Meltwater - Writing

BAGMAN

John cast heavy shadows as he walked miserably down the darkening lamp lit street to old Perriam's corner shop. His mind was full of the days upsetting events, so much so that he barely noticed the heavy incandescent rain that was slopping angrily in the electric puddles about his feet. In the eerie glowing street he moved like a phantasm, unaware of the cloying quiet of the rain soaked road, and its lack of human presence. Lights were starting to come on in the front windows of the many houses that lined the desolate road, casting yellow pools of light on to the wet pavement. In his slow trawl past them he was like a cloud across the sun, for scant seconds he cut off the pavement's light, his shadow reflecting halfway across the road. He lifted his head from the pool of woe which it had become drowned in, to see the dark and grubby little shop slowly coming up.

The shop was on a cross-roads with another equally dull and empty street. The lights inside were dim and unhelpful, so it was no surprise that when he entered the tiny grocery store tripped over the doorjamb into a rack containing out of date magazines, yet another insult in a day that had seen some of the biggest insults that he had experienced in his life.

His rough entrance to the shop attracted the attention of old Mr. Perriam, who looked up from the newspaper he was reading, to scowl attentively at him. John flushed with anger at the sight of the smug shopkeeper, sitting behind his glass counter and staring at him like he was a piece of dog shit that he had just trodden in. John grunted something to the watching man in order to acknowledge his presence and diffuse the situation of awkwardness that his stumbling entrance had antagonised. To give himself a second or two to breath, John wandered behind the shops single central stack of shelves, looking for something that he didn't need. Old Perriam's eyes followed him around the dim interior of the stall, not just to check that he wasn't about to steal something, but in the expectation of him buying an item that was nearly out of date, saving him more money by minimising his wastage.

As John regained his thoughts he couldn't help but think about the day's events, the trail of pain and insult that had led to this moment. He had been through a lot of crap the past couple of weeks, but today was the final icing on the shit pie of his recent life. The morning post had bought more problems, two more red lettered bills from various energy companies, three more interview rejections and worst of all an eviction notice. It had been downhill all the way from there. Old Perriam gave a nasal grunt in the background, just enough to stir some of the dust off the counter, but more than enough to signify that he was watching impatiently, sensing a time waster in his lovely shop. John ignored him, he was used to the shop keepers attitude. To buy himself more thinking time he instinctively picked up a dusty can from the shelf. Old Perriam smiled, seeing that it was a can of pink salmon, one of his more expensive items.

Outside the shop a car swished its wet tyres past in the final moments of the sun's now hasty descent. The pools of yellow window along the street's length had now been blanked by curtains, as if it was a fast frame film of a row of teeth growing black, decaying and falling out. Apart from the odd car making its dreary trip home, the street remained desolate. Inside the shop, old Perriam's smile had turned to a frown, as John placed the can of salmon back on the shelf.

The front window of the shop looked out onto the cross-roads, partially hidden by the rack of magazines which John had almost fallen onto. The panes were splashed with the rain which had helped to disturb his day even further, and it was towards that end of the shop that he now moved, fed up with old Perriam's impatience. A browse through the magazines would help him regain his thoughts. As he turned his back and walked towards the magazine rack, an impatient cough rose from the murky back end of the shop. Once more he choose to ignore the shop keepers enthusiasm, not letting it further disparage him. He stood at the point where he could freely read the magazines unobserved by the keeper, who's view was blocked by the central aisle.

It was not as if he was reading them anyway, he couldn't enjoy the flash articles on style and fashion, the enticing adverts, or the exotic offers as they always depressed him further. It made his situation of poverty and lack of respect smart more, with the wish fulfilment that was being offered but which he could not afford to participate in. This made his situation feel hopeless, so he didn't read the magazines, instead he flipped through the piles of out of date periodicals to amuse himself by counting how many back issues of a single title were still unsold. It always amused him to see the crumpled piles of unsold magazines, because he enjoyed imaging how the old man must have got distraught at the lack of sales.

It wasn't that he hated old Perriam, it was more that his materialistic grubbing instincts grated with Johns own personal failure at the acquisition of wealth. As John stood flicking through a fortnight old edition of the 'T.V. Times', he considered selling his little portable telly to cover one of the bills which had come that morning. Christ, he thought too himself, it hasn't come to that has it? I don't think I could do it, its about the only fucking friend that I've got at the moment.

Things had been tough for him the last few months, he had finished his degree course two years ago with a third. No one wanted to know him as a consequence, not when there where so many other graduates with higher grades in the same position as himself. He had done alright for a while after the course, working full time managing a fast food bar in the local shopping complex. that was until an argument with the owner over giving free sachets of tomato source or charging for them had led to a dispute which changed his life.

