The short story thread
Didn't know where to put this, this forum seemed logical
***
A cloud blocked the sun for a few seconds, dropping a moment of cool air onto the few drunks and tramps that inhabited the large, main road. The numerous alleyways and small avenues that branched off it stank of stale beer and other alcohol. Unnoticed leaves scattered the road, falling into the open-doorway of the St. James train station. Often the tramps, or drunks, would accidentally fall down the steep stairs that led, from the door, to the dank platform. To the right, a small stall was closing for the day, and the owner, a Middle-Eastern man, brought down the shutters, which displayed a huge amount of graffiti.
At the left of the station was, as the locals called it, the ‘widow-maker’, mainly because the crack addicts bought the cheaper, less harmful ‘white widow’ drug there.
A dark, hooded man stood huddled in the corner of the station, large pouches in his hands and more concealed in his pockets, inside his long, leather jacket. There were also three grams more in his shoes, which were shiny and new, but had one small rip in the heel. In this was where the illegal drugs were hidden; although there was no need since the police patrols stopped going into that particular area of Greater Manchester, three years ago.
Life is good, he thought, his long black hair dropping into his mouth and over his lower face. As he waved it away, the rest of his face was, suspiciously, completely spiteful. His eyes were the colour of an autumn leaf - gold with specks of green at his pupils. Freckles ran down from his pale nose to his unshaven cheeks. If the man tried, he could look almost respectable, but this man needed no-one’s admiration or respect. Jason Brit was his name, and the name contradicted his lack of patriotism. He was a drug dealer, and he was ‘livin’ it up’.
Jason walked regally round the small corner, emerging at the ‘widow maker’. Many men, some well-off, some not so, stood there, shiftily casting their eyes from each other, to the walls, and back again. Jason advanced towards the men, and they looked up at him. An uncomfortable silence grew, and hey looked up at him. An uncomfortable silence grew, until the tension became so thick that a Stanley knife could not cut it. Eventually, Jason spoke,
“How much?”
It was as simple as that. A man stepped forward, holding out a grimy hand, half hidden by a ragged, brown glove. In it he held a number of coins, most copper but some silver and gold. Jason grabbed them greedily from the tramp’s hand and suspiciously counted them, looking up from them to see the man’s face staring back at him, pleadingly.
“There’s only nine squid ’ere”, he said in a North London accent. The beggar glanced at his comrades in embarrassment, and then looked down to his shoes.
”It’s all I got, Jace. It is, I swear!” he squealed.
For a second, nobody spoke, then suddenly Jason looked at his coins, and threw then to the ground. A smirk of disgust crossed his face, then he spun on his heel, and walked, his back to the tramp. Behind him, the drifter, surprised, jerked back. As he realised what had happened, he whimpered, and jumped at the coins on the ground, and picked at them like a pig at loose scraps.
Jason glanced back, and then turned his head, looking straight. Pitiful he thought.
Pitiful.
***
Simon Richards advanced through the usual route, towards the bathroom. It had been around a week since his last visit to the men’s room, in GM train station. He had received his cocaine from the local dealer near his apartment, lying on the fifth floor of a run-down council house tenement block. For ten percent of his weekly pay, he had bought enough crack to last him the week.
He had entered the station at quarter past four, when the sun was shining, but now a dull grey had coloured every object on the road. Only the sodium lights had illuminated the train station a golden yellow, because the lights on the road had been shot at and destroyed by the scum that had inhabited the area, decapitating all civilization like locusts.
Simon, or Sy as he as known, pushed open the door and entered the pungent, greasy restroom. He looked to the spot that he usually used to take the drugs – the wash basin - but it was now a filthy piece of marble, with greasy soap dispensers and limescale on the taps. The craving had dug in deep now, and Sy could stand it. He glanced around, jerking his neck, and saw an empty toilet cubicle. A fine place to take the drugs, he thought. He entered it, and could tell that it hadn’t been cleaned in years.
At first, he looked for the container that the toilet roll was placed in, but it was not there, and the roll had been put on the top of the toilet. Simon grimaced, but he bent down anyway. He reached into his pocket, and removed the white powder, the small pouch quaking in his shaking hands.
