Jessie

Here’s my first short story for Substack. I’m known for being a comedy writer but for some reason I have decided to flex my literary muscles and try my hand at something else.

Something a bit serious and dramatic.

This story is not in any way funny and if you came here hoping for a good laugh you’re going to be disappointed on this occasion.

I drew inspiration for this sad and somewhat dark tale from an old neighbour of mine. He was the repeated victim of a gang of local hooligans who terrorised the housing estate I used to live on. Thankfully, I was able to move away from that horrible area but I still often think back to how those awful youths tormented him.

Anyway, here is my, or should it be - his, story…

Jessie

The old soldier sat in the faded brown armchair, that at one time had cost a lot of money, and sighed the deep, longing sigh of the elderly and the fed up. It was a dismal April day outside; rain, wind, ominous skies, and just as dismal inside because as always there was bugger all on the telly. There never was bugger all worth watching these days. It was all silly antique shows fronted by some grinning, gap-toothed prat where the contestants damn near always lost money. Either that or people being persuaded by some unnaturally-white-toothed bottle-blonde young lass into buying houses in sunnier climes that they could truthfully ill afford.

Load of old crap.

He reached for the remote control to switch the rubbish off but in his haste to rid himself of the abject horrors of daytime TV he knocked it off the arm of the chair and onto the well-trodden carpet. He let his hand rest there on the arm for a while. It was no good trying to pick the remote up just yet until he could force himself into a standing position with his walking frame and then it would be a tortuous, bone-cracking exercise of getting down on his knees to retrieve the damned thing followed by a near Herculean effort to get back up again.

And that’s if he did manage to get back up again at all. There were no certainties on that score.

Sod that for a lark.

His hand twitched and trembled involuntarily. It was doing that a lot these days, had been for a while. Sometimes it was as if it had a life of its own separate from the rest of him. He exercised no control over it.

He studied the mottled and blue-veined appendage for a while. It looked ugly, weathered, thin-skinned, unsightly and…

…old…

…very, very old…

The nails, now yellowing, needed trimming for one thing. He’d have to be careful scratching any part of his face with those. He could take an eye out with them. Maybe he would ask the well-made young lass who came in once a day to make sure he was eating and taking his tablets and having a wash.

Bloody hell! He knew how to have a wash. He didn’t need some wet nurse; what was her name now? No, he couldn’t remember offhand other than it began with a J.

Or was it an S?

Whatever…

Still, she was a bonny young lass who always managed to make him smile and it would be nice if she could cut his nails for him. Would be nice to chat to someone for a while as well and she’d be there at eleven o’clock so it wasn’t too long to wait.

On the settee a small, wire-haired Jack Russell bitch snuffled and squeaked in its sleep. The old soldier looked at her with overwhelming fondness. His best friend. She was dreaming bless her.

He decided that he was thirsty and the teapot was beckoning. After one minute and twenty-seven seconds of painful effort and with the aid of his frame he got unsteadily to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. Jessie the Jack Russell opened her eyes and yawned but remained lying on the settee. She knew when it was time to be fed but with any luck there might be half a biscuit going spare.

Jessie was as old as the man, in dog years. Her days of tear-arsing wild-eyed around the local green with her tongue flailing out of the side of her mouth were long gone and her teeth weren’t in the best condition, but she could still make short work of a custard cream or hobnob whenever the chance arose.

From a standing start it took the old soldier two minutes and six seconds to get to the kitchen and reach the kettle, slowly shuffling along in fits and starts in carpet slippers that really wanted replacing. Then it was a further forty-three seconds to fill the kettle and put it back on its base to boil.

The view from the kitchen window was as equally dismal as the view from the living room, only a different kind of dismal. A different view of the dull red brick estate he lived on.

As the kettle slowly reached boiling point (he really could do with one of those new-fangled fast ones) he stood and stared out of the window. A woman, in a coat the drab colour of which matched the weather, walked rapidly by with her head down and her right hand on top of her hood to ward off the wind and near-horizontal rain; a garish orange shopping bag from a budget supermarket hooked in the crook of her left elbow. That shopping bag was the cheeriest thing he had seen all morning.

