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Archive for March, 2019

 


“The man turned, his jacket opened, plainly visible a .32 in a shoulder holster the message screamed out ‘I can walk around London tooled up without any worries. It was time to go home….’

Peddling along to the first pickup, Stanley stopped and looked at the list. Here he comes looking around he looked twitchy no smiles today. In he goes, a few minutes, head down off he goes, go to the third one, wait he will be a while yet, here he is eyes everywhere looking around, very nervous, this is different it is on today. Miss a couple pick him up again, yes most definitely let’s get back to his flat. Now round the back there’s a small alleyway doesn’t go anywhere put the bike here chain on to many thieves about. Gloves, gun out of the saddlebag into jacket pocket, silencer in the other. Walk round to the front hand through the letterbox, people do what they have grown up doing, step inside pull the key through close the door. Stand still listen all quiet, up the stairs check the kitchen, toilet, bedroom, living room, suitcase feels heavy, whats the time? not much preparation fit silencer and wait. Time is a funny thing, if you have two minutes before you die it goes in a flash, when you have an hour and a half to pass it seems to last forever. A scrabble downstairs, make sure the safety catch is off, sit still, footsteps running up the stairs the door opened a man burst in put the briefcase on the coffee table and reached for the suit case, Stanley pulled the hammer back and the man turned.

NO!!!

Phht…phht

Blood splattered the back wall as the body was thrown across the room wait, silence, pick up the briefcase walk out slowly downstairs, wait listen. Open door step outside pull door shut. Walk round the back there is the bike at least it hasn’t been stolen.

Stanley sat in a park shelter the briefcase beside him. Tuesday morning very quiet, he looked at his watch five minutes, not many people around.  He looked through the missing plank at the back of his shelter, there’s the man walking along the path towards the opposite shelter. He reached it looked at his watch and sat down inside.  Stanley opened the briefcase, assembled the rifle, scope, silencer he looked around all clear. He put the rifle through the opening the stock firmly against his shoulder.  Look through the scope line it up, cross hairs  he’s looking at his watch again, nice and gently, control the breathing steady keep still, the rifle jerked against his shoulder and the man slipped down on the seat.  Stanley started taking the gun apart, scope, silencer, barrel, breach, stock all put away, close the case push the clips in stand up, pick up the case and slowly walk out. Down the path out of the gate along the road, no taxis about better get a bus….”

Michael Douglas Bosc – Author
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A short while ago my granddaughter came to visit, and I took her across the river to the Train Museum in Mora La’ Nova.  I had never been but always because my father who was ex RN, worked in the GWR at Swindon after the war. We arrived to find that the museum was closed but after talking to a really nice man Jordi who turned out to be in charge and explaining that Maggie was over from the UK and returning the next day he offered to show us round.

It was like walking back in time for me, memories of catching the milk train into Swindon for work, the smoke, noise and smell of steam trains came racing back.  For Maggie it was a look into her Great Grandfathers past, a history of something long gone but something that still held romance – adventure even – in others including myself.

Now Jordi has a small problem getting volunteers.  Not many people here understand volunteering (working with out pay for the love of it) and the museum needs

 

 

 

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