Little Triggers (29 page)

He sat in the pub, methodically drinking one pint after another until it was dark. Despite his best efforts, he was still, depressingly, sober.

From the other bar, the evening’s karaoke was starting, people who had settled for comfort working out their mediocre fantasies. A shaky male voice began to murder Bryan Adams. Larkin drained his glass and headed for the door. Not that he didn’t agree with the sentiment, but there’d been enough killing in his life recently.

Outside, the air was decidedly cool. Autumn had arrived. Soon winter would lay its frozen grip on the city, a layer of coldness jacketing everyone. Larkin drew his coat about him to hold in the warmth and began the long walk home.

The man struck the ball hard with his club, following its arc against the blue sky, watching it fall to earth exactly where he had intended it to. A fellow golfer on the fairway praised his precision and accuracy; the man assumed a self-effacing air, passing it off as a lucky shot.

But of course it wasn’t. The whole game had been calculated and there was no such thing as luck. This wasn’t relaxation: this was another exercise in control.

Over the past month, the man had lost many things: a fulfilling and lucrative hobby, his closest associates. His brother. Well, in all honesty, he’d lost his brother years ago. The main thing, however, was that his instinct for self-preservation was still functioning perfectly. He was still safe.

He walked down the fairway to continue his game. However, as he neared the spot where the ball had landed, he could find no trace of it. It was nowhere to be seen.

He took so long looking for it when it patently wasn’t there that the other golfer had taken his shot and caught up with him. He made a lame joke, asked if he could play on in front of him. The man said that would be no trouble and forced himself to laugh, but inwardly he was furious. The shot, he knew, had been controlled perfectly. There was no way it could have landed anywhere but here. Was there? There was that nearby clump of trees … Mask of a smile in place, the man entered the densely wooded area.

Once inside, he found his task harder than he had imagined. He beat the bracken, uprooting it with his club, but there was no sign of his ball. He was fuming now, trying desperately to control his
swings, not to let his anger show, even here. He went further in.

No sign. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn that someone had taken it. He waded deep into the wood, so deep he couldn’t see the fairway behind him. Bent double, eyes fixed on the ground, he didn’t see the figure emerge from behind the tree in front of him. Not until it was too late to run.

“This what you’re lookin’ for?”

The man looked up. He was confronted by a skinhead: DMs. black Levis, green nylon bomber jacket. In his gloved right hand he held a golfball.

“Yes, thank you. Give me that.” The man went to take it, but the skinhead moved the ball away from his grasp.

“Just a minute,” said the skinhead. “You thought you’d got away with it, didn’t you?” He took a menacing step forward.

The man was in no mood for this. He spoke with anger and exasperation. “I’m not playing games with you. Give me that ball.”

A chilling smile broke on the skinhead’s face. “This isn’t a game. This is serious. Deadly serious.”

“You’ve had your fun. Now, give me my property.” The man made a grab for the ball, but the skinhead deftly snatched it away. The skinhead’s smile widened, which only served to increase the man’s anger. “I’m warning you! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”

The smile suddenly dropped from the skinhead’s face, leaving an icy killer’s stare in its place. “I do. I know exactly who you are. And I know exactly what you are.” The skinhead’s monotone was in direct contrast to his own raised voice, uneven with emotion.

A shiver of fear went down the man’s spine. He immediately converted it to rage. “Give me my fucking ball!”

The skinhead looked at him; their eyes locked. With a flick of his wrist he threw to the ball the ground, at the man’s feet. “There it is. Pick it up.”

Breathing through his mouth, the man bent to pick up the ball. With sudden whiplash speed, the skinhead brought his right fist down on top of the man’s head. It was a punch he had been saving up for years, and he did it with such force the man’s face was smacked hard into the ground, breaking his nose. He was so surprised, he didn’t even have time to scream.

The skinhead knelt down beside him, picked the ball up. “You thought you’d got away with murder, didn’t you? But you didn’t
reckon on me. I want you to pay for what you’ve done. For fuckin’ kids. For fuckin’ up kids. You see, that happened to me when I was little. Me dad.” The skinhead’s voice became more intense. “An’ I can still see his face everywhere I go. ’Cos I couldn’t fight back then. But I can now.
”

Although the man was bleeding, in pain, he refused to back down. “Right, you little bastard, you’ve asked for it.” He struggled to his feet, while the skinhead watched.

“You wanna fight?” asked the skinhead. “Good – I like a fight. Especially when I’ve got right on my side.”

“I can still take the likes of you, you little shit.” The man squared up to the skinhead, ready to take a swing at him. But he didn’t get the chance; the skinhead swung his right fist – the one holding the ball – with sudden and unexpected force, straight into the man’s face. The man’s front teeth tore through his lips and his body flopped backwards onto the ground, hands once again at his face. He was moaning now.

The skinhead picked up the discarded golf club and swung it viciously at the man’s ribs. He heard at least two break as it connected. He swung again.

The man opened his smashed mouth to cry out. Immediately the skinhead stuck the golf ball in his mouth, pushing it right the way down his throat, ignoring the man’s thrashing, choking him from within.

Fighting for every breath, the man began frantically to claw at his throat. The skinhead hefted the golf club over his head and brought it smashing down on the remains of the man’s mouth. And again. And again.

The man’s fingers lost their power to claw. They slowly fell away from his neck. He knew he was dying. Soundlessly, he began to cry out. And was both surprised and appalled to discover that the voice shouting in his head – the last thing he would ever hear – was the lonely snivelling of a small boy: a boy whose ghost had been left hanging from a rope tied to an old oak tree, many years ago.

The skinhead watched silently as the imploring light went out in the man’s eyes, to be replaced by the milky stare of death.

The skinhead straightened up, threw the golf club on top of the body, sighed. The face wouldn’t haunt him any more. He knew that.

They wouldn’t find him. He had left nothing incriminating. And even if they did happen to pin anything on him, when the full story
came out he would be viewed in a different, more sympathetic light. But in a sense it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Justice had been done. That was the important thing.

“Cleansed,” he said out loud. No one heard him.

He walked to the far edge of the woods and stepped out into the sunlight. After a while, to his own surprise, he found himself whistling. He laughed aloud when he realised what the song was: Louis Armstrong’s “Wonderful World”
.

Shaking his head and smiling, the skinhead walked towards the sunshine.

Find out more about books by
Martyn Waites
and
Tania Carver
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