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JUST
BY CHARLES WHEELER
Its an odd feeling, having a gun pressed into your hand. As if this werent all muddled enough, as if there werent plenty to take in already. Im still catching up with the scene flickering under the orange flames, borne high by the bringers of justice. Their faces. His face. The carpet of his living room. My hands, gun in the right, petrified shudder in the left. A shudder of fear, or disbelief. Because, of course, I never thought Id end up here. And who would? You end up taking a stance on these things at some point, but as a well-rounded person, you put them aside. Not to ignore them, but to forget what theyre about. Youd drive yourself crazy thinking about it all day. But it dont make you complacent, no, it just means you take action when you need to, pre-empting, securing, protecting, and the rest of the time you rid your mind of it all, because itll never happen. Not to you. Not to your son. The gun doesnt bring urgency, or at least not like youd expect. Maybe it brings too much. Either way, you end up surging backwards, going through all the details. Anything to pull yourself away from the horror in front of you. You looked after your daughters, who hated it. You put every lad on the spot when he came round, trying to be cool but firm, but the girls were never going to see it as anything other than overbearing old dad, playing the tough guy and refusing to understand them. You questioned the lads earring that time, and you were actually trying to make a joke of it, break the ice, but he shuffled and withdrew, and after dinner you gave up and went for a pint. On the walk back you saw him huff out of the door inches ahead of her slamming it behind him. He went the other way up the street, thank god. Youd not have been able to handle that eye contact. You were suspicious of these websites. You got the feeling, though, that you were ageing into a stereotype confused by new things, wary, mistrustful, and wholly

unwilling to broaden your mind in case something caught you off-guard. But you knew you werent like that, and so you strained against appearing to be like that. You let things go, told yourself nothing could really come of it. You were right. About that. The problem is that everything seems safe when your kids there. Its tautological if a child can do it, it must be safe. There was the football team, pre-school boys and girls together, no threat of anything because they were just too young to have ill intent, or be able to hurt each other. And everyone there was there for the kids. Nobody suspected each other. They were right. About that. Even when it were the swimming with Leah, nothing seemed like it could be off. Even when it were your Leah, 13, in a swimming costume with as many lads as girls around the pool. Nothing were uncomfortable about it. It was sport. They were all too focussed. It takes something to distract a bunch of half-dressed teenagers from, well, each other, but competition did it fairly well. Anyone who werent there to try got fed up of being left behind and buggered off after a bit. And again, anyone who were there to watch were involved with one of the kids. You never thought about anything going on behind the eyes. It were just families. Families, with a house, with a living room like this. With a clock on the mantelpiece, with a telly in the corner, with family photos all around the family room. Photos. His family photos. His children. I wonder. Theyre all looking at me. He ent. Hes looking down. Almost like he were expecting this. Better judge of probability than me, then. I had no idea. Wouldnt be the first time he were one step ahead of me. Trickery. So much of a game to it. So much to plan, carry out, so much to ensure before the act. Maybe thats part of the attraction. Attraction. Funny how your mind picks words, ent it? Course, I cant think of it like that. Which, I suppose, is why it seems wrong to me. Oh, Ill say seems all day long, because whatever wrong there is to it, it obviously seemed right to him. Its wrong, for sure, and I dont give a fuck about his opinion on it, but theres no doubt this were a very different thing from his perspective. Satisfaction of an urge. Behaviour based on nature. There, look at me, trying to be all rational. Ive only gone and made myself angrier. And while Ive got a gun in my hand, too. Speaking of. There we are. Up against his temple. Nice placement. They feel vulnerable, your temples. I werent that much into scrapping, as a kid, but I were hit in the forehead hundreds of times at school rugby and the like and it never phased me much, but a knock to the temple and Id go down like a sack of spuds. Anyone would. Hes ready to go down right now. Expecting the worst. All because its on the temple, not the forehead. Hes like us after all. Never doubted it myself, of course, but you know what the papers are like. You know what folk are like. Hes not human. He cant be like us, hes twisted. A monster. Well, thats the problem, ent it folks, he ent a monster at all. Hes a man, and hes among us. You never want to think that monsters could walk among us, but if this is a monster,

they damn well do. Maybe if we recognised he were a man, we could recognise this stuff in other men we dont suspect at first. Maybe we could stop it. I say man. I mean mankind, of course. Women too. Bloody hell. Look at me, checking my political correctness at a time like this. Rather that than not, though. Done more good than it gets credit for, that has. I always notice when I say or think something thats at odds with what Im really like. Im quite forgiving. Quite peaceful. All for fairness and being rational. Probably why I cant help but notice that Ive got a bloody gun in my hand, pointed at this blokes head. Is this what I want Adam to end up like? I always had hopes that hed be cleverer than me, mainly. I like to think Im a bit more switched on than my dad was, but its more that I see that as the first step. I want Adam to carry that on, be more than me. Because I try my best, but for all my talk, here I am with a gun pointed at a blokes head because he did something horrible to a child. Thats it though. Its different when its your son. Changes the lot. You suddenly feel responsible for righting it. More than that, you cant just write it off as monsters, you have to understand it. You want to ask questions. How could you do that to Adam, fella? What did he do to deserve that? What did he do that led you to the conclusion that it was okay to fuck him up forever? How did that seem like the right thing to do in your mind? Because youve got a human mind, mate, youre a bloody person. A person, who did that to my boy. Adam. I ent religious, but I named him for the first man. In the hope that hed be the genesis, that hed end up a little bit better than me. I suppose we can forget that now, eh? Gonna take a fair bit of fucking work just to get him back to normal again. And I dunno if Im even the man to do that, truth be told. Look at me, Ive got a gun to a blokes head. Whod leave me with a child? Theyre still watching. Im still shaking. Inside and out. My mind is shaking, and its going down to my shoulder, my arm, my hand, the gun. His face. His shaking body. His weapon, reduced now to creating that dark patch on his trousers. Maybe hes shaking inside, too. Cant imagine being like that would leave you all that stable. Hopeless. Lost cause. Sos he. Lets get this over with. This whole mess. One more mess, and all the mess is done. Bang. Just the cleaning up to do now. Not that I reckon this lotll be up to it, mind. They all look a bit stunned now. Ill just scuse me, love Ill get some fresh air. Might not get much more for a while. Bloody hell, the place is rammed shouting outside, too, didnt hear that before. Bit of a scuffle going on, some of these folk holding someone else back ah. Coppers. Wonder when they got here? Too late, by their count. By anyones, I suppose. No bother for them, though, Ill go quietly enough. As I always have. I wonder how they look at this whole thing? I suppose Im as bad as him in some eyes. I imagine plenty of folk will understand. Sympathise. I hope they dont make too much of a fuss about it, though. Two wrongs dont make a right, let alone three. Let this be the last in the chain. Let there be no more casualties. Let it just be these few. Just Adam, me, the fella with the hole where his temple were.

Just. Funny how your mind picks words.