With the immortal words, "you tight fisted bastard," he found himself no longer a manager, but out on his ear, pride lost and right eye swollen. It got progressively worse from there. He hadn't been well suited to surviving on the dole money he collected, being too well used to having cash to blow on luxuries. He didn't turn to crime though, just going without and having to sell the items that he had acquired when working.

The bills which had arrived that morning, along with the eviction notice, were the all time low for him. He hadn't believed it would come, he thought that he would out bluff his landlord, and string him along in the belief that he would pay him the last four months rent. The landlord was no fool, he'd had enough, now it was John who felt the fool. His girlfriend had left him the week earlier, seeking someone who was in charge of their life, fed up to the back teeth with his continuing failures. That was what hurt the most, having his face rubbed in the shit of his live while his heart was being broken. He had blundered about since, not really feeling much but uncomfortably numb, down on himself for being one of the many victims of capitalism, and a wimp for not going out there and grabbing that money fuelled dream.

After wallowing about all day, reeling from the blows of the morning mail, he'd managed to get through the day without leaving the house. Until that evening, when in a depression fuelled eating binge he realised that he had no more bread in the store, a failing in his books and a further pain as he would need to tramp down to the late store in the driving rain in order to purchase some.

Stood in the shop, reading the out of date magazine, a smirk crossed his face. He found himself thinking that old Perriam must have been the script writers model for the Arkwright character in "Open All Hours". But the idea soon slipped from his mind when he realised that the television shopkeeper had a sense of humour, unlike the tight lipped, hawk-eyed man who at that very moment was looking hard at him, through 40w light from the shop's only light bulb. John was sure that there were laws to prevent such dangerous low levels of light in public places, and then he saw a council official in his mind, stood over the counter of the shop, telling old Perriam that he must get that expensive strip light fitted. He pictured the old man sat there impatiently tutting, and realised that the expression on his face was probably much like the one that was at this moment glaring at himself.

John sighed hopelessly to himself, picked up the last loaf off the shelf, which felt hard, and made his way the short distance towards the counter. He looked past the shopkeeper who had stood up now in order to accept his purchase. The rows of cigarettes on the back wall looked most enticing, but he had given up months ago in an attempt to economise. He also admired the green bottles of wine that were singing their green lament on the shelves next to the smokes. It felt like so long since the last time he had been under their influence. Although it had been a while, at that moment he could think of nothing better than drowning his sorrows in a litre of hock. He toyed with the loose change in his pocket in the hope of finding some magically materialised money in order to indulge his bacchanalian cravings. It hadn't appeared, all that was buried in his trousers was a pound coin, enough for the bread and little else. He sighed resignedly in the self effacing way that had become a habit recently, and placed the bread on the counter, timidly saying, "Just the bread please."

The shopkeeper tutted, and replied with a tint of anger arising from the disappointing purchase of his time wasting customer, "Seventy five pence." John placed the coin on the glass top, trying not to catch the man's eye, as he was thinking spiteful thoughts about how he could charge such an exorbitant price for a loaf of day old bread. Christ, John thought to himself, I wouldn't mind paying the price if he wasn't so miserable about his service, I mean, I come here often enough and he never acknowledges my presence, what have I ever done to offend him? I try hard to be civil and courteous with anybody, what a waste of time it is though, they always either take advantage or think I'm touched.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clank of the change on the counter. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket, then turned to leave the shop. As he turned his back to the shopkeeper he saw the crazy kaleidoscope, street-lamp lit splashes on the window pane, and remembered the rain that had become heavier and much more persistent in the time he had been in the shop. He grumbled and turned back to old Perriam, and asked politely, "Could I have a bag please?"

Perriam looked at him with an instant of indignation, then pulled from beneath the counter a large brown paper bag, which he grudgingly placed on the counter.

John smiled to himself at the shopkeeper's lack of common-sense, and then asked, "It's raining outside, could I have a plastic bag please?"

Old Perriam's face contorted and blazed red against the bottle green backdrop of wines. He snatched the paper bag back off the counter, placed it beneath the glass top, and pulled out a bundle of pink and white striped plastic bags from which he angrily ripped one off to give to John. He grumbled, "These bloody bags cost money you know. I'd rather not have sold you the bread for the cost I lose on the bag."

John felt something snap in his normally calm manner, he looked at the old man with a stare that could have lit the cigarettes on the shelves. He was angry, but his voice was still restrained. "Well fuck you then if that's your attitude, give me my money back now if that's how you feel."

"There's no need to take that tone of voice young man, I've got a living to make, I won't do it by throwing money away."

"Throwing money away?" John asked incredulously, "You're taking the piss ain't you? You're charging twice as much for bread as Tesco does, and you're whinging about losing fractions of pence for a bag when you're making over a hundred percent profit on a loaf of stale bread!"

