Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,9

him to see the person next to him. When he pulled his attention away from his hands and looked up, the sight and proximity of the figure on the small step gave him a juddering fright.

He jumped and recoiled, turning towards the man but leaning away. In the dim light he could see he was a lot older than himself, maybe middle-aged, maybe more; a glimmer of greyness glittered on his stubbled chin and flecked the hair above his ears, a multitude of wisdom lines creased his forehead. He was smiling; his piercing eyes glimmered from underneath a furrowed brow that questioned Michael’s surprise.

“What the fuck!” Michael spat, breathless. “Where did you come from?”

The man lowered his brow, maintained his smile. “Quite a fight you put up back there,” he stated simply, ignoring the question.

“What?” Michael spat, dumbfounded, still a little unsure if he was about to be raped and mutilated or if he had just stumbled upon an innocent weirdo.

“I was wondering,” the greyed man faced forwards, seemingly interested in a sheet of moulded newspaper which clung to the pavement like statically charged cellophane. “How does an aspiring art student learn to fight like that?”

“Aspiring art…” Michael shook his head. “You saw what happened in the bar? How?”

The man tilted his head this way and that. “I fear you wouldn’t believe me.”

Michael stood up, backed off slightly. “What’s going on here? Are you part of the gang? Did the bartender phone you? Did he put you up to this?” he clenched his fists and left them dangling by his side. He was prepared for a fight, even though the old man didn’t look like the fighting type.

The man remained seated. His confident and calming gaze met Michael’s agitated, trepidatious features.

“Not a setup. This is an offer,” he explained. A serious expression crossed his face and cancelled out his smile. “Although, as your assumptions were not entirely incorrect. I have to be quick.”

“What the fuck are you talking about it?”

“I have been studying you, headhunting if you like. I work for a very highly respected organisation, and I think you would fit right in. We are on the lookout for individuals such as you.”

Thoughts of MI5 and the SAS popped into Michael’s head but were dismissed just as quickly as they arrived, replaced by something far more likely and far less interesting.

“Are you a fucking pimp?”

The older man laughed. A sound both spine chilling and comforting, like the screams of a long-lost loved one. Michael took another step back.

“I am something you can’t even comprehend,” he explained when the laughter had faded from his voice.

Michael shook his head dismissively, “Bollocks to this.” He turned and ducked into the alleyway, exposing himself to any potential enemies on the street ahead.

The man stood up behind him. He opened his arms imploringly. “Clearly you’re not in a talkative mood,” he said, raising his voice as Michael scuppered into the alley. “But I dare say you will be soon enough.”

Michael stopped in his tracks, took a few steps backwards until he could see the man again. “I don’t think so mate,” he addressed him face to face, rose a threatening finger and thrust it menacingly at him. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I don’t want to be any part of it.”

He left one last look of diastase with the stranger before turning around and heading into the increasingly bright lights of the street ahead. The sound of sirens was now extinct but the lights of distant police cars, still parked outside the bar, lit up the sky a few streets ahead.

Further down the alleyway, next to a pair of dumpsters, a collection of broken cardboard boxes and a clutter of empty beer cans, two men were waiting for Michael. At the sight of him they popped their sluggish selves from the wall and slowly advanced towards him.

He saw their silhouettes before their faces, as their bulky frames staggered forward. He prepared to fight or flee, depending on the severity of their intentions, but he relaxed somewhat when their faces were close enough to make out.

They were bikers from the bar. He had left one of them bent-double and beaten, no doubt he had dragged his crippled body away from the scene before the police had arrived. The youngster who had swung for him with the pool cue before fleeing the scene when the violence erupted, was with him.

“Hello boys, ready for round two?” Michael said cockily.

“Nice moves back