The rain had stopped, leaving a translucent fogginess as a reminder of its presence.
He peered out the window, debating. Should he ride his cycle to work? Or stick to the rainy day plan of catching the bus? It was times like this that he longed for the old days, when he had a real job, a well paid, senior executive job, and he would jump in his car (parked in the attached garage) and drive to work listening to classical radio, or BBC4, park in the multi-storey in the glass and steel building and arrive at his office dry and relaxed.
The bus could be relaxing, he persuaded himself. Once he was on it. If he got a seat. If he went in earlier or later to miss the raucous school kids. If it didn’t break down …
The bike could be relaxing too. Surely … On a fine day. In those places where the cycle path wasn’t pressed too close against the traffic. If he wasn’t jangled at by the bells of speeding youngsters with lycra clad bums in the air. Or passed by old men on E-bikes, smugly comfortable, smirking at his pumping legs.
A glimmer of sun set the fog sparkling, and disappeared.
The bus, he decided. Pulling on his coat, he stepped out of the house, locked the door and hurried along the sidewalk. He checked his watch. He’d left it tight with all his dithering.
He turned the corner and started to cross the street.
‘Watch it, gramps!’
A speeding lycra clad youngster bore down on him on the cycle way.
He jumped, pulse pounding in his ears, and stared, transfixed … as the bus he was meant to catch loomed out of the fog … And then, nothing …
Follow the writing prompt on Facebook.
Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here!
HE STARTED ACROSS THE STREET
Harry thought he saw someone on the other side of the street – someone he hadn’t seen in years – but, when he looked again, could detect no sign of him.
That’s funny, he thought, I could have sworn that was Fred Williams – an older version, but definitely Fred Williams.
Intrigued, he started across the street, only to be almost mown down by a bus which loudly sounded its horn as a warning.
Startled, Harry jumped back and then, this time much more carefully, repeated the procedure.
By the time he finally reached the other side, Fred was nowhere to be seen. However, not to be deterred, Harry hurried along the pavement. If Fred was moving relatively slowly, he might still catch him.
Two men were talking fervently in a doorway. One is definitely Fred, Harry thought, and before he realised was loudly voicing his name.
“Fred, Fred,” Harry called. “Fred Williams – it is you.”
Shocked, the man looked in Harry’s direction. His companion quickly became angry and, pulling a pistol from his pocket, clubbed Fred over the head.
His old friend sunk to the ground, unconscious, as Harry rushed to his aid. With a scowl, the other man scurried away down the street.
“Fred, Fred, are you alright?” Harry queried, concern written all over his face.
Fred didn’t answer and Harry quickly reached for his mobile and dialled 000. The paramedics arrived shortly time later and, after a little persuasion, allowed Harry to ride in the ambulance to the nearest hospital.
An hour or so passed as Fred slowly regained consciousness. He looked blankly at Harry who was seated at his hospital bedside.
“Glad to see you are coming around, Fred,” Harry told him, somewhat relieved that he was now awake.
Fred appeared totally confused and seemed not to recognise Harry.
“Don’t you remember me Fred? Harry, Harry Carter from Ipswich High School. It must be 10 years since we last saw each other.”
A light slowly dawned in Fred’s eyes.
“Harry, ah yes, Harry Carter, I remember now,” Fred mumbled, still not 100 per cent compos mentis. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t you remember? I saw you in the street and called out your name while you were talking to that man who then hit you over the head with his gun.”
Fred’s recollection of recent events was returning. “Oh yes, you gave the game away – that’s why he hit me.”
“Game, what game?” asked Harry, totally mystified.
“Fred, I am an undercover cop and the man I was meeting had strong links to a major drug syndicate. He knew me as Sid Norton, a petty criminal with a fake rap sheet as long as your arm. I have just spent the last six months trying to infiltrate their organisation and then you come along shouting my real name to all and sundry.”
“I’m sorry Fred,” Harry was truly contrite. “But how was I to know?”
“You weren’t Harry. It is one of the hazards of the job – that someone will recognise you and then your cover is blown.”
“So, what happens now?” asked Harry.
“Now? Well, now we have to start all over again. And I might be able to convince the bloke who hit me that Fred Williams is an alias from my juvenile days in another city and that you were one of my criminal contacts from that time,” replied Fred, gingerly touching his sore forehead which was heavily bandaged.
“What are your chances of that?”
“Not great. It might mean I am taken off the case and we have to use another detective to see if he has better luck,” Fred said with a somewhat rueful grin.
“Oh Fred, I am truly sorry it turned out like this,” Harry said. “I was just so surprised to see you after all this time. Remember, we used to be good friends at school.’
“Yes Harry, I remember,” Fred responded. “And maybe when I get out of here we can catch up for a drink.”
“I’d like that,” Harry said with a warm smile.
Hilarious!
Good Lord! Surely he hasn’t gone to meet his Maker?!
Seems so 🙂