s expression dropped and Dan took his chance. A brick did him in. He had run home and washed the pieces of skull and brain off his hands.
This had been no different. Get him before he gets you. Don’t think, just do it. If he hadn’t, he’d be the one lying with his life bleeding away into the grass.
By the time he’d slipped around the back of the church and out the other side of the gardens, he knew what to do. Walk to the river, get rid of the knife. Get back home, get cleaned up, get rid of the clothes. Maybe some CCTV had got him entering the park, maybe it hadn’t. He’d kept his head down like he always did. Nothing to be done about it now.
Dan McCoubry re-joined the crowds, the good people going about their good business, no one watching him, no one recognising him. Whatever happened later, right now, on this pavement, among these people, he was safe.
London safe.
THE WAR WITHIN
KELLEY ARMSTRONG
JUNE 13, 1944
Hi Uncle Jack,
Mother gave me your address. I hope that’s OK. The war is going splendidly. We are driving the Krauts back where they belong. It’s a lot of work, but a lot of not-work, too, if you know what I mean. Plenty of time spent in tents and barracks, waiting for our orders. Writing and receiving letters really helps. Mother said you asked about me when they visited you and Barbara last month, and so I hope you don’t mind me writing you now. You might not be my uncle by blood, but I consider you family, and I know my parents do, too.
We arrived in France last week. I am allowed to tell you that much, they say, because it is a very big country. Ha! We laugh when the Brits say that. The whole of France would fit inside Texas. It is beautiful, though. It’s already spring here, with tulips and daffodils popping up everywhere. It reminds me of that field where we used to have our Easter picnics, your family and mine, back when we were neighbors. Seeing the flowers makes me homesick, but I try not to think about that. I will be home soon, and when I am, I’ll be able to say I’ve been to France!
So how is Barbara coming along? Is she finished school yet? Tell her I asked about her. If she wants to write me, that would be swell. I know you are very busy with the hardware store, especially since Aunt May died. If Barbara has time, though, I would love to hear from her. They hand out our mail at roll call, and I swear all the boys hold their breath, waiting to see if they got a letter. Even a postcard really makes our day.
Your ‘nephew’ in France,
Frank
June 30, 1944
Dear Frank,
It is terrifically good to hear from you. Yes, I did ask your parents how you were doing. Every day at grace, Barbara and I pray for all our boys overseas. Your parents are so proud of you, and we are, too.
You asked how Barbara was coming along. That made me chuckle. You always had a way with words. When I read that, I couldn’t help but think of Barbara as a crop out in the field. She’s coming along very nicely! I used to say she was growing like a weed. Now my weed has turned into a flower. She has been a tremendous comfort to me since May’s death. She’s a proper young lady now. Hard to believe, isn’t it? It seems like only yesterday you were chasing her about that field you mentioned. Now you’re off to war, and she’s almost grown up. She says she’d like to go to college, can you imagine that?
I showed your letter to Barbara, and I’m sure she will write you herself. I’ll try when I can, but you’re right that I’m quite busy with the hardware store. It was hard enough to keep it going after May died, but now I’ve lost all my clerks to the war effort. Barbara says I should hire girls. I’m not sure how folks would feel, having a girl sell them hammers and saws. Barbara will be finished school in a month. She’ll come to work for me then, and she says she’ll prove a young woman can do it. I’m sure she will! She’s like her mother that way. When she decides to do a thing, she does it.
Keep safe. Be strong. Remember you have family and friends at home, praying for your safe return.
Your uncle-in-spirit,
Jack
July 3, 1944
Dear Frank,
It’s Barbara! Dad showed me your letter and said I might write to you, and I was awfully excited and very glad to do so. In English this year, our teacher had us write a letter to a soldier every Friday. She said that girls can still do our part for the war effort, raising the spirits of our dear boys. That’s what she calls you. ‘Our dear boys.’ It always makes me laugh.
