Early Closing

He stood in the doorway of the sad little shop and wondered what he
would steal. A security mirror in the corner showed his distorted
reflection, like something from a circus, but he didn't worry about
that. The counter was unoccupied, the single electronic till waiting
like a prize.

To his right was a large freezer containing ice creams, fully stocked
for a summer that hadn't arrived. The interior walls held shelves of
magazines and papers, as well as a rack of dog-eared greeting cards and
some tacky seaside gifts. Basic foodstuffs were on the central unit,
with confectionery displayed on the counter.

He sniffed. What a dump, he thought. What a place to spend your
life.

Behind him a half-hearted drizzle left smudges on the glass door. A bus
stopped by the pub to disgorge its last passenger and then swung neatly
round at the end of the promenade, the driver altering his destination
board for the return route. A gust of wind rattled the letterbox and
blew diesel fumes and sea spray inside.

In a sudden rush he planted his hands on the counter and tried to vault
over, but his left leg dropped and caught the edge of the rolled
Formica worktop. He groaned, falling awkwardly with one leg twisted
beneath the other, banging his elbow on the side of the till. He heard
the door open and collapsed behind the counter.

Jill Lemon hurried forward, a hand raised in front of her mouth. "Paul?
Is that you?"

As she reached the counter he sprang up, a la Basil Fawlty, and faked a
smile.

"What on earth are you doing?"

He shrugged and pushed his thinning hair back from his face. "I wanted
to see how easy it would be to get over."

"Not very, by the look of you." She turned towards the magazines,
perhaps to spare his embarrassment. She was in her early thirties, a
bit matronly but attractive and with a sharp sense of humour. And
married, of course.

"I hate to say it, but you don't have the figure for gymnastics."

He patted his belly, which hung out over his jeans. "Too many of your
sandwiches."

"My sandwiches are perfectly healthy. It's all those doughnuts."

"And the lifestyle."

"It's very bracing out there. Take yourself off for a long walk."

He nodded with little enthusiasm. "Yes, I might do."

"Sound as if you mean it!"

"I'm too old for exercise."

She laughed. "What are you? Not even forty yet?"

"I feel about a hundred."

"At a hundred you'll be dead. You want to get out there before it's too
late."

"Yes, Mum."

She turned back to him, having chosen Marie Claire and Hello! "Had any
interest?"

He snorted. "You're joking."

"Heard from Wendy?"

"No."

"Go and see Tom. Take him out somewhere."

"I can't just turn up. Anyway, it seems to make it worse."

She dropped the magazines on the counter and delved in her purse. She
had long elegant fingers, free of jewellery and kept scrupulously clean
for preparing and serving food. For a moment he was seized by an
impulse to beg her for an afternoon of passionate sex, but the idea
died in his throat. She looked up, quizzically raising her
eyebrows.

"I coughed."

"Unhealthy specimen, aren't you? All the more reason to get some fresh
air." At the door she turned and smiled. "Only ten minutes to
go."

Yeah, he thought. Only ten minutes. And then a lifetime.

He watched her hurry away, her body curled against the wind. He could
still go after her, suggest a walk together, but he knew he wouldn't.
Her husband was a big surly builder with hands like mallets.

He hated this godforsaken little seaside town so lost in the past that
it still had half-day closing, but everyone else in the parade shut up
shop religiously at one o'clock, so there was little point in his
staying open. Anyway, as much as he hated shutting on Wednesdays, he
hated shopkeeping even more. He hated his life, that was the
problem.

Perhaps this afternoon was the ideal time to do it. End it all. He had
fantasised about it enough. He could throw himself off the cliff. A bit
of exercise on the way up, then a quick descent into a churning sea.
That enough fresh air for you, Jill?

It was Wendy he really liked to picture, some copper breaking the news.
"It's my fault," she would whisper. "I left him to rot in that shop,
and it killed him." And then she'd have to find a way to break it to
Tom.

Tom. That was the tricky part. Imagining Wendy's pain gave him a little
stab of pleasure, but the thought of his son's grief horrified him.
Even though she did her best to poison the boy against his own father,
he knew Tom still loved him and always would. And worse than the grief,
he'd grow up believing his father was a coward. A man who couldn't face
life.

Ah well. Maybe not today, then.

There was a sound like pebbles on the glass. At least the rain gave him
a reason to stay inside. The paperwork was stacking up but he knew he
would just lie on the couch, drinking coffee and watching inane
television. "And remember, the clues are there as we go: through... the
keyhole!"

Better than death, but only just.

* * *

Ten minutes till they close. Nervous, right? Course you are. You need
nerves, Tony reckons. Nerves are what make you do a good job. Cut out
all the distractions, get your brain centred on what it has to
do.

