APN: Whoo-hoo, I made it once again! Here's chapter twelve—I once again
had trouble putting it all together . . . but hopefully, the trouble was
all worth it! That of course, is decided by you guys, my faithful readers!
Before I go on with chapter twelve, I just want to say that I was honestly disappointed in the fact that I only got six reviews for the last chapter. What happened? Seriously, did I do something wrong? If so, where did I go wrong? I can't improve if you guys don't give me things to improve on, you know! And if it isn't me, then . . . maybe it's just the fact that some people who are reading aren't reviewing. If that's true . . . come on, guys! Make a desperate girl happy and hit that review button! You know, it doesn't take that much! It's all at the simple click of a little button and a few typed words! That's all!
Sorry if I sound disappointed, but . . . what can I say? But like I said, if it's something I'm doing, then someone please let me know!
But anyways . . . I'd like to greatly thank the people who DID review!
Jaclyn: I'm glad that you're enjoying the Brett storyline! Thank you so much for your encouraging words! And why wouldn't I write you a nice, beautiful review? A beautiful story sure deserves a beautiful review! I'm glad you like it! Keep working on your story, and I'll see ya next chapter! Thanks again, girl! :-)
Evil Irish Eyes: WOOOOOOOWWWWWW! Thank you so much for the long, detailed review! And thank you once again for being so patient with me! ~blushes~ And no, I'm not the best, YOU'RE the best! You really are! LOL, and thanks for dealing with that weatherman . . . I'll be sure to drop you a line if he troubles me again (although I won't mention that fact that he's been bringing me some CRAPPY weather, lately!).
And do hurry with your next chapter! I hope you know, I'm still desperately trying to keep my balance from falling off your cliffhanger! Aaaahhhhhhh!
Lady Kate: Thank you for your support! And thank you for reading my lil story! Sorry if I take so long to update everything! RL is just sooooo hectic! But thanks again, and keep reading! :-)
Crimson Cat & Gabbo: Ahhh, don't worry about not reviewing the past chapters! Like you guys said, better late than never! But I hope you'll continue reading and reviewing! Thanks a lot, guys!
Audrey: Hehe, yeah, I'd say Brett's an idiot too! And I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but Marguerite doesn't come in until ch. 13! Please deal with my incompetence, I'm so sorry! You won't be disappointed next chapter, I promise!
THANK YOU ALL AGAIN! You guys are great! So . . . chapter 12!
Chapter Twelve—A Sure Death?
That same night. . . .
The time was now approaching midnight. The sky was dark, and the moon was out. The stars could not be seen, as a thick, heavy cloud covered the blackened heavens. The strong winds continued, their icy touch adding a harsh feeling to the eerie atmosphere.
Warm and safe in his mansion, John Roxton rested in his spacious bedroom, lying silently atop his bed. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was soft and rhythmic.
But he was not sleeping. Sleep would not come to him that night.
John opened his eyes and stared up at the high ceiling of his bedroom. He sighed greatly, and wiped at the soreness in his eyes.
Guilt was eating away at his soul. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the image in his mind of Brett, looking helpless, sad, and desperate.
John shook his head and sat up on his bed. 'You're a fool, John!' his conscience cried, 'What have you done? You've abandoned your best friend!'
'Former best friend,' John's mind whispered, as if replying to his conscience.
But his guilty conscience continued: 'You've left him to die! He'll be slaughtered by the Newman Gang, when you could have prevented it all!'
John fell back on his bed, his mattress shaking on the impact. The voices continued to harshly whisper in his head: 'You're a murderer, John. You're a merciless tyrant. How can you just sit back while somewhere out there, your friend is about to be killed?'
The reply came quickly: 'Don't worry yourself over him, John. Brett is no longer a friend of yours. He said so himself, remember? And if you recall, he is the tyrant; he was the one who broke his promise to you. He was the one that used you for money. And he was the one who got himself into this whole mess with the Newmans. Don't get involved, John. Don't try to back him up anymore. Let him help himself get out of his own stupidity!'
'No John! You must worry about Brett—for almost all through your friendship, he's depended on you greatly. He still depends on you, John! He still needs you! If you do not help him, he will surely die! Is your anger really more important than your mercy? Do you really hate Brett so much as to let him be killed? Is that how you really feel, John?'
John shook his head. "Stop," he whispered, "please, stop it." He covered his ears with his hands and tightly shut his eyes.
Suddenly, in the blackness of his head, another image of Brett appeared. "John!" he cried out, "John!" His face held the look of desperation. "Please John, help me! Don't let me be killed just like that! Don't abandon me now! Please . . . save me! You have to save me! Don't let me die, John! Have mercy on me! Mercy, I beg of you! Mercy!"
Mercy. . . .
John gasped as he opened his eyes and sat up straight. He began to pant for air.
