What price a bullet?

The gun feels heavy in your hand as you press it to your temple and gently squeeze the trigger. Because of the position of your hand you have to squeeze hard to compress the spring and you involuntarily jerk your head away as the spring-loaded hammer smacks against the firing pin with a loud metallic click.

Would it hurt, you wonder?

That sounds ridiculous, but you recall how people, who are in life threatening circumstances often describe how time seems to slow right down. “I saw everything in slow motion,“ they say. What if, at the point of pulling the trigger, time slows down almost to a stop: a pendulum swinging in treacle? That split second could last for hours! At the moment you pull the trigger you hear the long drawn out roar of the explosion. Hot gasses are pushed up the barrel by the slowly revolving, slowly advancing bullet and burns the flesh at your temple. The roar can still be heard as you feel the tip of the bullet against your skin which is now drilling through your skull. You can hear the splintering of bone, smell the cordite, feel the accumulating eruption in the brain. Now the bullet and shards of bone are slicing their way through your brain destroying zillions of synapses; throwing the brain into panic as it flashes random images into your mind. What interminable madness would you be subjected to before, thankfully, oblivion?

You have an inordinate fear of poverty as it has often been a part of your life, even from infancy. Your mother hardly made enough money to feed herself never mind you. Your father you never knew as he abandoned you both before you were born. When your Mother was found dead on the streets that she worked you ended up in an orphanage where you had to fight for every scrap you ate. The poverty and hunger was alleviated when you joined the army but when that came to an end, due to a drink problem and an inability to adapt to civilian life, you spent a stint on the streets living rough. Since those bad days you have managed to sort yourself out and find jobs and lodgings to tide you by but you vowed never to find yourself on the streets again. That is why some years back you bought a gun and made a solemn promise to yourself  to use it if ever the money ran out again. The gun is a token of your commitment to the pact you made but at the time you didn’t buy any bullets – somehow that seemed too much of a commitment – the gun was enough. Now, once again you find  the jobs have run out, your moneys run out and your time has run out. You need to buy a little soldier for your gun and you pull on your coat and leave the sparsely furnished bedsit.

It’s been a while since you trod these self same pavements, dodging the puddles and dog shit as you go. These depressing rows of terraces once housed proud working-class folk but are now rat holes for immigrants, squatters, dope heads and Tam Lawrence. Tam was your mate in the army and the one that sold you the gun all that time ago. He hadn’t fared much better than yourself after leaving the army and had even done a stretch inside for armed robbery. Some ex-squaddies never lose their fascination for firearms and Tam was one of them. Here’s his house.

The rusting gate hangs off its hinges and you take three, short strides along the mossy, cobbled pathway to his door. The words "White scum“ are crudely sprayed on the door along with a nazi symbol beneath. As you knock on the door you notice that the arms of the swastika are painted the wrong way. You wait and eventually hear the skittering of dogs nails against linoleum and a yelp before the shaven-headed, unshaven face of Tam Lawrence pokes his pugnacious head round the door and says "What the fuck do you want?“

"Nice to see you too, Tam, been making friends with the neighbours have you?“

He let’s you in and you follow him along the dimly-lit hallway.

"It’s funny," he says "But there‘s some folks round here don’t take kindly to me fighting for Queen and country. They reckon I was fighting for the wrong bloody country and you know what? I’m beginning to think the bastards are right. Mind you, if I find one of them fuckin‘ with my property again I’ll.....“

He lets that threat trail off as he leads you into a small room that consists of an ancient television that looks far too heavy for the little coffee table it is balanced upon. In front of the television there are  two armchairs that look like they’ve been lifted from an old peoples home and a rickety sideboard piled high with magazines, videos and dirty washing. Tam knocks Sindy, his Jack Russel, off one of  the chairs and tells you to take a seat.

"What’s up, Tam, forgot to pay the cleaner?“

"You cheeky sod! Here, have a beer.“ He throws a can of beer. “Anyway what are you here for? To catch up on old times?“

“Hardly. I don’t think the old times are worth catching up on, do you?  No. I’m here to buy. To buy a bullet.“

“A bullet! What for that Smith 'n' Wesson I sold you. Nice piece that. I hope you’ve been looking after it,“

“Oh aye, Ive been looking after it.‘“

“Well you better have because I don’t deal in that shit anymore. Not since I served time. But I might be able to help you with the bullets. How many did you say you need?“

“Just the one.“

Tam let’s you back onto the street with a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, mate,“ and laughs as he closes the door. You stand there listening to first one deadbolt being drawn across behind the door and then another one. In the end you did get into a conversation about the old times, dredging up old stories of how you looked after one another in Iraq. Mid conversation,  Tam tossed a single bullet to you. He didn’t ask anything for it. “Just plant it in the head of some bastard that deserves it,“  he said. You gave him a fiver for it anyway. It was the last note in your wallet.

