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The Gun. (c) SER 2000.

The gun reflected blue shades in its steely metal in the half light of the early morning. Picking it up for the first time since last night, it felt heavy and cold. Who could have left it there? On the doorstep?

He knew very little about guns. This one was cold, heavy and threatening. It smelt of... oil? The handgrip was where the magazine was held; that was obvious, but how did you take it out to check it?

There was a click. It fell into his free hand. At the top, one bullet with its brass case at its base was only too obvious. The magazine must be full. It felt quite heavy. He wondered how many were in it. How did you find out?

He slid it up the handle. It wouldn't go completely in, so he banged it with the fleshy part of his free hand. It clicked into place. There was a stub - a lever? -a catch? Was that the 'Safety' that people spoke of in the movies?

When was it 'on' and when was it 'off'? The whole thing still felt cold and heavy.

He placed it back on the windowsill.

Why his doorstep? Who would leave a gun in such an open place? Anyone could have seen it. Was someone trying to tell him something? After showering and eating his breakfast, he returned to the windowsill. What could he do with it? Hand it in to the Police? That was the sensible thing. But how could he just say, 'It was on my doorstep.'? They would start asking questions. He couldn't risk that. They were already suspicious, he knew... or thought he knew.

He realised that it had played on his mind all night, this cold, deadly inanimate.. thing. He was quite tired, confused. He wanted to test it; fire it, see what it was like. He'd take it down to the coast. Today. He knew a place where he could try to fire it; where it was quiet and deserted. He had to know what it was like; just to fire it once.

He thought it was a crazy idea. He placed it in his briefcase. He could so easily drive to work as usual.

There was little traffic. It was only fifty miles. He turned his car onto the coast road.

Walking down the long open stretch of beach towards the sea's edge, nearly three quarters of a mile away, he felt rather incongruous; in his work suit and with his heavier than usual briefcase. No one was about. You could see for miles in each direction. It was a spit of land set aside as a nature reserve, intended to be a sanctuary for all forms of wildlife. His had been the only car in the small car park. Everywhere was deserted. Now distant sea birds called. The sky was grey. The wind was dropping. A slight mist was creeping inland from the sea's edge as he neared it and he began to hear the slight slurring sound of the small muddy looking waves. His head ached. It was as if all his life was leading him to some all defining moment in time.

Looking around, he felt very alone, more so than usual. He had no friends to speak of. A few acquaintances, that was all. No one would ever really miss him, if he kept walking into the sea and was never seen again. He struggled to open the briefcase and hold it level. The gun lay inside. It was innocuous enough. It was a gun. Guns were only ever dangerous in the hands of dangerous people. He grasped it boldly; managed to close the briefcase, bent and placed it on the damp sand. He stood up, feeling strong.

He suddenly felt very powerful. What couldn't you do with a gun? You could make people do what you want, just by waving it about. You could frighten them. You could instil such fear. It wasn't like drugs, those drugs that could take away the power to remember what the body was doing, had been doing. You could be truly powerful. If those women had had a gun... each and everyone of them! He might be dead, but the drugs always saved him. They acted quickly. The pharmacy had always been easy. They left it so open and never questioned the missing doses. They'd deserved to be robbed.

He stared at the thing in his right hand. It was heavy. How did people ever manage to fire such a thing with any accuracy? Why was he here? What in hell's name was he doing here? He pointed the gun at arm's length, as far away from himself as he could. Its weight made his hand begin to waver slightly.

The explosion shook him rigid. He saw the splash at the water's edge no more than twenty feet away. His hand and wrist felt numb. The wrist had jerked. He put the end of the gun to his nose and sniffed. That must be the smell of cordite, but realised he didn't know what cordite was, and didn't know whether that was what it was... that gunpowdery smell. He grinned. The oil smell, the residue, the smoke from the firing; it excited him. That was power. This thing was power. It was almost as good a feeling as using those drugs.

He quickly scanned every horizon. No one... not a soul. This was such a wild and empty place. He'd come here with his mother, just once, with one of her many lovers. It had been hot that day. There had been a few other people, but it was not a well-known or popular place. He'd gone off to throw pebbles at the waves. When he'd returned, there was his mother, lying beneath the man with the short beard. They'd taken off their clothes. It had seemed as if they were fighting, and he was holding her down, but she'd been laughing.

Could this be the answer? Was this a heaven sent chance? The Police were closing in. They would get him in the end anyway. He just knew they would. Was he mad? Perhaps he'd been mad all these years. He found himself trembling. That's how it was with the drugs. His voice always became trembly after he'd put it in the drinks. Had it been in anticipation? Did real lovers feel like that before sex?

A wave of anger, swiftly followed by the disgust he always felt afterwards, swept over him. He stared at the gun.

Three quarters of a mile away, Isobel watched through the powerful binoculars. She knew when the second shot had been fired. Even at this distance, she saw the puff of faint smoke, and then heard the distant crack. The books on psychology had paid off. It was over. She rose and brushed the dry sand from her blue suit. She'd already kicked off the patent leather shoes. She picked them up and walked towards the crumpled, dark pile by the sea.

It seemed to take ages, but as she approached she realised the sea was on the turn and it was coming in quite rapidly. It was lapping against the pile. Revenge was sweet. Three years was a long time, but now it was over. She saw the red stain in the sand and, with each incoming wave, it blossomed like the petals of a flower from the open skull, with its splinter of white bone sticking up like a pathetic little stigma.

Bending, she reached for the gun with her gloved hand and forced the fingers of the deadman's hand open. She threw the gun as far as she could out into sea and the sinking sand. The sand was like that round here, she knew. You had to be careful once the tide turned. The waiting was over. The vigil was over.

She took the strap of the binoculars from round her neck and placed them in their leather carry box, and strode back up the beach, her shoes dangling casually from her other hand. She felt vindicated. A weight was lifted. He'd never date rape anyone ever again. The cowardly, inadequate little shit would never date rape any woman or girl, ever again. The late, damp morning felt as if it was filled with sunshine. She was at last warm again. She could live again.