On arriving home I was greeted by my shaken brother and sister. “How did it happen?” I demanded as sharp as a razor as I entered the kitchen.
“The doctors say heart attack but they’re carrying out a postmortem to make sure. I don’t know myself.” I turned to my mother and blurted out, “I’m so sorry mum, I should have been here for him but, but…,” “Its all right son it’s not your fault. Let’s have our tea now and head up to bed. It’s getting late.” After tea I decided to follow my mother’s advice and go to bed. The house was very eerie and it felt dead without the jolly presence of my father.
The next day was typical of Northern Ireland; the rain was hammering distinctly on the roof and the wind was crashing cruelly against the walls of the house. At about 9am I got up and trudged downstairs. As I was entering the living room, I overheard my mother and brother having a conversation. My mother was saying that the postmortem results had came back, “ He’s been murdered! Poisoned,” shrieked my mother with all her strength. After that she burst into tears, and I charged desperately into the room, “ I guess we should start planning the funeral,” I muttered.
Later that day, I was rummaging carefully through my father’s belongings, to see if there was anything I could remember him by. His belongings were very ordinary, until I found a letter enclosed in a brown envelope. I opened it frantically, like a child opening his present. It read, “Dear John, I know you know what I did and if you so much as breathe a word to anyone I will have to kill you.” I then charged furiously downstairs to show my family. “Do you know anything about this mum,” I roared, “Give it to me! What is it, oh, mm, no I don’t,” she replied hastily. “I guess I’ll have to take it to the police, then,” I answered immediately, “No don’t: I mean what can they do,” my mother exclaimed. “Mum,” I argued, “What’s happened?” “Nothing,” she whispered anxiously. “Mum,” I shouted angrily, “Oh all right, your father, God love him, witnessed that wee Devil down the road Jimmy Smith, shoot some Taig, ages back, your father told me: How your man found out I’ll never know: He shot him. He shot your father,” she jabbered.
I know it sounds a bit childish, but that night at about midnight I sprang out of bed, yawned, stretched and opened my window and gazed out at a beautiful, starry night. The night’s silence said “Go where you will.” I scrambled out of my window and sneaked towards the perpetrator’s house. The house, about a mile away was situated in the country near some derelict farm. Thankfully the streets were empty, perfect for my mission. As I scurried up the long, windy lane that led to the victim’s house, the sky started clouding over and I felt a spineless shudder down my back. I felt as hungry as a hunter. As I fearlessly approached the seemingly deserted house I felt as if a thousand lashes whipped my face.
Once I stepped right up to the house I realised that it was occupied, there was one light on upstairs, I heard the shuffling of feet, “It must be him,” I pondered. Now was the time to plan how I would get into the house undetected, for the ultimate surprise. I reflected further. The only way I was to get in without being noticed was by the back door. So I clambered through the old, creaky door, and found myself in what looked liked the kitchen. Then I started towards the stairs. Strangely I was fearing these creaky stairs the most. I stepped stealthily on the first and second steps. However the third step was disastrous. All of a sudden the stairs began to distinctly scream. “Hello, who is there?” blasted my father’s murderer. When the man scrambled out of his room and headed for the stairs, I pulled out my Berretta bitterly and shot him in retaliation. “For my father!” were the only words I could muster. I killed him. Cold blooded and horrific. It was over. No regrets, no guilt, he was dead.
The thought suddenly occurred to me that I should show a clean pair of heals. In my plundering I could have aroused suspicion and the police would be after me. My instincts were right. I heard the chug of an engine and the hounds were on me in a flash. If I were a fitter man I could have got away but it wasn’t to be. Suddenly a horrid hound pounced on me, puffing and panting. It was over. The police had me now……..
“Hello sir, we have docked, and its time you’d be off,” remarked a steward as he woke me up. Where am I? So it was a dream after all, my father hasn’t been murdered, or has he?…………….
