Runaway Walter by David Moody
WALTER AMBROSE shivered as the December wind scrutinized his person, seeking out any points of access in his winter attire. The streets were as empty as the pub he’d just left and his were the only footsteps on the old cobbles lining the streets of Otterswatte, early this Thursday evening. Pushing his hands deep into his coat pockets and turning onto Bracken Street he saw a curious sight. Three figures in front of the church, having some kind of disagreement over a wheelbarrow. In the near dark he couldn’t make out much but judging by their voices they were about his age. So why did he feel uneasy walking past them, three pensioners having a talk; not a bunch of drunken youths out for trouble. Knowing he had to pass them he pressed on, head down.
‘Well somebody’s got to get in it; otherwise it all seems rather pointless.’ Walter heard the tallest man say, in a voice that sounded a bit posh for Otterswatte.
‘Don’t look at me,’ the second man said, a podgy fellow with a flat cap and worried expression ’my uncle tried a similar thing in Whitby, and he could never grow marrows right again. And I don’t think you’ve got much chance of getting him in one of those things.’ he added, referring to the sniggering smallest of the three; who looked like something left over from Guy Fawke’s night.
Walter was almost past their odd debate, when the tall man spied him and stepping forward extended an arm.
‘Ah, my good man, perhaps you could be of some small assistance?’ he asked, sounding to Walter’s ears very jolly for a winter’s night like this.
‘I don’t think so’ Walter said and made to move around the man.
‘Nonsense,’ the tall man insisted. ‘A fine example of rugged country wisdom such as yourself, just what the doctor ordered.’
‘Not my doctor’ said Flatcap, ‘his orders were all “sedatives, more sedatives” and “get the restraints, go on tie them tight lads no namby pambying’ Walter blinked, stupefied for a moment but nobody else seemed to take much notice, except the scruffy one who sniggered some more like that cartoon dog. The tall man put a large hand on Walter’s shoulder. Walter noticed for the first time the man had a stick in his hand- it could be mistaken for a cane but up close it looked like it had come from the building site near the petrol station- and Walter didn’t like the way it was being held; not openly threatening but not for any kind of support.
‘My friends and I were trying to decide, who would be best suited to testing a simple scientific principle. All we need is a volunteer.’
‘Volunteer?’ Walter knew as soon as he’d said it; he’d said the wrong thing. The tall man’s grip on his frail shoulder tightened and the other two closed around him.
‘Yes’ the tall man said,’ someone to get in the land speeder’
Walter now saw that what he’d taken for a wheelbarrow was in fact an old bathtub. Two sets of buckled pram wheels had been attached to the sides, along with some metal tubes. There was a steering wheel at the front end, a front end pointing ominously down Parson’s Road, a long, steep, hill that ran down from Bracken Street and out of the village into the woods.
‘You know I’d do it myself but I’m more of an ideas man, plus I have this leg’, he winced; pointing at his leg as if this explained everything. Walter got the unnerving feeling that the man wasn’t just talking to him casually.
‘And these two aren’t much use. The thing is, this is really very important work and we can’t afford to have its progress interfered with.’ he sounded very earnest and Walter found himself listening, important work?
‘Oh yes’ the small one said slyly, ‘mustn’t interfere with the important work’. He accompanied this with an exaggerated wink and another custom snigger, his breath smelling of cheap booze and stale cigarettes. Walter tried to step from under the tall man’s hand but it followed him and tightened a little more. The tall man looked around at the empty streets, slowly, as if to emphasize how alone the four of them were.
‘It’ll only take a minute, well five, easy as falling off...well anything, really. You’ll be done in no time.’ the man began pushing Walter towards the bathtub.
‘What? Get off me. No! I don’t want to!’ Walter pushed at the tall man, who responded by squeezing Walters shoulder so hard Walter cried out, then went quiet as the situation really sank in. Flatcap’s face was suddenly inches away from Walter’s.
‘I wouldn’t make a fuss, best if you just do what you’re told. That’s my experience.’ the voice was calm with a whiny nasal tone but there were flecks of spittle around his mouth. The small man got hold of Walter’s waist and started to push him over the side of the tub. These men might be as old as him but they were nowhere near as frail. As his centre of gravity altered Walter had no choice but to get clumsily into the bath or fall in head first. The bottom had a good two inch of cold water in it, the texture and smell made him think this had been used as a mixing tub on the building site
Walter cringed and started shaking.
