Retribution

"Only twenty pounds each, son," the trader said. He was in his seventies, if not more. "My father fought in World War II," he said

Gently putting the medal back on the display unit, I saw a police baton further down the table. The price tag showed ten pounds. Picking it up, I put my hand through the leather thong. Gripping the handle, I began to move the baton around, making defensive and attacking moves in the air.

"I see you know how to use a truncheon," the trader said.

"Truncheon?" I said. I looked at him perplexed.

"That's what you called it back in the 60s and 70s," he said.

I studied the item gingerly, small dents and scratches covered most of the baton. Near the handle a crown emblem and the letters CP printed. "What's the CP mean? I asked.

"City Police, I was a plainclothes officer for the CID back in 1965," he said it with pride.

I gave the baton another twirl around my hand, showing off some other moves I knew, before putting it down.

"Fits like a glove," the trader said.

"What do you know granddad," a young man said. Grabbing the baton from the table, he quickly threaded his hand through the thong. Swinging the weapon in his hand, he attempted to show off in front of his friends. All he achieved was the baton bouncing back and hitting him on the forehead. His companions began to laugh, which comprised of four ladies and two guys.

He quickly turned to the ladies and said, "Have you finished, bitches." All four stopped laughing instantly. "We'll see who's going to be laughing tonight," he threatened the ladies.

Turning to me, he came closer, his face inches from my face. Both his arms stretched outwards, the baton still in his hand, in a tight grip. "Do you think that was funny Mr Marathon Man?" he angrily said.

It was the guy from outside.

He stared into my eyes. I stared back. "What are we playing here? Who blinks first? I said.

"The item is not for sale, son." the trader said.

Turning away from me, he threw the baton on the table, knocking over some items on display. "Who needs your baton you old fart," he rudely said to the trader. Turning around he said to his friends, "Are we going or what?"

I watched them as they walked away, going towards the exit doors. Turning my attention to the trader, he was straightening the items on the table.

"I am sorry about that," I said.

"It's not your fault, son. I am ashamed to say I am British when there is scum like that walking the streets. They use women for prostitution and sell drugs to youngsters. Did you see the fear on those poor girls faces? God knows what he'll do to them."

I just stood there staring. That young man was me, not more than three years ago.

He retrieved a box from under the table, removing the bubble wrap from inside. He took one item at a time. He put some wrapping material around it, before putting it in the box. When he got to the baton, he stopped and looked at it.

"Do you want it?" he said.

"I'll leave it for another time," I replied. I wasn't about to insult the trader, by making an offer of five pounds.

With his hand stretched, he held the weapon from its extended end. He said, "Whoever buys it, he will probably put it in a glass display box. An item like this needs action." He probed the handle towards me.

I enclosed my fist around it, forming a tight fist.

"As I said earlier, it fits like a glove. When that punk tried to scare you, you didn't twitch a muscle. You're a fighter, son."

Retrieving the fiver out of my pocket, I said. "This is all I have on me. I don't want to insult you by offering five pounds for it."

"It's a gift from me. I have a feeling it will come in good use."

I helped him put his items in boxes. He would tell me a short background on each piece. Once we finished, we piled everything on a trolley. Pushing it to the parking lot where his car was parked. With the car loaded, we said our farewells before going our separate ways.

Chapter 7

I had confessed to Father Petrou that it was me who put the envelope under the bible. I kept a small amount for myself, not to spend on me, but for travelling expenses. I was planning on using some of the cash to buy a firearm, but without having the right contacts, it was not possible. Maybe it was better that way. The last thing I needed was the police on my tail. The only weapon I had was the old police baton. If appropriately used, it would be as lethal as any weapon.

With my injury healing on my face, I was more comfortable going out during the day. A light curved line ran down my cheek. The cut will always show unless I have plastic surgery.

Father Petrou and I had many errands to run before Christmas. After my confession, about the money, I had left under the bible. We sat in his office and talked.

He sat there, stroking his beard, thinking. "We are going to use that money to help the community," he said. He got up, marched up and down the small office. He continued, "We can start with The Salvation Army."

