The Still Waiting

A story with a beginning, a middle and an end

The third class carriage door slammed behind him as he dropped his suitcase onto the platform and took stock of his surroundings. The little station was totally deserted and glared back at him through dismal yellow lamp light. He snatched up his case and followed the exit signs into a dimly lit foyer where there was was a small enquiry window with a drawn blind displaying the word 'closed'. He tapped on the glass and waited.

'We're closed,' a gruff male voice snapped from within.
'I'm looking for accommodation,' the man responded, 'somewhere clean and reasonably priced.'
'The Still Waiting,' the gruff male voice responded, 'turn left and follow your nose.'

The streets were as dark and deserted as the railway station and the man and his nose were soon drizzle damp. Black iron railings protecting imposing terraced houses cast shadows across the wet road surface under soupy yellow street lamps and through the gloom he heard a shrill whistle as his train resumed its laboured journey into the night. He suddenly felt very alone.

The iron gate stood ajar, as if inviting him up the well trodden steps to the heavy front door. The man dropped his case onto the threshold and stared at a brass door knocker located above a small plaque boasting the words 'The Still Waiting.' He grasped the knocker and struck it three times against the receiver, immediately sensing an emptiness within as the sound reverberated into the unknown. He stood there, in the murky silence, waiting for a response to his assault, but none came. He smiled at the name of the establishment and struck again with three more rapid blows into the empty silence. It seemed as if the whole street was waiting in the damp gloom until, at last, he heard a shuffled response approaching from within.

There were three heavy bolts thrown back before the door eventually opened and the man stood facing a tall, thin, grey haired lady wrapped tightly in a black shawl and wearing fingerless woollen gloves. She scanned him from head to foot with rheumy eyes before finally standing motionless in a silence that demanded he stated his business. She knew instinctively that he was the one she'd been waiting for all these years.

'I'm looking for a room for two or three nights,' he said. 'Do you have anything available?'

Without uttering any response, the old lady turned and shuffled back down the hallway, leaving the front door open behind her, inviting him to follow. He picked up his suitcase and stepped inside, closing the heavy door behind him before making his way along the tiled passageway in search of his silent host. 

'Ten shillings a night and paid up front,' she stated, in an unexpectedly powerful voice for one so slight of stature. 'A single room at the back of the house. No noise and no visitors. Would you like to see it?' she demanded, holding the key out temptingly.

It was compact and basic, but clean and tidy and smelling of furniture polish. He swung his case onto the chequered quilt bedspread and sat down alongside it, testing the sprung mattress. The old lady stood in the doorway silent and expressionless, watching his every move. 

'This will suit me perfectly,' he stated, taking a large wad of money from his trouser pocket and peeling off the two notes required. 'One pound ten shillings for three nights in advance,' he said, walking towards the door. 'Does that include breakfast?' 

The inscrutable old lady took the money from him and turned to descend the staircase. 'Eight o'clock sharp,' she responded dismissively over her shoulder. 'No earlier and no later.'

The man closed his door and she heard him turn the lock as she descended the staircase. Now feeling more secure, he took a key from his jacket pocket and  began to unlock his suitcase. As he did so, he heard the old lady in the empty tiled hallway sliding the three large bolts back into place on the heavy front door. 

* * *

He slept fitfully that night, not because the bed was uncomfortable, quite the opposite, but because his dreams had troubled him. He dreamt of strange noises in the house and footsteps on the landing and even his locked door opening and the grey haired old lady entering. The dreams were so real that they woke him and forced him out of bed to check his door. It was locked and the house was silent.

The following morning the man locked his suitcase and placed it under the bed before going down for breakfast at exactly eight o'clock. He was the only guest and sat alone at a small table in the bay window overlooking the street. The old lady served his breakfast and as she did so the man made polite conversation with her by asking her light heartedly what she was 'still waiting' for. She placed his breakfast plate in front of him and gazed out into the town through the large bay window. 'Justice,' she replied with a coldness that immediately excluded any further conversation. He ate his breakfast quickly as he had business to conduct in the town and was eager to make a start. Much depended on what he could achieve during his stay.

While he was away from the house the old lady entered his room with her spare key and soon located the suitcase under the bed. Within minutes she had picked the simple locks with her hair grip and scrutinised its contents with well practised efficiency. She had no fear of the man returning unannounced because she did not issue front door keys to her guests. He would have to knock and wait.
She found newspaper clippings describing the safety deposit vault robbery in the town many years earlier at the bottom of the case and knew immediately why the man was here. She put everything back as it was, locked it and placed it back under the bed. It was time to make plans of her own in her quest for justice. 

* * *

The man found the place without too much trouble, but soon discovered that things had changed dramatically over the years. The open field he remembered was now a housing estate with neat gardens, roads and pathways and for some time he despaired at ever being able to find the exact location. Everything was new and unfamiliar and minute by minute panic began to take hold of him. The ten year dream of recovering his holdall was dissolving before his eyes.

But then, as he turned a corner into a pleasant little square he saw it. The oak tree, now the living centre piece of a well cared for play area providing shade for joyful children and watchful parents. The tree was now much larger of course, but undoubtedly the tree that had been guarding his dreams since that fateful day. He smiled with huge relief and made his way into the gated play area before seating himself on a bench under its canopy. His presence did not go unnoticed by two chatting mums watching over their squealing children.

