Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]
Post: FFF – September 27, 2013
Theme / Genre: Free For All
(Do not) Include: just, know, one, eyes, time [see previous post]
Words: 1,000
Screwdriver
‘You see this face, remember this face.’
He made the “watching you” move made famous by Robert De
Niro, two fingers pointing to his own bloodshot eyeballs followed by the same
two fingers pointing at the camera.
‘I’m watching you, you realise that don’t you, start running
you little motherfucker, I’m coming to get…’
The camera kept rolling, both the interviewer and the
operator were delighted with the confrontational anger, but someone in the
studio pulled the shot and the rest of the interview never aired.
‘Why did you say that?
What are you going to do? You’ll
not bring our son back, you, stupid, stupid …’ Jill, unable to finish her
words, anguish and feelings of ruination forbade her.
‘No, maybe not, but they’ll be scared shitless that I could
possibly be mental enough to come and find them. They’ll be looking behind their back for the
rest of their lives,’ John’s irate manner showing his bitterness and hatred
towards his son’s murderer. ‘A warning. That’s more than Tim had. That bastard can live-on in fear, Tim can’t,
he’s dead?’
Jill began to sob again; she had not really stopped these
past few days. Their only son; taken
from them by some thug, a moron, whom the TV described as a young adult; not
much older than Tim. Young adult she
thought, what a joke, there was nothing adult about taking an innocent life.
Nonetheless, it was John that Jill’s attention turned to,
she could see his grief twisting him inside out, actions verging on the childish,
words of vengeance, and try as she might, she didn’t have the strength to fight
against him.
‘Your face on the TV, what’s stopping them coming to get
you, John, you hadn’t thought about that had you.’
‘Bring it on!’ he said, still defiant. ‘I need fresh air, a walk to the park.’
‘Be careful, John, don’t go looking for trouble.’
‘I’m only going for a walk.’
Pulling on his jacket, Jill could see that he was lost. He
grabbed his keys and mobile from the table and disappeared out the door without
a word.
She was right, he hadn’t thought about it, in the heat of
the moment he’d become far too emotional, but he had to say something. Police had little information about the boy
and the public had not come forward with any more help. What could he do? His mind mulled over what the inspector had
said to him following the TV interview.
‘Mr Giddings, do you mind if I have a word,’ he had
asked.
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘Mr Giddings, I understand that this has not been easy
for you, or your family. This is all
very emotional, of course, we understand that, but I have to caution you about
your behaviour. He had sounded quite
serious. ”We will let it go, but you
really can’t incite any violence, or take the matter into your own hands, Mr
Giddings. We have a team working around
the clock on this tragedy and we WILL get to the bottom of who murdered your
son.
It was small recompense, he’d thought.
The walk was unadventurous, or was it simply his state of
mind, only focused on some sort of vendetta.
What would he say to the boy should he meet him? Should he carry a weapon or something?
It was late, the park quite, a few dog walkers passed him,
and he barely acknowledged them; wrapped up in his own little world.
A twig cracked ahead of him, followed by rustling leaves and
a figure jumped out from the hedgerow.
‘Well, if isn’t the man from the TV.’
John looked around; they were alone.
‘What’d you say, “Run you little motherfucka,” or somethin’
like that.’
The boy was about nineteen, John guessed, he had a detached
demeanour, typical bully material. Dirty
jeans, leather jacket, and long limp hair to match. This is my son’s killer.
‘Well?’
John hadn’t been listening.
‘I said you’re the mofo and now I’m gonna stick you like I
done to your kid.’
There was something in the boy’s hand, metal.
‘A screwdriver, you killed my son with a screwdriver.’
‘Yeah, need to stick it harder, don’t ya.’
The boy lunged forward, John, caught sight of his diluted
drugged pupils, full of anger. The shank
of the tool was coming for him.
He side-stepped, a reflex action from learning self-defence
as a youngster, the boys arm passed by, John grabbed it and turned into
him. He forced the arm downwards, then
with clenched fist and a protruding joint of his middle finger he pressed hard
into the back of the lad’s hand. The
pressure grinding against the metacarpals, the boy released the screwdriver in
an instant. John pushed the arm away,
transfixed he picked up his son’s murder weapon.
The moment’s lack of concentration allowed the boy to trip
John up, sending him over, off the path and onto the dry sun-scorched grass.
‘You cheeky old git,’ the boy now towered down at him. John
caught off guard, laid in a defenceless position and was unable to stop the
sudden kick placed right into his face.
A crack and his whole body arced backwards, in shocking pain, nose
cracked, he felt the warmth of blood running down his face.
He turned to look at his attacker. The pain, anger, and
frustration flared up inside him, like a boxer’s fist he was up out of nowhere,
leaping at his laughing enemy, screwdriver in hand.
Surprised, but seemingly in control, the boy stepped back,
he knew from John’s position he would not reach far enough to do any damage.
John had a different idea, he thrust forward and with all
his might, the screwdriver came down hard, piercing the canvas of the boy’s
converse, straight through his foot, the rubber soul and four inches into the
hard ground beneath.
The boy yelped aloud.
Dogs barked. The boy wasn’t going
anywhere, John rested, took out his phone and called 999.
