Don’t Damn Me!

Warning: Contains some very strong language!

James Connington walked slowly, using the advantage of his above-average build to push his way through he mass of people. He was early, and he smiled to himself thinking of the irony. All the more time to scare myself shitless. The smile didn’t last long as he imagined the flight, the turbulence and the inevitable crash.

The queue at the ticket desk wasn’t too bad, it didn’t take long before he was smiling at the lady who processed his details and offered him a sticker for his large holdall, the strap of which was cutting the circulation to his fingers, such was the tightness of his grip on it.

“Thank you for flying Easyjet,” She smiled, her teeth purest white and make-up, flawless.

“Thanks.” James offered, placing the sticker onto the top of his bag and heading for the corner of a large seating area, where he’d spied an empty chair.

He sat himself down with a barely audible sigh, closing his eyes momentarily, as if to clear his mind and prepare himself for the wait.

Where he sat was close to a large café and the smell of fresh coffee was strong, mixed with the scent of freshly baked bread and pastries. His stomach rumbled, but he knew he couldn’t eat until after the flight.

The noise in the airport was deafening, people chattering, children laughing and crying, dependant upon their individual situations, cutlery clinking from the eatery, announcements over the tannoy and even the high screeching of one child’s trainers on the polished tile floor beneath them.

James reached into his jacket pocket, fishing out the headphones of his MP3 player, and quickly slotted them into his ears, after checking first to make sure the one labelled “R” was headed for his right ear.

After pulling the player itself out of the pocket, he switched the device on and waited for the music to flood his ears. The player was set to randomly play its entire contents, and it took a few clicks of the “Next” button, before he was satisfied and placed the player back in his pocket. He pushed the slide-wheel of the volume control on his headphones up to “Max” and relaxed.

As he sat listening to Manowar – Hail And Kill, he watched the people around him.

A young woman sat in the café, sipping from a cup, as if trying to make the liquid inside last forever. She was dressed in a dark blue suit, complete with a short skirt, its hem strained across the skin above her knees. He assumed she would be making a business trip.

In the gift shop, not far away, a largely built man stood looking at a small collection of boxed watches.

James pushed himself to the edge of his seat and watched avidly, as if expecting the man to load the items into his pocket and make a run for it. Instead, the man lifted one of the watches, and handed it to the lady behind the counter, along with a credit card and a warm smile. His teeth bright white and a high contrast against his black skin.

James slid back in his chair, disappointed.

Out of the corner of his eye, his attention was grabbed by the glittering gold detailing on a long, dark red dress. It sat perfectly on a petite woman who was surrounded by children. Won’t be long now, until you lot take over. James thought to himself, sardonically.

The lady was joined by five other adults, two women dressed in equally luxurious patterned dresses and sharing a perfect red dot in the middle of their foreheads, with the first woman. Three men dressed in prim suits. All looked Indian.

The children split up to stand next to their respective parents.

James turned away, and unfastened the lid of his small bottle of water. Thankful for the refreshing taste as he gulped it down, momentarily able to forget the humid, dry air of the building and its lack of space.

A teenage girl paced past his chair, and almost instantly his nostrils flared as they were engulfed with her abundance of hairspray and perfume. Jesus! Less is more! He mocked, without speaking.

A few more tracks played in his ears, including a track by his favourite band, Metallica. People came and went, some stopping to look for a seat, then moving on when there wasn’t one to be found.

Two young men stood smiling outside the opening to the café, he recognized them as Muslims, from their full beards and skullcaps, even though they were dressed in Jeans and denim jackets.

One wore a red and black backpack, strapped tightly to his back, the other carried a large sports bag, bulging at the seams.

James felt his heartbeat quicken, slightly, as he watched the men. His mind imagining what might be in the bags, what the two men were up to, and the recent news stories of disjointed young Muslims turning to terrorism.

Turning? That’s a fucking laugh, they’re taught that shit from birth, the bastards hate us. But they’ll come and enjoy our money, no problem with that. The muscles in his temples flexed, his teeth grinding almost imperceptibly. Bastards.

He watched the two men eagerly, edging, again, to the front of the seat, as if readying himself for action.

The young man with the sports bag reached down to open the zip, and James was sorely tempted to jump up from his seated position, but was thankful he didn’t when the man pulled out a bottle of water and sipped from it.

After a few moments they both headed for the main doors of the airport, stepping out into the street, and onto who knows where.

The clock read a little after 2 PM. It would be a while still, before he could move to the boarding room.

The seating area began to empty, as other flights were called. A slim young man dressed in a colourful tracksuit and white baseball cap sat next to him. Upon noticing the lads skin was a pale shade of brown, James tensed in his chair. His knuckles becoming whiter still, as he protected his belongings. If he even looks at my bag I’ll rip his fucking arms off. His temples throbbed again, the sound of Metallica – Sad But True, not really helping his temperament.

Without warning the lad jumped out of his seat and leapt toward a black couple who had just come through the main doors of the airport. They hugged, kissed and smiled, excitedly. The older man took his bag and all three left the building.

James relaxed his grip, a little, and took a deep breath.

On the display screen at the front of the seating area, a message flashed for James’ flight. Finally! He raised himself off the chair and headed for the other end of the building, where the boarding rooms were situated.