Father Petrou had many contacts. We would get cooked food at cost price. It could be from restaurants or grocery stores. He made the call, and I collected and delivered. Charity shops, shelters, homeless people, wherever help was needed, I was there. People would come up to me, thanking me, giving me their blessing.

It was Friday afternoon. I had finished for the day from delivering some meals at The Salvation Army shelter in Turnpike Lane. I drove back to the church, and Parked, Father Petrou's car on the church driveway. I locked it up and looked for him. Then I remembered that he had a meeting with the head priest at St. Mary's church.

I had a quick shower before my daily trip to London. Tonight I was planning to go into the City. It was the last weekday until Christmas. Many of the office employees have a few drinks in the fancy wine bars around the city. Maybe my luck will change tonight, and I spot Goliath and his boss preying on another helpless victim.

When I got to Wood Green Station, before buying my return ticket, I looked up at the large clock on the station wall. It was still early, only four in the afternoon. It was too early to go into Central London. It would be after six when the wine bars start getting busy. I decided to walk down the high street to the next station at Turnpike Lane. The streets were crowded with shoppers, getting into the Christmas spirit. Going past McDonald's, I decided to have my meal, before I took the train.

At the entrance of the fast-food restaurant, sitting on the cold pavement was a homeless man. He was wrapped up with an old quilt. The blanket's original colour must have been white. From the dirt, it had become grey. I dug my hand in my jeans pocket. I retrieved some loose change which I gave to the homeless man.

Now that is something I wouldn't have done a few months ago. Not that I didn't want to help. I was blind. You can't ignore the problem. You have to contribute to solving the problem. Father Petrou taught me to think this way.

I walked into the fast-food place, straight to the counter to order my food. With my Big Mac meal, I sat at one of the high stools by the window. I tried to eat my burger slowly, to enjoy it, but like always I ended up finishing it in less than five minutes. I was left with my milkshake. Which we all know, you can't drink it too fast as it is too thick. I tried to suck on the straw hard, which was a bad idea. A few seconds later, I sat there holding my forehead from the pain.

"Freeze brain," a female voice said in a Russian accent.

I swivelled my seat around. Standing there was an attractive young lady. Her blonde hair flowed down to her back. I recognised her at once. It was one of the girls at Alexandra Palace. She was with the punk who was looking for trouble a few nights ago. Next to her another young lady, her eyes glued outside like she was trying to spot someone.

"You mean brain freeze," I said.

With a smile, she replied, "Sorry I am still learning, language."

I chuckled, "You said it wrong, still learning the language. Get your boyfriend to teach ..." she stopped me before I could finish my sentence.

With a look of daggers, she spat, "Not my boyfriend." Turning around, she rushed out of McDonald's. She leaned down to the homeless man sitting outside, and then disappeared toward the shopping centre. I sat there with my mouth open.

Attempting to drink my beverage, it was still too thick. I dumped it with my other garbage in the trash and walked out of the restaurant. The homeless man had his face buried in a burger he had in his hand.

"You got yourself something to eat?" I said.

He finished chewing before he answered my question, "Oh, I didn't buy this. Tatiana got me this. When she goes to McDonald's, she always gets me something to eat." The man had the widest smile on his face. He may have been homeless, but at that moment he was the happiest person.

"Does Tatiana have long blonde hair by any chance?" I asked him.

With his mouth full, he just nodded his head.

It was crazy in the City. With Christmas Day on Tuesday, most of the city workers celebrated. Having Pre-Christmas drinks. I walked the length of Fleet Street, to St. Paul's Cathedral. Towards The Barbican, then back to Covent Garden. Another night has gone to waste, with no success.

Next day, Father Petrou was busy with the Christmas service. I had the day to myself. I decided to take a run up, Alexander Park. I pushed myself further. The road was steep towards Muswell Hill. I could tolerate the pain on my legs, but my chest was burning. I forced myself until I reached the top of the hill. The return run, I took it easy, going through the park, instead of running along the road. Once I was back home, I jumped into the shower. I got ready before I went to see my good friend Father Petrou.

In his office, he sat behind his desk. I sat opposite him. "Father, I want to thank you for everything," I said.

