Hark the Herald Angels sing
Pressed against a crumbling alley wall deep into the shadowy slums off Barrington Avenue, away from the tawdry Christmas lights and the whiskey-nosed shop Santas, Jimmy panted as quietly as he could. It would be difficult for the casual observer to comprehend that Jimmie was profoundly terrified. Although his green eyes flickered everywhere like demented bluebottles, his body was utterly still. He could faintly hear the discordant rendering of Hark the Herald Angels Sing by the local Salvation Army band back on the High Street.
Damn. Jimmie thought the word with some passion, regret beginning to seep in at his failure to do a runner when he had the chance. Now he was scurrying from dark hole to dark hole like a frigging rat, only minutes in front of his pursuer. He shouldn't have actually topped the bitch--he realised that now, but any intellectual dissertation at this present moment was fraught with extremely serious consequences. Damn…
If only... if only he had just maimed the lying slag instead of blowing a hole in her head. Perhaps monogrammed her forehead with his razor, or even left her tits served up quivering on her breakfast bar like warm, red jellies…Damn Damn…now her ugly, moronic retard of a brother was chewing his arse as he attempted to make a strategic withdrawal. Fancy getting myself into this kind of shit over a cheap whore, Jimmie thought, and mentally shook his head in self-disgust. And fancy dumping the offending pistol down a drain; but at least he wasn't being hunted by a professional hit man.
He had a chance, albeit slender, to make it safely to the garage at the end of the alley. If he could, he might just get away with it. Although Jimmie was only a small-time crook—no drugs you understand, just cheques, credit cards, B and Es and the like, and proud of that--he was a careful and sensible man. Six months ago, as an insurance against the necessity for a sudden discreet retreat, he had stashed a nondescript maroon Ford Sierra in this seemingly derelict garage. Inside the car was a large pile of cash, counterfeit ID and passport, open plane tickets, clothes and an old WW2 Browning HP35 handgun. Twenty yards…he was that close. The thought of Christmas pud behind the bars of The Scrubs jerked his drifting focus back rapidly.
Jimmie checked the alley entrance and the shadows at the deep end of the alley, and resumed his slitheringslidingslinking toward the old garage doors. From somewhere in the bowels of this stinking ghetto the smell of a greasy fry-up set his juices running, and he realised that he was hungry. But time enough for that when was on the big silver bird, bound for Greece. Beautiful, easy-going Greece, where the ouzo was cheap and the officials corrupt. A tiny, silent sigh escaped Jimmie's lips as he began to feel the genuine possibility of escape to the sunny Mediterranean.
It was the last sigh he ever made, because right then his head exploded in a spectacular pageant of brainsbloodbone. As he fell, Jimmie stroked a final masterpiece down the grubby garage doors, a Warhol-esque collage of primary colour and elegant bone slivers.
**
Above, leaning out over the ancient wooden fire escape, smoke snaking sinuously from the 30" barrels of his vintage Holland and Holland side-by-side 12 gauge shotgun, the shooter smiled benignly at his artistic handiwork, grey head nodding slowly in the caliginous light.
"Jesus, mate! What a friggin’ great shot…Jesus H. Christ! Both friggin’ barrels!" This excited statement issued forth from a slobbering, toothless orifice somewhere below a towering set of Neanderthal brow ridges. A grubby cloth cap oversaw the entire ensemble that stood discombobulated, slightly to the left of the shooter.
The man turned his head just a little toward his gnomish companion, an indulgent smile illuminating his handsome features. "We mustn’t blaspheme now George, must we? It is, after all, almost Christmas Day. Let us not, George, in this supreme moment of emotional release, forget our elementary bible class lessons, mmm? The reason we are here tonight?" The voice was deep, well modulated and sincere, and he patted George's head paternally.
"An eye for an eye…George. Your dear sister will rest easy now. And a very Merry Christmas to you."
"Jes...I mean jings, mister! Heh heh, thanks…an' I thought on'y God did the revenge stuff."
"Quite," agreed the shooter, disappearing.
© John Irvine 2008