The Sleeper Awakes

He lay on the pavement, a dirty raggety figure proffering his plastic container. “Any loose change?” he would ask hopefully of the passing public.

He had sat in this very site for months, becoming a fixture, part of the fabric of downtown Lython. The shopkeepers knew him and saw him every working day, either to chase him away when he came to beg scraps from the food shops or tell him to ‘be on his way and don’t bother the customers’ when he went mobile.

 But he was nearly always to be found outside the Salvation Army shop. They would never ‘move him on’ and often came out with a cup of hot sweet tea for him and a biscuit if they saw that his plastic container was empty.

That day it was particularly cold and there were a limited number of pedestrians going about. Snow blew through on a north wind and leaves, the ambassador’s of autumn, blew in clouds above the road. The man shivered and pulled his coat more tightly about him. Another pair of hours, he thought and he would head home or if you could call a one roomed hovel, home.

“Now then, what have we here?” asked a sarcastic voice. A policeman stood looking down at the man. “You can’t beg here, you know.”

“I ain’t doing anyone any harm officer,” grunted the man looking everywhere but at the policeman. “The Sallies don’t mind me being here.”

“Well we’ve had complaints from some of the shop owners about you,” said the police officer. “They say you’ve been annoying their customers.”

“Nah, not me. I just stick to my pitch. I don’t annoy anyone” whispered the man getting up and folding the torn blanket that he sat on.

“Well, off you go and don’t let me find you here again.” The parting comment of the constable blended with the wind howling down the street and sounded like a supernatural warning. The man shivered again.

The following day found the man back at his place. It was raining and people hurried by, several under large brollies, some under hoods, but all in a hurry to be out of the nasty weather.

“Got any change?” growled the man holding out his receptacle, but it was as if he had become invisible. No one even acknowledged his existence. He was a non-person.

At eleven o’clock one of the Salvation Officers brought him out a mug of tea and two Bourbon biscuits. “Thank you, thank you” he said taking the steaming cup from a uniformed lady with blonde hair.

Months went by and the man, by collecting unemployment benefit and from his meagre collections from a few sympathetic souls, continued his existence.

The police came off and on to threaten him with meaningless warnings which he rolled with, but ignored.

The summer approached and with it came an increase in the people out and about enjoying the warmth of the sun. The man’s takings increased and he often had to surreptitiously partially empty his container to prolong the abject look of poverty that he gave out.

One of the warm days he was dozing and not paying attention to those who passed him.

“Are you alright?” asked a little voice.

The man opened his eyes to see who had spoken, but the sun was shining from behind them and it gave the person the appearance of a halo. The man squinted and saw that a small girl stood before him proffering a coin. An older woman stood a little bit away observing.

“Yes…I am alright,” grumbled the man. “I was just having forty winks.”

“Well here you are,” the little girl said. “I hope it helps you Mister…?” She paused, waiting for the man to fill in the gap.

“Uhhh…” It had been so long since he had spoken his name that he had forgotten it.

“I’m just a beggar,” he said with a grunt.

“But you must have a name,” persisted the girl, “everyone has at least a first name.”

“Well…I think my name is Bill.” The man growled picking on the first name that came to mind.

“Well, nice to meet you Mr Bill,” the girl said extending her hand to the man.

He looked at the proffered hand and automatically took it and gave it a little shake. “And to you too Miss…?”

“Oh, I am Sylvia,” she proudly replied.

“Sylvia! Sylvia!” shouted the awaiting older woman. “Time we were getting home.”

Sylvia turned and smiled at the man. “Goodbye then,” she said. “Take care.” And before the man could reply Alice had disappeared with the lady into the crowd.

The man looked at his hand and whispered the little girl’s name to himself. Instantly he recalled an earlier time, a happier time, running through the long grass under a golden sun chasing his sister Alice. Happy childhood memories of loving parents and an annoying but ‘fun to be with’ sister. He felt a warmth percolate through him as he relived the experiences.

The rest of the day passed quickly. The man decided that he would buy a fish supper on the way home. He would count his takings and maybe hide some under a floorboard in his room. Salting away funds for the poorer days.

Something dropped into his collecting box. It sounded heavy and the man looked up to see who had dropped it in, but due to the number of people who were about, it was difficult to spot his benefactor.