"No, Tony I want to thank you. You will not believe how much you have helped these last few days." He got up and came next to me, opening his arms out to me. I got up embracing him in a hug. He whispered in my ear, "You still go every night, hunting for them."

We released each other. "I'm sorry, Father. It is something I have to do," I replied.

He grabbed my shoulders with his hands and squeezed them. "Your demons will get you killed. You have to destroy them before they destroy you."

"I know, Father. I know," I whispered.

"I will pray for you, my Son," he said.

I just looked at him, without saying anything.

There is a midnight service tonight. Please come?"

"Save me a seat," I said.

I spent most of the afternoon at The Salvation Army shelter, helping with the serving of the meals. Every person that I served thanked me. In their eyes and voice, you could see it came from their heart. For the first time in my life, I was helping people, and it felt good.

It was late when we finished. Some of the other volunteers insisted on giving me a lift home. I thanked them for the offer, but I wanted to walk, to get some fresh air. With a takeaway meal in my hand, I started to make my way home. There were fewer pedestrians on the High Street. Most of the shops had closed the odd one still open. Getting closer to McDonald's, I got a glimpse of the homeless man sitting outside. He was sitting in the same place, wrapped up with his old quilt.

I approached him, going down on one knee. "Hey buddy, how are you?" I said.

He turned to look at me. His body was trembling. He didn't say anything he pulled the quilt tighter around his body, trying to get warmer.

"I brought you something." I opened the plastic bag to reveal a takeaway meal. Consisting of a cup of soup and some roast beef with potatoes wrapped in foil. Handing him the soup, he released the quilt, taking the cup in his hand.

He wrapped his hands around the small container. He blew at the hot liquid a few times before taking a sip. Turning to look at me, he said, "Thank you." He took another drink of the soup, licking his upper lip before he spoke. "She is inside, Tatiana is inside. She doesn't look too good tonight."

I sprung up onto my feet. My head spun around to look into McDonald's. A few scattered customers sat at the tables, Tatiana wasn't among them. I pulled the door open, to go inside. A group of people were leaving, chatting, as they slowly walked out of the fast-food place. I held the door open patiently. The last one smiled and thanked me before turning to her friends. Once inside I scanned each person's face. She wasn't downstairs. I went upstairs, where I found only two tables occupied. A group of teenagers sat at one and a family on another.

I spotted the bathroom door. I took a seat and waited, maybe Tatiana was in the toilet. A few moments later the door opened. There she was, with her friend from yesterday. They both walked to one of the tables, Tatiana's head was leaning down, as her friend had a hand over her shoulder. They sat down with their back to me. I didn't approach them right away. I waited for a while. I walked up to the table, thinking of what to say. Hoping, she forgot, what I said yesterday.

"Hi," I said.

They both turned suddenly, fear written all over their faces. Tatiana's face bruised on one side, her eye almost closed. "Leave us alone," her friend said.

"What? What happened?" the words slowly, came out of my mouth.

"My boyfriend, teach me a lesson!" Tatiana yelled. Both of them jumped out of the seat, they tore past me, running down the stairs.

I rushed after them. When I was outside, I couldn't see the girls anywhere. They must have gone down one of the side roads. I took my chance and walked towards the same route Tatiana took yesterday. I opened my pace, looking around, hoping to see them. I was ready to give up when my luck changed. In the distance, I saw two figures. It was them. I decided to follow them, hoping they don't turn around and see me. They took Gladstone Avenue. I knew this road; many times I jogged these streets in the summer. I carried on following them, keeping my distance. At the small roundabout, I nearly lost them. They carried on, strolling along Gladstone Avenue. They turned into one of the houses. It stood out from the other buildings on the street. The ground floor windows had bars, so did the front door. Standing at the entrance were two guys: both of them in jeans and green bomber jackets. The streetlight was shining on their shaven heads.

They saw me. The bold goons approached me. One said, "You looking for something mate? Would you like some company? A young lady perhaps?"

I just looked at them for a moment, before turning and walking away.

"That's it walk away pussy," one shouted.

St. Barnabas Church was full. I watched Father Petrou perform the service. How all the Greek Orthodox Christians looked up to him. I saw him differently at that moment. I watched a man that gave his life to serve God. I stayed until after one in the morning when Father Petrou, finished his service. Before leaving, I said a prayer. With my right hand, I crossed my body three times, and then I said,

"God forgive me for what I am about to do."