The image of Brett had disappeared. The voices were now silenced.
"Good Lord," John moaned, and put his hand to his sweaty forehead. Taking his sleeve, he used it to wipe it dry.
John was in distress. He had a desperate decision to make, and he had to make it now.
He sat on the edge of his bed. His hands gripped the edge tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He leaned his head down to his knees, as a battle of mercy versus anger raged in his head.
But soon enough, John's conscience had won over his mind, and his decision was made.
John sprung off of his bed as he hastily rose to his feet. He ran to his large wardrobe and began searching for certain clothes. Certain dark clothes. Certain clothes that would blend him into the shadows and camouflage him from the dim city streets of London.
Finding what he needed, John quickly began to dress and change into his fresh clothing. Now fully dressed, he ran back to his bed and kneeled down on the cold floor. He reached out his arm under the bed, feeling for something hidden there.
Suddenly, his reaching fingers brushed against something hard. He grabbed the object and pulled it out.
It was a small, polished, wooden box.
He carefully opened the lid of the box and gazed at its contents: a large amount of pounds resting in a large velvet pouch, and a fully loaded silver pistol.
Taking these two items, John closed the box shut and pushed it back under his bed. He carefully put the pistol into a pocket of the inside of his jacket, and carried the large and heavy pouch in one of his hands.
Satisfied, he ran to the large window of his room and looked down below, outside the safe properties of the Roxton Manor, and into the dangerous and sinister streets of London, concealed into the unknown darkness.
"Hang on, Brett," he whispered, "I'm coming for you."
Brett Jenkins stood alone, leaning against a single light post on the shadowy and lonely London streets. His body tensed nervously, as he lifted his cigar to his lips and breathed in deeply. He then exhaled, blowing the wispy smoke in the air.
The streets of London, for the most part, were quiet, dark, empty, and concealed in shadows. The only source of light came from the dim light posts and the cloud-covered moon millions of miles high in the midnight sky.
Along with the enveloping darkness, a thin cloud of fog had spread over the city as well, causing the atmosphere to be dank and gloomy. A forlorn breeze blew down in short and icy gusts.
He shuddered and took another puff from his half-gone cigar. He rested his arm back down and flicked a few grey ashes to the cold cement sidewalk. He pulled his long jacket tighter, and tipped his hat down to cover his face.
How quiet it was. It was almost too quite. The only noise to be heard was the scratching noises of dead, dry leaves as the wind scraped them across the brick-laden
streets. . . .
Suddenly, Brett's body tensed once again as he stood up and jumped back from the light post. He now heard the sound of footsteps, quickly approaching, walking towards him.
Brett jammed his eyes shut in fear. The Newman Gang! They were here, and they were coming to get the money. The money that owed them . . . and the money he didn't have.
He began to panic. What was he doing here? He knew he was going to be in deep trouble when they found out he didn't have the money. 'Why don't I run?' he thought frantically, 'why don't I just get out of here? Why did I even come here in the first place? Why did I even DO this in the first place?'
And then, anger returned to him and blocked out his fear. John was the reason he was here now. John was the reason he borrowed the money in the first place. JOHN was the cause of everything. If he had only lent him the money like he had asked, he never would have been in this situation right now!
'Yes. John.' Brett's fists shook madly. Suddenly made fearless by his strong anger, he stepped out of the shadows to confront Simon Boyd and his fellow members of their gang. . . .
'Gang? What gang?' Brett thought, stepping back in surprise. There was only one person there!
"Brett," said the person, stopping right in front of him. His face was partially concealed in the shadows.
"Who . . . who are you?" asked Brett, narrowing his eyes. That voice sounded familiar.
"A friend . . . I hope," came the reply, as the stranger stepped out of the shadows, revealing his true identity.
Brett's facial expression went from pure surprise to sheer fury, as his eyes scanned over the person standing in front of him. "You!" he cried, clenching his teeth. "John Roxton!"
John's face was grim. "Yes, Brett. It's me."
Brett narrowed his eyes, glaring daggers at John. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "What the hell do you want now?"
John held up the pouch of money in his hand. "I've come to apologize, and to bring you this—"
Brett scowled. "I don't want your apology," he snarled fiercely. "We're finished."
"Brett." came John's calm voice. His eyes were pleading. "I implore you, just hear me out."
"No!" exclaimed Brett, turning away. "I told you our friendship was through. I want nothing to do with you any more. Now leave!"
"Brett!" cried John, grabbing Brett's shoulders and twisting him around. "Will you stop it with this childish attitude for one minute? I need to talk to you!"
Brett stared into John's face. He roughly shoved John's hand off his shoulder. "I told you to leave! And I mean now!"
"No," persisted John, "not until you at least listen to what I have to say! And if I must, I'll personally force you to hear my every word!" He scowled as he pushed Brett against the brick wall of a corner shop. He once again held up the pouch of money in front of Brett's face. "This," he said, "is the money you need."
