Minus Life

The Burglary

The BurglaryAvery was old. Not so old that he couldn't walk, or pee when he wanted, but old enough to remember when the world was greener.

Not much happened now. Life had become tedious, an endless string of meaningless days, but days which flew by. He would wake up, brush his teeth, take a few meals and blink. Bed time had arrived. Sometimes, lying in his bed, touch-pad glaring at him, words on the screen nothing more than a blue blur, he would try and recall what he had done during the day. A breakfast on the terrace at Gilbert's, a few words of idle chatter. Then a stroll along the seafront, to watch the builders piling up the stones. A useless exercise if ever there was one. A little while later, lunch. A cocktail perhaps. He liked cocktails. They took his mind to a place before all of the crap. History. Personal. Mavis and him. How she used to laugh, hold his hand, take his face and kiss him. Memories. Then, dinner with Clement serving the food. No words, just the clatter of silver spoon on silver platters. Good food, well prepared. But he couldn't remember any of the details. The daily grind. The blur.

The night it happened, Avery sat at the dining table, and watched Clement ladle soup into a bowl. “How do you feel about being a servant?”

Clement, older perhaps than the hills, stopped, c****d an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Damn it man, I'm asking you.”

“But I don't understand the sense, sir.”

“How long have you been here? In this house, serving me?”

“Sir, that's …” Clement seemed troubled, rubbed his chin. “I don't rightly know, sir. I remember your father, sir. Remember him interviewing me for the job here, but how long ago that was …” He shook his head. “A long time ago, sir. That's all I know.”

“You remember my father? Jesus Christ, that makes you older than me.”

“I believe I am, sir.”

Avery shook his head. “Damn. My memory is going, Clem. Can't remember what the hell I did earlier today. Maybe that has more to do with the emptiness of it all. I need some … some reason to get up in the morning. You understand what I'm saying? I need a reason to carry on.”

“The business, sir. You have your business, that's reason enough surely?”

“That's my son's responsibility now. I don't have much to do with any of it.”

“You still have a lot to offer, sir. You can't be more than eighty.”

“I'm eighty-seven, Avery. How old are you?”

Clement took on that pained expression again. “Sir … I don't rightly know that either.”

“A guess, then. For Christ's sake, you must have some idea, an inkling.”

“Well over a hundred, sir. Maybe … maybe one hundred and twenty.”

Avery picked up his glass and swirled the brandy around the bowl. “You have a purpose though, don't you? A reason for carrying on.”

“To serve you, sir. Yes.”

Avery stared into his drink. “But what do you do in your spare time, in the evenings, Clem? How do you fill the space?”

“Not a great deal, sir. I eat, watch the old ball-games on the holo-vision, remembering how it used to be. Stuff like that.”

“Do you read, Clem? Books, I mean? I used to read so much. Fiction, history, anything really. Now, I find I can no longer keep my eyes open for more than two minutes before I fall asleep. The touch-pad becomes a garbled mess, words all blurred, making no sense. I loved reading once.”

A heavy silence fell over them.

Clement shifted his weight. “I don't think I've ever read, sir. No need. Everything I want is on the holo-vision.”

“But before the holo-vision, Clem? Didn't you read then, in the old days?”

“I can't remember days before holo-vision, sir. It must have been awfully boring.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Avery drained the glass, smacked his lips, studied the remnants of the brandy. “So. What's it like being a servant?”

“Like everything else I guess, sir. It's a job. I get up, do it, go to bed and sleep. The next day comes, and so it goes on.”

“And that's it?”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

Avery looked at his manservant. An understanding of sorts crossed between them. A link. Something. Master and servant sharing a poignant moment, acceptance of their respective roles. “I envy you, Clem. Knowing what each day holds. I'd find comfort in that, a sense of security.”

“But you have choice, sir. You can do whatever you want. That is a luxury way beyond my existence, sir.”

“Existence. Yes. But, more and more I find myself questioning everything. The days, they blur into one. One, long string of nothing. I'm a spent force, Clem. I have nothing to offer anyone anymore.” He threw the last drop of brandy down his throat and placed the glass down on the silver tray. “I apologise. I'm becoming morose. Take no notice. Goodnight, Clem.”

