The Route Back

A door swings quietly open, whisking in a stranger from the black hole he draws shut behind him. Autumn leaves rush the airlock. One in one out, caressing the cobble stone floor. The dogs eyes rise from his silent dance with the fire and back again. Gravy overflows from plates. Drinks are spilled. Laughter can be heard from the front half of the bar. Towards the back they become disgruntled and hard to make out.

A single finger protrudes from a dark jacket; each other’s backs are well looked after. The water is brought over to him immediately.

“Thanks, Tom.”

The man takes a seat and draws a well worn black notebook from his left breast pocket. The tightly bound space contained within is pried apart by his large, weathered hands, ready for pen to void paper.

17th

20:38 - 12 ounce steak and champagne for everyone on north eastern table. Most likely bought by - Male, 35. Insignia {blue white} would indicate he’s from Mayfair, Berkeley House. Case the mark from normal vantage point {meet up with Matthew} on 21st. Distinctly grating laugh, ski jump nose and/Essex accent. Edit: be careful to listen out for him coughing. He is sat 2 seats away from the coughing woman.

20:39 - An influx of people should step inside any second. Come to shelter from the elements and the setting sun.

20:51 - One of the man’s female friends has made her excuses to leave for the bathroom. I can hear her coughing now.

20:54 - The woman has come back and kissed another man, but is most likely also romantically involved with the mark.

20:58 - A man has just been thrown out for coughing at the bar. Poor Tom, this place shouldn’t even be open in these dark times.

21:15 - The coughing man stumbled back in and fell onto my table, grabbing my hand to catch his fall. His pockets were empty.

DISINFECT HANDS WHEN HOME.

21:26 - Woman left her bag unattended.

CONTENTS: 3x ring (silver), 1x leather diary, 1x box (tobacco)

21:27 - Woman has run off into the night to find the coughing man whom she unjustly assumes has stolen her possessions.

21:37 - Tom has given the first signal {they’re here}

21:55 - Tom has given the second signal {they’ve switched the driver}

The shadow of the man caresses the smoke stained wall, as he strides out of the pubs backdoor and into the familiar embrace of the cold, dark.

A little up the roadside, he waits with the night, for the distinct sound of wheels and shoes. They come to a stop exactly where agreed upon. The driver jumps off the front and runs into the woods. Richard emerges from the roadside, throwing open the carriage door and clapping the bayonet to the man’s breast, saying, with an oath.

“Stand and deliver, your money, or your life!”

The light from the carriage outlines an impenetrable figure with dark brown eyes, bookending the slit of visible skin. The eyes may be a gateway to the soul, but they will not betray a man, nor a boy, nor Richard. His makeshift bandana filters out a deep voice.

“Quickly.”

Boom. Click. Boom. Thud.

Moonlight bounces off the bullet casing as it falls into abyss, a mercurial nymph, whistling in the night. The crack rattles through the trees as they are momentarily basked in the glow of a life passing. Birds take flight from their nests, leaving eggs and chicks behind. Then, a vacuum of sound clings to the air. Somewhere in the darkness, a Union Jack continues to flap, unperturbed.

The smoke clears as the young woman draws her final breath. Richard takes a step back, dragging his other foot along to the floor towards him. Numb, he laments this theft.

An owl hoots far off in woods as the other man wets his lips with a trembling lick of his tongue.

“Take it. Just take it all.” The man stammers as he takes flight.

Richard waits a few seconds before taking aim at the back of the man’s head.

Click. Click. Nothing. Click. One musket is cheaper than two pistols. Too dark to reload.

Before rage takes ahold of Richard, a smile widens across his face as he recollects his thoughts and notices a faint cough ringing out down the moonlit road. He’ll be a coward until the day he dies.

Richard averts his gaze back to the lifeless body. Her leg is slumped out of the carriage door like a lamb who strayed too far from the flock, pistol resting on the now visible garters. Her head droops out of the carriage door window, eyes bathed in the starry sky above. Opposite her sits the chest, cushioned by the plush red internals of the carriage. With one decisive movement, Richard extends his hand to the brass handle. His body tenses, ready to pull and hoist. He breathes a deep sigh, air illuminated in the winter tomb.

He drags the chest to the road side and opens it, but there is no joy here. A drop of blood escapes his future scar, rolling down his cheek and kissing him goodbye, marking one of twenty-thousand American dollars that the chest has failed in guarding. They are sorted and organised and still and inanimate. Tom had insisted that 20,000 British pounds would be delivered from Portsmouth to London tonight, but it would seem there was a missing prologue to his story.

Richard Turpin gets to his feet and draws a match, looking down the desire path towards the heath and London. Branches coronate the pitch black shortcut, one that the rich cannot preside over.

As he flicks the match into the chest, containing the raging tempest within, he weeps for his home; a sixteen year old swain unable to administer true loves first kiss. Lamplights dot the still night air. The heart of the city beats still, in stasis, waiting for a cure.