Brett's eyes went from John's face to the velvet pouch. They rested there for a while, and then returned to John's face. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Why now?"
John sighed. "I was going to use this money as extra spending cash in Africa. My father booked my brother and I a trip there, this summer." He looked up and smiled softly. "We'll be going on an actual safari." His smile faded as he gazed down at Brett once again. "I'm doing this because I'm holding on you to keep your promise."
Brett scoffed. "Promise. What promise?"
"The promise you made saying you would honestly never gamble again." John raised his eyebrows. "Do you still keep to that promise, Brett?"
Brett once again eyed the money. "If I don't. . . ?"
John grasped the pouch in his fist and pulled it away. "Then I don't give you the money, and I leave you to deal with the Newmans on your own. And if you still truly believe that I am a betrayer—I'll turn around, and without looking back, I'll walk away from you for ever."
Brett looked up. "And if I do?"
John's face went completely serious. He held the pouch back up. "Then I give you the money—my money, that was to be used for my own personal spending—and save your ass from these criminals. And then perhaps—we can mend our broken friendship and trust, and try again." He paused, studying the challenged expression on Brett's face. "It's either one or the other, Brett. You decide."
Brett's eyes gazed down to the pouch of money once again. There it was, his only lifeline, sitting right in front of him! He could take it . . . and all of his troubles would be over.
Well, almost all of his troubles. He still had John to deal with.
Oh yes . . . John Roxton, formerly his best friend. But all that had changed dramatically. John was no longer a friend to him—only a bitter enemy, and a traitor. He knew his hate for John had been only short-lived. But it was deep . . . deep, and growing deeper still.
Yes, he could take the money. He could take the money and walk away now . . . and deal with John later. Or . . . he could not take the money—the money that belonged to his enemy.
His enemy.
Brett's mind once again clouded with hate and fury. 'He must think I'm a fool!' he cried in his head, 'a bloody fool! But no . . . HE is the fool here!'
What did John think he was doing? This was definitely a trick! It was all an enormous ruse; a game that John was playing with his mind. John was not his friend! He wasn't now, and he wouldn't be so ever again!
'But the money!' The thought still nagged at the back of his mind.
Brett closed his eyes. 'Forget the money,' he decided, 'forget the money! I shall not take from a scoundrel and a snake!' His mind was made up.
While he stood and thought, John waited impatiently. "Well, Brett?" he finally asked, prodding his silent friend. "What will it be?"
Brett suddenly opened his eyes, the fire raging furiously once again! He glared up into John's eyes, took a breath . . . and sent a huge glob of spit flying into John's face.
John gasped, and staggered backwards in surprise. The pouch of money fell from his hands and hit the concrete ground. The pouch split open on impact, sending the numerous coins noisily rolling away.
John's eyes were wide. His mouth was open. He stared at Brett, who was scowling evilly across from him. "Your offer's been declined," he hissed venomously, "and my decision's been made." He paused. "Now walk away, just like you said you would, and leave!"
John's continued to stand in surprise and silence. His fists were at his sides, shaking madly with fury. He lifted a shaking arm to his face, and wiped the spit flowing down his cheek.
He was furious! The look of astonishment on his face turned to absolute rage. He opened his mouth to say something, when suddenly. . . .
Two beams of bright, yellow light shone over them, nearly blinding them in the process. A car appeared in the distance, and was slowly cruising towards them. Following that car were three more cars speeding behind it.
The four cars abruptly stopped in the middle of the empty road. Out of each car stepped out five men. All the men were tall and dark; each mysteriously dressed in long, dark-coloured trench coats. They all wore wide-brimmed hats, pulled down over their faces to avoid being identified. And in their hands, they all carried . . . guns?
The Newman Gang!
John quickly realized this, as he shielded his eyes from the bright head beams of the cars. Wasting no more time, he ran out of the spotlight and ducked into an alleyway, concealed in complete darkness. His dark clothes had provided him well, as he blended into the shadows almost perfectly.
He ducked in behind a large dumpster, and poked his head around the corner, watching warily as the Newmans approached Brett, who was once again standing all alone.
Brett turned his back from the strong light, and spun back around after noticing John's sudden absence. "John?" he called out, his voice sounding small and meek.
Now that the Newman Gang had appeared, the anger and fury in Brett's mind had been pushed away by sudden fear. He was now back to his senses . . . and was now regretting what he had done.
"John? John!" Brett cried aloud, spinning around and searching for the man. "John!!"
Suddenly, he caught a small glimpse of John's partially concealed face, as he ducked around the corner of the garbage dumpster. "John!" he hopefully cried, stepping forward to run to him . . . but was blocked by a man who stepped right in front of him.