It's only a bit of theft. Shoplifting. Kids' stuff, Tony would say if
he knew. But it was the first step, and if it got him in with the
others and stopped them giving him hassle, it had to be worth it.

Nothing valuable, they said. You're not after robbing the till or
nothing. Just a few bits and pieces and away before he knows anything's
gone. Chocolate bars, biscuits, something they could share down the
beach. And Ryan wanted a porno mag. "Not fucking Playboy. Something
really dirty." Damon wasn't sure how he was going to do that. He wasn't
very tall, and reaching up to the top shelf would just attract
attention.

But he was meeting them at two and he had to have something to show
them, otherwise it meant more of the same. Here comes Dinky Damon.
Damon the Spaz. Specky Spaz. More of the finger flicks and the ear
twisting and the sneaky little punches in the back. Ryan was rough but
pretty simple about it whereas Sam, Sam could hurt you in ways you
wouldn't imagine. With Sam you never saw it coming.

But if he did this today, if he did it right, all that would be over.
He'd be one of them, or well on his way. If he completed the first
challenge they promised he could hang out with them for the rest of the
holiday. As for when they were back at school, he'd worry about that
when he got to it. This first.

He wished Tony were here. He wished he could have asked for advice, but
his brother was going through one of his lows, sitting round the house
all day without talking, hardly even moving, not changing his clothes
till Mum virtually had to drag them off him. Flying into a rage if you
tried to speak to him. Sam and Ryan thought Tony was a headcase, and
that was without knowing about the other stuff, the stuff he did at
night. Wetting his bed and trying to smash the house up. Screaming if
you turned the taps on too quickly and made the pipes creak.

They should never have invalided him out of the army. Sometimes it made
Damon want to cry, thinking about the unfairness of it. His brother had
always been a hero to him, especially after Dad pissed off with the
woman who cut their hair. It was Tony who got him into war games, and
survival magazines, and books about the SAS. Even some of the kids that
hated him were willing to leave him alone in return for a look at the
books Damon sneaked out of Tony's room. He'd always assumed that he
would follow his brother into the army when he left school, but now
he'd most likely follow him on to the social instead.

He pulled his coat together and shivered. There was a biting wind off
the sea and it was raining again. He didn't want water on his glasses,
steaming up when he went inside. The woman had come out and gone into
the cafe, but he moved the other way, pressing himself further into the
doorway and promising: just another minute or two.

And tonight he'd tell Tony all about it. Even if Tony was still on a
low, he'd have to be pleased that his little brother had finally done
something brave. Specky Spaz robbing from a shop, he'd definitely be
proud of that.

And then there was the Secret. They shared it now.

* * *

When Paul was thirteen the summer had seemed to last forever. Walking
home from school on melting asphalt. His mum on the couch sighing over
Bjorn Borg. The pik-pok of the tennis ball drifting out to him as he
lay on dusty grass and let the heat blast his mind free of worries. The
teachers he hated, the homework he couldn't be bothered to do, the
bullies who ambushed him behind the science block, all fading into the
drone of exhausted birds.

Living for the summer holidays, those long, long weeks of football and
cycling and wandering over the fields with his best friend Ricky
Foster. Swimming nearly every day, even in the rain late in August. And
the girls: Susan from Peterborough who gave him his first French kiss,
his first clumsy grope. Going to bed so happy and excited every night
because it felt like the summer and swimming and Susan would go on for
ever, and if it didn't, well, there would be lots more to come. He had
his whole wonderful life ahead of him.

And now, a quarter of a century later, he stood at the door with his
nose against the glass, a little cloud of condensation slowly obscuring
his view of the rainswept parade. That whole wonderful life had been
reduced to a drab convenience store which consumed his time and energy
and gave him back, he had recently calculated, only slightly more per
hour than his paperboys earned.

The shop had been up for sale for nearly three years but in that time
there had been only two serious prospective buyers. Ironically, the
last of these had been a quietly spoken man, a bit older than Paul,
attempting to build a new life after the double blow of redundancy and
a failed marriage. Three weeks before completion he met someone else
and eloped to Scotland instead.

That was over a year ago. Since then there had been a number of
enquiries, but they were all time-wasters. Daltons Weekly-dreamers, he
called them. Bored with the nine to five, they rarely got beyond
phoning for the details and then making a furtive anonymous visit,
coyly buying a paper or a postcard whilst gazing far too intently at
the paintwork and light fittings

So it looked as though he was never going to sell. He was here for
life.

He sighed, closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool
glass. It all seemed so hopeless, and yet... and yet that summer was
only moments away in his mind. He was young, he was bright, he was
energetic...

