It was Wednesday. I think. It might’ve been Tuesday, but since I did it I’ve found it hard to keep track of time. It was the morning. Definitely. I think. Not early, not before dawn, it was light. It’s January so it doesn’t get light until late. So, at least nine. The streets were empty. Almost. No kids being taken to school. There are lots of schools around there. There are plenty to choose from.
So, the morning. Not early, but not late. Wednesday, but possibly Tuesday. It was Aigburth, I’m sure. But it could’ve been Grassendale. Not Garston. I don’t think it was Garston. That’s too far away. I don’t usually walk to Garston. I get the 82 bus.
So, Aigburth then. But I was tired so maybe I had walked some distance. I daydream when I’m walking. One day I’ll walk under a bus and that will be the end of me. One day: not today.
So, maybe Garston. It must’ve been Garston. It’s poorer around there. Terraces rather than semis or detached houses.
Now I think of it, it was a terrace. No front garden, just some tarmac. Weeds; I remember weeds. Then there was the sign on the wall Help Yourself, and there was a load of old junk: a teddy, a pack of cards, a miners’ lamp.
And that’s where I got the gun. An old musket thing, looking like a toy or ornament. But as we all found out later it worked well enough.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 