The mysterious man brought a cigar up to his lips and took a large puff. He exhaled, bowing the smoke right into Brett's face. "Mr. Jenkins, I presume?" the man inquired in his deep voice.
Brett gulped. "Y-yes," he stammered, "that's my name."
The man lifted his hat off his head, revealing his face to Brett, who seemed to vaguely recognize him. "I do believe . . . that you owe me some money that you borrowed some time ago." He paused to study Brett's frightened expression. "Do you not?"
Brett looked down and nodded. "Yes," came his panicky reply. He slowly looked upwards into the man's face.
This was the Big Man. The Head Honcho. This was the leader of the Newman Gang! Mr. Daniel Newman himself!
"I . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Newman," spoke Brett, who began to shake nervously. "I don't . . . I don't have your money."
Suddenly, he darted around and turned his back on Newman, and sprang forwards to run away. But he was immediately blocked by the rest of the gang, who all held up their guns and surrounded him into a small, tight circle. "Going somewhere?" asked another man, stepping into the illumination of the light post, revealing his identity.
Brett gasped. "Simon!" he cried.
Simon Boyd nodded accordingly. "Where's the money, Jenkins?" he demanded, shoving the barrel of the gun into Brett's shoulder.
"I told you," replied Brett, backing away nervously, "I don't have it!"
"Where's the money, Jenkins?"
John once again took a chance at peeking around the dumpster, where he saw the Newman Gang enclose around Brett dangerously. He also noted the guns aimed directly at Brett. "Brett. . . ." he whispered.
He was still completely angry at what Brett had done. He had never felt such anger in his whole life—ever. The feeling of hate was new to him, as was the feeling of betrayal.
He would never forget what Brett did to him that night.
"I told you, I don't have it!" echoed Brett's anxious voice.
John quietly scoffed. 'He had his chance,' he thought, 'and he refused it. The blighter!' He looked the opposite way, down the dark alley. The alley ran between two shops and lead directly to Henry Boulevard. This area was familiar to him, and if he was quiet enough, he could escape and find his way home from here.
John quietly rose from his squatting position, and moved to leave the alleyway. But right at that moment, something inside of him made him stop. Reluctantly, he turned back around to peek at the frightful scene around the corner.
He watched silently as Simon Boyd jammed his gun into Brett's shoulder. John gulped, realizing that the situation was becoming tenser.
"Where's the money?!" he heard Simon demand again, suddenly grabbing Brett's shoulders and roughly shoving him into the brick wall in behind them. "What happened to it?!"
Brett clenched his teeth in pain. "I . . . I lost it," he mumbled, squirming against the wall. "I lost it at the casino! I accidentally gambled it away . . . I'm sorry. . . ."
Mr. Newman calmly took another puff from his cigar, and slowly walked towards Brett. He once again blew the smoke from his cigar into his face. "You gambled my money away, did you?"
Brett turned silent.
Newman turned to Simon. "Was he warned what would happen, should he not follow the rules and pay me back by the deadline?"
Simon nodded. "He was warned fair and square," he replied, glaring at Brett threateningly.
Newman looked back up at Brett. "You willingly disobeyed my rules, then," he declared, ominously glaring at the pinned-up Brett, "and disobedience comes with consequences."
Nervous trails of sweat trailed down Brett's forehead. "What . . . what's going to happen to me?" he frantically asked, "what are you going to do to me?"
Newman placed his hand on Simon's shoulder, and nodded at him accordingly. After giving Brett another long, frightening stare, he turned to his men. "Come on, boys. Let's go. We're finished, here."
The 'boys' slowly lowered their guns in unison. Putting them back in their holsters, they followed their boss's command, as they turned around and walked back towards their cars.
The only man that stayed behind was Simon. He shoved Brett harder into the wall, and moved his gun from Brett's shoulder to Brett's throat. "You were warned, fool," he hissed maliciously. His finger began to press the trigger.
"No!" cried Brett, struggling to break free of Simon's grasp. He turned his head to gaze into the alleyway, where he saw John watching, still standing in the shadows. "John!" he cried desperately. "John! Help me!"
"John! Help me!"
John turned his head away in the opposite direction. His former friend—his new enemy—stood almost metres before him, about to be shot and killed.
Did he really hate Brett so much as to let him die?
John sighed as he put his hands to his head. He stood in the dark, as he made the hardest decision he had ever made in his life.
He looked once again over at Brett, who was struggling against the wall. "John!" cried Brett, noticing John looking over at him. "What are you waiting for? Help me!"
But John didn't move. He only stared at Brett disappointingly. And then, he turned around, and slowly began to move down the alley, and walk away.
Brett's eyes widened in horror. "John! Don't walk away from me like this! John! Johhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnn . . . !"
BANG!!!!
John stopped in his tracks as the shot ended. He closed his eyes, and suddenly dropped to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, as he began to quietly sob.