"No I'm not, those bags cost twenty pence each, I can't afford to give them away for less than a pound," grumbled the shopkeeper in an agitated manner, "now get out of my shop you jumped up little git."

John felt angrier than he had ever felt before. He was not used to confrontation, as he was normally very bad at it. He could feel his face flushing through the red spectrum, and the sweat beginning to pool in his armpits. His body was slowly quaking as the shopkeeper harangued him over the price of the plastic bag. This was very grating to John's sensibilities, as he had always prided himself on his on his cool-headdedness. But trapped in the old man's stare he felt paralysed, he had to try and bring this anger back under his control, not enjoying being on this uncovered territory. The situation was causing him great distress as he didn't like being angry, he couldn't handle the emotions tied up with rage. But most important of all was his wish not to blemish the passive record in personal conduct that had been the shining exemplar of his life.

He took a deep breath, still trapped in the Perriam's gaze, and in a high pitched, self restraining voice, he replied. "Look, I'm not in the mood for this, I don't need this aggriv........"

Perriam interrupted tersely, "Go on, fuck off you little prick, you got your bag and your fucking bread, now get out of my shop!"

"What!", John held up the still empty bag, now feeling a surge of knowledge that could help him to defeat the shopkeeper's lies. "These flimsy bags don't cost twenty pence each," he was struggling to keep the high pitched tension in his voice in check, trying to stop it becoming a shouting voice, "they cost less than a penny each. we used to have exactly the same bags on the stall I worked on when I was a kid, they were only two hundred for a pound, so don't give me that crap."

"Don't you argue with me young lad, not in my shop, now get out. Go on, fuck off, and don't you come back either, you're barred." Replied the shopkeeper, becoming increasingly aggravated by his customer's stance.

And it was a stance, John had decided that now he had the old man on the run he would stand his ground until he had either got an apology or totally humiliated the shopkeeper. This was his moment, this was his chance to stand up and make his feelings clear. He felt secure in the knowledge that he could beat the shopkeeper in this slanging match. He continued in an increasingly petulant and abrasive manner.

"So, like I said, give me my money back and you can keep your stinking bread. Your attitude has just cost you a precious customer, who by the way, are always right. All the money you make on a loaf of bread and you moan about giving me a bag. Yeah, you charge twice as much as Tesco, but at least there they don't moan about giving their bags away 'cos they cost too much. In fact they give them away like there was no fucking tomorrow. Come on you tight fisted cunt, give me my fucking money back if its not worth you selling it to me, eh! I don't see you rushing to do that now, what a fucking joke you are."

In his angry gesticulations, John managed to knock over a jar of sweets on the counter. The multicoloured balls rolled about the counter, and began falling on the floor, making a sound like hailstones.

At what moment the shopkeeper had put his hand around the neck of the baseball bat he wasn't aware, instinct had made him do it. He was becoming afraid at the anger being displayed by the young lout.

The wanton destruction of his counter stock was the event which had made him pull it out in defence.

John chuckled at the sight of the bat, its arrival displayed by the waggling of the weapon under his nose. This just antagonised him further. "Oh fuck you, I don't want to play rounders, I want my money back," He said facetiously in a still restrained voice, "You can keep your bread and bag, and shove that bat right up your arse."

The situation was quickly getting out of control, John was feeling a strange sensation at the sight of the threatening movements being made by the armed man. It was a mixture of fear, humour, hatred and bewilderment, each emotion in equal and pulsating measures. "Look, There's no need for this." he said in a weary tone, "The sweets were an accident." Old Perriam just stared at him, still nervously holding the bat out at him as if it were a pistol, his weak arm causing it to sway like the branch of a tree on a stormy day. "Pick them up," Replied the shopkeeper after a stagnant pause in the stand off, "and you can pay for every last one of them."

"Oh, get fucked you old fart, you can keep your sweets. I've got better things to do than stand around here arguing with you." John turned to leave the confrontation, some sense returning to his normally rational mind. As he did the shopkeeper swung at him, striking him firmly across the side of his head, the old man screaming at him. "Pick up those fucking gob stoppers, and give me the money you bastard!"

The blow hadn't been too hard, but it was enough to momentarily stun John and send him crashing to the floor with a yelp. He turned on to his back to look up, feeling a slight swelling on the side of his head. He gulped in disbelief at the sight of the shopkeeper who had left his position behind the counter and was now standing above him, a dim spectre in silhouette, bat poised far above his head. Christ, he's flipped, thought John still coming to his senses, which were being quickly alerted by the adrenaline panic rush at the oncoming danger. He flung his arms up across his face in an effort to both protect himself and hide the distorted scowl of the hovering man, whom had developed a halo from his blocking of the shop's single light, a raging eclipse.

