Michael Croucher has been selected as the winner of the Say WEN Fiction Contest announced in the October, 2012 newsletter. Congratulations Michael.

MICHAEL was born in England and has lived most of his adult life in Canada. He has been writing fiction for over thirty years.

He is a former Toronto police officer who served seven years investigating organized crime with the Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit. An avid reader of crime, suspense, and historical novels, his first book, Bravo’s Veil was self- published in 2010. A second release through Friesen Press of Victoria is scheduled for January.

Michael and his wife live in a small town on the Niagara Peninsula. They have two married daughters and four grandchildren.

Here is the winning entry, titled   Night Wagon.

Broken glass was scattered over the shop’s floor. It lay in piles near the front door and in trails of smaller bits and shards that reached to the back wall. A cold draught washed in through jagged openings in the glass panel and carried a curling ribbon of snow that coated the door frame and the wall beside it.

A stream of cold air reached the small man in the second barber’s chair but it didn’t bother him. He felt warmer here than he had outside. He turned the chair towards the street and waited in the dark with a brick clutched in his hand. Both of his hands were speckled with blood from small cuts and with small pieces of glass.

“Seasons Greetings” banners draped from the top of the two huge shop mirrors beside him and a ‘Johnny Walker’ clock hung on the wall between the mirrors. Reflected street light caught the clock’s face; it was three fifteen. The man watched the steady movement of the red second hand and listened to its distinctive click.

His words were slurred and he spoke as if someone occupied the next chair. “If nothing happens by three thirty, I’ll give ‘em another tweak.”

A few moments later, he became drowsy in his new found comfort. His chin dropped to his chest and he dozed off.

When he came to it was three fifty-five. There had been no response. He clambered down from the chair, took the brick into his right hand, and moved towards the front of the shop.

He swayed on his feet, staring at the main window and the loops of plastic garland and tinsel that decorated it. “This oughta bring the god-damned boys.”

He wound up and hurled the brick. It crashed through the window and scuttled across the street, carrying huge wedges of disintegrating glass with it.

He grinned, nodded and climbed back onto the chair.

Within five minutes flashing red lights were reflecting around the shop and off of the mirrors. A flashlight beam probed through the circus of light and settled onto the man’s face. A Smith and Wesson revolver was trained on him through the broken window, another from the combative squat of an officer who was now inside.

“Don’t f…ing move,” said the closest officer. He sounded young.

A gun barrel was pressed behind the man’s ear and he felt the chair being turned away from the street.

The second cop was now inside; he was older.

His flashlight scanned the man’s face for a closer look. “So it’s you again, Freddy. I guess you’re thinking it’s time to get back inside, is that right?”

Freddy’s nose was flat and grotesquely twisted. One side of his face was covered in ancient scar tissue, the eye socket just a blackened crater.

His tongue flickered across his dry and badly cracked lips. “Yeah, it’s getting cold officer; too f…ing cold.”

Freddy was pulled from the chair roughly by the young one. His arms were brought together behind him and the cuffs snapped on.

“Easy Bobby, loosen those cuffs, son. Old Freddy’s just going home for the Holidays, isn’t that right Freddy?

“Yeah, those stockyards are freezing man.”

“What a damned stench.” The young cop grimaced as he removed five small empty bottles from Freddy’s pockets and checked him for weapons. “He’s covered in shit. Jesus, what a mess.”

“I’ll call from here. If we use the radio, a wagon could take an hour.” The older cop picked up the shop’s phone and dialled the duty desk at his station. 

“Staff, it’s Sid O’Hara on 125, we’re on location; the barber shop at Keele and Mulock. We’re holding one for an entry. It’s old, one-eyed Freddy. Mother of God, he’s ripe. We can’t put him in the cruiser; it’ll stink for a bloody year. He’s covered in all kinds of slop… shit his pants. Looks like the old bugger drank about a quart of vanilla extract. Could you send the wagon down here for us?”

He hung up and looked at his prisoner.

Spray flew from Freddy’s mouth. “It’s Sunday, right Officer?”

“Yeah it’s Sunday, Freddy; Christmas Eve, old son.”

“Nice bean soup at The Don on Sundays.” Freddy grinned, three blackened stubs on his gums shined grotesquely in the flashes of red light.

The Paddy Wagon arrived and its rear door swung open. The cuffs were removed and Freddy climbed awkwardly up the wide steel step and into the hold. He was short enough that he could stand up straight in the aisle between the side benches. He looked back at the cops, drooling as he spoke. “You taking me to Twelve first?”

“Right, Freddy,” O’Hara replied. “You’ll be processed in no time; by noon you’ll be eating Christmas cake and wearing a nice little party hat at The Don.”

Freddy clapped his hands and laughed. “There you f…ing go, boys. And here comes ol’ Santa and his bag full of gifts.” He turned and slapped noisily at the seat of his soggy pants.

The young cop closed the heavy steel door and the wagon pulled away, grinding bits of glass as it went. Freddy’s gnarled face grinned back at them through the tiny barred window.

The two cops walked back towards the cruiser.

O’Hara got in the passenger seat and took off his cap. “Stop by The Queensbury on the way in, lad. I’ll pick us up a couple of special coffees.”

“Ah… alright… sure, Sid.”

“And I’ll get a stiff one for the Staff Sergeant for helping us out. After all, it is bloody Christmas… Will you have one shot of rye or two, Bobby?”

“Well, I don’t normally drink on…”

O’Hara gave him his best ‘come on now’ stare.

The young cop glanced back at his partner who was now loosening his Sam Brown belt. 

Bobby sighed, put the cruiser in gear, and headed up Keele Street. “Ah, just one… thanks, Sid.”

 

by Michael Croucher