He had made his decision, which was to keep to the words he promised Brett earlier.
He had walked away. For ever.
Before I go on with chapter twelve, I just want to say that I was honestly disappointed in the fact that I only got six reviews for the last chapter. What happened? Seriously, did I do something wrong? If so, where did I go wrong? I can't improve if you guys don't give me things to improve on, you know! And if it isn't me, then . . . maybe it's just the fact that some people who are reading aren't reviewing. If that's true . . . come on, guys! Make a desperate girl happy and hit that review button! You know, it doesn't take that much! It's all at the simple click of a little button and a few typed words! That's all!
Sorry if I sound disappointed, but . . . what can I say? But like I said, if it's something I'm doing, then someone please let me know!
But anyways . . . I'd like to greatly thank the people who DID review!
Jaclyn: I'm glad that you're enjoying the Brett storyline! Thank you so much for your encouraging words! And why wouldn't I write you a nice, beautiful review? A beautiful story sure deserves a beautiful review! I'm glad you like it! Keep working on your story, and I'll see ya next chapter! Thanks again, girl! :-)
Evil Irish Eyes: WOOOOOOOWWWWWW! Thank you so much for the long, detailed review! And thank you once again for being so patient with me! ~blushes~ And no, I'm not the best, YOU'RE the best! You really are! LOL, and thanks for dealing with that weatherman . . . I'll be sure to drop you a line if he troubles me again (although I won't mention that fact that he's been bringing me some CRAPPY weather, lately!).
And do hurry with your next chapter! I hope you know, I'm still desperately trying to keep my balance from falling off your cliffhanger! Aaaahhhhhhh!
Lady Kate: Thank you for your support! And thank you for reading my lil story! Sorry if I take so long to update everything! RL is just sooooo hectic! But thanks again, and keep reading! :-)
Crimson Cat & Gabbo: Ahhh, don't worry about not reviewing the past chapters! Like you guys said, better late than never! But I hope you'll continue reading and reviewing! Thanks a lot, guys!
Audrey: Hehe, yeah, I'd say Brett's an idiot too! And I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but Marguerite doesn't come in until ch. 13! Please deal with my incompetence, I'm so sorry! You won't be disappointed next chapter, I promise!
THANK YOU ALL AGAIN! You guys are great! So . . . chapter 12!
Chapter Twelve—A Sure Death?
That same night. . . .
The time was now approaching midnight. The sky was dark, and the moon was out. The stars could not be seen, as a thick, heavy cloud covered the blackened heavens. The strong winds continued, their icy touch adding a harsh feeling to the eerie atmosphere.
Warm and safe in his mansion, John Roxton rested in his spacious bedroom, lying silently atop his bed. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was soft and rhythmic.
But he was not sleeping. Sleep would not come to him that night.
John opened his eyes and stared up at the high ceiling of his bedroom. He sighed greatly, and wiped at the soreness in his eyes.
Guilt was eating away at his soul. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the image in his mind of Brett, looking helpless, sad, and desperate.
John shook his head and sat up on his bed. 'You're a fool, John!' his conscience cried, 'What have you done? You've abandoned your best friend!'
'Former best friend,' John's mind whispered, as if replying to his conscience.
But his guilty conscience continued: 'You've left him to die! He'll be slaughtered by the Newman Gang, when you could have prevented it all!'
John fell back on his bed, his mattress shaking on the impact. The voices continued to harshly whisper in his head: 'You're a murderer, John. You're a merciless tyrant. How can you just sit back while somewhere out there, your friend is about to be killed?'
The reply came quickly: 'Don't worry yourself over him, John. Brett is no longer a friend of yours. He said so himself, remember? And if you recall, he is the tyrant; he was the one who broke his promise to you. He was the one that used you for money. And he was the one who got himself into this whole mess with the Newmans. Don't get involved, John. Don't try to back him up anymore. Let him help himself get out of his own stupidity!'
'No John! You must worry about Brett—for almost all through your friendship, he's depended on you greatly. He still depends on you, John! He still needs you! If you do not help him, he will surely die! Is your anger really more important than your mercy? Do you really hate Brett so much as to let him be killed? Is that how you really feel, John?'
John shook his head. "Stop," he whispered, "please, stop it." He covered his ears with his hands and tightly shut his eyes.
Suddenly, in the blackness of his head, another image of Brett appeared. "John!" he cried out, "John!" His face held the look of desperation. "Please John, help me! Don't let me be killed just like that! Don't abandon me now! Please . . . save me! You have to save me! Don't let me die, John! Have mercy on me! Mercy, I beg of you! Mercy!"
Mercy. . . .
John gasped as he opened his eyes and sat up straight. He began to pant for air.
The image of Brett had disappeared. The voices were now silenced.
