Author's Note: if you've read part 2 previous to this, and aren't sure where the yardie came from, go back and read it again. Part 2 was replaced.
Part III: Questions and Questions
The yardie waved the shotgun at the customers. "Out of the way," he said. He stalked toward the counter.
"Oh, my…" Alfie began.
"…God," Gareth finished. The two boys shrank back from the threat.
"Fill a shopping bag with cash," the yardie told the clerk, "and throw a carton of Silk Cuts in, too."
As he reached the counter and began to turn toward the clerk, the old man took half a step back from him. Then the cane spun in his hand and smashed down on the yardie's right wrist. There was a crack and the youth howled in pain.
The old man spun the cane again and the point caught the would-be thief in the throat. He choked and hacked, and before he could recover, the hook came up to twist the weapon from his hands. It skidded across the tiles.
The old man tossed the cane back to Alfie, who caught it in shock. Then he grabbed the yardie's arm, with its broken wrist, and twisted. He put a loafer toe into the back of one knee and the leg folded. The yardie went down on one knee. The old man straddled the bent leg and torqued the arm up behind the youth's back. One hand on the broken wrist, twisted at a painful angle, the other on the elbow, he glanced at the clerk.
"You might want to dial 999," he said.
"That was…" Alfie began.
"…Awesome," Gareth finished.
"…And he was like, bam! Wham! And the yardie was like, aagh! And he was like…"
"I know, Gare, I was there, I saw it," Alfie said.
Gareth shook his head and took a drink of Cola. "That was amazing, man. Just amazing. Coolest thing I ever saw, I mean, that was cooler than the time UNIT showed up with guns and all."
"But who is he?" Alfie asked.
"What?" Gareth looked surprised at the question.
"Who is he?"
"Some old man," Gareth said. "Some awesome old man. Hey, maybe he used to be, like, a spy. MI-6. The name is 'Man… Old Man.'" Gareth put on a facial expression he seemed to think qualified as debonair.
"Gare, you're an idiot," Alfie said with a grin.
"I'm an idiot with Crim," Gareth reminded him.
"Then hook a mate up." Gareth handed over one of the cans and Alfie popped the top. "You ever wonder how awful the world would be," Alfie said, "without Crim-Cola?"
Gareth gave him a wide-eyed stare. "Don't talk about scary things, Alfie!" he said in a nervous voice. They both broke into laughter.
"Gareth!" floated through the bedroom door, in two drawn-out syllables.
"Yeah, mum?" Gareth shouted back.
Alfie covered his ears. Gareth and his mum rarely bothered with anything as mundane as face-to-face speech; shouting across the house was their usual method.
"Alfie's mum called! Is he here?"
"Yeah, mum!"
"She says come home!"
"Got it, mum!"
Alfie uncovered his ears. "You ever think about opening the door?" he asked.
"Why would I want to do that?" Gareth asked him, puzzled.
Alfie sighed. "Catch you later, Gare."
Alfie nursed the can of cola as he walked toward home. He mused on the scene at the convenience store. The old man had been amazing, Gareth was right about that. Alfie had never seen such a thing in his life, outside of a movie. The speed, the precision… Alfie wondered if the old man had been a spy, or something, if it was more than Gareth's imagination.
Then he thought of the sadness he had seen, when the old man talked about not having someone to share the Hob Nobs with… and he wondered who he lost, and how.
Lost in thought, Alfie turned the corner onto his own street and stopped. His gaze settled on the house he and Gareth talked about earlier, where Gareth said an old man moved in; was it the man from the shop? Alfie walked slowly toward the house. He reached the pavement in front of it and turned to stare full-on at the white painted clapboard and blue door.
He took slow sips of Crim-Cola as he stared. Was it the same old man? Who lived there before him? Alfie searched his memories, but could not place a face with the house. He grew cold and felt gooseflesh break out on his arms. Somebody had to live there, before, didn't they? The house didn't just appear, now. That wasn't possible.
Was it?
"Alfie Owens, where have you been?" Sophie Owens stood with her hands on her hips and gave her son a sharp look. "I called Gareth's mum almost an hour ago."
"Sorry, mum. Just walked slow, I guess."
Sophie's face changed to concern, and she dropped her hands. "Are you all right? You don't look good." She felt his forehead with the back of a hand. "Are you sick?"
He shook his head. "I'm okay."
"Too much cola?" she asked. "I think you drink far more of that than is healthy."
"Mum, Crim is good for you," he said, "it says so on the label. And I'm not sick, just… thinking."
Sophie smiled at him and asked, "And what are you thinking?"
"You know the house down the street? That you talked about earlier?"
"What about it?"
"Who used to live there? Before now."
Sophie considered. "That would be…" She pursed her lips. "You know, I can't remember. How weird." She shrugged. "Well, they must not have been very interesting." She smiled at Alfie. "Your dad will be back home, tomorrow! That will be great, won't it?"
Alfie walked down the night-time street. It was quiet in the neighborhood at night, and the boy liked the heady, cool air and the distance that marked all the noises he heard. His house lay behind him and he aimed himself at the house down the street; the old man's house. The house whose previous occupants were unrecalled by everyone, it seemed. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
The walk seemed longer than it should be. As if the street stretched out before him an unreasonable distance. As he neared his destination, he glanced back toward his house. It stood at the distance it should, inviting even without lights on. Alfie turned back to his destination.
Someone stood in his way.
Alfie jumped in fright, then said, "You nearly scared me to death, mate!" He laughed. "Who is that?" When he received no answer, he said, "Quit mucking about." He pulled a small torch out of his pocket and twisted it on, then shone it on the interloper.
Black leather shoes, black trousers, black suit coat and even black shirt, black tie, face of pale white…
"Alfie, are you all right? What's the matter, sweetheart?"
Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around her son. She rocked him back and forth and whispered meaningless sounds in his ear.
Clad in sweat-soaked pajamas, Alfie Owens clung to his mother and waited for his heart to stop pounding.
He pounded on the door with his fist. Over and over, for more than a minute. At last, the door swung inward and the old man peered at him around the edge.
"What do you want?" he asked Alfie. His voice held a mixture of anger, but there was fear, too. So raw that Alfie could hear it in the brief question.
Alfie swallowed and stared at him, wide-eyed. Even with daylight behind him, he took a moment to ask. Then he blurted the question out that he had waited hours, since waking up from the nightmare, to ask.
"Who is the Clock-eyed Man?"
