Mary had a little gun ...

A young widow finds herself face to face with her son's kidnapper

Standing in the remote disused warehouse Mary stared through the broken windows.  Her tortured thoughts drifted back briefly to life before she became a wife and mother.  She had been a different person then.  She was suddenly alerted by a man's voice.

            'Let's get this over with Mary.' he said, approaching from behind her. 

            'Okay.' Mary replied and envisaged her young son, helpless, frightened and alone.  She briefly closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly before taking a firm grip of the pistol and slipping it from her shoulder bag.  She turned. 

            The man stopped where he was, eyes widening and lips parting slightly. After only seconds, his eyes resumed their normal calculating glare and his lips curled briefly before he spoke and started walking forward.  

            'Now, now, Mary … there's no need for that -.'

            Mary remained impassive as she aimed and fired.

It had been three days since Mary, a 35 year old widow, had last met this man.  As now, the previous occasion had been in a building within a deserted industrial site.  The last time the man had worn a ski mask and overalls.  Mary would never forget that meeting.  It had been exactly one month since her husband Peter's death in Afghanistan.  Peter's heroism had been a well publicised event because he had been a Royal Marine and died saving a group of children.  The media disclosed that Peter’s wife Mary and their young son James were left financially comfortable.  The feature expanded on the widow’s heartbreak but unfortunately the publicity captured the imagination of a couple in their twenties.  They saw Mary’s money as a ticket to a better life. 

The ruthless couple abducted eleven year old James as he left school then gave his terrified mother twenty four hours to turn up with the ransom.  The telephone instructions were text book.  No police involvement.  Get the money and take it to the designated location for the exchange.  It was too large a sum to withdraw at short notice and the anxiety caused Mary to feel more desperate.  She would do anything to protect James.  Mary reflected on the job she was doing when she met her husband.  That other Mary could cope. 

At that first meeting, the man in his disguise had referred to his ‘partner’ in the car.  Mary had turned up without the ransom and pleaded for her son’s life.  She said she would need more time to gather the cash.  The man in the ski mask had been heartless as he laughed and said, ‘You’ll be contacted in three days … and the next time if you fail, we’ll let you have your precious son … but he’ll be dead.’ 

Mary had been left standing alone in the abandoned warehouse with tears streaming down her face.  Her lower lip bled as she bit it in frustration and worry.  Her entire body trembled and her lips quivered.  She listened as the kidnapper’s car sped away but saw nothing through her tear-filled eyes.  Not for the first time she felt helpless since losing her husband.  Before leaving to join the international conflict Peter had said, ‘Take care of yourself and James.  Remember, …  until I get back you’ll have to be his mum and dad.’ Peter had held her close then and whispered, ‘If things get tough, you must rise to the challenge.’  She’d felt stronger then. 

 

Now, it was a confident Mary that advanced towards the smartly dressed man writhing on the floor.  He was half sitting, both hands clasped on the gushing wound in his left thigh, blood oozing between his fingers.  In short, rapid movements he raised his right hand to undo his tie and top shirt button.  Blood was being spread all over his once business-like outfit.  His mouth was open wide and a slight groan was emitted each time he took a painful breath.

Standing in front of him now he saw Mary was an attractive lady.  Her dark hair was brushed down over her shoulders and touched the straps of her light summer dress.  She wore stylish shoes which contrasted with the debris and broken glass of the derelict building’s floor.  As she stood confidently with a loaded pistol in her white gloved hand her whole persona was a world away from the frightened, bedraggled creature who had begged at the first meeting.  Then, there had been no make-up, her face was streaked with tears, her hair was dishevelled and she was in a loose fitting tracksuit and trainers.   

Mary observed the man's discomfort dispassionately and said, ‘Using only the forefinger and thumb of your left hand, remove the gun from inside your jacket.’

‘I haven’t got -.’ He held back a scream as a bullet entered his right thigh.  Now with a hand clamped on each thigh the man’s eyes widened, he took a deep breath, then bit his lower lip before complying.  His left hand trembled as he reached inside his jacket and slowly lifted out the pistol.  It slipped from his blood soaked finger tips onto the floor and he resumed the grip on his fresh wound.  His lips were pursed and his eyes returned to dark slits as he tried to calculate his chances of survival. 

‘Arms next,’ Mary said quietly and advanced a step, 'where is my son?’ 

The kidnapper closed his eyes, his breathing deep and rapid, trying to deal with the pain and failure.  ‘In the boot … outside … with my … partner.’ 

‘Keys!’                    

Without hesitation, a set of car keys was fished out of the man’s pocket by a blood soaked hand and dropped on the dirty concrete floor.   Mary stepped forward quickly and kicked the gun and keys out of his reach.  She lifted the gun, released the magazine with a flick of her thumb, then dropped gun and magazine to the floor.  On her way to the door, she picked up the keys.  She stopped briefly and half turned, ‘Don't call out ....’ 

            When she stepped out of the cavernous derelict, Mary kept her own gun in her right hand.  Parked behind her small Ford was a battered Volvo saloon, and half sitting on the boot was a blonde woman smoking a cigarette.  When Mary’s footsteps crunched on broken glass the blonde spoke whilst turning, ‘I thought you would never - .’ 

‘Open the boot.’ Mary said, aiming her pistol as she threw the keys to the woman. 

The woman dropped her cigarette and caught the keys.  She looked at her hands.  Her eyes and lips screwed up as she handled the sticky keys.  The blonde glanced at Mary, then the derelict building.  Slowly, she reached down and unlocked the boot.  As the metal panel flipped up she stepped back quickly and reached inside her jacket.  The gun fell from the blonde's lifeless fingers when Mary fired.                                           

         Mary put the pistol into her shoulder bag as she ran towards the back of the Volvo.  In the massive boot was a small huddled figure bound at wrist and ankle with old rope.  First sight of the child in the dirty and torn school uniform made Mary shiver involuntarily.  She reached down to the small, still figure and gently, slowly removed the hood from her son's head.  James lay perfectly still, eyes staring straight ahead at the carpeted interior of the luggage space, lips trembling, but not a sound came from the tear-stained young face. 

            ‘James … it’s okay now son.’ Mary sobbed as she untied the ropes.  She saw his eyes slowly turn to look in disbelief then erupt in a fresh torrent of tears.  A mixture of emotions was being released.  James knelt on the vehicle floor and wrapped his arms tightly around his mother’s neck.  Neither spoke then for a minute as their tears combined, running silently down their cheeks.  Mary felt the uncontrollable tremors as her son’s sobbing continued. 

            When the time felt right Mary eased James away a little, looked into his eyes and kissed him gently before helping him out of the car.  ‘I’ve got one more thing to do my love … then we’re going home.’  Even as she spoke she heard the scrape of metal on concrete as the damaged door of the building was pushed open.  She quickly stepped in front of her son and simultaneously lifted the pistol from her shoulder bag.  The gun was raised and aimed briefly in a practised movement before a single shot was fired. 

They’d been travelling a few minutes when James spoke, 'Why weren't those people wearing masks mum?'                                   

'Because they didn't care if we saw their faces son.' 

Staring straight ahead, James said quietly, ‘I told them you would kill them’ 

‘Really?' 

'Yes … but I didn't tell them you were once a Military Police bodyguard.’

 

The end

Author's Note

Delighted to say that this short story is to be published in the autumn on a double CD for the paritally-sighted.