“Good night sir.”

Avery went to bed, old bones creaking as he struggled into his pyjamas. The mattress sagged with his weight. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered if Clem's life was a damn sight more fulfilling than his own. The more he considered it, the more he began to accept that, in actual fact, Clem's life was infinitely better than his own. The lack of responsibility, the weight of decision making, without any of that life had to be better. Certainly simpler.

He tried to sleep.

But he couldn't.

After fruitless hours, he went downstairs to get himself a glass of milk.

He padded across the large, cold kitchen, pulled open the door and caught sight of the shadow in the hall. He knew at that precise moment that life was about to take a whole new, unexpected turn.

They tied him to a stiff-backed chair in the centre of the room. One of the two intruders stuffed an orange in Avery's mouth, but the other one took it away at once. “How's he supposed to talk to us with that?”

The other shrugged, made a face, opened the fridge. Taking out a carton of fruit juice, he ripped off the top and drank the contents down in a single gulp. Smacking his lips, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and sighed. “Jeez, I haven't tasted that for over half a century.”

“How the better half lives, Sheldon.”

Sheldon glared. “No names, you f*****g idiot.”

The other groaned, ran a hand over his face. He looked towards Avery. “You didn't hear that did you, Granddad.”

“You'll be vapourised for this,”

“Oh shut the f**k up,” said the man and slapped Avery hard across the mouth. The blow was so powerful it knocked Avery, together with the chair, backwards. His head cracked against the side of a cabinet. The skull opened up like a broken egg. Avery collapsed onto his side and lay still, blood leaking over the floor, speckled with tiny bits of brain matter. His eyes rolled.

He was dead.

“You f*****g lunatic.” Sheldon slammed the fridge door shut, took the other man by the collar and threw him across the room. He hit the edge of the sink unit, swore loudly, and brought out a black stubby automatic from inside his coat. “You hit me again and I'll kill you, you bastard.”

Sheldon was down on his knees, feeling for a pulse on the old man. He looked up. “You've killed him.”

“So what? We can still find the stuff.”

“How?”

“Eh”

“How are we supposed to find the stuff with him dead? He was going to give us the combination of the safe, you idiot.”

“Stop calling me that, Sheldon. I'm warning you.”

“Grant, you are a total dick.” Sheldon stood up, reached over and took the gun from Grant's hand in a flash. Before Grant could react, Sheldon had turned the gun and stuck its muzzle into Grant's mouth. “I'll call you what the f**k I like, you f*****g idiot.” He took some large breaths, trying to think what to do next. The plan had been simple. Threaten the old man, extract the safe combination, find the bonds and get the hell out. International bonds, worth a small fortune, together with some schematics. Technical papers. Their client wanted them. Apparently, he had tried to deal with Avery over the past few months in an attempt to reach a compromise, but the old man was past caring. So, when none was forthcoming he contacted Sheldon through an intermediary and laid out the plan. Get the bonds and the papers. Get out the house. Deliver them. Finish.

No one said anything about killing anyone.

No one mentioned that there might be another person in the house, and that he might have a gun of his own. Because that was exactly what Sheldon now saw standing in the doorway. A man, with a big gun. Winchester pump-action shotgun, circa Nineteen Eighty-Seven. Antique. Worked like a dream as the man slid the pump, feeding in the cartridge, and levelled the gun towards Sheldon's back.

“Move, you bastard, and I'll blow you in half.”

Sheldon didn't move until the mobile police unit arrived some twenty minutes later and took him and Grant away.

After the police left, looking bored with the whole affair, Clement sat in the kitchen, bent over the Winchester, staring at the floor. They had driven Mr Avery away in an ambulance. That would have been getting on for three long hours ago. Nothing since, only the stillness of the house. As the sirens disappeared into the night, Clement thought about all that had happened, how life had changed so totally. What was he going to do now, without Mr Avery? He realized, sitting, staring into space, his own life was now ended. Those bastards had taken away everything in the blink of an eye. There really was no point any more.

It took some doing, but he managed eventually to turn the muzzle of the Winchester on himself and wedged it under his chin. He held his breath, closed his eyes and blew his brains out across the kitchen wall.