Mr. Perriam stood looking down at the cowering youngster, all pity fleeing from his old and bitter mind. Should I do it, hurt him, thrash him to within an inch of his life, he thought to himself. The consequences loomed far away in his reasoning. Why not? He asked himself, there's no justice in this crazy world anymore, why shouldn't I, what will I get? Probation probably, maybe a few months inside.

He continued thinking, deciding what to do. These young bastards got it easy, no respect, there's no more fucking respect these day's. Every single day I can guarantee that I will get at least ten of his type in here, either thieving or giving me lip, as if business wasn't bad enough with those fucking supermarkets on the high street, he thought he was so fucking clever trying to make me feel guilty about charging that price for bread.

Old Perriam's thoughts were becoming irreconcilable as he looked down at the shocked customer, who seemed to be very dazed and unaware of the shopkeeper's violent thoughts. The old man continued with his thinking. Yeah, at least ten of your sort every day, and the big shops stealing my customers, making my chances of earning an honest living all the more harder. So why not? Why not make an example out of you, beat the fucking shit out of you, let the rest of your kind know that I've got the right to some respect, why not? All the trouble you people cause me, I can't stomach much more of it. People never used to be this bad, the world's gone fucking crazy, so why shouldn't I have my own crazy moment.

Old Perriam continued to stare at the stunned youngster, not knowing what to do, the heavy baseball bat poised indecisively above his head. He asked himself again, Why shouldn't he do it to the little shit. In his head a raw remembrance broke through the wall of violence that had built up, he remembered back, and pondered. I'm sure it was the stress, I, I, why shouldn't I give it to the little cunt. I'm sure it was the stress, I'm sure, I. Painful memories flooded back to him. Oh Elsie, it was the stress that got to you in the end. These bastards would never give you a moments rest would they my love. This one of them my dear, is it? In his head a far off voice said yes. He answered, then why shouldn't I do it then, for you my dear. He looked at the cowering target, and sighed to himself, lowering the bat to his side. He couldn't do it. "Go on son, get up and get out." He said in a defeated and sighing whisper, the glint of a tear in his eye from the memory of his long dead wife.

John had come to his senses on the floor, no longer scared by the old man's aggression. Now it was his turn to be angry, he could feel the fury welling up inside. He began to raise himself from the dusty floor, looking at the deflated man with the weapon in his gnarled hand. It had been such a bad day that John was not surprised by this turn of events, and now he had taken enough for one day, he was going to give the old man a new bout of verbal violence, let him know what he thought of him. He had to vent the rage that had filled him, to remove the hurt that this final insult had caused him, he needed to give the shopkeeper a piece of his mind.

He raised himself up on to one knee, looking up at the old man as a defeated ninja to the executioner shogun, blade held at side in stay of decapitation. In a hushed voice John began his retort, voice slowly raising like the first squalls of an oncoming gale. "You bastard, what did I ever do to harm you. You could have taken me fucking head of my shoulders." The increasing wind that was John's voice grew with his continuing speech.

"Your a fucking mad dog, you've flipped! I didn't do any thing to you. In all my life what did I do to deserve that, you twat! I.... I, m going too the police you bastard, and I'm gonna make sure that they shut you down for good, you hear me, DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?!"

Old Perriam had heard enough, as quickly as he had firstly struck John, he raised the bat above his head and with his full strength bought it crashing downwards towards John, screaming at the youngster. "Why fucking not!"

This time though, John was ready and managed to avoid the blow. In his highly aroused anger and his humiliation he felt his common sense fleeing, in its place was a stark and raw hatred. He jumped forward and upwards from his half kneeling position, avoiding the falling bat and thrusting his fist into the shopkeeper's guts, causing him to drop the bat. The dropped bat caught John across the backside as it fell from the winded old man's grasp, the slight blow causing John to yelp. The cry was not from the pain of the bat though, it was the indignation of feeling like he had just had his arse smacked for being a naughty boy, the image that floated through his mind in the instance of his action. Old Perriam went recoiling backwards from the force of the blow, whacking into the shelves with the dusty cans of vegetables, which rattled and clanked boisterously, discharging tiny clouds of dust into the shadowy light of the store.

In John's mind, only one action seemed clear, he wanted to hurt the old bastard for what he had done. He was sick of always being the person who backed down in the face of trouble. This time it was going to be different, he would keep his pride and strike back. He reached for the dropped baseball bat, looking to make a home run of the shopkeeper's head.

Old Perriam had recovered from the blow and fall into the shelves, and was now making his way to the safety of the back room, behind the counter and through the door at the other end of the walkway. He was half way there when, with an inexperienced frenzy, John swung the bat over the glass reflected counter top, over the antique till, and thump! The crack of the blow resounded noisily through the throbbing blood of rage in John's ears. A shower of scalp and red rain slopped over the top of the counter, messy islands of blood in a shiny green glass sea. The noises seduced him like heroin given to a withdrawn addict, the big rush coming with the sound of old Perriam falling to the floor in a wounded and bloody heap, a red crater emblazoning the back of his head.