"Good Lord," John moaned, and put his hand to his sweaty forehead. Taking his sleeve, he used it to wipe it dry.
John was in distress. He had a desperate decision to make, and he had to make it now.
He sat on the edge of his bed. His hands gripped the edge tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He leaned his head down to his knees, as a battle of mercy versus anger raged in his head.
But soon enough, John's conscience had won over his mind, and his decision was made.
John sprung off of his bed as he hastily rose to his feet. He ran to his large wardrobe and began searching for certain clothes. Certain dark clothes. Certain clothes that would blend him into the shadows and camouflage him from the dim city streets of London.
Finding what he needed, John quickly began to dress and change into his fresh clothing. Now fully dressed, he ran back to his bed and kneeled down on the cold floor. He reached out his arm under the bed, feeling for something hidden there.
Suddenly, his reaching fingers brushed against something hard. He grabbed the object and pulled it out.
It was a small, polished, wooden box.
He carefully opened the lid of the box and gazed at its contents: a large amount of pounds resting in a large velvet pouch, and a fully loaded silver pistol.
Taking these two items, John closed the box shut and pushed it back under his bed. He carefully put the pistol into a pocket of the inside of his jacket, and carried the large and heavy pouch in one of his hands.
Satisfied, he ran to the large window of his room and looked down below, outside the safe properties of the Roxton Manor, and into the dangerous and sinister streets of London, concealed into the unknown darkness.
"Hang on, Brett," he whispered, "I'm coming for you."
Brett Jenkins stood alone, leaning against a single light post on the shadowy and lonely London streets. His body tensed nervously, as he lifted his cigar to his lips and breathed in deeply. He then exhaled, blowing the wispy smoke in the air.
The streets of London, for the most part, were quiet, dark, empty, and concealed in shadows. The only source of light came from the dim light posts and the cloud-covered moon millions of miles high in the midnight sky.
Along with the enveloping darkness, a thin cloud of fog had spread over the city as well, causing the atmosphere to be dank and gloomy. A forlorn breeze blew down in short and icy gusts.
He shuddered and took another puff from his half-gone cigar. He rested his arm back down and flicked a few grey ashes to the cold cement sidewalk. He pulled his long jacket tighter, and tipped his hat down to cover his face.
How quiet it was. It was almost too quite. The only noise to be heard was the scratching noises of dead, dry leaves as the wind scraped them across the brick-laden
streets. . . .
Suddenly, Brett's body tensed once again as he stood up and jumped back from the light post. He now heard the sound of footsteps, quickly approaching, walking towards him.
Brett jammed his eyes shut in fear. The Newman Gang! They were here, and they were coming to get the money. The money that owed them . . . and the money he didn't have.
He began to panic. What was he doing here? He knew he was going to be in deep trouble when they found out he didn't have the money. 'Why don't I run?' he thought frantically, 'why don't I just get out of here? Why did I even come here in the first place? Why did I even DO this in the first place?'
And then, anger returned to him and blocked out his fear. John was the reason he was here now. John was the reason he borrowed the money in the first place. JOHN was the cause of everything. If he had only lent him the money like he had asked, he never would have been in this situation right now!
'Yes. John.' Brett's fists shook madly. Suddenly made fearless by his strong anger, he stepped out of the shadows to confront Simon Boyd and his fellow members of their gang. . . .
'Gang? What gang?' Brett thought, stepping back in surprise. There was only one person there!
"Brett," said the person, stopping right in front of him. His face was partially concealed in the shadows.
"Who . . . who are you?" asked Brett, narrowing his eyes. That voice sounded familiar.
"A friend . . . I hope," came the reply, as the stranger stepped out of the shadows, revealing his true identity.
Brett's facial expression went from pure surprise to sheer fury, as his eyes scanned over the person standing in front of him. "You!" he cried, clenching his teeth. "John Roxton!"
John's face was grim. "Yes, Brett. It's me."
Brett narrowed his eyes, glaring daggers at John. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "What the hell do you want now?"
John held up the pouch of money in his hand. "I've come to apologize, and to bring you this—"
Brett scowled. "I don't want your apology," he snarled fiercely. "We're finished."
"Brett." came John's calm voice. His eyes were pleading. "I implore you, just hear me out."
"No!" exclaimed Brett, turning away. "I told you our friendship was through. I want nothing to do with you any more. Now leave!"
"Brett!" cried John, grabbing Brett's shoulders and twisting him around. "Will you stop it with this childish attitude for one minute? I need to talk to you!"
Brett stared into John's face. He roughly shoved John's hand off his shoulder. "I told you to leave! And I mean now!"
"No," persisted John, "not until you at least listen to what I have to say! And if I must, I'll personally force you to hear my every word!" He scowled as he pushed Brett against the brick wall of a corner shop. He once again held up the pouch of money in front of Brett's face. "This," he said, "is the money you need."