He didn’t want to, but he had no choice. He dipped a small portion of the powder onto the rim of the toilet, for it had no seat. Simon almost retched, but he held it back. He had heard of the saying “a first time for everything”. I bet they weren’t thinking of this when they made that proverb, he thought.
***
Jason looked at the money in his hand. £130. Not bad, he thought, counting the money again and, when he finished, rolled it up and put it in his pocket. Life really is good, he thought arrogantly. He walked towards the entrance, and passed the grimy bathroom. It stank and was filthy, but still the ‘customers’ used it regularly. Ingrates, he thought. But, I used to be one of them, he thought. If it wasn’t for Jimmy and Ray-Ray, he wouldn’t be here. Now they were both dead, and it was Jason’s turn to shine. He felt no pangs of guilt, no shame, even though it was him that had wrenched the knife into Jimmy’s guts, and shot Ray-Ray in the eye.
He walked up the steps, into the street. The lazy beggars all looked up in longing and helplessness. They might as well be invisible, thought Jason, shouting abuse and kicking one of the homeless men that had dared to beg to the strange, dark cloaked man.
The area outside of Greater Manchester’s St. James’ district was called ‘The Estate’, for that was where all of the plush, well-kept houses were built. Some even had two bedrooms. That was Jason’s next destination. But first, he had to take a detour. He turned through one of the avenues, ending up at a busy street, with quite a few cars driving through. He saw a short man running down the street, with two others chasing him. One of them held a gun, and another held a long, sharp butcher’s knife. That’s what he loved about this place. Jason smiled. You can carry weapons, sell drugs, and no-one cares. He loved it.
He walked on.
***
Simon wondered how he had ended up in his particular predicament. After taking the drugs, he wallowed in his self-depression, with a small sense of high. He had dizzily walked to the stairs, wheezing, and slowly climbed them, one at a time. There were, in total, twenty-two steps, but due to his double vision, it seemed like much more. He had fallen twice down the stairs, landing at the bottom and starting again.
After successfully reaching the summit, he stepped awkwardly on the pavement, twisting and tripping on badly placed slabs. Suddenly, a half a dozen men stepped in front of him. As his vision cleared, he saw that there were only three men there. One had a pistol, the others held sharp knives. Even in his state, he knew what was happening. Self-preservation instincts kicked in. He ran.
He ran through a small crowd of huddled characters, who held out their hands, and he glimpsed the powder in a line on the lid of a trash can. He turned back and kept running. His legs pumped him forwards, as fast as they could, and the adrenaline helped him. He didn’t look back, not even to see his muggers chasing him. A shot boomed, and he felt the heat fly past his head, over his shoulder.
He turned, and ran across the road, just lucky not to be clipped by a speeding car. One of the three men chasing him was not so lucky. He landed front first on the windscreen of the car, cracking the glass, and flying above the car. He landed with a thump on the ground, blood seeping from his nose and ears. Simon still ran.
A small alleyway loomed in front of him, and he entered it, just missing the trash cans that dotted it. He noticed that he was no longer being followed. He stopped, and realised the rush that he got from the chase was better than when he took the cocaine. He chuckled at this thought. He dropped to the floor, kneeling.
A shadow appeared over him, and he saw a man, the man, with a knife in his hand. His spiteful, angry glare sent a shiver through Simon’s spine. Fear and shock took over him, and he could not move. He looked into the knifeman’s eyes, and saw only hate. The thief grimaced, grunting at Simon for his money. In shivering, pale hands, Sy took out his wallet, leaving out his precious drugs, and dropped it on the dirty, muddy floor.
“Take them,” he said, his voice quaking. “Take ‘em, go on!” He looked away.
The bandit grabbed him by his hair, and pulled him up. Simon felt a searing pain in his gut, and then a heat flushed him. He saw the knife in his belly, blood smearing it. Suddenly, the knife wrenched out of his body, and he dropped back to the floor. The robber picked up the stolen goods, and ran.
As Sy’s lifeblood gushed on his hands, Jace peacefully walked by, unaware of the suffering that was taking place. Jason, and men like him, arrogant, stubborn men, never realise that their business can create such tragedies. Maybe they will never know. And even if they did, maybe they would not care.
Reply With Quote
