“Blood seeping through the gum still taste the taste of it on my tongue ****** ‘orrible it was!
Hated her ever since.”
“Now, look whatcha made me done! ” she hollered at him.
“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”
He didn’t dare cry ‘cos she’d hit for crying!
“She was a hard one…our Mum! Had to be with us ****** lot!
She were fun though when she were happy! ”
He hoped to God that his man would come
so he could **** him and be done.
Didn’t know him from Adam
(leader of the insurgents capable of getting men around him) .
“Dangerously charismatic! ”
Better dead to keep the British peace alive
as the Empire lay dying.
The sun setting dying him a golden brown.
“If he don’t come soon I won’t have the light to **** him.”
“Remembering shooting game with our Dad rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight
. . .such as this.”
The dangly ****** rabbit turning into next night’s stew
eating a celebration of what you can do
- do well...****.
How he came to be here
up a ****** gum tree gun in hand…staring
waiting for a man to ****.
Same ****** thing. Simple ****** plan!
Waiting 3 days now and no man.
“Keep your position ...over.” “Maintain radio silence.”
“Report in when job done.” “Roger ok that...over & out.”
“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”
“Didn’t believe it myself until I seed it! ”
Dot in the distance translating itself into a man.
Just enough light left for killing.
“And now, put out the light ...put out the light! ”
He muttered to himself.
****** Othello! The only Shakespeare he knew.
“A lass I once knew A real brain & chatter box! ”
“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers & the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”
“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English and she ****** well Scottish!
****** cheek! ...och aye...but nooo! ”
The crossroads funnel him into the killing spot
“Trot trot trot trot! like Noyes’s THE HIGHWAYMAN!
Noyes! No...yes!
Why think of Majorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!
No poetry in killing just plain ****** prose.
Dead is dead is dead.
A blown rose fading on the periphery of his vision.
The cross-hairs come to rest
like a deadly spider on the rider’s face.
He’s ****** grinning.
The man doesn’t even know he’s already dead!
Won’t even know what’***** him!
(Probably thinking of a sweetheart and getting her into ****** bed)
Just like I am.
Just the gentlest of squeezes
like stroking a lassie’s **** (Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)
Then - that’s it! The rifle spits and speaks
in the language of the dead
and only one man understands what’s said.
And where there was a head there is now no head.
You see it only for the briefest of seconds
and can’t really believe it!
How the head blossoms!
Like a sudden flower and then fades
in that instant.
Mindless now...
he plucks the faded rose (or whatever it is it’s called around here)
reminds him of England.
Pops it into an amo pocket.
Good clean ****.
Head shot – one shot.
Tries to pretend... but it always hits him hard
taking a closer look at his handiwork.
Kicks the body: “You poor stupid ****** ******! ”
“A man no less a man than I am...”
Faceless.
Lying there in the dirt as he were only having a kip.
Becoming dirt.
Breaks radio silence: “Come and ****** well pick me up! ”
“Jolly well done! ”
The radio cackles back.
“Jolly good show! ”
Brian was the gentlest and nicest man...he had a great sense of humour and always greeted me with a big sweary hello. He was always delighted to see me and I him. He was a delight to be with. I knew he had been in the army but didn't know the where and when of it. One evening as we sat in his room with the sun bathing us in gold he suddenly came out with all of this...inside this lovely man was the practical let's-get-on-with-it killer....a job to be done no more. I've tried to keep his voice and his telling and the sense of self...letting him tell the story as he did that day without any comment.