‘Please I have to get home, for my wife.’
‘I had a wife once’ Flatcap said.
‘Oh, where is she now then?’ the small hunched up one said his voice as rough as the sides of the bath.
‘Wakefield’ Flatcap said, ‘at least, that’s where I buried her.’
The small one sniggered and shuffled, he reminded Walter of some deranged gnome gone to seed.
‘Please I don’t understand. I’ve got money’ Walter looked up at them; from this position he was stuck, his hip meant he’d need help getting upright.
‘Don’t trouble yourself my good man, we wouldn’t hear of it. You don’t have to pay; your service is more than enough. Now hold on good and tight.’ He stepped back as Flatcap and the gnome bent down at either side of the tub.
‘Three, two, one, ignition!’ the tall man shouted. The other two backed off quickly. It was now clear what they’d done at the bath sides, smo ke rose out of the metal tubes. The three lunatics, that was all Walter could imagine they were; gave the bathtub a running push, sending it hurtling the half a mile down Parsons Road. The wheels bounced on the cobbles and Walter bounced in the bath. Flames came shooting out of the pipes, acting as ineffectual jets but the speed was terrifying anyway. Walter screamed as best he could, shock and air resistance taking most of his voice. He could see the end of the road, where the heavy iron gates were and he had no way of stopping.
The three figures stood watching as Walter reached the gate. They watched as he hit it with a loud clang and a scream. They saw the tub break in half and the fuel from the jets explode into a splendid fire ball.
‘Told you, you should have put a ramp there’ the small scruffy one said.
‘Perhaps, you’re right’ the tall man said, ‘well there’s always next time’. He turned about face and started walking through the churchyard. ’Yes onwards and upwards, as the saying goes’. Shrugging the other two followed, disappearing into a cold December night. ©
Going west by jeannette ayton
THE GAP in the security fence tempted me to sneak one last look at the building. The shell endured, forlorn under the dank November sky, awaiting the arrival of towering crane and demolition ball. I looked around. There was no one in sight. I paused at the breach uneasy about trespassing but eager to examine the place one last time.
I looked up at the familiar portico and remembered my regular anticipation. The stained brickwork hinted at the stuccoed tracery which had once surrounded the name ‘Paradise Picture House’. Those red letters had gleamed high up on the building, illuminated day and night by sunshine or spotlights, heralding an enchanted world within. I climbed the three wide steps, casting footprints in the dusty debris, repeating the passage of countless Saturday mornings and reminding myself of the many entrancing hours I’d spent within.
The main door sagged open, hinges ripped from the wall but I recalled an earlier glory and entered. I saw carpetless boards. The cash desk had vanished, the sweet kiosk existed only as splintered timber fragments and the staircase-less space was all that remained of the previous splendour of the foyer. I stopped for a moment listening for the swish of feet on carpet and the usherette’s murmured instruction but heard no sound except my own breathing so I crept towards the auditorium, picking my way carefully over fallen rubbish
Surprisingly the swing doors hung intact and closed behind me with their familiar, padded thump. I stopped to stare at bare, brick walls and hanging wires, my memory re-covering them with gilt and crimson. One row of seats remained, cushions raised as if in salute to a departed era. I drifted towards them and sat without realising I had done so.
A tick, tick, tickering sound startled me and lights began to flicker. Usually the projection box emitted no sound but now I heard the film spools picking up speed. A beam traversed the space resting as a perfect square upon the screen. Numbers reversed followed by a trail of registration dots and the screen dimmed once more. A thundering filled my ears and kept time with my racing heart until a different vibration overlaid my pulse. I shook my head trying to make out sounds both familiar yet unexpected. I thought I recognised voices, sound effects, music. Then the space lightened, spreading sideways to fill the screen and faces turned towards me.
Suddenly I understood everything. The music cued me. They were too few to stand against that band of desperadoes, still out of sight but advancing all the time. They had no time to waste.
“Why are you sitting there? You can’t just stand by. - Not this time! Bring your gun and join us.”
Gary Cooper gave me that long searching stare then shook his head and turned away.
