Murder at the Mall

I don't know how many people grow up with the feeling that they do not deserve love, but I was one. I blame the parents. Surely those who bring us into this world should do their best to make us feel welcome in it, not with empty shows of love, but respect. Love without respect is almost as bad as no love, for all I know worse. What are they suffering from, the parents who cannot give their own children respect? Insecurity, failure, lack of self-esteem…? It comes down to honesty. No one was ever honest with me, and that has made me crazy.

These are strange thoughts for a fifty one year old man, or perhaps not. Perhaps fifty-one is just the right age to have such thoughts. I loved my mum and dad, and I hope they loved me in their own way. But I never get through a day in my life without thinking they would have been better off without me. Will I think the same when I'm sixty, seventy?

Strange thoughts indeed; especially when you've got a gun in your hand.

Where did I get it, this gun? Is it licensed? Am I trained to use it? Who am I going to kill with it?

As I have these thoughts, oozing black from the past, I'm looking at a crowd. It could be any crowd anywhere in the world, moving between spaces, indistinct waves of heads bobbing up and down, arms swinging, thrusting in different directions as though they cannot agree on the right way forward. It could be anywhere in the world, but it isn't. It's right here in my hometown. I've come back and I've got these feelings again.

Who is it going to be this time?

The question brings a tear to my eyes, because I know I want to kill no one. It is an unconditioned reflex, this killing game, a knee-jerk reaction. God stop me please! Who am I going to kill? The little girl carrying a teddy, swinging from her mother's arm? The old woman stepping forward slowly with her Zimmer? One of those youths wearing hoods, thinking he is someone? The middle aged guy who could be me with that strained look of regret on his face? In the end, it doesn't matter. One day they will all be dead anyway. Perhaps I am even sparing them by ending it now.

What do I get out of it? Why do I do it? These are the questions they will be asking in the papers tomorrow, and I'll say “Blame the parents!”

To be fair to my parents, I was probably in the way. I was an obstacle. I came along when they were looking forward to a contented later life, not nappies, school fees and teenage tantrums. In a way I destroyed their lives just by being there… see, I'm doing it again; it's so easy, this self-loathing.

So who is it going to be - that young couple staring lovingly into each other's eyes? Would I have time to do them both, before the crowd erupts? Probably not. Make it quick. In and out. Perhaps the mall security guy, fat loser with the attitude. No. Too easy to justify. I need unjustifiable. I need manic. I need to get them talking about it. That's the trouble, what you have to do these days to get someone to listen to you. The thought of their reaction is enough to rejuvenate me.

So in the end I decide to just aim at the centre of the crowd, count to three and fire. Leave it to God. Whoever happens to be in front of my aim at that split second gets it. That's it. Kind of a destiny thing. In a way that relieves me of responsibility. After all, if there is a gap in the crowd, no one dies. God decides. Give me a victim or not? It's up to Him. Or make it five. I count to five, that gives God more time. What is your will, O Lord? Someone, somewhere's got to die today, you know that as much as anyone. Will it be here? Will you use me as your vehicle? Let me be your vessel Lord. I am your trusted servant, your murdering creation. How many have there been like me? Murderers every one. And some of them quite high up the food chain. Important men. Maybe some women too? How many of us have you made – killers, I mean?

Okay, enough. It's time. Let's count. One – oh, oh, the crowd is thickening. Two – better walk faster old man. Three – little gap here, if I fired now no one would die, but I said five. Four – my God, not her. She's beautiful. She works with me. She told me just the other day she thought I was funny, the sort of guy she likes. God, not her, please. But I made a deal. I said five and five it will be. But at five, she will be in the dead centre of my aim. Oh why her? Anyone but her. I was going to ask her out on a date, my first in years. She likes me. No one has said anything so nice to me for so long. Not her God. But if I don't keep my side of the bargain, then what? I am nothing. I am just a fool. Just a blabber. I have to honour my word. God why have you done this? Oh no-o-o-

Five….!

Who the…? A tap on my shoulder. I swing round. My cover's blown.

“Father O'Connor!”

“Hello, Arnold.”

“What… Why…?”

“Are you okay Arnold?”

“Why yes Father.”

“What are you doing crouched down by the railings like this? And what's that in your hand?”

“It's a gun, Father.”

“Better give that to me hadn't you?”

“Oh… it's not real. Present for my little nephew. I was just trying it out for size. I'm so sorry. I can be so stupid sometimes.”

“Come with me Arnold. Let's have a coffee.”

“Yes, Father.”

And Father O'Connor takes me by the arm and leads me away. I am awash with relief. I am free. I have killed no one.

“Now Arnold, I want to talk to you about the arrangements for the Pentecostal service this Sunday.”

“Yes, Father.”