That evening, when the old lady admitted him to the house, he was carrying a brand new shiny garden spade that he'd purchased from the hardware shop by the station. The man had prepared a story in response to her inevitable questions about it, but to his surprise, she didn't say a word about his spade because she already knew why he'd bought it. The man was surprised by her lack of interest and went to his room, locking his door behind him. He pulled out his suitcase from under the bed to reassure himself and checked that it was securely locked. It was just as he'd left it.

That night the man went to bed early and set his alarm for 2am. He woke instinctively just before the alarm went off and dressed quickly and quietly in dark clothing. Grabbing his newly purchased spade he crept down the stairs and along the empty hallway as silently as possible, sliding back the three bolts and stepping out into the moonless night. He had chosen this particular dark night on the lunar calender with great care.

It took him just less than an hour to find the holdall under the tree because his memory of its exact location was now dimmed by more than ten years. He had pictured it every night as he lay in his bunk listening to the desperate noises of captive men, but each night the picture retained in his memory faded a little. He had to extend his first dig down into the compacted soil in two different directions under the great oak, but finally, after much physical exertion, he heard the dull thud as his spade encountered the heavy canvas holdall. He sank to his knees and pulled his prize out of the grasp of its retaining soil, lifting it triumphantly from its grave. He sat on the damp ground for a while, resting from the exertion and as he stared at his long dreamt of prize, tears of joy began to trickle slowly down his face. Now filled with the renewed energy of fulfilling his ten year dream, he shovelled the excavated soil back into place and did his best to make the ground look as undisturbed as possible. 

Invigorated and jubilant the man walked quickly back through the town, making light work of carrying his shovel and heavy holdall. He kept to the shadows of the backstreets where ever possible, avoiding the main thoroughfares and their soupy yellow lamps. He was acutely aware of how exposed he was with his spade and holdall, a stranger in a strange town in the dead of night, but he was now only a few more yards from his his lodgings and safety.

The heavy front door creaked as he opened it and stepped into the empty hallway. He put down his spade and holdall and slid the three large bolts back into place with great care, making absolutely sure he would not be heard. A smile of triumphant satisfaction crossed his face as he crept stealthily along the hallway, his mission successfully accomplished. But as he passed the partially open door down to the basement he could see light and hear some kind of activity. 'Down here,' a voice called out. 'Down here.'

The man descended the stairway into the basement with his bag and shovel, unable to ignore the strange calls at this hour of the night. He knew he and the old lady were the only occupants of this large house and assumed she must be in some kind of trouble. He came to a second partially opened door casting its interior light across the steps and he pushed it open.

* * *

'Still waiting,' the gray haired old lady said, as he stood in the doorway with a look of utter disbelief on his face. The man glared at her open mouthed as she sat calmly in an old rocking chair, rocking gently to and fro. 
'The answer to your question at breakfast,' she continued, 'is that I called my house The Still Waiting because that's exactly what I've been doing. I was still waiting, year after year, for this very moment. The moment when, after your release from jail for robbing the bank and killing my husband in cold blood, you would return for the money that was never recovered. This long awaited moment when you delivered everything you stole into my possession.'

She sat rocking gently in her black shawl, watching the cogs whirring behind his bemused eyes, until finally, the penny dropped. He slowly lowered the holdall onto the floor and leaned the spade against the wall before closing the  door behind him.
'And what exactly makes you think I intend to hand over the money into your possession?' the man enquired, with a new found look of contempt on his face. 

The gray haired old lady smiled and unfolded her arms from beneath the black shawl to reveal a large service revolver. She pointed it straight at him and stood from the rocking chair with an assuredness well beyond her years. 

'The man you killed kept this revolver well serviced and many years ago he taught me how to use it.' she said with a calm coldness. 'I've prepared special alternative accommodation for you here in my basement, so please walk through into the next room.'

The man was shocked by the the old lady's steely calmness and stared in disbelief at the revolver she had pointing straight at him. He walked uneasily through into the next basement room, frantically considering whether he dared risk trying to take the gun from her, but she remained carefully out of his reach. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he gasped as he came to halt beside a neatly dug grave-sized hole in the old cobbled floor.

'I've spent many years preparing your accommodation,' she said in a flat, emotionless voice. ' Removing the cobbles one by one and then digging out the the soil, and all the while thinking of the moment you mercilessly fired your shotgun at a man who had done nothing more than comply exactly with your demands. Now please climb down into your final resting place, or I'll shoot you where you stand.'

The man stared at her with panicked eyes and she could read his every thought. She now held the pistol with both hands and cocked the trigger in one smooth action and in panicked response the man stepped down into the shallow grave sized hole.
'Please,' he begged. 'There's absolutely no need for this. You've got what you want. Please don't kill me.'

The gray haired old lady smiled coldly at him and aimed the pistol down at his chest. 'My husband's last words exactly,' she said. 'Words I've waited to hear from your lips since the day you took him from me. Goodbye,' she said, as she skilfully pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.