WAITING

Milton Darwin wept openly, his teardrops streaming down his prehistoric face. The wheezing man had waited impatiently for this moment, for twenty long years. He shuffled lethargically towards the grey walls of the prison, awaiting the appearance of the man, who had inadvertently sentenced Milton to his own life sentence.

The old man coughed loudly, and flecks of blood soiled his handkerchief. "One more day, Lord, grant me one more day on earth," he croaked.

“Charles Whittaker, you have callously and cold bloodedly raped and murdered an innocent woman and her twelve year old child. During this trial you have shown no remorse, and are without doubt an evil man. I have no hesitation in sentencing you to the maximum punishment that I can possibly administer. You are fortunate that capital punishment has been abolished recently, for I would have gladly sent you to the hangman. Charles Whittaker, I sentence you to life imprisonment without remission. Life for you will indeed mean life. Take him away."

Every day, the judge's words came back to haunt Milton. The do-gooders had made a mockery of the judge's sentence, and today the murderer of his daughter and granddaughter would walk free.

Milton screwed up his wrinkled eyes, peered skyward, and felt the first drops of rain refresh his burning face. He reached into his pocket for his pills and struggled with the top, before he crammed three of the pink tablets into his dry mouth. The dying man was living on what adrenalin he could muster. According to the so-called specialists, he should have been dead a year ago, only Milton had a reason for clinging onto his pathetic, pain-riddled life. Ever since the newspapers had suggested that the brutal killer might be due for early release, Milton had resumed taking his medicine.

The large, grey, steel gates opened, and Milton stepped back into the shadow of a tree. He leant against it, unaware that his fingernails were embedded into the bark.

The elderly man exited the prison, carrying a suitcase. There was no mistaking him, his shoulders hunched and that bow legged stance.

Milton felt the cold steel of his WWII revolver in his inside pocket; grateful he had secreted away three rounds with his souvenir. He waited until the prison warder departed before he made his move, shuffling laboriously towards his foe.

The short man in the flat cap struggled with his suitcase, as he crossed the narrow road towards the bus stop. He leant against the bus stop and rolled a cigarette, ignorant of the approaching old soldier.

"Whittaker!" choked Milton, staggering towards him, his revolver pointed menacingly towards the murderer.

"You've mistaken me for someone else, friend," uttered the petrified man, his hands held up, as if to protect himself.

"Plead all you want, Whitaker. I’ve waited a long time for this moment."

"No! Put that gun away and we can talk."

Two loud cracks followed, the torso of the begging man a shade of crimson. He looked down disbelieving at the gaping holes in his chest, before he collapsed to the ground.

Milton smiled, his twenty years of torment over.

The metallic sound of the prison gates being opened was followed by deafening shouts. The old man turned to see a prison warder run towards him. Without hesitation, Milton held the revolver against his own head and pulled the trigger, an ocean of blood seeping from his skull.

The shocked prison warder now stood over the bodies. He heard the footsteps of someone joining him.

"Who were they, Mr Fleming?"

"Not sure who the shooter was, but the old geezer over there is Harold, our janitor. Poor bastard was off to visit his daughter in Cornwall."

They watched the approach of the bus, the curious passengers vying for a view of the covered up bloodstained bodies. The prison warder and the old man shook hands.

"Stay out of trouble eh, Charlie? I don't want to see your old butt in here again."

"You don't have to worry about me, Mr Fleming; I've had my fill of prison life."

The old convict took his seat on the bus and glanced one more time at the man with the revolver; the man who had sparked a hit of recognition in him. He turned away, rolled his cigarette, and looked forward to his new life.