Can’t even go for a walk
I’ve spoken of vignettes in Incursion being used to highlight how the protagonist of the story is seen by others, and I thought it might be fun to show he might respond to someone trying to mug him. Here’s a short story from that setting.
It was early spring in Dublin but, if there was any sign of the change in seasons, Sean hadn’t noticed. The cold night air bit into the skin of his face, and he felt like an idiot.
He padded his jacket to check for the steak knife. He supposed it was dangerous enough, but he didn’t want to test that assumption. There was a fundamental wrongness to all of this, and if it wasn’t for Frank threatening to break his legs he wouldn’t even be here. Maybe he could just wave the knife around and that would be it. He hoped so. He’d never seen himself as the kind of guy who’d do something like this but, then again, he never thought he’d be the kind of guy to borrow money from a loan shark.
He shivered in the shadows of the doorway, the shop it was connected to closed now for hours. He looked at his phone. Eleven twenty-three. The streets were quiet here, but someone good would have to appear soon, right? So many groups had gone by, which was too much for him to handle, and even in his current circumstances, he couldn’t bring himself to attack any of the women. One guy on his own who didn’t look too scary, was that too much to ask?
One such man crossed his field of view. Tall, sure, but he looked like he’d never been in a fight in his life. The man was looking at his phone as he walked, one of the newer ones, and he had ear pods in. Listening to music? Listening to a podcast? Either way, he was oblivious to Sean as he started to follow, at a distance at first but closing as the man’s route took him further and further away from where he’d started, that looked relatively bustling in comparison. When things looked entirely deserted, he turned a corner and the man was there waiting in the dead-end alley.
He was standing there, facing Sean, his hands in his jacket pockets, and a bemused expression on his face. ‘Can I help you?’
The confident tone threw Sean off, but he forced himself out of it. ‘Your phone and your wallet, now!’
‘O,’ the man replied, rocking back on his heels, ‘no thank you.’
Sean blinked. What? He reached into his jacket and pulled out the steak knife and held it before him, his arm rigid. ‘I wasn’t asking! Hand them over!’
‘Well, I was answering.’
This was going off the rails. Sean took a step forward. ‘I’ve stuck men bigger than you, ya American prick!’ He hadn’t—he hadn’t stabbed anyone—but he wasn’t going to tell him that.
And bigger? The man had appeared smaller before, hadn’t he? But now he loomed, well over six feet tall. It was as though an image had resolved into focus, and the unassuming man became a giant. No, not a giant. A tree, towering over him, whose branches seemed to stretch into the shadows of the alley and darken the sky. The man bared his teeth in disgust, and Sean felt a spark of terror in his heart.
‘Stuck? Where did you hear that one?’ Sean didn’t know. The man continued. ‘And why does everyone think I’m American? Jesus fucking Christ. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s not accurate. I don’t hear it in my voice, and I’ve obviously got a big Irish head on me.’ The man shook that head. ‘I don’t know where people are getting that one from, but I must be missing something, because I keep—’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ yelled Sean. ‘I don’t give a fuck! Give me your phone and your wallet, right fucking now!’
Another look of disgust blossomed on the man’s face. ‘No, Sean,’ he said, ‘not with that fucking attitude.’
Sean felt his stomach drop. ‘How do you know my name?’
The man shrugged. ‘Maybe you said it to yourself when you were psyching yourself up in that doorway.’
Had he? He couldn’t remember. But even if he did, how could this man have heard? Had he been watching? Then why try make himself a target? Sean could think of only one possibility. ‘Did Frank send you?’
The man visibly sagged, and then was stepping forward, glowering.
Sean didn’t realise he had extended his arm until he’d already done so. An instant later, he found himself disoriented and on his back and scrambling away.
The man was looking down at him, the knife held in a reverse grip in his right hand. ‘O!’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘Sorry.’ He tucked the knife inside his jacket. ‘I’m going to hang on to that, I think.’ He waved his now empty fingers. ‘Fingerprints.’ He seemed at once concerned, and peered into where he’d stashed the knife. ‘I think I just tore a hole in that pocket. Guess I’ll be whipping out the needle and thread when I get home.’
Sean scurried further backwards, until he hit the wall. Trapped. ‘Who are you?’
There was a hint of sadness in the man’s eyes for the briefest of moments, and then it was gone. ‘Someone who knows you’re desperate. Someone who’s glad he’s the one you went after. Someone to whom you are not in any way a threat.’ The man neared Sean and Sean cowered, but the man did not strike him and instead reached out a hand. ‘Someone who wants to help. Come with me, and tell me what’s going on.’