He made his way to the groaning shopkeeper, who was now lying face down in the small walkway behind the counter, struggling towards the door that was his original route of escape. Without thinking of anything but silencing the old man he once more raised the bat and bought it down on the shopkeeper's blood splattered head. The body slumped quietly to the floor, the crack of the bat silencing the groans that had spurned John on in his moment of temporary insanity. The floor of the small walkway had become slippery with the leaking of the old man's head. Still behind the counter, John stepped carefully over the recumbent body, wishing not to slip on the wet floor and end up with the head wounds of the old man. He stopped to pick a packet of cigarettes off the shelf, and sat down in the shopkeeper's chair at the opposite end to where he had entered, and where the old man had been sat when he tripped into the shop.

The walkway behind the counter was a small space, just over ten feet long. The number of times that Mr. Perriam had walked up and down it in his life time were incalculable. It would have been more than a hundred thousand times the five fingers of his right hand, which was at the moment tightly gripped at the end of an outstretched arm to the leg of the chair that John was sat on, looking back over the crumpled body that lay close to his feet. Clouds of smoke rose from the glowing end of the cigarette that John was hastily puffing on, a sedative to the rush that had caused this violent upsurge. The extent of what he had done was slowly becoming apparent to him. Yellow and billowing clouds floated in the shop's dim light, silent witness to the scene of destruction below. They floated over the slowly expanding pool of scarlet behind the counter, over blood spattered glass top and over the gob stopper covered floor. The dim light of the shop failed to hide the grim tableaux, it now reflected brightly in the opaque pools that John was at that moment staring into in bewilderment.

He stood up, not knowing what to do, and walked to the opposite end of the shop in order to take a quick look out into the night. No one was about. The street seemed brighter than the shop, the heavy rain still falling and glowing in the highlighted glare of the orange street lamps. He wanted to run into the darkened shadows of the unlit segments of the road, but something told him that he must first check that old Perriam was dead, and hence unable to tell the authorities about what he had done, and put him away like he himself had promised to do to the shopkeeper. He shut the door tightly, not thinking to put the bolt across or turn the open sign to closed.

Walking back to the counter, through the uninterested light, he felt a sudden cold chill surge through his body, a coursing fear about what he had done, and as a consequence, of what would happen to him. He decided he would try and remove any evidence of being there, but how? His mind wasn't functioning, he couldn't think what to do. He had seen many films that had dealt with situations like this, but in his panic and fear of retribution nothing seemed to fit. And when images did come to mind about the disposal of the body, they were too gruesome to imagine carrying out, his stomach already turned by the savage act that he had committed. Walking back behind the counter, he was startled by the sound of a bell coming from the back room. The realisation of what the noise meant furnished him with a sudden alertness. He picked up the newspaper that Perriam had been reading and placed it over the bloodstains on the top of the counter.

"Hello love, is Mr. Perriam about?" Came the greeting of the obtrusive and ageing female customer. "You must be his nephew Paul? My you've grown, I've not seen you for years. Is 'e about then dearie?"

He could feel himself shaking, stood behind the counter and trying to look natural. It was a high counter, the old lady was on the other side of it was very short, so he was sure that she wouldn't be able to see the body on the other side of it lying at his feet. But he was worried, it wouldn't be long before the spreading pool of blood would be flowing across the shop floor beyond the counter. "Um.... He had to go out for an hour so he left me in charge love," Said John coolly, "how can I help you?"

"Its unusual for him not to be 'ere, must have been important for him to disappear, still with his nephew in charge 'e needn't be worried, er, oh what did I come in for dear?" She looked at John unsuspiciously, and in a hushed and secretive tone she leant forward and said "Eh? So does this mean I'll be in for a discount with that old skinflint not 'ere?"

John gritted his teeth and smiled into the closed and wrinkled face of the short old woman. A strong aroma of age and rain rose from her Mack and hair scarf clad body. "I don't think my uncle would be very happy if I started giving discounts to any old Tom, Dick or Harry, you should know my uncle by now" He chuckled coldly at the woman, all the time trying to hold his natural serving face together. "What do you want then my love?"

"Oh, no harm in trying though is there dear? I see your uncle has trained you well. That's right," She said in a moment of revelation "Twas curry powder I came looking for. I want to make a nice big pot for me grandson, 'e just phoned to say that 'e'd be coming to stay tomorrow."

