Once a Soldier

The gun was old, like the man, but the hand was steady and the eyes were bright and alive. Shining in the shadows, just like old times, waiting, listening. Aware of every sound. Not dimmed by the years, but burning with the old fire.

He’d heard the first sound more than ten minutes ago. A push at the window. The latch was loose. A tiny squeak as it scraped the paint of the sill. Then the window slowly opening, the sash weights knocking gently as they slowly descended inside their casings. The wood on wood as the frame slid up. Still, he waited, just like the old days.

Patience.

One foot through, the shift of weight, then the other. The rustle of clothes as loud as thunder to his focussed senses. Not bad, but no pro. An interminable wait as the muffled footfalls padded first into the front room and then, unhurriedly along the hall. At last, the door drifting silently open.

He waited until the figure was in the centre of the room.

—–

It was all too easy. A hundred times or more he had been through this. The loose latch was a bonus. Just a push and it was free, not a sound. The sash frame gliding up like it was oiled. He flipped over the sill and into the darkness, waiting for a moment as his eyes adjusting.

A quick look around the hall told him he was wasting his time. The wallpaper dated from sometime in the seventies and the carpet was worn and fading. The phone on the stand near the front door had a dial on the front.

The front room was just as bad. Old man furniture, a TV the size of a chest of drawers and a record player, a RECORD player! Places like this were all the same, nothing worth taking. He thought about leaving, maybe taking a souvenir, just to prove that he’d been inside. But he was in no hurry. Might as well take a look around.

The only hope was cash. Old people loved to keep cash about the house and the first place to look was the kitchen. He padded silently along the hall and cautiously pushed the kitchen door open.

He moved to the centre of the room.

—–

He awoke in a pool of sweat. The humidity of the jungle air made it difficult to breathe and the heat felt like a weight on his chest. How long had it been since the attack? Two days?….. Three?….. He’d lost track, sleeping in short bursts, woken by every sound, confused, almost delirious.

At first he had tried to retrace his steps, but he’d not taken much notice of which direction they had travelled since leaving the base. Now he was alone he’d lost his bearings completely and was hopelessly lost. He fought the rising panic in his throat, resisting the temptation call out or to run headlong through the dense jungle. His hunger ached, he needed to find food and water or he would soon die. Then, close by, he heard voices. His first instinct was relief, soon replaced by fear as he heard the voices more clearly.

Don’t get captured.

He listened carefully. The voices were close but not moving closer. He tried to calm himself. Where there were people there was food. He raised himself slowly and turned towards the sound, the constant noise of the jungle disguising his movement. A small group of soldiers were camped in a clearing. He was so close. He could so easily have stumbled into them the night before. He looked back the way he had come and saw the sentry. He must have gone right past him in the darkness.

He was trapped between the camp and the sentry. If he tried to move away they would surely hear him. He could wait until dark and try to sneak away. But the smell of their food made him weak. His need outweighed his fear.

Decision made. He felt for the knife in his belt.

—–

The boy stared at the gun, his eyes drawn to the open barrel end. So steady, not shaking or nervous, but calm. The old man’s eyes seemed to gleam from the shadows. He can’t have come down the stairs. He must have been in the kitchen the whole time. Waiting for him.

He’d seen guns before. One of the older kids on the estate had brought one to the park a couple of times. He’d lifted his T-shirt to reveal in stuck in his belt. He’d felt the power it gave him, the swagger, but this was the first time he had seen one from this angle. It was different, to know you were so close to death.

He was afraid of what the old man might do. If he made a move for the gun the old man might panic and shoot. He’d seen the state old people got in just walking to the shops when he and his mates started harassing them, asking them for money and making rude suggestions to the old ladies. He just had to keep his nerve and talk the old man down. Play along until he had a chance to make a move. He’d scare pretty easily once he got the gun off him. The old fool. The gun looked ancient anyway. Probably a dud.

Decision made. He felt for the knife in his belt.

—–

He ate well. He’d waited till dark before making his move. Lying as still as he could in the undergrowth the whole day. First the sentry near him, then the four in the camp as they slept. A brief recce revealed another guard on the other side of the clearing. Six in all.

Easy.

Since the ambush that had killed the rest of his patrol, he had stumbled aimlessly through the jungle, lost and afraid. Now, well fed and re-armed, he had an opportunity to think through his position and make a plan. A search of the dead soldiers and their camp had revealed no map and he couldn’t decipher the paperwork they were carrying so he was no nearer knowing his location. They were not heavily provisioned so he assumed they had not come far. That meant more soldiers nearby.

His first thought was to head away, into the jungle, to get as far away from danger as he could. But the idea of ending up lost and running out of food again made him stop and reconsider. He had taken this group with ease. His youth spent burgling shops and houses had given him a light step and a sharp ear and he was good with a knife. He could not deny the thrill he had felt in silently dispatching the six soldiers. He had killed before, but never so up close, so intimately. He looked towards the rough path the soldiers had cut through the undergrowth.

