Death by Clockwork

The candle flickered wildly. Any other time it would have been still and docile in its glass prison, but on this night the pane hung open. Either the lamplighter had forgotten it, or, this being the end of his rounds, had been too tired to care. At each passing gust of wind the flame made a small jump, as if thinking to grab hold and ride to freedom; but then cowardice would set in, and it would creep back to the safety of its perch, feigning indifference. 

It was very annoying.

Jack Trapper shifted his coat collar for the tenth time. It kept digging at his chin like a determined mole. His feet were near to numb, and what parts of them he could still feel were unaccountably damp. There had been no rain all day. At least... He sniffed at the air. He had a good sense of smell. Ought to, with a nose like a rat terrier. Yes, there was definitely a hint of something, might just be a hefty downpour in the near future. But still, it shouldn't hit for- he took another sniff- at least a few hours yet. Good news for him.

He settled back against the wall with a heavy sigh and once more leveled his gaze across the street. Would the old man never leave? He must certainly still be inside the shop; the soft glow from the window was testament to that. Not to mention Jack had been rooted to this same spot for the past six hours, and had seen neither wrinkled hide nor greying hair pass through the entryway. Oh, there was an exit out the back, but the old man never took it, at least not in the three years Jack had known him. No, he was still in there. Working late. Then there actually was extra work, thought Jack, with a note of sour satisfaction. Good. But merely having to work late once in a while wasn't even a hundredth of what the old man deserved.

He straightened abruptly. The light had gone out. Easy, Jack cautioned himself. One false move would be all it took. He'd learned that. Control was everything.

A heavy head and stooped shoulders appeared at the door frame, and Jack slipped further into the shadows. The figure fumbled for its keys- the keys dropped to the cobbles. Awkwardly, the old man bent down to retrieve them. Jack found he was holding his breath. Fingers on the keys, the figure stopped- turned its head- and looked straight at Jack.

Time froze. So did Jack- if staying more still than he already was, was even possible. If murder had been in his mind, this would have been the moment. Two quick steps across the street, easy for long legs like Jack's. One quick slice, or stab, or squeeze, before the old man could cry out... But that wasn't the plan.

Murder wasn't good enough.

After an eternity, the man blinked his eyes a few times, shook his head. He straightened, locked the door, slipped the keys back into his pocket, and set off down the street. It took another five minutes- it seemed like two hours- but at long last he turned a corner and was lost to view.

Releasing the long breath, Jack took a moment before moving out of the shadows, looking down the way the figure had gone. Of course, the old man did have very poor eyes. He needn't have feared discovery. But a sudden, uncomfortable doubt was squirming its way into his mind. Recent events, to put a good phrase on it, must be taking their toll; he'd never seen the old man look and act so... well, old.

He squared his shoulders. It was of no matter. What must be done, must be done.

He would have his revenge.

The old man might never go out the back of the shop, but Jack was more than familiar with it. And one thing he was quite familiar with was the fact that the back window was rarely, if ever, locked.

The opening was low to the ground, but it was also wide, and Jack swung his lanky body through it with ease. A dull thud echoed as his boots hit the cement floor. Dust immediately rose, filling his eyes and the all-too sensitive nose. He choked into his coat collar- finally, a use for the damn thing- to muffle the sound. Wheezing through streaming eyes, he grappled in the darkness, located the rough wooden stool, and collapsed upon it gratefully.