Stand Off

"I need for you to listen to me, please. That's what I need, right now; you, listening to me. It's the only way forward. Can you do that? Can we try to understand one another? Can you listen?"

Corvey licked a bead of salty sweat from his upper lip and nodded, unblinkingly, at the olive skinned young man in front of him. "Yes. Yes, I can do that." His voice sounded more confident than he felt. "But I need you to listen to me first. Do we have a deal?"

"Go ahead, but you should know that my arms are getting tired and we don't want that to lead to any unpleasantness now, do we?"

Corvey looked down at the cold, grey, metal barrel of the twelve-bore shotgun and shook his head so slightly that only his greying curls moved. He tore his gaze away from its dispassionate end to the conversation and looked once more at the man beyond it.

"This is my home." He began, looking for a way to convey all that the simple statement implied. "I'm retired. I have lost more people in my life than I have gained. The world is full of horror and fear, but not (and this is what I really need you to grasp), but not here. This is all I have. My home. My sanctuary. My little piece of England. You scare me. You have invaded my sanctuary."

Corvey paused. His eye was ticking and another bead of sweat was forming at the end of his nose, but he felt stronger now, somehow. "Just leave. Don't ever come back. We don't need to get the police involved." His eyes flickered toward the gun and he wished it away.

The young man looked at him quizzically. "And so that's it, is it? We had a deal. Now you listen; I have nothing and it doesn't matter. I only want to use what other people don't use. See this wall?" He dipped his head toward it and readjusted his grip. "Is this really you keeping people like me out? The world will allways be out there and this wall is just a tomb to you. Something penning you in and cutting you off from the world."

"But it's my wall," whispered Corvey.

"Only from your side," laughed the young man.

"You're a vandal. You'll break it."

"Break it? I need it!" He shook his head, "Your wall is my sanctuary. Your wall is my England. I don't want to break it, or it would be useless. I want to use it. Now please, put down the gun and watch."

With hands that would not stop shaking Corvey removed the butt of the Browning from his shoulder, instantly feeling the blood ooze back into protesting muscles.

"It wasn't loaded." He felt he had to say.

"I know."

They let the relief of the situation wash between them and then he was up. The olive-skinned man back-flipped from his handstand on Corvey's wall and landed neatly beside him in the garden.

"This is one of my favourites," he grinned, sheepishly. He ran toward the old apple tree, jumped, struck the trunk and richochetted through the branches like a human bullet before landing another handstand on top of the wall. He snapped out a perfect ten on the dismount and nailed the landing next to Corvey.

"See? I'm not out to invade anybody. I only want to use your wall. No drugs. No alcohol. No petty theft. No vandalism. I get my kicks setting up tricks."

Corvey wiped the sweat off his nose.

" Very energetic," he conceded. "But, I didn't know, you know? I see you bounding around my garden dressed in your hoody. You could have asked. That's all. You could have knocked on my door and said... something."

The young man raised his eyebrows and looked at the gun.

Corvey shrugged, 'Well I'm glad we talked."

"So am I. Can I use your wall?"