The Pickpocket

Chapter 7 - Time For Some Answers...

“Drop the gun, boy,” the sergeant said. His voice filled the hall and made it echo. I pulled back the safety on the gun and adjusted my aim.

“You’ll just shoot yourself. Or your friend,” Roscuth sneered. I picked up a rock off the floor and, not taking my eyes off the sergeant, threw it at Roscuth. He fell over again and didn’t get up.

“I’m the son of a trained hitman. I have trained to be a fighter ever since I was a little kid. I know more martial arts than you’ve ever heard of and I have won more street fights than you’ve had hot dinners. Mate, I’m gonna shoot this thing, and when I do, you ain’t walking out of here alive,” I said, my voice cold and my eyes like ice. “So let him go, or I kill you all. Got it?”

“We don’t have ‘it’, boy,” the sergeant snarled, edging towards Roscuth’s unconscious form, holding Dad in front of him. “But we do have your friend.”

“He’s been shot before,” I said breezily, not loosening my grip on the gun, “haven’t you?”

“I might… have been… lying…” Dad wheezed. He raised his head and hissed in pain. “Neither have I… been kicked in the… gut… before.”

I was quiet for a minute. Then I lowered the gun and let myself be cuffed by a waiting policeman.

 

*

 

“Liar.”

“Jamie, I’m sorry-”

“Coward.”

“Jamie, please-”

“Liar.”

“Now you’re repeat-”

“Bozo.”

“Well, that makes a-”

“Shut. Up.”

“Gotcha.”

I sat with my back against one wall, glaring at the wall opposite. I could hear Dad’s quiet breathing.

“Jamie-”

“Not interested.”

“Listen-”

“No.”

“You're grounded,” Dad said quickly. I kicked the wall with all my strength and a hole appeared.

“Okay, you have one chance to speak, so you better explain everything immediately,” I hissed, flicking Dad’s ear.

“Ow! Okay, ask me questions cuz otherwise I’m going to make everything worse.” Dad twisted his head so that he was looking at me and he raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got wall in your hair.”

I brushed it away and hesitated. There were so many questions rocketing around my brain that I didn’t know where to start.

“Are you really a hitman?” I began.

“Yep. I’m a good one though, so that’s why I ain’t got hurt. Yet.”

“Hmm. Why did you pretend to lose your voice when we were in London?”

“I went out, spoke to a few people, and they hated my accent. Didn’t trust me.”

“Okay. Why did I do a Cockney accent then?”

“No idea. Maybe your brain registered that you needed to fit in and made you fit in. Well, voice-wise, anyway. I didn’t see many blonde guys when I went for my walk.”