The Snow Killer by Ross Greenwood

Author:Ross Greenwood [Greenwood, Ross]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

36

The Snow Killer

There’s no time for thought and reflection. That should have taken place fifty years ago. They’ve buried the fat lady. The choir has sung. After all, I saw it leaving the church. I’m too old and too cold for change.

‘What the hell are you doing out in this weather at your age?’ shouts Big Chapman.

I put a hand on the top of the car door to steady myself and reply.

‘Cleaning the streets.’

An act of kindness by her doesn’t negate the lives she’s ruined with drugs. Stealing those people’s futures means you must forsake the right to one of your own. My father accepted that. The men who killed him understood it. And as the smile drops from her face, this lady knows it too.

She still cries out in defiance, ‘No!’ but the wind screams louder. The bang of the Webley pistol isn’t loud. What sound there is gets blown into the clouds. I blast her again in the side, reach over, and turn off the car ignition. She attempts to lean over to the passenger seat but her insides are already ruined, and she slumps back into her seat. Her eyes slant right at me in shock and shame.

I pull the screwdriver from my other pocket and show it to her face. Her gaze follows the point as it moves towards her neck. I rest it against the skin.

The car door is heavy as I slam it shut. I pull my hood up again and hold it in place. The wind rips at it as I leave the lee of the vehicle. I glance up to see a young lad staring over in the distance. It’s too late to run or hide.

I need to walk near him to escape into Baggswell Lane. As I approach, he backs away and sprints across the road, past the chip shop and the bookmaker’s, and through an underpass. I turn into the entrance to the lane and notice a familiar car, driving too fast for the conditions, screech and slide into the top of the street that leads to the car park. Fear stirs my legs. I find a semi-jog I’m pleased I still have the ability to achieve, and the policeman’s vehicle slips from view. The gravel slides under my feet, but it isn’t treacherous.

I slow when I arrive at our cul-de-sac and walk to the end. My vision blurs as I approach my home. My strength empties out as though a gasket has blown. The last few strides are almost impossible. I cry as my key drops from my fingers. The back door is unlocked, I recall, and, using the fence as support, I stagger inside.

The heating turning itself on stirs me some time later. I must have collapsed fully clothed on the sofa. Even my wellingtons are still on my feet. The room warms up fast. The bungalow has long radiators and small rooms. Sleep is coming and I won’t resist. My final thought as my eyelids close and the world dims is that this could be it.

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