The Craftsman (Part Two)

Is Finding Out the Truth its own reward?

Alfred walked on with renewed resolve.

A minute later, the craftsman turned off the high street and walked down a narrow alleyway. Alfred jogged a little to catch up moving as fast as his flabby body would allow him. He turned the corner and kept the craftsman in sight. For the first time, there was no-one between Alfred and the man who he had been pursuing, and it seemed to Alfred that the atmosphere changed. It wasn’t something that he could put his finger on, just a slight cooling in the air around him, like swimming over the lip of a coral reef. A chill moved down his spine but he ignored in his pursuit.

It pleased Alfred to think that he might satisfy his curiosity within the time he had allowed himself.

The craftsman still didn’t turn around, but he did stop. His eyes, unseen to Alfred were black in the centre, and that centre was growing, overtaking his facial expression as he stood still for a moment. If Alfred could have seen those eyes, he would have turned back for sure. The craftsman paused before entering a kebab shop on the left-hand side of the alley. Alfred stopped too, looking up at the huge neon sign proclaiming ‘KEBAB WORLD’. He followed him into the shop.

Alfred loved burgers. Maybe they sold a good burger. And chips. He could grab a bite to eat, thereby fuelling his constant desire for greasy food. Alfred had almost completely forgotten about the bus by now. The smell of the cooking meat and boiling fat was calling out to him.

He saw that the craftsman was in the queue, behind a young woman who was being served. Alfred’s more recent craving to find out what was in the metal tool-box looked like it might be served up as a starter, as the craftsman fiddled with its lock. He opened the lid ever so slightly, but not enough for Alfred to see inside. Alfred joined the queue, but already found himself behind the two boys who he had seen mocking him at the bus station as he ran down the stairs. They were engrossed in the game they were playing, however, and didn’t notice Alfred at all. It looked like they had come to an agreement about whose turn it was to play the next game, and the smaller kid nodded and encouraged excitedly while his friend tried to complete the level.

Alfred thought about questioning the two boys on their behaviour back at the bus station, but it was a fleeting thought. His mind was mainly occupied with the craftsman and that gleaming tool box. There was a bleeping from the computer game that the boys were playing. But Alfred didn’t look at the computer screen; he was watching the back of the craftsman’s head, which was just in front of the two boys. Alfred followed the curve of his shoulders down to his strong arms, and the tool-box. The knuckles of his hand were white, he was holding the handle so tight.

The man serving behind the counter was talking to the young woman, seemingly not too bothered about the rapidly growing queue. The blonde flicked her hair and looked down at her hands, flirting with the handsome server. Even Alfred recognised that he was a well-groomed man, and the woman tossed her hair and leaned in closer as he packaged her food, so that his eyes were drawn in the direction of her cleavage. This seemed to annoy the craftsman, who turned away from them in mild disgust.

For the first time since the bus-station, he caught sight of Alfred. Alfred wanted to look away, to casually scan the menu pictures to feign indifference to the man he had been pursuing for almost twenty minutes now. But he couldn’t avert his gaze, he was locked in a trance with the craftsman, whose own eyes burned with anger, not at Alfred, but just burned. Undiluted vitriol poured from his face and captivated Alfred. He couldn’t move.

He was rooted to the spot as solidly as if he was a statue.

Finally, the craftsman broke the stare, looking down at the two boys, hearing the beep of their computer game. He glanced back up at Alfred, but sensing movement in front of him, turned to face the server once more. Alfred exhaled silently in relief.

The craftsman raised his tool-box onto the counter as the young woman took her food. The server bade her goodbye, and winked at her as she left. Alfred didn’t look to see her go, and nor did the craftsman. He opened the tool-box and reached in with his right hand. Alfred craned his head round the two boys to see. The two boys weren’t remotely interested, shuffling forward and continuing with their game. The server himself only viewed the tool box with slight interest.

‘Can I take your order, sir?’ he asked. There was an eastern-European slant to his speech, Alfred thought. Maybe Turkish or Greek.

Then, a momentary tightening of the skin around the server’s eyes showed recognition. He knew the craftsman and the colour drained from his face. Cold, naked fear was etched across his features. The look only grew stronger as the craftsman reached into his tool-box and pulled a shiny, black pistol from it. He threw the tool-box across the shop and it clanged against the far wall. The craftsman pointed the gun at the server, who stammered words that Alfred couldn’t understand. Maybe he was Cypriot? Alfred wished that he had paid more attention on family holidays when he was a little boy. He wished that he had got on the bus 20 minutes earlier, or not even leant the car to his wife. More than anything, he wished just not to be standing where he was in that moment of time.

He was caught in a trap and could feel it around him.