Two minutes and twenty-four seconds later he had a carefully poured potful of tea on the kitchen counter and he was reaching for his favourite mug - the one with a picture of a Jack Russell on it. It wasn’t Jessie but he liked to imagine that it was. It was strikingly similar to her anyway. When she was a few years younger.

Five hours later it had stopped raining, the wind had died down and he was back in the armchair with neatly trimmed fingernails and a feeling of contentment at having had someone to chat to for a bit.

The carers name was Alison.

She’d done a beautiful job on his nails and had made him a ham, cheese and Branston sandwich for his lunch. For tea he would microwave one of those frozen meals that he had delivered. Something with chicken in it. He liked chicken. They weren’t the most exciting of fayre but they were filling and manageable for him.

Alison had gone now but the two hours she had spent with him had been more than pleasant as usual. He’d enjoyed feeling the touch of another human being as she gently clipped his nails, taking great pains not to nick his thin skin. Not that he would have minded if she had. Might have been nice to feel something other than boredom.

Alison had also retrieved the remote control from under the chair and had jokingly admonished him for not having one of those holders for it that goes over the arm. She was a nice girl. Her face reminded him of a WREN he had known in the war, only much taller. He also knew that by tomorrow morning he would have forgotten her name again.

Jessie was now sitting on his lap and he took great comfort from feeling the weight of her on his knees. She was a wonderful little dog. Full of character still. But, like him, not much longer for this world.

The clock was ticking on the wall upon the chimney breast but he didn’t want to look at it, or even acknowledge what time it was. He knew more or less what time it was and it sickened him. It was nearly time that those little bastards were let out of school.

He began to feel agitated within himself.

He wished to high Heaven and with tears in his eyes that he didn’t have to live on that street…

…on that estate…

…where those little shits lived…

The first attack came just before dusk.

It was an egg. It usually was. That was the preferred choice of weapon of the gang for windows, although they weren’t adverse to stones at times. It struck the living room window with a resounding thud and dispersed its unctuous contents across the glass in a long streak.

Jessie yelped and jumped off his lap as she always did when it all started. She made her way as quickly as her elderly little legs could behind the settee where she would lie quivering with fear until it had all subsided in a few hours time.

A couple of minutes later the letterbox rattled open and a yobbish voice shouted, “Oi Oi you old bastard!” through it. This was accompanied with the sound of mocking laughter.

Had he locked up when Alison left? Yes he was sure he had. But it was better to check.

He heaved himself to his feet again and reached the front door in two minutes and eight seconds, going as fast as he dared. To his relief it was locked and the chain was on as well.

Thank goodness for that.

Outside, in the gathering gloom, he could hear the shout of, “Clear off!” from one of his female neighbours which was greeted by a chorus of jeers and foul language from the gang. They were feral and had no fear of either home owners or the law.

Scum, that’s what they were in his mind. Pure, inbred, evil scum. And every-bloody-night it was the same…

…every bloody night…

…without fail…

He made his way back to the living room, a lot slower this time and called Jessie’s name in a soothing tone of voice. He could hear her whimpering as she cowered behind the couch. Outside the sounds of yawping and shouting was getting louder as the gang continued their adolescent assault on the peace and quiet of the neighbourhood.

“It’s all right girl, I’m here, I’m here.” He told the frightened animal.

Every now and then a firework would go off close by with a nerve-jolting bang and with each one Jessie would give a little cry of fear.

“I’m coming Jessie, I’m coming. It’ll be all right.”

How he longed that he could be a young man again. If he were Lance Corporal William Robbins of the 49^th Infantry Division once more they would soon know about it. He, and his army mates, would have gone out there and given them all a bloody good hiding. Especially Geordie Peterson. Always up for a good scrap was Geordie Peterson.

But Geordie had been on the fatal end of a German bullet on Gold Beach in June 1944.