Brett's eyes went from John's face to the velvet pouch. They rested there for a while, and then returned to John's face. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Why now?"
John sighed. "I was going to use this money as extra spending cash in Africa. My father booked my brother and I a trip there, this summer." He looked up and smiled softly. "We'll be going on an actual safari." His smile faded as he gazed down at Brett once again. "I'm doing this because I'm holding on you to keep your promise."
Brett scoffed. "Promise. What promise?"
"The promise you made saying you would honestly never gamble again." John raised his eyebrows. "Do you still keep to that promise, Brett?"
Brett once again eyed the money. "If I don't. . . ?"
John grasped the pouch in his fist and pulled it away. "Then I don't give you the money, and I leave you to deal with the Newmans on your own. And if you still truly believe that I am a betrayer—I'll turn around, and without looking back, I'll walk away from you for ever."
Brett looked up. "And if I do?"
John's face went completely serious. He held the pouch back up. "Then I give you the money—my money, that was to be used for my own personal spending—and save your ass from these criminals. And then perhaps—we can mend our broken friendship and trust, and try again." He paused, studying the challenged expression on Brett's face. "It's either one or the other, Brett. You decide."
Brett's eyes gazed down to the pouch of money once again. There it was, his only lifeline, sitting right in front of him! He could take it . . . and all of his troubles would be over.
Well, almost all of his troubles. He still had John to deal with.
Oh yes . . . John Roxton, formerly his best friend. But all that had changed dramatically. John was no longer a friend to him—only a bitter enemy, and a traitor. He knew his hate for John had been only short-lived. But it was deep . . . deep, and growing deeper still.
Yes, he could take the money. He could take the money and walk away now . . . and deal with John later. Or . . . he could not take the money—the money that belonged to his enemy.
His enemy.
Brett's mind once again clouded with hate and fury. 'He must think I'm a fool!' he cried in his head, 'a bloody fool! But no . . . HE is the fool here!'
What did John think he was doing? This was definitely a trick! It was all an enormous ruse; a game that John was playing with his mind. John was not his friend! He wasn't now, and he wouldn't be so ever again!
'But the money!' The thought still nagged at the back of his mind.
Brett closed his eyes. 'Forget the money,' he decided, 'forget the money! I shall not take from a scoundrel and a snake!' His mind was made up.
While he stood and thought, John waited impatiently. "Well, Brett?" he finally asked, prodding his silent friend. "What will it be?"
Brett suddenly opened his eyes, the fire raging furiously once again! He glared up into John's eyes, took a breath . . . and sent a huge glob of spit flying into John's face.
John gasped, and staggered backwards in surprise. The pouch of money fell from his hands and hit the concrete ground. The pouch split open on impact, sending the numerous coins noisily rolling away.
John's eyes were wide. His mouth was open. He stared at Brett, who was scowling evilly across from him. "Your offer's been declined," he hissed venomously, "and my decision's been made." He paused. "Now walk away, just like you said you would, and leave!"
John's continued to stand in surprise and silence. His fists were at his sides, shaking madly with fury. He lifted a shaking arm to his face, and wiped the spit flowing down his cheek.
He was furious! The look of astonishment on his face turned to absolute rage. He opened his mouth to say something, when suddenly. . . .
Two beams of bright, yellow light shone over them, nearly blinding them in the process. A car appeared in the distance, and was slowly cruising towards them. Following that car were three more cars speeding behind it.
The four cars abruptly stopped in the middle of the empty road. Out of each car stepped out five men. All the men were tall and dark; each mysteriously dressed in long, dark-coloured trench coats. They all wore wide-brimmed hats, pulled down over their faces to avoid being identified. And in their hands, they all carried . . . guns?
The Newman Gang!
John quickly realized this, as he shielded his eyes from the bright head beams of the cars. Wasting no more time, he ran out of the spotlight and ducked into an alleyway, concealed in complete darkness. His dark clothes had provided him well, as he blended into the shadows almost perfectly.
He ducked in behind a large dumpster, and poked his head around the corner, watching warily as the Newmans approached Brett, who was once again standing all alone.
Brett turned his back from the strong light, and spun back around after noticing John's sudden absence. "John?" he called out, his voice sounding small and meek.
Now that the Newman Gang had appeared, the anger and fury in Brett's mind had been pushed away by sudden fear. He was now back to his senses . . . and was now regretting what he had done.
"John? John!" Brett cried aloud, spinning around and searching for the man. "John!!"
Suddenly, he caught a small glimpse of John's partially concealed face, as he ducked around the corner of the garbage dumpster. "John!" he hopefully cried, stepping forward to run to him . . . but was blocked by a man who stepped right in front of him.
The mysterious man brought a cigar up to his lips and took a large puff. He exhaled, bowing the smoke right into Brett's face. "Mr. Jenkins, I presume?" the man inquired in his deep voice.
