February

David Willshaw from the UK won £20.00 ($40.00) in Amazon vouchers for his entry.

Geronimo!

The drop below the parapet that secures my position swims in and out of focus. I can feel its nauseating perspective enticing me to look down, but each time I do my vision fades to black and I have to snap my head back up to regain control. Once more I grab the railing with both hands, furtively glance behind me and prepare to swing my legs over for the big jump. Six feet, that’s all, a short leap to the tiled roof opposite, that or a fifty foot drop onto the gazing crowd below.

One hour ago feels like a month, or a year, it could have been I suppose; few people have such events flung at them in a lifetime. But one hour it was, and just 60 minutes ago I was sitting on a bench in the train station watching the world go by.

I’m an artist you see, and every artist needs inspiration, they need a muse. My particular muse just happened to be Fenchurch train station. I would sit there and watch the throngs of people rushing to and from the trains; each face paints a picture, every bushy eyebrow and curled lip details a landscape of questions and answers. No one ever really noticed me though as I sat there for hours scribbling notes and making sketches.

This time however was different. I had been sitting for just two minutes when this tall guy strides up to me and holds out a rucksack, “This is yours” he said. It wasn’t an enquiry, or a suggestion, it was a statement, and by the look of him he wasn’t used to people questioning him. As I said, he was tall, but even though a slim dark suit softened his stature, you could just feel a sense of power and strength from his mere presence. In a busy station where most people were shuffled and bumped as a matter of course, this man stood untouched as if some force field emanated around him. He continued to glare at me until I nervously took the bag and as I rested it on the seat next to me he turned and strode off into the crowd as quickly as he had arrived and within seconds he was gone.

To be truthful I sat there for at least two minutes with my mouth open glancing from the crowd to the bag and back again. Realising that our brief liaison was well and truly over I looked at the rucksack yet again. It was dark green with a strange yellow insignia on the front detailing two letters, ‘CC’, both enclosed within a circle. The contents were fairly heavy and as opened it I could see some mysterious black clothing along with a small hand held personal organiser, the type with a flip up lid. Examining the organiser closely I opened the lid and pressed the power button. The screen flashed same CC logo that adorned the bag and was followed by some text, ‘Put these on, NOW’. I could only presume it meant the clothes inside, so it was a sense of half curiosity, half bewilderment that I started to make my way to the station concourse.

Crossing over the gantry I worked my way to the men’s toilets and after finding a free clean cubicle I locked the door again and re-opened the bag. I pulled the topmost item out of the bag to reveal what looked like a hood. This I placed over my head until my eyes could see through two slim slits. Considering the shape and design it was odd to notice that it fitted comfortably. Next was a large black cape that clipped onto the hood and finally a large heavy belt with pockets attached to it. I couldn’t see how these opened other than a small button above each of them.

I can tell you now that I felt a bit of an idiot standing there dressed in all this gothic regalia, and big guy or no big guy I wasn’t about to step into the bustling station dressed like the scarlet pimpernel at a funeral. It was as I started to take off the belt that a loud bang echoed through the toilet block. I had been the only person present when I arrived and this was of no comfort to me as I peered beneath the cubicle door to saw two skinheads trying to prise a hand dryer off the wall. They certainly weren’t dressed to impress with long red Doctor Martin boots, bleached jeans and tight white t-shirts. The feeling of dread heightened considerably as one turned to see my upturned head looking at them from beneath the door.

I shot up instantly but realised it was too late. “E’re, there’s some little pervert spying at us” sneered one them, this was followed by the loud clump of boots marching up to the door. A brief silence was held but for a moment as the door was booted in at me. Instinctively I put up both hands to defend myself but they just stood there, their faces had melted from an angry leer to a nervous shocked expression. “You?” spoke the first shortly, I cannot tell you which one of them had spoken as they both looked identical. “Me?” I stuttered back. As I spoke they both took a step back, glanced at each other and ran, their boots skidding and sliding over the floor as they flew towards the toilet entrance.

I don’t know why, but I started to chase after them. Perhaps it was because the events of the last thirty minutes had stunned me so much that my brain had decided to stop allowing me to make decisions, or it could have been the feeling that somehow this was expected of me, but nevertheless against all logical reason I ran like a dog chasing a stick of dynamite. I burst through the glazed door violently knocking a porter aside and leap onto the station concourse. The entire mass of commuters, there must have been at least a thousand of them, just stopped and stared at me. The only movement it seemed was from the two escaping thugs scampering through the blank faced crowd. Again I started to build up speed in the direction of the skinheads, a 29 year old slightly built artist wearing a leather facemask and a black flowing cape chasing after two lumbering walls of muscle.

Despite my excess attire I continued to race through the motionless throng and was making good progress mainly due to the fact that a few brave people were now attempting to slow escape of my quarry. A slight worry now entered my head as to what I was going to do once I had caught them up but the sight of several policemen advancing from the opposite direction fortunately interrupted this. Realising that they were surrounded the two thugs slowed to a halt. One of them turned and looked at me with what I can only describe as a resigned apprehension as he allowed a policeman to handcuff him.

With all the guise of an actor who had been pushed on stage and was not only unaware of his lines, but who wasn’t even quite sure what production this was I stood there waiting for someone to tell me what to do.

A beeping sound emitted from the personal organiser I had stuffed into my pocket. Grateful at having something to do with my hands I pulled it out and opened the lid. Again the flash of the CC emblem and this time the text was followed with a photo. ‘Exit Now, Roof Quickly’ blinked at me above a picture of an exit door embellishing a ‘staff only’ sign. Looking around I almost instantly noticed the same to my left. Placing the organiser back into my pocket I strode purposely towards the exit, trying to rush without being noticed though this was pretty futile come to think of it now. I glanced back towards the policemen, one of them saluted at me, I turned back to see a lady with a young child in tow smiling shyly. The same porter, who I had just four minutes past knocked over, also saluted and opened the door.

Well that was five minutes ago, the door had led to a stairway, which not entirely unsurprisingly opened up onto the station roof. The only way out from here is a building six feet away. Six feet across and fifty feet down, at the bottom of which is a growing throng of people, all of their faces turned up towards me. Some are chanting something I cannot quite hear, sounds like ‘Caked Crew Sabre!’ Not for the first time I can’t help but feel that something is expected from me as I teeter falteringly on the ledge. With a Herculean effort I make my decision and crouch down tensing for the jump.

I leap.

‘Geronimooooooo!’

1500 Words.