John quickly scanned the shelves, and pointed her in the direction of what looked like the spices and herbs section. She hobbled slowly over to the shelf, taking no notice of the loose gob stoppers that her movements were sending rolling over the tiled floor. The multi-coloured balls rolled indiscriminately under the stacks of shelves, and clanged quietly into the base of the counter. John was having to continually give her directions to the area she was looking for. A self satisfied smile slowly crossed his tight face at the realisation that she was in fact very short sighted. A condition which she confirmed when she picked up the packets off the shelf to hold closely to her face in order to try and decipher the labels.

"Come on you bitch," whispered John to himself, "hurry up."

A moment after uttering his contempt, something made him swallow hard and curtail further utterances. A tight and wet hand had gripped his ankle. A cold stab penetrated his brain, followed by a sensation that felt like the top of his scalp was being slowly peeled back. He looked down to see the blood smeared face of old Perriam staring back at him, mouthing a silent curse at him, a hollow moan emanating from his flooded mouth.

John's hair stood erect down the length of his neck. "Oh fuck!" He whispered to himself. "He's still alive." He was starting to panic, the fear of discovery becoming stronger. the desire to escape becoming a more pleasing option. But he had to see it through. He looked at the old woman who was still contentedly staring at point blank range at the packets on the shelf. While her back was still turned he decided what to do. With his hands shaking he picked up the bundle of pink and white plastic bags from under the counter, and ripped of a handful of them off. He quickly ducked below the counter, the wounded man's hand still grasping at his ankle. He crumpled up the handful of bags and rammed them forcefully into the open and blood filled mouth of the shopkeeper. He quickly stood back up to check on the customer, shaking his leg free of the old man's grasp. She was still searching for her curry powder, so with a loud coughing sound as camouflage, he raised his freed leg and bought it down with a bone grinding stamp on the shopkeeper's head. He had to repeat his stomping several times before the old man stopped moving, the customer turning to see what the noise was.

"Eh! That's a nasty cough you've got there son, lemon and honey with a drop of whisky, that's what you need, I swear by it," Said the old woman, who had found what she wanted, "oh it never fails, ah, this be the one I wanted."

John had gone pale behind the counter, both from the effort of making such a loud coughing noise and the sickening sound that old Perriam's head had made against the tiles of the shop floor. He was looking down at the gagged and bloodied face, when the customer came to the counter, shuffling across the floor like a toy robot, almost banging into the corner of the central shelf unit. She placed the packet on the paper which was covering the counter, and spoke. "That will be all then love, what's the damage then?"

John was busy looking at the areas of the newspaper that were starting to show signs of the substance underneath it. Small dark patches appeared to be puddled below the top pages. But as yet, none of the tiny red droplets had worked their way up through the skin of the top layer of paper. A looming sense of detection was creeping over him, guilt pouring down his body in tiny rivers of musty sweat, which he could now smell over the stale aroma of the old woman. Revulsion held him fast, not yet aware that the old woman was talking to him, but painfully aware that his socks had now become damp as the expanding pool on the floor had now started soaking through his old trainers. There was a strong smell of excrement slowly starting to rise from below the counter. He couldn't be sure if the smell was his own or that of the old man's. All the malignant sensations had caused an overpowering aura of imprisonment in his mind, he felt trapped in their sway. The seconds were ticking away like mountains, the voice of the old woman came like an echo across them. "Are you alright love? You've gone awfully pale looking."

It was an effort to snap his mind back into a functioning mode of operation. He had to think quickly, shaking off his tremulous repulsion's, and any suspicion that he may be arousing. He clenched his teeth tightly and made the edges of his mouth curl in a stony grimace, a hollow and edgy voice emerged as the rock smile broke. "It was just a funny turn dear, nothing to worry about. I think I've got a nasty cold coming on, so I'll make sure that I have some honey and lemon as soon as I've finished."

"Don't forget the whiskey!" Added the customer excitedly, now holding the curry powder packet. "How much do I owe you then dearie?"
He leant forward, taking the old woman into a false confidence, and then spoke in a covert manner, "Aye, I'll tell you what, since uncles not here," his voice was lowering to a whisper, "I'll let you have that for free. Think of it as a present for giving me your cold recipe and being so concerned, how does that sound?"

"Oh! You're a naughty boy, what would you're uncle say?"

"Well, what he don't know won't hurt him dear, now will it?" Replied John in the manner of a sinner at his confessional. "Besides, I'm sure that you wouldn't tell him that I'd given you a freebie would you?"

"No love," She said tapping her nose and winking her eye, "Mr. Perriam wouldn't like it would he? Heh! Heh!"

John kept his front up, but he was sure that he heard the shopkeeper stir at his feet as if the sound of free groceries had reanimated his body. He managed to convince himself that it was the squelching of the blood under his feet. Afraid now that the old woman would stay and chat, trying to exploit his fake generosity and pursue more free food, he hurried her off. "Come on then, I've got to shut up shop a minute, Uncle will be back at any moment."

