This is the sixteenth part of a fiction serial, in 728 words.
As they kept walking south, Jimmy realised that they were heading for an area known as The Limes. It was a private estate bordering the town Golf Club, perhaps less than thirty houses mostly bought by people who wanted to be near the club. Suddenly, the bank manager turned right, heading up a pathway. Jimmy hesitated, as he would be very obvious. Giving the man time to walk ahead, he eventually followed, only to find himself on the edge of one of the greens, and a sign that said ‘Members Only’. The manager was walking ahead, and Jimmy assumed he had access to his house from the grounds.
Only needing to know which house he was heading for, Jimmy carried on, keeping close to the trees. A voice from behind startled him. “Excuse me. Can I help you? This is a private club you know. Are you a member?” He turned to see a man about sixty, dressed in golfing clothes and pulling a trolley with a set of clubs in it. He had no idea that people would be playing golf at this time in the evening. Jimmy smiled and said he was sorry, but he had been looking for Lime Crescent, and must have got lost. “There is no Lime Crescent around here, young man. You must indeed be lost”. Jimmy thanked him, and went back the way he had come.
Now there would be a witness, and that ruined any plan he might have had.
It was a long way from the dream wedding that Lesley had imagined, but it was still her wedding, and she had never felt happier. That Saturday morning was even sunny, and Jimmy looked so smart in the new suit she had made him buy. Patrick Killane introduced his wife Brenda to them outside the Town Hall. He looked awkward, probably wondering why he had been asked. But his chubby wife was friendly, and she had brought a plastic horseshoe tied with white ribbon, for Lesley to hold for good luck. Jimmy had the rings in his trouser pocket, and as he slipped the gold band onto her eager finger, Lesley failed to fight back a flood of tears.
The celebration, such as it was, consisted of a meal in a nearby pub, after which a relieved-looking Killane took his leave, wishing the couple well. Back at the house, if Lesley was expecting wedded bliss, she was sorely disappointed when Jimmy sat deep in thought. He was considering that the task he had taken on might be impossible, as long as he lived in such a small town, and had come to the notice of the police. The next time God instructed him to make a difference, he was going to have to ask him to wait a few years.
Still there was one job he had to do in the meantime, but he would wait until Lesley’s excitement over the wedding calmed down.
Simon Tobin was not a nice man. He would have been happy to have admitted that too, if anyone had ever asked him. His rugged good looks had gained him many female admirers over the years, but he had little time for women, other than to use them for pleasure. Their inane chatter drove him crazy, and they took such delight in wandering around shops, even when they bought nothing. As a result, he was now in his late forties, and lived alone. His only living relative was his cousin, Valerie Keane.
Her and her husband had loaned him money in the past, trying to set him up with their goofy-looking daughter. But Lesley had refused to put up with his physical and mental abuse, eventually rejecting his offer of marriage.
Now Simon spent his days working as a tyre fitter, and most of his evenings spending his wages in the local pub. People there tended to avoid him. He had a lot to say, and generally said it loudly. Only a few of the more timid regulars tolerated him, and sometimes bought him drinks. That night he was shouting his mouth off about how useless the local football team was, with his little gang of friends nodding in agreement.
The young man who had been sipping a shandy in the corner bar left early, long before the pub closed.
But he was outside, waiting.