It was time to stop running.

—–

He watched the boy’s eyes. Not fear, not exactly fear.

He recognised him. One of the gang that hung around the park causing trouble. Not one of the minnows either. He would have to play this carefully. He was bound to be pretty cocky. They all thought they were indestructible like the world belonged to them. The boy was probably carrying. He watched the boy’s weight shift slightly as his hand moved towards his belt. A knife. Not good.

The old man had chosen his position well. He had made sure the boy was in open space while he was against the wall, far enough away to make a lunge for the gun impossible.  He’d wanted to avoid a struggle for the gun, but now he realised that his hand was a little too good. So long as the boy was armed anything he did could be viewed as self-defence, which wasn’t what he wanted.

To his surprise, the boy lifted his T-shirt and showed the old man the knife, lifting it slowly from his belt he placed it carefully on the kitchen table.

Perfect.

—–

He was a ghoul, a phantom, a silent killer in the night. At first, he followed the small patrols, choosing his moments to pick them off, one by one. Occasionally he would leave one alive to take back stories of disappearances and sudden death. He sometimes mutilated the corpses to enhance the tales. For months he roamed behind enemy lines, stealing and killing and disappearing into the jungle. He began to infiltrate the bigger camps, slipping in and out at will. Leaving a trail of destruction and death.

It became a game. A challenge.  Each raid more audacious than the last. The rumours spread of the knife-wielding spirit who could appear and disappear at will. On several occasions, he realised he was close to his own lines and once or twice he watched, silently, as a friendly patrol passed within feet of him. But each time he chose to plunge back into the jungle and continue his rampage.

When he finally emerged from the jungle, wild-eyed and exhausted, he had lost half his body weight as well as losing count of the dead.

—–

The boy lifted his T-shirt and showed the old man the knife, lifting it slowly from his belt he placed it carefully on the kitchen table. He was too far from the gun to make a grab for it and without getting close the knife was useless.

He hoped that by surrendering the knife the old man might relax and drop his guard. He would have to get to the phone at some point to call the police. From the look of the house, the only phone was in the hallway by the front door. There was bound to be an opportunity to overpower him and get out, or maybe take the gun and give the old man a taste of his own medicine. He wouldn’t look so calm when the gun was pointing at him.

He saw the old man smile.

Perfect.

—–

The last few years of the war were just a blur in his memory. Hospital, rehab, and then back to the fighting. But it was different somehow. The unique skills he had honed in the jungle were neither needed nor appreciated in Europe. There the war was different, almost civilised.

Then back to the streets of his hometown. He felt lost, out of touch. Before the war he was a housebreaker, now he was a skilled killer. Not much call for that on civvy street. He drifted back into crime. Spent a few years in jail, here and there, making it even more difficult to get honest work. He got older and poorer. Even the dishonest jobs dried up. His few friends started dying. He found himself alone. Just another old man on benefits. Meals on wheels. Sat in front of the TV with a blanket over his knees.

He began to think about when he had been happiest. Not in the jungle, though that was a strange kind of pleasure, but in prison, surrounded by people who understood him. Hot food, everything done for you, never cold or hungry. They respected old timers inside, and people soon found out how handy he was with a shank or a cord so he got no bother from the hard nuts. A good, comfortable retirement.

That’s when he had the idea.

—–

Without the knife the boy was helpless. Much better. Probably thinking of the phone, poor sod. There would be plenty of time to call the police later.

Three should be enough. More, and they would just think he was a psycho. He didn’t want to end up in Broadmoor. Less, and some do-gooder would try to claim he was just a frightened old man defending himself. He had to make sure he got life. He might live for five or ten years and then be back out, worse off than now. It had to be bad enough to make sure he got no sympathy. He’d read about people who had killed intruders. There was always some busy-body out there who would try to get them off.

The first one was quick, silent. Just to make sure he still had it. He’d heard kids trying the windows in the night. Leaving the latch off was like an invitation. Once inside they were easy prey. He’d stuck him quickly in the darkness and the boy was dead before he hit the ground.

With the second one he took his time. Enjoyed himself a bit more. The boy had cried when he saw the body of the first one. They looked like brothers. The old man had watched his eyes as the life drained away with his blood. Just like the old days. This one would go the same way soon. The gun was a dud, a souvenir he’d taken off a dead soldier in the jungle. He’d never fired it. In his free hand was a light blade.

He smiled and moved slowly towards the boy.

—–

The old man smiled and moved towards him. The gun looked old in the light. Bound to be a dud. He’d wait until the old man reached for the door and then he’d make his move. Then he would teach the old man a lesson. The old fool.

He saw a flash of reflected light out of the corner of his eye.

—–

Maybe three wasn’t enough. Four would be better. There was plenty of room in the cellar, and besides, he was just starting to enjoy himself………………..

The End

Copyright ©Paul Towson 2019