She shuffled off happily, disappearing for what seemed like an eternity behind the shelves. It felt like forever, but she eventually emerged from behind them to open the door, setting off the bell in the back room. She turned to smile a secretive smile, and say her farewells with a knowing wink and the words, "I'll see you again young man." The door shut slowly behind her as she disappeared into the dark night. John shot from behind the counter, threw the bolt across the door and flipped the sign to closed.

For a moment he stared through the rain smeared pane, watching the silhouette of the slow trundling woman cross the road, her image becoming indistinct as the floods of water washed down the glass. As she disappeared around the corner of the opposite half of the cross-roads, a car pulled up to the junction, headlights awash with the thick rain, the driver a dark shape inside looking for the oncoming traffic. In that brief moment the interior of the car flashed with a dim and fuzzy light, an orange glow as the driver lit up a cigarette. An instant later the light dissolved and the car shot across the cross-roads in a heavy slurching motion, tiny streams of water flecking of the hissing wheels, driver hidden in the rain camouflaged cabin. Then it was gone, but in the instant of gazing at the rain filtered image, John had seen what he needed to do.

He turned away from the locked door, shocked to see a trail of bloody footprints trailing from behind the counter, his own. If anyone sees that from outside I'm finished, he thought to himself as he started to walk back leaving a fainter and less distinct trail than the original one. He stopped under the shop's single light, picked a can off the shelf and threw it upwards. It smashed the light bulb, which fizzled and sparked into pieces. The dim but revealing light was suddenly cloaked in a bright flash, which instantly gave way to an inky and claustrophobic emptiness. The only light source now was the L-shaped line of light from the almost closed back room door. The walls and shelves of the shop writhed with dark patterns as the shadows of the rivulets of rain washing down the window and door entered the gloom, shadows cast by the dim city light glowing ochre in the night air.

John moved slowly through the muggy and pungent air, eyes slowly accustoming themselves to the darkened shop. He stepped fearfully behind the counter, looking down at the leaden shopkeeper lying on the red flooded floor for signs of life. He placed two trembling fingers to the side of the mans throat, trying to feel for a pulse. A mounting terror began to fill him, a soft and irregular pulse could be felt. In his jumbled mind he tried to assess the situation, find a way out, but now the only thing he could think to save himself, was to kill the old man.

Up to this point in his life John had never been guilty of anything, and he wasn't about to change that, proud of his innocence in criminal matters. But if the shopkeeper lived he could incriminate him, after a life of never doing harm to anyone. He couldn't let this happen. His decision made, new and powerful thoughts started to fill him. Yes, this could be the answer. Now no one will mess with me, I don't need to take any shit off anyone, see what you're capable of. His thoughts began to inflate his confidence, new power surged through his head, making him feel slightly intoxicated in his body. Without any further thought, he pulled another large carrier bag from the diminished bundle, and crammed the rest of them into the old man's already filled mouth. He lifted old Perriam's bleeding head with the one hand, using the other to pull the large bag over the man's head. The pink and white bag covered the shopkeeper's head comfortably, leaving enough at the bottom to tightly secure the bag to his neck.

In the dim light being cast through the slit of the door from the room behind, John was searching for something under the counter. It didn't take him a moment to find a roll of packing tape, but it took his shaking fingers a moment longer to find the end of the tape on the roll. He felt unstoppable now, all his past disappointment and failures being lost in the raging euphoria of his moment of madness. The end of the earth brown roll located, he pulled a long strip of the tape from it. Lifting the hooded head once more, he fastened the end of the tape to the mans neck, covering the loose flaps of the now sticky bag, pulling it tight to cut off any air supply to the wounded shopkeeper. as he looped the adhesive tape around the neck of his cradled victim, he could feel the stirrings of the dying man, his last desperate struggle for survival. They weren't of any ferocity, but the movements were enough to make John feel a sickening disgust at the actions he was carrying out, reality stared to return to his numbed mind.

"I'm sorry, you've left me no choice." He began to whisper to the packaged head of the shopkeeper in an apologetic and self pitying voice.

"I didn't want this, you understand, but this is nothing compared to what would happen to me. They'd lock me up, and I wouldn't last five seconds in there with all those murderers and rapists. I...I at least have a chance like this, you see? You'd have told them I hit you, even though it was in self defence, but they wouldn't have believed me would they?"

The dying mans hands found a hold of John's arms, and they feebly clung to him, imploring. He looked down at the pink and white hooded bag, which was rasping over the profile of the nose, pulsating like a dying vein on the verge of collapse. Slowly he let the head fall back to the floor, not wishing to be cruel and drop it. He continued his monologue to the staccato rhythm of the suffocating, shocked, shrouded shopkeeper.

