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Peep sight.

Peep sight.

This is to be either the conclusion, or the opening chapter to the tale I have been toying with. The Windsor and The Subi (previous blog posts) are earlier chapters to the same; as is Finn & Angus.

Let me know what you think. Personally I found it slightly difficult to read and a bit clunky, but then again, this is me talking. I am thinking of calling it “6152 to 6008”

‘Peep Sight’

Tool box open, he extracted the specific tools, then opened his loose item tool box and removed all else required, placing the lot into a large green bin bag. This was the wrapped with infinite care into his forty something year old hootchie. Lastly, the hootchie went into the bottom of his croquet bag. Mallets and balls put in Tetris like after it. From there he placed the whole lot onto the back seat of his Audi, shut the door, and went inside to make a cup of tea, read the paper, and wait for his Grandchildren to arrive.

In a house three suburbs away, something similar was happening. The required bits and pieces and tools of his now long retired trade were being carefully placed into a khaki kit bag that had seen quite a few years, and a lot of better days. He tied at the top as per instruction, and placed it just inside the front door. Without a second thought, he then strolled into the bathroom, showered, shaved, and dressed. On completion he called down the passage to his wife, and not unkindly bellowed “I’m ready to go dear. Let’s go.” To which he opened the front door for his wife of thirty seven years, then collected his kit bag, and placed it into the boot of his pride and joy. A minute later the matt black 1968 Mustang roared into life, and off they went. Ten minutes later, his wife now dropped off at her mothers, he went to work.

Professionals, true professionals, are never late. They are never half prepared. Generally they need not even speak when dealing with others like themselves in their trade. The job they have before them is undertaken with the minimum of fuss, and inspires no emotion. Emotion is for the ill prepared and the incompetent. It is the result that counts.

The two men that were now pulling away from the curb in a late model Landrover Defender, had just finished attaching the work tool filled trailer to the vehicle. They chatted amiably as anyone does when on the way to work. No need to talk over the job, they are already as efficient and effective as any professional can be. Why waste the breath? Other tool bags and equipment had been neatly stowed in the rear of the vehicle between a blue 5ltr water bottle, and an Engel car fridge.

In perfect synchronisation each of the three vehicles pulled up and stopped at their individual workplaces. All occupants got out of their vehicles, grabbed their tool kits, and unhurriedly got on with it. Work benches and tools were carefully put together, with deft fingers belonging to hands that knew each piece of kit so intimately that thought was not required in the construction.

The wet saw was removed from the trailer behind the Landrover, placed on the verge. Water was attached and the generator started. Pavers were stacked beside it, and one of the men started marking each one for cutting. The other was putting down the backseats of the vehicle, and beginning to arrange the water bottle, a jerry can, the Engel, and one or two other implements in the rear of the vehicle. When he had finished there was a narrow path formed from the now folded down back seats, creating a gap leading to the space now formed by the slightly open back door. Once complete, he did the same with the cement mixer and the wheel barrow on the trailer. The gaps made between the gear in the trailer, and the bits and pieces in the rear of the vehicle, and the space formed by the open door were all perfectly aligned.

Exactly twenty metres downhill from the rear of the trailer, running parallel to the to a high brick garden fence, a large green skip bin filled the verge. In doing so it took up one third of the footpath, unwittingly creating a narrow walk way of approximately five metres in length, roughly one in width. The Audi driver was now hobbling up the hill between them, his walking stick taking his weight, the incline slowing him. Once he stopped at the end of the narrow passage, stepped off the footpath and onto the verge, where he finally leant against the edge of the large rectangular bin to regain his breath.

It was 9 o’clock, their routine Saturday morning run around the bridges complete, a pair of fashionably attired joggers entered a cafe in South Perth near the river, exactly as they had the last three years worth of Saturdays. The staff, familiar with the pair and their routine had ensured the usual table was waiting for them. No order was required, and within a minute two plates baring Eggs Benedict were placed politely in front of them. A pot of tea with one cup appeared as if by magic next, to be finally joined by a large flat white coffee and two orange juices with ice.

At 34, he had finished his Articles four years prior and was now practicing Criminal Law as a Barrister. She, 32, was Doctor of Medicine in training as a Senior Registrar in Psychiatry, with leanings toward Forensic Psychiatry. She would complete her studies in seven weeks time.

By the time they had finished eating; payment for the meal had been made via credit card. This had been produced from a small slim leather wallet, pulled like a rabbit from a hat from somewhere about his body.

Fast broken, the pair left without a word, striding purposely out of the little cafe, turning south toward a corner hotel, then east on reaching it, slowly jogging up the hill. She led on, knowing his focus was on her small neat buttocks, passing an awkwardly parked Mustang as she smiled at the thought. There was a green skip bin taking up the verge and part of the foot path just ahead of her. This irritated her. This was a change in routine, changes to routine were a foul violation to life in her eye’s.

Sitting in the rear seat of the immaculate old Ford, he gazed down through the peep sight of the old .303 Lee-Enfield rifle. A relic of the Second World War left to him by his now dead father. It was a tool in his hands and nothing more.
He was seated in the rear right seat, the rifle extending diagonally across the interior of the vehicle. The end of the barrel stopping 15cm from the 3cm gap formed between the glass and window frame of the almost wound up passenger window.

A deafening high pitched squeal cracked the morning, as someone started cutting pavers not more than forty metres away.

At exactly the same moment as the cacophony tore into the otherwise quiet morning, a man jogging behind a petite woman ran between the skip and the fence. A man with a walking stick stepped in toward the gap at the other end. Giving the universal signal of “Help!” by flailing wildly with his arms. He then fell to the ground.

The uninhibited view across the open sights of his old, and similarly inherited .303, filled with petite female jogger. He heard the saw stop then start twice.

Within one hundredth of a second of each other, two hair triggers had the minimum amount of pressure applied, sounding as one, yet the sound being greatly diminished by the deafening saw.

The chap on the ground with the walking stick stood up as though a much younger man than the one so recently waving for help.

He walked over to the pair, his stick now in two, transforming into two .303 loaded smokies, half in either hand.

The girl was the first encountered. He turned her head to the side with his boot and pressed the end of the smoky firmly against her temple. There was a muffled bang, and he moved to the male on the ground behind, and repeated the process. Job complete, he screwed the two pieces back together, and strolled back around in front of the skip bin.

The action of lifting the wooden pallet on to its end was mirrored at the other end of the skip by the man from the Mustang. The pair then lifted yellow ‘A’ framed ‘Detour’ signs onto the footpath, two metres distant from the pallets. A sheet of old canvas was thrown over the bodies.
The trailer was loaded, and they all left. Exactly one minute staggered between each other.

One of the men played an above average game of croquet.

One of the men managed a smile for his aged mother in law.

One of the men took his sister out for Brunch.

One of the men mowed his lawn, and then watched the football.

All was good in the world.

Click on the picture of the lass above. Rather appropriate, all considered.


About Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.


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Hamish Ross

Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.

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