The two boys stopped playing their game. They lay face down on the tiled floor as the craftsman told them to. Alfred could see them lying down, with their palms on the cold floor and tears coming from the corners of their eyes. He could hear people outside shouting and running, with their arms over their heads until the alleyway was deserted. Alfred watched dumbstruck as the server shook his head uncontrollably, whilst the craftsman fixed Alfred with his eyes. He pointed to the floor with his left hand, while the gun went to Alfred’s head. Alfred didn’t move, he was paralysed to the spot.

Then Alfred saw something he hadn’t seen before. The server was speaking, but no sound was coming from his mouth, like someone had muted the shop with a remote control. He watched in silence as the craftsman swung the gun and fired two bullets into the server’s head. The server died instantly and fell backwards. His skull cracked against the deep fat fryers and his body slumped lifelessly to the floor.

Alfred saw the craftsman raise the gun above his head in slow motion and bring it down sharply towards Alfred’s head. Then everything went black.

Alfred woke, his head throbbing with pain, just a few minutes later. Though to Alfred, it could have been a night later. It took him so long to collect his thoughts, to recognise what his senses were telling him. He could remember a receipt from Wilson Motors, the smell of his wife cooking bacon in the kitchen, following a man, then seeing a neon sign, a bus driving very fast and his secretary, the clock above her head and the way that the hands on the clock seemed to turn so slowly…

‘There’s no need for any more violence.’ came a voice. ‘Put the gun down on the floor and come out from behind the counter with your hands above your head. No-one else needs to get hurt.’

The last words were thick with implication, and the craftsman knew it. He knelt behind the stainless steel counter, checking how many bullets he had in the gun.

Alfred struggled to identify the words in solid form. His head was swimming. He tried to look around, but he was still swathed in darkness. He went to stretch his hands, but he could feel resistance. Pulling with more strength, he could tell they had been bound. He was laying on his front, he was sure of that too, his hands being free to move and above him, he had to be lying face down. He couldn’t see because something was over his face, it felt rough like a sack or rough cloth. A jumper, maybe?

Alfred tried to hum. He couldn’t hear because the pain in his ears was so bad. Maybe he had hurt them when he fell down. Maybe he hadn’t fallen down, no. He hadn’t. That… craftsman had pushed him down. The craftsman!

‘We have the building surrounded. There’s only one way out and that’s with your hands up. Let’s keep the situation under control. We know you have children in there.’

Alfred strained desperately with his eyes. All he could make out were the alternate flashing lights quite nearby. Blue, red, blue, they pulsed, in time with his heartbeat, thick and warm under his skin. Alfred heard muffled groans, which he correctly guessed were coming from the two boys who had been standing in front of him in the queue, then laying down as they were told by the craftsman. It had all come back to him now.

There was a bang against the glass of the shop-front window. It was metal, so Alfred assumed it was the craftsman’s gun. Alfred heard pacing of irregular footsteps on the greasy floor, close by his head. Then he head gabbled muttering from the craftsman; it had to be him, because it was in a completely foreign tongue. Alfred felt sure he could have made out the words had they been in English.

Alfred went to speak, but he didn’t know what to say or how to say it. The pain in his head just by making the effort to attempt speech was blinding and unbearable. He felt warm blood trickling from a gash in his cheek, presumably from when the craftsman struck him with his gun.

Then Alfred felt a hand on the back of his head, taking his hair in its palm. Then he heard rapidly approaching footsteps from outside the building, getting closer, louder. Then he felt a cold, hard object being pressed to the back of his neck.

Then Alfred felt nothing at all.

Author’s Note

This is one of my earliest short stories and its been fun to revisit. Its also the one that is most truthful. I was waiting for a bus and saw the craftsman of the title walking away carrying exactly what I describe in the story, a toolbox with the mouth of the crocodile painted on it. He was walking in that determined way I describe in the story, like he saw no-one around him and didn’t care for anyone or anything outside of his eyeline.

I, of course, didn’t follow him out of the bus station. I caught my bus, but while on it, sunlight flooding in through the windows, I drifted into a daydream about what might have happened if I’d followed him. Who was he? What on Earth was he on his way to carry out? I thought about the kind of person who could afford - both in time and money - to take up pursuit, and what the consequences of that might be.

I also thought of a famous photo I’d seen of two Italian boys walking stride for stride behind two men. To me, it conjured the decay of human bodies, but also ideals. When we’re young, all we want to do is mess about on computer games and playing pranks. When we grow up, we lie, cheat and deceive as adults (then preach to our children that they shouldn’t). I wanted to conjure up some of that hypocrisy here and in my head, though I left it unwritten for readers to fill in, neither of the boys died.

Only Alfred.