I went to my room and got changed. I slipped into my black tracksuit, grabbed my baton, threw the hood over my head and went for my night jog. This run was not going to be like the other runs I've had before.

Chapter 8

Gladstone Avenue was dead quiet at two in the morning. There weren't many houses with their lights on. The only movement on the street was coming from the property Tatiana entered earlier. I still wasn't one-hundred per cent she lived there. I walked past the house, taking a quick glimpse into the front garden. The two bold goons I saw earlier were still standing by the front door. They were guarding the entrance like a couple of bouncers outside a nightclub. I carried on walking down the street. When I was sure I was far enough from being noticed, I went to the opposite side of the road. I walked back, my vision glued on the two goons.

I did a quick scan of the two properties opposite the house. One of them had a thick hedge. It would have made it difficult for me to look through the big bushes. The other had a couple of recycling bins in the front garden. I could use them to hide behind. When I was certain no one was looking, I went into the garden, crouching behind the large bins. I checked the house behind me, which I was intruding, making sure the owners didn't see me. The last thing I needed was someone calling the police. How do you explain yourself? When you get caught trespassing in someone's garden at two in the morning. There were no lights on, upstairs or downstairs. It was safe. When I was sure I wasn't disturbing anyone, I concentrated on what was happening across the street.

It didn't take long to figure out what was going on with the two goons. Cars would drive past, stopping outside the house. One of the goons would walk up to the vehicle. He would exchange words with the driver or passenger. They would finish the encounter with a handshake before the car drove off. The handshake wasn't a standard hand gesture. It was an exchange of money for drugs.

The two thugs were selling drugs to the public. For an hour I watched them and studied every move they made. They would take turns approaching the cars. Every time one of them would stay at the front door, guarding the entrance. The short time I was there, I counted twenty-two cars, almost two dozen. Cannabis, Cocaine, Meth or Ecstasy, I wasn't sure yet what they were selling. For them, it was easy money. What were the neighbours doing, why didn't they call the police? I guess it was fear that is why.

It was time to make my move. In my right hand, I held the baton tight. My other hand I turned it into a fist. My adrenaline was rising. I could feel my heart- rate pumping faster. One of the goons had finished with a deal. The car started moving, a few seconds later it disappeared down the street. The thug began to walk back to his comrade. I revealed myself from behind the recycle bins. Crossing the road, I walked towards the house. The goon guarding the front door saw me. He nodded to his friend who had his back to me.

"Behind you Charlie," the thug said, standing by the door.

Charlie turned and smiled. He thought it was another customer. He started to make his way back to the gate. We both met at the entrance. He stood on the inside holding the gate, and I stood on the outside, my right-hand holding the baton behind my back.

"What's up bro," Charlie said.

"I've come back," I said.

"Well if it isn't the pussy," he said. Turning to his comrade, he shouted, "Hey Jack, the pussy is back!" Turning back to face me, I didn't give him the chance to say anything else.

I wanted to do this quickly. Do what I needed to do and be out of there in less than five minutes.

I swung the baton across his face. There was a loud crunch. It was the sound of his jaw breaking. Bringing the weapon back, I forced it across his face a second time. With the second strike, he collapsed over the gate. Jack charged at me, gritting his teeth. I leapt over the gate. Once my feet were back on the ground, I went into a roll, whirling the baton towards the charging goon, smashing it into his kneecap. He went face first onto the pavement.

He started screaming, "You broke my fucking knee, you bastard." It was what I wanted, whoever was in the house to hear him?

Just as I predicted the front door than the gate flew open, two more goons appeared. One of them had a baseball bat and the other a knife. The one with the bat charged first. What does one do with a bat? He swings it. What do you do when someone swings something at you? You duck as fast as you can. I dodged the bat by moving back. The second swing I ducked, forcing the baton on his leg. His leg folded, his body collapsed a heap onto the pavement. He was in agony, screaming from the pain. The one with the knife ran back into the house. The mistake he made, he forgot to close the front door behind him.