Brett gulped. "Y-yes," he stammered, "that's my name."
The man lifted his hat off his head, revealing his face to Brett, who seemed to vaguely recognize him. "I do believe . . . that you owe me some money that you borrowed some time ago." He paused to study Brett's frightened expression. "Do you not?"
Brett looked down and nodded. "Yes," came his panicky reply. He slowly looked upwards into the man's face.
This was the Big Man. The Head Honcho. This was the leader of the Newman Gang! Mr. Daniel Newman himself!
"I . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Newman," spoke Brett, who began to shake nervously. "I don't . . . I don't have your money."
Suddenly, he darted around and turned his back on Newman, and sprang forwards to run away. But he was immediately blocked by the rest of the gang, who all held up their guns and surrounded him into a small, tight circle. "Going somewhere?" asked another man, stepping into the illumination of the light post, revealing his identity.
Brett gasped. "Simon!" he cried.
Simon Boyd nodded accordingly. "Where's the money, Jenkins?" he demanded, shoving the barrel of the gun into Brett's shoulder.
"I told you," replied Brett, backing away nervously, "I don't have it!"
"Where's the money, Jenkins?"
John once again took a chance at peeking around the dumpster, where he saw the Newman Gang enclose around Brett dangerously. He also noted the guns aimed directly at Brett. "Brett. . . ." he whispered.
He was still completely angry at what Brett had done. He had never felt such anger in his whole life—ever. The feeling of hate was new to him, as was the feeling of betrayal.
He would never forget what Brett did to him that night.
"I told you, I don't have it!" echoed Brett's anxious voice.
John quietly scoffed. 'He had his chance,' he thought, 'and he refused it. The blighter!' He looked the opposite way, down the dark alley. The alley ran between two shops and lead directly to Henry Boulevard. This area was familiar to him, and if he was quiet enough, he could escape and find his way home from here.
John quietly rose from his squatting position, and moved to leave the alleyway. But right at that moment, something inside of him made him stop. Reluctantly, he turned back around to peek at the frightful scene around the corner.
He watched silently as Simon Boyd jammed his gun into Brett's shoulder. John gulped, realizing that the situation was becoming tenser.
"Where's the money?!" he heard Simon demand again, suddenly grabbing Brett's shoulders and roughly shoving him into the brick wall in behind them. "What happened to it?!"
Brett clenched his teeth in pain. "I . . . I lost it," he mumbled, squirming against the wall. "I lost it at the casino! I accidentally gambled it away . . . I'm sorry. . . ."
Mr. Newman calmly took another puff from his cigar, and slowly walked towards Brett. He once again blew the smoke from his cigar into his face. "You gambled my money away, did you?"
Brett turned silent.
Newman turned to Simon. "Was he warned what would happen, should he not follow the rules and pay me back by the deadline?"
Simon nodded. "He was warned fair and square," he replied, glaring at Brett threateningly.
Newman looked back up at Brett. "You willingly disobeyed my rules, then," he declared, ominously glaring at the pinned-up Brett, "and disobedience comes with consequences."
Nervous trails of sweat trailed down Brett's forehead. "What . . . what's going to happen to me?" he frantically asked, "what are you going to do to me?"
Newman placed his hand on Simon's shoulder, and nodded at him accordingly. After giving Brett another long, frightening stare, he turned to his men. "Come on, boys. Let's go. We're finished, here."
The 'boys' slowly lowered their guns in unison. Putting them back in their holsters, they followed their boss's command, as they turned around and walked back towards their cars.
The only man that stayed behind was Simon. He shoved Brett harder into the wall, and moved his gun from Brett's shoulder to Brett's throat. "You were warned, fool," he hissed maliciously. His finger began to press the trigger.
"No!" cried Brett, struggling to break free of Simon's grasp. He turned his head to gaze into the alleyway, where he saw John watching, still standing in the shadows. "John!" he cried desperately. "John! Help me!"
"John! Help me!"
John turned his head away in the opposite direction. His former friend—his new enemy—stood almost metres before him, about to be shot and killed.
Did he really hate Brett so much as to let him die?
John sighed as he put his hands to his head. He stood in the dark, as he made the hardest decision he had ever made in his life.
He looked once again over at Brett, who was struggling against the wall. "John!" cried Brett, noticing John looking over at him. "What are you waiting for? Help me!"
But John didn't move. He only stared at Brett disappointingly. And then, he turned around, and slowly began to move down the alley, and walk away.
Brett's eyes widened in horror. "John! Don't walk away from me like this! John! Johhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnn . . . !"
BANG!!!!
John stopped in his tracks as the shot ended. He closed his eyes, and suddenly dropped to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, as he began to quietly sob.
He had made his decision, which was to keep to the words he promised Brett earlier.
He had walked away. For ever.