Anyway, I’ve been writing to soldiers all year now, and I never thought to write you, which is dreadful. Please forgive me! I know your mother and your auntie write you every week, and I didn’t think you’d want more. Which is silly. Miss Baker—that’s my English teacher—says that ‘our dear boys’ can never have too many letters, so long as we don’t burden them by demanding a reply. When you told my father how much you all look forward to hearing your name at mail call, I realized Miss Baker was right. I will now begin sending you letters. Please don’t ever feel the need to reply. I know you are awfully busy, doing terribly important work. I know you cannot talk about your work, either. Loose lips sink ships! Or is that only for the navy? What do they say for the army? I’ll have to think of something clever.
Please tell me if I prattle on too much. My letters are the LONGEST of my entire class, and Miss Baker always scolds me for writing too small. But it is difficult, writing on the little sheets they give us. V-mail is such a clever idea, though, isn’t it? Quite remarkable. We write on our papers, and they photograph them and print them out over there, so you can receive them faster. Who would have thought of such a thing?
I’m prattling, aren’t I? Sorry!!! Miss Baker might scold me for the length of my missives (isn’t that a clever word?), but she does say mine are some of the best because I’m very good at telling a story. I hope to go to college when I’m finished school, and if I do, I want to become a journalist. Have you heard of Nellie Bly? I did a report on her last term, and now I want to be a journalist ever so badly.
Oh, no. I’ve reached the end of my two pages, and I haven’t told you a single funny story. Next time! Or I suppose I should ask if you want funny stories. Tell me if you do, and tell me if I prattle on too much. Shorter letters, Barbara! You’ll ruin the eyesight of our dear boys! (That’s what Miss Baker says.)
I will write again soon! Unless you tell me not to!
Warmest regards,
Barbara
July 18, 1944
Hi Barbara,
I cannot tell you what a thrill it was to receive your letter. I didn’t dare hope you’d write. I know you’re nearly finished school, and your father needs your help at the shop. So imagine my delight when I received a letter in your lovely handwriting. You really do have smashing handwriting. It makes me feel like a terrific slob. Ha!
Of course I want you to write! Of course I want to hear your stories! What a funny thing to ask, you silly. I don’t care if you write so small that I need a magnifying glass to read it. The longer, the better.
I hope you do not think it too forward of me, writing your father to ask if you’ll correspond with me. I have always held you in deep regard. I remember the last time I saw you, at that picnic before I shipped out. You wore a yellow sundress, and it was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen. Almost as pretty as you. Ha!
So please, yes, write me stories, and I shall endeavor to find good ones to send you in return. Endeavor—do you like that word? I thought you might. Mother always says she’s never met a girl who knew as many words as you did. Clever and pretty. It is the very best combination.
Frank
August 2, 1944
Dear Frank,
Oh my goodness! I am so sorry!!! You must think me a terrible cousin. I just reread Father’s letter saying you were in France, and I never even realized what that meant. Were you there for D-Day? Father says you might have been. I’m not sure whether I should hope you were or hope that you were not. It was such a splendid victory that I hope you were able to be part of it. But so many soldiers lost their lives that I almost hope you were not there to see it. Is that wrong? Is it wickedly selfish to wish a friend didn’t see such a thing when I should only think of those who lost their lives?
Oh, my. That is not what I intended to write at all. I would cross it out, but then you’d wonder what I erased. So I’ll leave it and endeavor (yes, I do know that word!) to speak of happier things.
I laughed when you mentioned a yellow sundress because I’m not even sure which one it was. I wish I knew, if it looked so pretty on me. Thank you for saying so. It was very kind. I do remember that you wore your uniform to that party, because Katie said you looked very dashing in it.
You said I may write you stories, so I will. I hope you will like this one. I’m finished school now and working in Dad’s store. It was my very first day, and this man walked in and asked me for a coping saw. Only I thought he said…
October 20, 1944
Dearest Barbara,
It’s raining here, and I’ve spent the day rereading your letters. Can you believe I have twenty of them? I’m going to need new boots soon, just so I have a new box to put your letters in. Ha!