Mister Bump UK

Old Habits

535 words (3-4 minutes)

“Not Guilty.”

The foreman’s words are a trigger. Celebration, yes, but mainly, relief. A release of the pent-up stress that built over the last year. The judge’s following spiel is a blur, a caption bubble, burst only by the calming voice of my brief.

“Congratulations, Mr Wallace, you’re free to leave.”

But I don’t leave. Not immediately. Instead, I wait impatiently for the barrister. Eager to flee the claustrophobic courtroom, together we brave the small crowd of reporters. For a murder trial attracts interest. A brief press conference, “a victory for justice”, we then walk the short distance back to the privacy of her chambers.

I can’t thank her enough. The prosecution thought it was all sewn up. A watertight case, they boasted. But consistently, she introduced doubt. Uncertainty. The motive? The murder weapon? Every little thing. Exposing a deeply-flawed narrative, revealing an ill-fitting patchwork of unproven theories. Even their “experts” would not agree, and the jury had seen clearly through their botch, taking only an hour to acquit me. And here I am now, free as a bird.

It is lunchtime before I am bundled into the anonymous black taxi, for the short journey back home. After so long on remand, I have but one goal. To celebrate.

But first, I must prepare.

I draw a long, deep bath and reacquaint myself with cleanliness, a luxury denied for so long. Scrubbing again my already-clean finger nails, I will need to wash over and over, to finally cleanse the accumulated grime of incarceration from my pores. But this soak will suffice. For now.

I enjoy the sensation of Egyptian cotton once more against my skin, patting myself dry in the walk-in wardrobe. Dressing, I am almost ready to leave again, and I make my last chore a visit to my garage, where I instantly spot the small cardboard box, nestled perfectly in my ultra-organised man-cave, removing two brand new, blue latex gloves. Those which a surgeon might wear. I place them safely in the deep, inside pocket of my trench coat and fish another two out of the box, dropping them into my front pocket. Because they have grown brittle with age, and accidents can happen.

My journey is vague. Two tubes, a busy interchange, two buses, a mile walk. Nostalgia. My old haunts. The area I fledged, left unvisited these last three years. As the autumn dusk arrives, I am at last on the heath. I find the bench, the tree and soon afterwards, my quest there is complete. I stroll back toward civilisation, a further mile before I catch another bus. Reaching the city once more, now beginning to heave, I find a suitable bar.

I order a soft drink, observing the crowd as I settle near a pillar.

The dark-haired man is loud. But awkward. A hanger-on, wishing to be part of the “in” crowd. I order another drink, and sip slowly, settling in.

He makes to leave. Alone. Friendless once more. As he fastens his coat tight against the chill, I carefully put on mine.

Imperceptibly, I open it, glancing into the pocket. I am satisfied, immediately catching sight of the azure gloves  once more. And the dull glint of the blade.

Happy hallowe’en, everybody ☠️🖤☠️🖤☠️🖤☠️🖤☠️🖤.

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Published by Mister Bump UK

Divorced, grown/flown daughter. In life, I designed IT systems, taking a career break as a bicycle mechanic, until interrupted by a stroke in 2016, aged 48. As I convalesced, I combined the development of health-related apps with voluntary work, and began writing. After a stint working again in IT, I now write full-time, and use my blog space to let my hair down.

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