Writing for Fun
June 2021
The Witness - Pete Norman
‘Nine years, eleven months and twenty three days.’
Michael repeated the mantra, over and over, as he did regularly throughout each day – each and every day – incrementally increasing the number each morning. In the beginning he had considered adding the hours and even the minutes but he had quickly decided that this was utterly pointless, a complete waste of time. However, the mantra itself was crucial, it was the only way he could maintain his hold on his sanity, because without it he would have lost his mind years ago.
The mantra was confirmation of precisely what he had to do, for as long as it took and regardless of anything they threw at him.
It gave him a purpose.
For the end game.
Now the end game was here.
He riffled through the pages of the book and dropped it on the table – not his problem any more, someone else would have to return that to the library for him.
He ran his eye over the rest of the detritus he had collected over the years and which had littered his cell – but the reality was that something which had been of tremendous importance to him inside here would be less than worthless outside. It would only serve as a reminder for him and that was something he definitely needed to work beyond.
There was now only one task in hand, one essential duty, one long overdue score to settle . . .
He spun around as the door opened and a familiar face appeared. He had in fact been half expecting this visit and he was able to meet it with a cheerful, ‘Hello, Father, have you come to make sure that I really do go?’
Father O’Brien gave him a warm smile. ‘Well, yes, Michael, I have indeed come to say how sorry I am to see you leave us but also how happy I am that you are finally able to re-start your life and I bring with me God’s blessing that you will never find yourself in this position, ever again.’
Michael took the Chaplain’s hand and as a spur of the moment decision he placed his other hand over the top of it to reinforce the gesture. ‘Father, I really don’t know how to thank you. If it hadn’t have been for you I would have gone under years ago.’
Father O’Brien’s smile widened. ‘Yes, Michael, I do agree that you were a little, shall we say, feral when you first arrived here and I am so pleased that I could offer some comfort and guidance. However, this is now yours.’ He handed Michael a copy of Gideons Bible. ‘Remember, though, that this is not intended to be read as a novel but as a point of reference when you are of need.’ He opened the front cover. ‘You will see that I have inscribed it for your inspiration.’
Michael read the words: ‘You will find that there is scarcely a case of difficulty can occur in your life in which this book will not set you right.’
Michael’s eyes began to water. The Chaplain said, ‘I can see that you are somewhat overwhelmed at the moment, my friend but this institutionalised feeling will pass, in time, I assure you.’
After he had gone Michael looked down at the book in his hand. He had just made a conscious decision to abandon all the other junk he had accumulated over the years and it had been his intention to walk out of here with his head held high and his hands empty but he knew that Father O’Brien would take great offence if he did not take this Bible with him.
He smiled. The Chaplain was absolutely right, he had truly been feral when he first came in here, he had trashed his cell, assaulted another inmate and had injured two warders and at that time, as far he was concerned, there was no end in sight. However, the door to his cell had opened and this old man in a faded black suit and a dog collar had come in, sat down beside him on the bed and began to talk – and talk – and talk. He was a part of the establishment and Michael had wanted so much to punch him in the face but that would have been like kicking a puppy and after a while the soft voice had begun to settle him.
A lot of what Father O’Brien had said was just so much hot air but that did not matter, no one before had ever just sat with him and talked with him rather than at him, not judgemental, not dictatorial, just calm and friendly. However, one vital fact which he took from this conversation was the importance of compliance, that the length of his stay would depend materially on his behaviour, on the impression that he was able to create.
He knew that otherwise he would be an old man before his sentence expired. However, he also knew that he had an important task to carry out, so the prospect of early release dangling before his eyes like a giant carrot could not be ignored.
He became a born again member of respectable society and with some difficulty managed to maintain this illusion for nine years and eleven months and twenty three days – just a week short of ten years – when he finally received the good news from the Parole Board.
He ignored the barbed comments from the gate staff and stepped out into the sunshine, out into the great outside world. He ignored the travel warrant he had been given, instead he just savoured the pure unadulterated joy of freedom.
Once out of sight of the prison he dropped the useless book into the nearest bin and then he meandered randomly across the city, just another insignificant and anonymous creature, blending in seamlessly with all of the others that he passed. However his path was not entirely random, it did have an underlying purpose. He was moving inexorably towards Porters, a scrap metal yard that Bernie ran with his dad. He was in need of a few bits and Bernie was just the man to help him.
A cup of real coffee and a short list of requirements were quickly dispatched and less than an hour later he was driving out of the yard in an ageing but acceptable white Transit van, together with a few essential extras which he had placed carefully beside him.
The street had not changed a bit in ten years. The hedge might have been trimmed just a little but thankfully it was still high enough to completely obscure any movement in the garden behind it. That had been the principal reason why he had chosen it all those years ago.
In court his barrister had tried to convince the jury that this was simply a tragic accident, unpremeditated, a spur of the moment . . . but the jury threw that one out with the trash in a little short of an hour. The Judge summed up pre-sentence. ‘This was not an assault th
The Judge was the one nearest to the truth of the matter.
He had spotted Sid Carrington and had trailed him for some distance, searching for the ideal place to do it and this garden was perfect and it was there that he overtook him and pushed him through the gate. He had held the knife to his throat and explained slowly and concisely that scum like him did not deserve to live, that he had done for one of theirs and that now his time had come and there were no witnesses. He had pushed the knife forwards and upwards and gave it a twist.
It was not very long afterwards that his carelessness had been revealed – he had not taken into account the curtain twitcher, the nosy, interfering old bastard who lived in that house and who had had a grandstand view of the whole thing.
The ID Parade had been a formality and from that point onwards it had all been downhill.
He stopped the Transit directly outside and took a few moments to compose himself. Then he took a box from the seat beside him.
As he walked up the pathway he looked behind him. The Transit van obscured anything that the hedge did not. There would be no witnesses this time.
He reached through a hole in the back panel of the box and closed his fingers around an eight inch steel carving knife. Then he rang the doorbell and stood back.
‘Parcel for Ronald Cooper,’ he said.
Mr Cooper looked puzzled – he did not recognise this man and he definitely was not expecting any parcel.
Michael smiled, a wicked, gang perfected, predator smile. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’
He was savouring the pure, unadulterated delight of revenge and retribution.
He added, ‘Try thinking back nine years, eleven months and twenty three days.’
Cooper’s face froze.
Michael’s hand pulled the knife from the box.
He said, ‘No witnesses.’
Cooper threw himself backwards, hitting the door and falling in a heap on the floor.
Michael stepped forwards pulling the knife back for the killing blow.
His eyes focussed on a small square sign in the centre of the door that he had not seen before.
It read, ‘Smile, you’re on CCTV’.