Nobody came to get the gun. A month or two went by, and Tony realized it was his now.
Tony played soccer in the street near the school which also happened to be across the way from the British patrol station. The colonel, whose name was Floodwell, was a stiff and proper man with waxed moustaches and suspicious eyes. Planning, that was important. And doing it alone. Twice a week at exactly six o’clock the colonel left the patrol station and walked three blocks to a narrow little street without a name that sat on The Bluffs. The street was a dead end and beyond the barrier, the land dropped away fifty or sixty feet to the street below. There were houses built into the side of The Bluffs whose basements were on the lower level. The colonel walked down the dead-end street and, using his own key, entered a house near the dead end and there he had a drink of Scotch and dinner and made love to the young woman who had rooms in the house.
Tony planned his first execution all winter long, following the colonel, watching him from the darkness across the Street. He found an abandoned house and used it as a short cut home from school each night. He memorized the house, knew every step, sat for long periods of time, listening to the rats cavorting in the darkness, making his plans.
Between the vacant house and his own house, there was a small sentry house squatted on the corner and when there was trouble, the troopers stationed there pulled the barbed-wire barriers across the road. Tony had youth on his side. At fourteen, he was still small for his age. When he went home, he went down through the vacant house and out the basement door and crossed the street and walked close to the houses on the other side, staying in the shadows until he was almost to the sentry box. At first he would startle the two troopers at the check point, but they soon got to know him.
On a Monday in early spring, he loaded the Webley, and folded it back in its oilskin wrapper. he got a potato from the pantry and bored a hole about three—quarters of an inch in diameter through the centre of it and put the gun and the potato in the bottom of his canvas knapsack, covering them with books and his lunch. After school, he played soccer in the street near the patrol station. The knapsack lay on the sidewalk in full view of everybody for two hours. By five-thirty it was too dark to play any longer. He said goodbye to his friends and went straight to the deserted house on the nameless street. He got out the oilskin wrapper and unfolded it and held the Webley in his hand and felt its energy, like electricity, sizzling up his arm. He took out the potato. It was a trick Jerry had taught him.
‘It’s good for one shot,’ Jerry had said. Makes a .38 sound like a popgun. Whoever ya hit’ll die with potato all over his mug.’ And he had laughed. Tony twisted it on the end of the barrel. He waited in the dark with the rats. He felt no fear, only exhilaration.
The colonel entered the nameless street whistling a tune, his swagger stick under his arm. He walked with a marching step, jaunty and arrogant, his chin held up high. Tony stepped out of the doorway and stayed close to the house. He started to walk toward the colonel.
He was ten feet away when the colonel saw him. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘You gave me a start there, boy. Step out here, let me have a look at you.’
Tony looked up at the colonel, but suddenly he wasn’t looking at the colonel’s thin lips or his long, arrogant nose or his glittering, cold eyes. He was looking, instead, at the face of his father. He stepped out of the dark, held the gun at arm’s length and squeezed the trigger.
The potato muffled the shot.
It went pumf.
And the potato disintegrated and the bullet ripped into the colonel’s head just above his left eye and tore the side of his skull away. Bits of potato splattered against his shocked face. The force of the shot twisted him half around and he staggered sideways, his feet skittering under him, but he did not fall. He kept his balance and turned back toward Tony. The side of his face was a soggy mess. His eye was blown from its socket. Geysers of blood flooded down his jacket. His one good eye stared with disbelief at Tony. He took an unsteady step and fell to his knees.
A window opened down the alley.
‘Whos’at? What’s goin’ on?’ a voice called out.
Tony ducked into the shadows and stared back up the nameless street. A door opened near the end of the street, a shaft of yellow light cut through the darkness.
Tony turned back toward the empty house and then his heart froze. Something grabbed his ankle. He turned, and the colonel had one hand around his ankle and his good eye was glaring up at the youth with hate, and his other hand was clawing at his holster. Blood splashed on Tony’s pants leg. The colonel tried to say something, to scream, but all that came out was a bloody gurgle.
Tony tried to pull away. He dragged the colonel a few feet toward the vacant house, but the officer had Tony’s leg in a death grip. He started to release the pistol from its holster. Tony held the pistol an inch from the man’s forehead and fired again. Floodwell’s forehead exploded. Bits of skull and blood peppered Tony’s face. The colonel rolled over and lay on his back gagging, then a rattle started deep in his throat.
Tony bolted into the doorway of the house, wrapped the gun in its oilcloth packet and stuffed the gun down under his books. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his bloody face as he ran back to the basement steps. He heard footsteps on the street above and he kept running and wiping the blood off his face. When he reached the back door lie stopped. He stuffed the kerchief down with the gun and stepped cautiously into the dark street. It was empty. He walked quickly to other side, where the shadows were deeper and started toward the sentry post. He could see the two troopers inside the small blockhouse in the middle of the road. The street was open. The barbed-wire gate was pulled back on the sidewalk. The two troopers seemed to be working on the radio. He could hear its static as he drew closer.
There was only blood on one of his pants legs. That was a help.
He stayed in the shadows, walking very slowly, his eyes on the two Tans standing near the check booth.
‘I’m tellin’ ya, Striker, it was shots,’ one of them said, ‘at least the second one was.’
‘Awr, ya hear shots in yer sleep, Finch,’ the one called Striker said.
Tony walked toward the two troopers who were silhouetted by the lights in the booth. In the future, he thought walking in the darkness toward them, he would try to think of everything that could go wrong. He would have more than one plan.
Tony reached the barbed-wire gate that had been pulled back on the sidewalk. The two troopers had not seen him, they were busy trying to tune in their radio, but all they were getting was static.
He held his leg against the barbed—wire fence and pushed until he felt one of the steel knots dig through his pants and into his leg. He pulled up and the barb tore deep into his flesh. He screamed.
The trooper called Striker flashed his torch in Tony’s face.
‘Help me, please! I’ve hurt m’self,’ he called out.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Striker cried and rushed over to Tony.
‘You got yerself a bad cut there, son,’ he said, watching blood pumping through Tony’s torn -pants. ‘Dintcha see that wire?’
‘I was in a hurry. Played soccer too long, y’know. I’m really in for it now. Late for dinner and me pants is ruined. My uncle’ll take the strap to me for sure.’
Ere, Finch, get out the kit. Our soccer champ, ‘ere, has got hisself wounded on our wire.’
Finch was hitting the radio with his fist, trying to clear the static. ‘Wonder what the hell’s goin’ on up ‘ere?’ he said. He looked at Tony’s leg. ‘Christ, son, you really tore yourself up, now, dintcha. Hold still a minute, I got some iodine and a bandage in the first aid. Din’ ‘at sound like gunshots to you, Striker?’