Come to think of it, he was the only one left out of the half dozen or so good mates he had had during the war.

But by God what a smartly turned out bunch of lads they were. He remembered with immense pride how he looked in his uniform. He was a fit, healthy, well turned out young man of twenty-years of age when he ran on to that infernal beach on D-Day with a rifle in his hand.

Tears threatened to come to his eyes to recall how he and Geordie and the rest of the lads had gone up against the Nazis. They had fought, and many had died, for freedom. For freedom from tyranny and brutish repression and now here he was, 92 years old and tottering about with a Zimmer frame, being terrorised and repressed by modern day Nazis in his own home.

His little dog was scared out of her mind, his home was under attack and there was nothing he could do about it. Ringing the police was futile. Oh, they’ed send a car round, naturally, but the gang would disperse like a vapour as soon as they arrived and then reconvene when the mighty force of law and order left.

The police would ask for a description but how could he give a description? It was usually dark when the trouble began and the scum would be wearing hoodies with scarves around their evil, sneering faces.

Complete waste of time ringing the police.

Just have to ride it out and hope it rains again. They always went in when it rained.

Bloody little wimps!

It had rained on D-Day but it didn’t stop him and the rest of the allies doing their duty.

He reached the end of the hallway and turned the frame to go back into the living room. There was another noisy rattle of the letterbox, a sudden bright flash and an almost deafening explosion as the firework went off on his welcome mat.

He cried out but not at the sound of the firework. It was the terrible howl that came from Jessie. A short, strangulated howl that ended too abruptly.

“JESSIE!” He called her name.

“Jessie girl, are you all right?”

No sound at all from behind the settee.

He made his way to the back of the settee as fast as his failing legs would carry him and peered in at the little dog.

Jessie was lying motionless on her side.

“Jessie, oh Jessie, come on lass.” He said. But Jessie didn’t move. He wanted to pick her up but couldn’t reach her. Her eyes were open but there was no life in them. Jessie’s heart couldn’t take any more.

Tears poured down the old soldier’s face and a lump the size of a cricket ball rose in his throat. The bastards had killed Jessie. They’ed killed his little Jessie.

Outside, the sounds of gleeful hooliganism continued.

The old soldier stood and wept for several minutes. Then, drying his eyes, he decided that enough was enough. If the police weren’t going to do anything then he was. They could egg his windows, they could shout through his letterbox, they could firework him to kingdom come, they could do to him as they pleased.

But killing Jessie was something that he couldn’t let go. And by God he wasn’t going to let it go.

Slowly but determinedly he made his way back down the hallway to the closet on the left, opposite the kitchen, opened the door and switched on the light. There were one or two things that he needed.

Ten minutes and nineteen seconds later, the old soldier emerged from his front door proudly wearing his black blazer, war medals, regimental tie and beret. He was Lance Corporal William Robbins again.

“HEY!” He shouted, in a cracked and hoarse voice, at the gang in general, who by now where taking running kicks at the base of a street lamp in an attempt to make it go out. There were at least a dozen or more of them.

It got their attention anyway.

“Ay up lads, look, it’s Action Man!” Shouted one of the youths who was wearing a grey hoodie and black tracksuit bottoms. His name was Alex Jeffreys. A tall, angular young thug with a penchant for cruelty. His comrades called him Jezz.

The thug began to swagger across the street towards the old soldier, his arms in the air spread wide with his fingers splayed outwards. He looked defiant, self-assured and threatening.

“Are you the ring-leader of this here shower of bastards?” Said the old soldier, taking his hands off the walking frame and reaching into his pocket.

“Yeah, worrabout it?” Said the thug.

“I’ve got something for you.” Said the old soldier.

“Yeah? Wossat then?” Said Alex Jeffreys.

“Only this.” Said Lance Corporal William Robbins, raising the German Luger (a souvenir of the war) and pointing it with an usually steady and determined hand at the gangly, leering youth before him.

“Shit!” Said Alex Jeffreys, his eyes bulging wide.

And that was the last word that particular young man ever spoke in this world.

THE END