“What can I do? I’m not the man you knew .... I’ve led a different kind of life. I’ve not held a gun these last sixteen years ..... ”
Gary stopped and faced me once again, feet apart and thumbs hooked in his trouser pockets. He studied me hard and took a breath but before I could speak Alan Ladd came racing towards them.
“I’ve covered as many approaches as I can but we haven’t enough hands to do it properly. Annie Oakley insisted on defending that corner by the big barn but we need at least one more there. Who’s he?”
“Just someone who used to be good....” Gary answered without turning his head, “... but he tells me he’s lost his appetite for fighting.”
Though I’d heard the swishing of fabric, I hadn’t seen Barbara Stanwyck approach. Now she shook out her skirt and spoke, ”We don’t know what happened to him after he left. That Saturday he vowed he’d return. Well, now we need him - he has....”
“Yeah! But that was twenty years ago - and no word from him in all that time!”
“Well, for all we know he could have been crime-fighting in the city - maybe he enlisted in the foreign legion!” Jimmy Stewart drawled as he joined the group and eyed me, his face neutral.
Alan forestalled further argument, turning his hat around in his hands as he warned “Say guys.... we haven’t time for this. If he won’t fight he’s no use to us. Let him stay outside and take his chances there!”
Barbara reached out and grabbed his arm preventing him from walking away while I flinched as they all examined my face, as if reading my mind and deciding on my fate. Unexpectedly a tuneful whistling and the jangle of spurs interrupted the stand-off. The music was all too cheerful for the occasion.
Jimmy chuckled mirthlessly. “You know you’re in trouble when you hear that. How long before they get here?”
Yul Brynner stepped into view, pushed his hat back, looked at the sun and spat.
“Not as long as we need. Maybe fifteen minutes - probably less. Who’s he?” and he nodded across the space.
“Oh, Wayne here used to bail me out regularly.” Gary spoke the words as a challenge. “Used to be a good buddy but he’s not been around for years.” He too spat on the ground, his eyes hard and again he moved to leave.
“Don’t be too hard on him.” This time Barbara clutched Gary’s sleeve to prevent him from oing. “We don’t know what he’s been through in all this time.”
Gary shrugged her hand away, looked around the group and decided. “We need to take up our positions now. If the Brady Gang find us like this there’ll be no contest.”
Then, in spite of my reservations, I heard my own voice, “I’ll do what I can! I no longer have a gun......”
A sigh of relief like a physical force lifted my hair. As it fell back on my forehead they reached out their hands and pulled me over the threshold. Hands patted my shoulders in thanks and congratulations. I basked in their goodwill as I looked around the corral and saw my old friends assembled and all smiling now, even though they were anxious to take up their positions within the stockade.
That was when I first heard the regular thudding sound underlying all our talk. Well, I was committed now so it was no good feeling scared. I’d made my choice and I’d have to make the best of it if all of us were to survive. Whether I liked it or not I’d have to fight for my life.
Gary had been in a hurried consultation with Alan. Then as Alan hurried off the others scattered to their designated positions. I stood for a moment, at a loss but Gary reassured me, “It’s OK. We’re sorting out your weapons. You get round that corner and cover us from there. Jimmy will be inside the main porch .... I’ll take that window and Lee Marvin’s covering the approach from the roof, behind that chimney.”
The sound of running impinged on my consciousness and Henry Fonda darted towards me from the corner near the barn.
“I’m along from Annie now. With you here we’ve got all the approaches covered. Save your ammunition for as long as you can and make every bullet count.” He handed over a rifle, a six-shooter and two boxes of ammunition.
“I hope you’re as good as Gary says you are. Once that’s gone you’ve only your fists!”
As Henry turned to sprint away I shouted after him “Hey! How many of us are there! What are our odds?”
“Get on back...” Gary ordered. “I’ll fill him in .... tell the others that he’s at the corner of the barn.” Gary turned towards me, counting rapidly on his fingers. “You’ve seen most of us. I’ve also got James Garner and Burt Lancaster in the upper rooms covering each side. I’ve paired Grace Kelly with Cary Grant at the back and Jane Russell’s watching from the kitchen porch. She’s good but not as good as Annie.”
“Annie?”
“Oh! Doris Day then - you know what she’s like about her characters. But she’s a crack shot and has good cover on that corner.”
I was still anxious. “How will you tell when the gang are in range?”
Gary half turned and pointed beyond the stockade to a line of low hills in the middle distance.