"Look you bastard, things haven't been easy for me either, you think you got problems, look at me. I haven't got anywhere to live after tomorrow, no fucking money, no girl, nothing. And to top it all you had to go and wind me up. I wish I had gone to fucking Tesco now."

At the mention of the rival supermarket the old man's hands tightened their grip. John stopped surprised, peeled off the old man's clawing digits and continued thoughtfully. "See, tight fisted to the end, that's your problem. If you hadn't of wound me up then maybe none of this would have happened. I've got to go now, I'm sorry about this, I wouldn't have wished it on anyone."

He stood up from his crouching position, watching as the bag slowly stopped its diaphragm like convulsions. As he rose from behind the counter, his thoughts turned to hiding the havoc he had caused. The snake like patterns continued their writhing dance on the walls of the shop and the rain splashing down had grown heavier. John looked around in the twisting dimensions of the shop, his eyesight sharper in the murky light and dancing shadows. He saw his original carrier bag still lying empty on the counter. It was now beginning to pick up a slight discoloration as the pool on the counter had begun to seep underneath the paper as well as through it. He shook the bag, discoloration flecking off the bag onto the shop floor.

He opened the bag and flicked some packets of rolling tobacco into the bottom of it, loathed that he should have to take up smoking again. He felt he would need some kind of calming agent for when the full ferocity of the night had sunk in. The shelves which had held them were now empty, so he picked up two bottles of whisky from the shelves which he placed in the bag, cushioned by the many soft packets of tobacco. He decided not to take the hard boxes of straight smokes, to bulky, he said to himself. The rollies will last longer and look less suspicious he thought, pleased with his cunning.

Then it struck him, Money! Feverishly he pressed the open button on the till, which clicked open with an antique ring. It was full, the days takings had not been cashed up yet. He took out the bank notes, crumpled them up and placed them in his pocket. He took out the tray, more notes were folded underneath, He tipped the coins into his carrier bag from the tray, clanging noisily as they struck the sides of the whiskey bottles. He took the rest of the notes and crammed them into his now bulging pocket. It wasn't a fortune, but maybe it would keep the wolf from the door for a couple of weeks, he thought to himself. Now he was beginning to feel shameful about his theft, breaking his own personal law against stealing. The absurdity of his skewered morals still hadn't hit him. He dropped the tray to the floor were it clanged off the dead man's head, and almost floated away on the deepening river of blood, the flow having loosened the tape of the makeshift hood in its moist onslaught.

Stepping past the body, now no longer caring about avoiding the expanding pool, as his trainers were already soaked, he began to push the bottles of spirits onto the floor. He was specific about what bottles he knocked down, thinking the spirits more suitable for his purpose than the wine. They fell through the shadows in a cascade of glass, mixing into a cocktail as the bottles smashed and shattered on the floor around the body, mixing to a large punch like pool.

The smashing continued for moments as the rain splattered against the windows creating a grinding, splintering melody to John's Macabre dance. For a solo a car skidded past outside, sizzling and accompanying the momentarily illuminated interior. In seconds he had finished his task. He went over to the window and paper rack where he pulled away a couple of newspapers and returned to the customer's side of the counter. He put his bag full of shopping down for a moment, and quickly dissembled the newspapers which he strategically placed on the counter, chucking the remainder over onto the dead man's side of the counter. He lit a torch from a rolled up edition of old news, smiling at the thought that this event would be tomorrow's headlines. He lit the pile on the counter and threw the torch onto the tramp like pile of person and newspaper. Not waiting to see how quickly it would take he turned to leave.

He strode over to the door, and then hesitated, he had forgotten something. In an instant he remembered, walked back to the burning counter and picked up his loaf of bread. The conflagration was slowly taking a sharp hold on the back end of the shop. As he turned to leave the shop, the blinking flames cast a dark strong shadow which grew as he approached the exit, until it disappeared from view as he pressed his nose against the smeared glass pane of the door. He stared out from the window into the dark street. No signs of light were discernible in the electric pools of the street lamps, something he strongly wished to avoid. It was clear, so he slipped the bolt back, opened the door and walked out into the pouring rain.

His head was full of what had happened and why? He did not know, and would never have believed himself capable of such gross atrocities. All he could think about was getting away unviewed, unseen and free. It was hard for him to act normal, unsuspicious, he wanted to flee, to forget what had happened, to start again without the knowledge of the base being which he had discovered living within himself. He shook the bag he was carrying, patted his pocket and smiled. This would help for a start he thought to himself.

As he walked away from the shop into the night, somewhere in the city a siren sounded, splashing some anonymous street with sonic waves and blue light. Behind him, the front window of the shop was no longer just reflecting the outwards orange glow of the sodium lights. It burned with a brighter glow, an internal one of growing intensity.