Robert Parker - Snow Storm

He breathed a heavy sigh and returned to the view, catching a glimpse of his reflection as he did and briefly not recognising the old man that stood before him. Folds of skin had overtaken the youthfully sculpted jaw line and wisps of grey now flashed out of his eyebrows. The bags under his eyes sagged with the weight of the evil they’d seen and his hair hung limp and colourless across his wrinkled brow. His body was decaying. There was no fighting that. A nip and a tuck might stave off the visuals for a time, but underneath the foundations were beginning to perish.

He would live on in his legacy and in his sons.

Just a few more pieces had to fall into place. Some minor problems to be resolved and all would be well.

Perhaps he would live out his days by a river he considered, as he briefly lost himself again in the water of Leith’s foaming torrent before he bit his lip and forced himself back to reality.

Now was not the time. There was work to be done still.

Andy had just about lived down the humiliation he reckoned, though when it really came down to it there was rarely any living down of any humiliation, perceived or otherwise. People round here had long memories.

It was a powerful motivator. He needed some kind of revenge. Nothing major, nothing too severe, but something at least to save face.

He’d asked around a bit. Where did the guys working at Baldoon live? That kind of thing. A team of workers arriving in a small town; someone should know something. They would be staying in someone’s husband’s granny’s daughter’s attic. Nothing. It seemed they were masters of invisibility. They couldn’t be nowhere. There were only so many places to go round here.

So he knew what he had to do.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t done stalking before. Of course he had. Not in an injunction provoking restraining order demanding sort of way, he’d never been a stalker of human form but he’d hunted down the odd deer. It wasn’t really his thing, too much waiting around. Being a low attention span child of the digital age didn’t really equip you for the joys of lying around in cold grass on the slim chance you might get a shot off.

He’d asked Davie for his help, but the big man said no. He would be watching the golf from Augusta he said. That was where his priorities lay ‘rather than helping out a mate?’ Andy asked and in return he was granted a lecture on the fact that he was ‘laying it on with a fucking trowel’ and that ‘to be fair,’ Davie had ‘done a bit of bacon saving already this week.’

He had a point, Andy agreed. It was never wise to provoke him head on anyway, like most people his size, he tended to assume he shouldn’t really be questioned in any way. Probably true, best not to anger it or risk incoming the wrath.

He knew what he had to do and so in the spirit of adventure he got on with it.

He had to hunt through the wardrobe for black clothes. He tended to wear rugby shorts or boiler suits which he now knew were actually fairly bright. He may have to rethink the wardrobe for next year he realised, maybe buy some of the skinny jeans and what not just to fit in with the rest of the students.

Then he had a bit of inspiration and headed for his parent’s room feeling fairly chuffed with himself. He remembered a photo of his dad from the late ‘70’s or early ‘80’s trying to look like a young Tom Jones or something.

He knew the auld yin would be too tight to throw anything out and after a good old rummage -which he would have admitted made him a bit anxious, as you didn’t want to find anything too risqué in your mum and dad’s possessions- he struck gold. There it was, the very same black polo neck the old boy probably thought made him look French or something back in the day.

He pulled it over his head, bit tight and smelled a bit wardrobey but it would do. Next he needed bottoms and again Pater did not let him down. At the bottom of a box he found an old pair of faded black 501’s. Yes. He was in business.

He donned the rest of the ensemble, completing it with a pair of old trainers and made for the kitchen, pursued by the delectable bouquet of mothball. He raked through the cupboards in the utility room and came up trumps, some black boot polish. Probably not the best for your skin, but he’d used whatever there was of his mother’s makeup left in the house while she was away and drawn a blank. He doubted colouring in his face with mascara or eyebrow pencil was a goer.

He applied the polish in a considered manner, using stripes in a left flowing down side in order to look as much as possible like the SAS, or at least the actors you saw made up to look like the SAS in films, as this was the one place their existence was officially confirmed.

He topped it all off –literally- with an old tourie from the utility room, selected the necessary electrical equipment ensuring the buttons were up to scratch, headed for the Landrover.

He parked just after the road end. Diesel engines weren’t the best for stealth, but it was a windy night and the sound should be deadened by this and the woods he now carefully made his way through.

The moonlight made everything fairly visible but stray clouds blew over every so often making for a few misplaced footsteps.

The lights of the buildings were soon closer providing some much needed assistance. Emerging from the woods at a dry stone dyke, he ran along it keeping as low as possible. He rounded the end of the biggest of the barns and vaulted the dyke. Bastard. The motion sensor caught him as he tried to head along the back wall towards the drive. There was nothing else for it. He kept his head down low, sprinted for the far corner of the barn and threw himself over the dyke on the other side.

He lay in his stomach as the damp started to seep through his makeshift saboteur outfit. He waited for the light to go out.

He made his move and dived over the wall onto the grass at the other side. As he thought, he’d outrun the motion sensors, but he was further away now. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the night sites. They weren’t brilliant. He wouldn’t have relied on them in a battlefield situation but what could you expect from Russian army surplus?

He moved swiftly knowing all too well that the large expanse of grass he was running over was uneven. The sites gave him a clue as to the lay of the land and cut down on the likelihood of a twisted ankle from an unexpectedly high or low foot strike. He hit lower than expected at one point jarring his ankle and his knee and causing an adrenaline spike that made sure the rest of his steps landed more consistently.

As he rounded the last corner, seeing the light streaming from the window he needed, Andy dropped to his knees sliding along the wet grass and coming to a halt dramatically under the window.

Slowly raising his head he took in the scene that emerged.

The lights in the room were in fact low but the room was dominated by a huge screen, must have been 50 inches at least. The sporting event on display was accompanied by occasional giant stats and graphics.

The room was unoccupied apart from a lone figure, whose head Andy could clearly pick out in silhouette above an ancient wingback chair as the light from the screen and a roaring log fire danced around distorting its shape more than normal. Now was the time. He selected the necessary electrical equipment from his pack ensuring to take the right preparatory precautions and took aim.

He held his breath and fired. Nothing. He reloaded taking aim again after the correct amount of shoogle, fired and watched with gritted teeth.

He felt a grin spread across his face as the screen went black, watched as the rotund figure on the chair scrambled around looking for his own remote control before switching the golf back on. As the figure sank back onto the chair, Andy took aim again. This time selecting the TV mode, scrolling down the menu and selecting Al Jazeera.