“You see that white rock there .... the one with the clump of brush just below?”
He waited for my nod of recognition and continued, “Roy Rogers is hidden up there. Trigger’s in those bushes. When Roy sees the gang’s dust cloud rising over the next bluff he’ll signal and then make his way back here. Gene Autry is up there on the water tower. He’ll sing out when Trigger starts his run - then wait to bar the gate behind them. OK?”
“OK,” I replied and moved unwillingly towards my designated place.
The rumbling I’d heard was louder now, a regular thudding mixed in with the soundtrack. I glanced around uneasily checking that Gary had reached his spot by the window. A sudden wind sent tumbleweed spiralling across the corral. It bowled towards me then turned skittishly back towards the fence. I heard Yul’s whistling again, this time less tuneful, more a repeated chord of warning. Then it stopped and in the sudden hush I held my breath, sensing something but not sure what.
Then it came again, more clearly now - the sound of horses being ridden hard ..... I shivered and swallowed hard and recognised the chill as fear. I had to strain to keep my knees from buckling. Still no sound except that regular beat. The temperature rose again and I felt sweat break out under my hat but daren’t move to mop my forehead
Someone shouted, “This is it!” and a tuneless voice sang loudly, “A home on the range, a home on the range....” then as the noise swelled unbearably another blast of wind buffeted me.
I felt panic as a sour taste in my mouth and tried to swallow. My ears were blocked yet I still heard the rumbling of hoof beats, louder and louder as if inside my head. The sharp crack of shots followed immediately, echoing and re-echoing. My hand grasped the rifle butt; I’d been slow in loading. Now I fumbled with the box, my fingers scrabbling around the bullet shapes but they kept slipping away. Dust choked me. It was difficult to see. A rasping crack attracted me. I turned my head to see the gantry supporting the water tank starting to buckle.
Movement all around me - a swirling of dirt and chaos. I was on my knees. When had I fallen? I had to move. I struggled to rise but sucked a great cloud of dust into my lungs and doubled over again, coughing and spluttering, my eyes sore and streaming.
They’d got it all wrong. This wasn’t the Brady Gang. This was no straightforward attack on the ranch, there was too much damage. Not all this noise, all this havoc came from outside. Unless - was it possible? Was there a renegade in our midst? Someone had booby-trapped the ranch house. How? Who’d had access to enough dynamite to cause this much destruction?
The wood shed! You could easily hide a few sticks in there! That was it! Light the fuse in the confusion when the alert was raised. Get out of range. The wood shed - right by the kitchen - who was there? Who could have done it?
Still struggling in the gloom, I managed to raise one arm - wiped my forehead. My fingers felt wet - and came away dark. Not only sweat. Blood? I must have been hit - I felt no pain. Was that serious? Something flickered - I was distracted by by action framing a memory.... hats. Alan, twisting his in his hands - a white hat. Alan always wore a white hat. But someone else - who? - Who had worn the black one?
That was when the pain hit me. Pain in my legs and pain in my heart. A silhouette against the sun - hat pushed back. Black! Yul!
I’d given up trying to load my rifle, tried instead to lever some space around my body. I couldn’t work out why I was trapped. I’d been outside the barn but well covered by the corner and the fence. The barn held feed and harnesses, gear to work the ranch. It had protected me from the worst of the explosion but must have collapsed for its walls had gone. It wasn’t the planking that was pinning me down. I tried to shout but spluttered again on the dust and debris, my mouth and throat dry.
“Water - someone get me some water...” was all I managed.
Silence! Silence punctuated by sporadic creaks and bangs. Then wreckage shifted. I still couldn’t see any sky although now I could hear unfamiliar sounds. As the swirling air began to settle I tried to locate the others. Was anyone left? Had the Brady Bunch succeeded? I sank back undecided, pain now throbbing through my head as well as my legs. I thought I heard people - could I risk discovery? I didn’t have the chance to decide; a groan escaped with my breath and I heard a shout from somewhere nearby. What would it be - a bullet or assistance?
“I told you those footprints were new! Get in there fast! And call an ambulance. It’s just as well the demolition crew is late today, if we’d used the ball instead of the tractor we’d never have found him.”
A head bent over me. “What are you doing here, mate? Can’t you read warning signs? You’d never catch John Wayne in an ambush” ©