“Hey, what you doing here?!” He asked, upon noticing his business partner and long time friend, Michael Jenkins. A mixture of surprise and joy in his smile.

“I was hoping you would still be here,” Michael replied, his tone calm, but unnerving.

“What’s up?” James enquired, his voice betraying his worry, now. “Has something happened?”

“How could you? How could you do it?” Michaels tone was gaining momentum now, anger seeping in.

“What? What’s wrong?” Apprehension. What the hell?

“Fourteen! She’s fourteen fucking years old, how could you do it?” Michaels voice was now drenched in anger and pain, his eyes clearly watering and his lips flared as he spoke, revealing his teeth beneath.

Oh God. James felt his chest tighten, his breathing became laboured, and his stomach threatened to push its contents back up through his digestive system. He couldn’t speak, and even if he’d been able to, there were no words to say.

People avoided the pair, as they went about their business. One elderly man considered calling for security, but decided not to get involved.

“Fourteen years old, she’s a baby, my baby, how could you fucking do that?” Tears rolled down over Michael’s cheeks now, some trickling over his top lip and leaving behind a salty trace, as they dissolved into his tongue.

“What? What are you talking about?” He knew it was a long shot, and his voice wavered as if to agree.

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Michael lunged forward.

He was at least 4 inches shorter than James, and probably two stone lighter. But he didn’t care right now.

James used his height and weight to hold the other man off, trying to buy himself time to convince him he was wrong about what he thought he knew.

“She’s my daughter, my only child. How could you do it?” Michael continued, tears flowing down his face now, as he fought to improve his position, without much luck.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear!” James retorted, feigning outrage.

“She had a picture on her phone.” Michael’s voice was low, as if defeated. He stopped struggling against the larger man, and sobbed openly.

The pause seemed to last forever.

“I’m sorry.” Was all James could offer, remembering the photo. Fuck.

Michael felt his friend’s arms release him and lowered his own arms to his side.

“I’m sorry.” James repeated, knowing it wasn’t enough, but secretly wishing it would be.

“You bastard. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re sorry.”

It was a momentous struggle, but James managed to face him, then repeat his apology.

A middle aged woman who worked in a kiosk heard the raised voices and upon poking her head around the corner and seeing the two men in conflict, she pressed the security button. It was a silent alarm and she hoped it had worked.

Michael was heartbroken. He had wished he was wrong. That somehow the photo was a fake, his daughter was lying and that everything could go back to the way it was. But hearing his friend admit it, meant there was no going back.

James silently looked at the smaller man’s face. His brow showing his concern.

Raising his left hand to his forehead, Michael pushed his fingers through his long, brown hair, his touch rough and the pain of his hair being pulled, almost soothing.

His right hand reached into the pocket of his open jacket.

Oh God, don’t show me the photo. I can’t. James panicked. His eyes moved back up to the other man’s face, as if doing so would make everything else go away.

The pain was explosive.

James looked down expecting to see his friend’s knee still buried in his agonising scrotum.

Instead he saw blood on the front of his jeans.

Immediately his gripped both hands to his groin, a wave of nausea enveloping him as he felt the the still-warm blood. It seemed surreal.

He wanted to run, to call an ambulance, to get help of some sort.

But his legs wouldn’t move, no matter how he willed them to.

Michael had an empty look on his face, his face was still wet from his tears, but he couldn’t feel the pain now.

His right hand was covered in blood, and tightly gripping a dark-red handled screwdriver, the only thing he could find as he stormed out of the house, upon seeing the photo on his daughter’s phone. She had cried and pleaded with him not to leave, but he couldn’t have stayed.

James tried to talk, tried to shout for help, but his mouth wouldn’t work. It was like a bad dream, or like sleep-paralysis, which he had suffered from as a teenager. His mind swam, unable to make sense of what had just happened. He had to fight to stay conscious.

Michael spotted the security guard, who was now running towards the pair, speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie, judging by the movement of his lips. People were running in all directions, he imagined they were screaming, panic-stricken, but he couldn’t hear anything.

Realising the guard would be upon them in seconds, Michael pulled back his arm, and plunged the screwdriver into the larger man’s stomach, again and again, until the sleeve of his jacket was crimson red.

He managed to pierce James’ flesh at least five times, before watching him fall to his knees, his eyes open wide, mouth agape.

By now all of the passers-by had left the area and suddenly Michael was aware of the voice of the security guard, screaming instructions to“Drop the knife!” As he pointed a pistol in his direction.

He knew it was over, he couldn’t just walk away, or even run, nor could he continue with life as normal. He used all his might to force the full length of the screwdriver into his fallen foe’s left eyeball, feeling the eye pop as the metal pierced it, then fell to his own knees, releasing his grip on the screwdriver and clutching both hands to his chest.

He felt his own blood, and lost consciousness as the security guard pushed him onto his back.

“He’s down, but I think I was too late.” The guard spoke, hurriedly, into his radio. His gun held firm in his grip, the tip of his finger still white from the pressure he’d applied to the trigger. He could smell the cordite all around him, even taste it.

“The ambulance had better hurry, I don’t think they’re going to make it.”

Both men were pronounced dead upon arrival to the hospital.

The End