The Gun

The Gun

With the seventy dollars Marco could get his grandmother’s chain back; the interwoven tendrils of silver ran like roots through his past becoming tangled with memories, setting off a picture-show. A soundless recreation, of bygone, happier times. Now it dwelt here. Lost in limbo, one of many, in this church of mothballed dreams. The promise of redemption just a payment away, if, that is, you could afford the price. The owner’s gaze burned, weighing him. They had done business on occasions but no familiarity was ever acknowledged. This was not a place where you wished the frequency of your visits to be noted. Marco had been through this place many a time, selling the wares of others and prolonging an existence that fed on him as much as anyone else. He lingered, fingertips pressing on the glass. He cast a final furtive, almost guilty, glance at the chain before leaving it behind, again.

The thing Marco now coveted still sat where it had when he’d first noticed it. He’d been unaware of its presence before. Only noticing it the day after he'd overheard the conversation between the two men on the steps outside the bookmakers. The two guys hadn’t cared about him hearing. He’d meant no more to them than any of the other garbage strewn around the ally. Lost in the bliss of another world the words had floated to him across melted time. Marco hadn’t been able to make out their faces, they were blurs, smudges on a multi-coloured canvas. The guy in the battered tweed suit had done most of the talking. His companion had remained silent, propped against a wall, rolling a cigarette with a deftness which spoke of a lifetime of practice. The words themselves though were like a mantra tumbling through his thoughts and honing his resolve. He could do this.

And here was a gun, on sale for exactly 70 bucks. The money had taken on another quality, almost messianic, like it was guided by fate. Marco handed over the tarnished cash. The owner pushed the grimy notes into the register and reached into the cabinet, his grubby sausage fingers enveloping the gun. Marco could feel the clammy residue from the owner’s bulbous mitts contaminating the cold bare metal, sullying it. He felt the comfort of its weight in his grip; felt reassured by the new found strength it provided. Oblivious to the other two people in the shop, too caught up in his zeal, never seeing the look between the owner and the man in the battered tweed suit.

Marco left the shop, his pocket heavy with destiny. Drizzle filled the air soaking everything and bleeding the world of colour. Striding through the streets, the world showing him its usual faces of indifference and disgust. This time though he didn’t care, he had a purpose, a place to be. He was there early. Not that this helped. He had no real idea what he was going to do. Slumping down on a bench to wait as the tattoo of the rain, which had upped its tempo, now matched the thumping in his chest. His mania at odds with the world around him which slipped by with interminable sloth.

He almost missed the hunched figure backing out of the scarred doorway. Tensing as the world around him began to forge his actions. The comfortable world of thought melting away to be replaced by the fixed hard edge of reality. He made his way from the bench to the corner of the ally. Rounding the corner the gun held high, aping countless TV shows, all bluster and noise. His voice stuck in his throat, the words, unwilling to become accomplices manifested themselves as a dry high pitched croak. When it finally returned, although no doubt could be had to its provenance, it felt no less alien. Marco grabbed the bag. The old man resisted, reflex taking the place of sense. Marco hit him, the crumpled uniform dropped to his knees still retaining its grip on the bag. Marco hit him again and tore the bag free from the gnarled hand, Marco ran. He made it two blocks before emptying the contents of his stomach all over his shoes. Adrenalin mixed with fear, the euphoria and shame too much for his constitution to bear. He took off again coming to a halt when he could run no more.

"Hand over the bag son." Marco looked up. A man in battered tweed suit stood twenty paces down the alley his broad fame seemingly filling all of space.
“It’s mine, go away.” He almost pleaded.
“Hand it over.” The request was repeated harsher this time. It was clear that the voice belonged to someone who was used to being obeyed. Marco raised the gun. The man stopped, his eyes mocking. He moved closer. Marco uttered a warning his voice wavering. The man kept moving forward. Marco pulled the trigger; a metallic click bounced around the alley. He watched as the world went into slow motion, watched as he again became a passenger of fate. Watched as the suit raised his gun. The man pulled the trigger. The flash illuminated the ally, and Marco fell to the ground. His empty eyes looked on as the man picked up the holdall and walked off with his dreams.

The man in battered tweed suit entered the pawnshop. The old bell chiming as it announced his presence to the owner. “You got something for me Sam?” Sam reached into his pocket and removed the gun.
“How many times have we sold this now? It never ceases to amaze me. I just wish id figured it out sooner.” Said Sam looking at the gun with an odd reverence.
“I don’t even know. It still works like a charm. There’s always someone desperate enough in this world.” Sam held up the gun. The owner, taking it from him, replaced the firing pin and returned it back into its usual place in the display cabinet. Where it would wait until it was needed again.