Now I can't even climb over the counter. Couldn't rob my own bloody
shop. A memory suddenly surfaced, prompting a wry smile: he had
shoplifted once, after his friend Ricky was shortchanged. They planned
it carefully; Ricky diverting the shopkeeper while Paul stole a couple
of paperbacks. A collection of Arthur C Clarke short stories, or was it
Brian Aldiss? Lucky they hadn't been caught. And now Ricky was a
solicitor, commercial stuff apparently--

His recollection was jarred as the door bumped against his head. He
opened his eyes and found a spotty teenager frowning at him.
Retreating, he checked his watch: five to one. Probably the last
customer of the day. He turned back to the counter.

* * *
It was time. He imagined Tony screaming, "Go! Go! Go!" rifle in hand,
leaping from a concealed position and launching himself at the
enemy.

Damon was at the shop before his puzzled brain had accepted that he was
really going to do it, not just buy some chocolate and tell the others
he nicked it. He felt sure they'd know if he did that. It would show in
his face. And there was the wank mag for Ryan, the fucking
magazine.

He pushed against the door and met resistance: closed. He was too late.
Mission aborted.

Then he looked inside and saw the face against the glass, a bit flushed
and shiny. The shopkeeper moved away quickly, as if he had been caught
at something. Damon pushed the door open, entering the shop on legs
that had suddenly gone wobbly.

"We're shutting in a minute," the shopkeeper muttered, seeming to grow
in confidence as he got behind the counter. "No time for
browsing."

"I-I'm not," Damon stammered, his face burning. But he noted the man's
hard suspicious gaze and used it to spur some anger, some confidence of
his own. Miserable fuckwit. No wonder the place was run-down, if this
was how he treated customers.

He stood by the magazine rack and studied the shelf at eye-level:
women's stuff, then a load about football and golf. The shelf above:
computers and games, bikes and photography. Then the top shelf: a
mind-boggling array of tit and arse.

He hesitated. He had no idea which ones were dirty enough for Ryan.
Just as long as it wasn't Playboy, he supposed.

"Buy if you're buying," the shopkeeper snapped. "I'm closing up." A
jangle of keys taunted him.

That helped. Stretching on tiptoe, he pulled out the first magazine he
could reach, his hand so clumsy he nearly dropped it. His other hand
went to his pocket, and as he heard the shopkeeper begin to protest,
his fingers closed gratefully around the Secret.

He'd only discovered the gun a few weeks ago. It was a Browning High
Power 9mm pistol. Tony swore it was a replica and threatened to beat
the shit out of him if he told anyone, but the next day he caught Damon
playing with it and had to admit it was real. This time he said he'd
break both his legs and burn all his comics if Damon said anything.
Then he hid it somewhere different, but Damon soon found it
again.

Now he brought it out and took aim. He was shaking like crazy, but it
didn't matter. He had a gun. He was in control.

* * *

Paul felt something was wrong as soon as the lad walked in. The way he
moved, the way he breathed: you could see the nervous energy raging
around him. He'd had kids like this before, trying to steal sweets or
cans of drink. Or else they were buying cigarettes under age, not that
he minded too much about that.

When the boy reached up for a porno, Paul shook his head. "No way," he
said, almost to himself. The lad must think he was stupid.

And then suddenly there was a gun, not a toy but a real gun, a real gun
in his shop, in the hand of a wild-eyed, trembling kid.

Tom. It was all he could think. Tom. So many things to tell him, so
much to warn him about life: how it changes, how it goes wrong, how it
slips away almost without you noticing. He wasn't exactly there for his
son now, but never to be there. Never to be...

The concept of a world without him in it was unthinkable. His mind
scrambled to cope. The kid was speaking to him but he couldn't make
sense of the words. He could only hear an inner voice pleading not to
die: I'll be so different I'll cherish what I have I'll never think
about suicide again just let me live let me live let me live.

* * *

Damon left the shop and threw up into the gutter. He was clutching a
handful of chocolate bars and the magazine was under his arm. Wiping
bile from his chin, he broke into a staggering run towards the ramp
which led down to the undercliff promenade. Rain stung his face but he
was glad of it. There would be no one down there today. He needed time
on his own, to get his head sorted before Sam and Ryan met him at
two.

As he got his breath back, and his heart started to slow down, he
realised he was feeling pretty good. He'd done it. There was something
different about him, like he was bigger somehow, stronger; and he knew
the others would sense it. He wasn't going to be bullied anymore.

And he didn't think he'd be identified, not with the state the
shopkeeper was in. Fucking lost it, worse than Tony after one of his
nightmares. The look on the guy's face as he emptied the till, throwing
money out like a maniac, even though Damon had said he wasn't after the
cash. In the end he'd taken a tenner more out of politeness than
anything, then helped himself to the chocolate and left. And all the
time the guy was crying and babbling at him, saying he was sorry and
calling him Tom. Like who the fuck was Tom?