Looking in his box the man saw something wrapped in paper amongst the coins. He lifted it out and unfolded it. A two pound coin lay in the centre of the paper and the man spread it out to see if it contained a note. Instead of writing the paper bore a series of letters and numbers.

34 PX 97 ZQ 56 SJ

Instantly the man started back. He felt as if he was suffering an epileptic fit.

 Visions shot into his head. An encampment, somewhere far away. A classroom where he sat with other individuals being taught… What was on the blackboard? Diagrams, maps….!  Why was it so difficult to remember? He seemed to remember electric shocks, injections and long periods of not being allowed to sleep.

 But suddenly he knew what he had to do. But he needed… What did he need?

The man flung the door to his room open and collapsed on the camp bed he slept on. He felt sick, confused… He knew what he had to do and when he had to carry out the action, but where was the …..? He looked around the room.

A parcel lay just inside the door. Someone had obviously gained entry and left it for him. Could this be the …? Rolling of the bed he grabbed the paper wrapped bundle and ripped it open.

A Glock 36 pistol fell out of the parcel onto his bed. The man didn’t know how he knew the make and model of the handgun, but he did…instinctively.

A note was the only other item inside and the man took it out and scrutinised it

17TH 12 LE 13 ZX

The job was to be done on the 17^th at 12.00 on the road by his site. He had been prepared for the job. He knew what he had to do. Free choice did not enter into it. He was a man with a mission.

  The following day dawned with a sunrise as red as a ripe tomato or as red as …blood.

The man struggled down the street towards the Salvation Army shop, but before he got there he was accosted by a policeman.

“Sorry mate,” he said. “We got to keep the street clear today. We don’t need the likes of you hanging about.”

The man looked about him incredulously, “but all I want to do is sit in my usual place. I won’t bother anyone.”

Another policeman arrived in time to hear the man’s plaintive request. He leant over and whispered in his colleagues ear, “he wont cause any problems. He’s harmless.”

The morning passed without incident but due to the restrictions on traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, the man’s collection box lay empty. He had secreted the pistol in his trousers’ waist band. He wondered if the second policeman imagined how harmless he was…now.

As twelve o’clock approached the man started experiencing strange physiological effects. He felt omnipotent. Like a god he knew he had the power of life and death. He knew that he and he alone deserved to live yet others, especially those that were coming…had to die! His heart beat faster as adrenalin coursed through his veins and arteries. He felt wonderful.

The police escort guarded the limousine. Two motor cyclists sat before and aft offering protection and a guaranteed, undelayed journey for the Right Honourable James Watkins, M.P. and his family. They were on their way to open a museum in Lython.

Government funds had paid for a complete refurbishment of the old museum and now the public were to be educated about the history of the area and the country, using the latest technology. The architect responsible for the innovations had been awarded a prize for his far looking suggestions and ideas. James Watkins M.P. was to cut the ribbon and open the way for the masses.

As the motorcade approached, the man surreptitiously pulled the pistol out and checked the magazine. It was full with special explosive tip bullets. Perfect for the job ahead.

Standing up, he moved to the edge of the pavement, careful to keep his weapon out of site. He could see the large limousine with tinted windows. His quarry was inside and it was now up to him.

“Crack!” the first bullet penetrated the nearside tyre and the car slewed round and jerked to a stop.

“Crack!” the second bullet shattered the windscreen and hit the driver in the arm. He slumped forward, bleeding profusely.

The man ran to the car door and yanked it open.

 Inside he could see the MP and his wife. The wife had bashed her forehead and was bleeding, the MP was attempting to pull his wife behind him and act like a human shield.

The man raised the pistol and pointed at the MP’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger and he prepared to fire, when suddenly a figure leapt in front of James Watkins, a figure with long golden hair.

“Please, please don’t hurt my Daddy or Mummy!” the little girl said, hugging the crouched bodies of the MP and his wife. “Please…….!”

The man was in the field with his sister Alice. Happy, happy days. Golden days when the sun stayed in the sky for weeks and the blue sea washed up waves on golden sand.

“Alice, Alice. Don’t leave me…. I need you,” he whispered and raising the pistol to his head, shot himself.