You are surprised how calm you feel as you retrace your steps. It’s not as if you never saw this day coming. Maybe all those years of silently anticipating it had inured you to the inevitability of what you were now going to do. The rain is coming down harder and, without noticing it you quicken your pace and hear a clinking sound with every step. You grab into your pocket and draw out the bullet that is nestled amongst a few coins. You drop the bullet back into your pocket and, looking up, see the road-dirty advertising banner.

“Sahid Newsagents – 100,000 Euro Instants. Scratch and win!“

You take another look at the coins in your grip and step into the newsagents. A buzzer needlessly signals your entrance as you take your place in the queue at the counter. The little scratch cards are popular and are usually scratched immediately after purchase. Two lemons and you are the lucky winner of 100 Euros. Three lemons and you’ve hit the jackpot!

“I’ll have a scratch card,“ you say

“Yes sir,“ said Mr Sahid, the newsagent, as he tears one off.

You hand the coins to Mr. Sahid and he counts them. “I’m sorry sir but there is only one Euro eighty three. It’s two Euro a card. Do you have the seventeen?“

You go through your pockets but the only thing you feel is the sleek body of the bullet. “Sorry, I .. er .. I don’t have anymore“ you bluster, as you step back into the waiting customer behind you. You feel embarrassed and leave the shop without taking back your money.

*****

Mrs Ainsworth always treats herself to a scratch card on her way back from her cleaning shift. She had just purchased a birthday card for one of her grand daughters and taken her place in the queue when the gentleman in front suddenly stepped back and trod on her toe. “Ooh right on me corn! Me poor old feet!“ she cries and turns around but the rude man has already left the shop.  “Well I never, some people,“ she complains to Mr Sahid who just stands there with a scratch card in one hand, another mans coins in the other. His expression is split between pity for Mrs Ainsworth and a fast receding desire to chase after a customer to return his money. Unabashed, he offers the card to Mrs Ainsworth and says “The usual Mrs A?“

“Oh no, I don’t want that one. You’ve already torn it off. I’ll have a nice new one out the dispenser, if you don’t mind.“

Now Mr Sahid wasn’t the sort of man that did things out of order. His shop was a testament to his diligent organising skills and he wasn’t going to be put off. “Oh I think you should take this one Mrs A, I’m sure it’s the winner. That man couldn’t afford to buy the card which means it is meant for you. It is your destiny. In my Country it is a sure sign of good luck,“ he said with a twinkle in his eye,

“You what?“ Said Mrs Ainsworth “Now don’t you be giving me none of that mumbo jumbo, Mr. Sahid, but go on then I can’t afford to mess about here all day. Give me the card and I want to pay for this birthday card an‘ all,“

“Thank you Mrs A. Here’s your change and good luck.“

Mrs Ainsworth took her card to the little table in front of the window and started to scratch away at the thin silvery film. A lemon! “ooh that’s a good start,“ thought Mrs Ainsworth as she scratched away. Another lemon! Mrs Ainsworth couldn’t believe her luck; she’d just won a hundred Euros. She paused. She wanted to savour the moment. She had already won one hundred Euros and was one lemon away from winning one hundred thousand! She held back for  just a fraction longer but, overcome by excitement, she quickly scratched away to reveal another lemon. Three lemons; the Jackpot!

Mrs Ainsworth screamed out with joy. “I’ve won Oh, Mr Sahid. Ive won. Ive won.“ Mr Sahid feigned happiness for her as did the remaining customers. As she ran out the shop waving the winning ticket in the air she had already decided she was going to buy presents for all her grand children and have a nice caravan holiday on the coast. She was only five leaps out of the newsagents when she stopped transfixed.

Time slowed almost to a stop for Mrs. Ainsworth; a humming bird suspended in amber.

Before her stood a man with his arm outstretched.

It's so quiet; there's nothing to be heard.

In his hand is a gun.

It's so still; nothing moves.

The gun is aimed directly at her.