last man standing

Paul Wood

The last man standing

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THE LAST MAN STANDING.

They were closing in on him; he was sure of it. He had a sixth sense when it came down

to survival, and he had good reason to be, for you don’t hide in the shadows for seven

long years without not taking chances.

Filing away his paperwork, he glanced up, carefully scanning the office. Taking deep

breaths he relaxed, he sees nothing untoward, nothing suspicious or out of place. Just a

busy office dealing with the everyday running for the ‘Ministry of Supply’. Nobody is

looking at him, the girls are tapping away in a mundane recital, while the men in their

best suits scurry about.

Looking out of the window he can hardly see the Embankment; the smog is a lot thicker

tonight. He gives himself a wry smile, if any of them knew the secret that he held close

to his chest, they would be horrified and shocked.

Striking five the room erupted into a thunderous roar as chairs and tables were scraped

back, releasing a deluge of workers to disappear into the early evening gloom.

He wasn’t in a rush to get home, for all that waited for him was a lonely bed and a meal

that resembled a jumble of all sorts.

Collecting his few bits, he nodded to a couple of colleagues and made his way outside.

‘Definitely going to be a peasouper tonight.’ he muttered to himself as he pulled his

coat tighter and stuck his trilby hat on his head.

Standing on the stairs of the ‘Shell Max house’ he listened to the hub of the city, the

hustle and bustle proving that he is still alive. This is new life and home; a colourless,

depressing routine of concealment. Making his way down the strand it was surprising

how many people were out in the smog. It was so thick that he could hardly see a few

feet in front of him. Beyond he couldn’t see it, but he could hear the soft slapping as the

Thames hit the concrete wall, it was almost rhythmic. He decided then he would

venture up to Waterloo, a good half an hour walk even at this speed.

Suddenly he felt an arm on his shoulder. For a heartbeat his whole life flashed by, they

had finally caught up with him. Patting his pockets he felt the cold barrel of a gun, his

grip tense as he turned around.

‘Mr Anderson, ive been trying to catch you.’’, a tiny wraith like woman stood before him.

Out of breath, she leant against a convenient lamp post, her hair in disarray. ‘‘I don’t

make it a habit of chasing young men around town. ' She said, bursting into giggles.

‘‘I’ve got your scarf; you left it at your desk.’’

Wiping his brow, he took several deep breaths as he let his adrenaline calm down. His

hands were soaking as he gently relaxed his hand on the gun.

‘‘No problem, gets to let me talk to you, you look so lonely at the office.’’

‘‘I’m not really a people person.’

‘‘No family, just I now.’’ he said looking into the fog.

‘‘I’m sorry’’ she said giving him a slight hug. ‘‘And no Mrs Anderson waiting patiently at

the hob?’

‘‘No, my wife died two weeks before the end of the war, an air raid she wouldn’t have

suffered. But that is the past, I’m just here to keep my head down and try to live my life

while I can’.’ he said

‘‘You're a real man of mysteries Mr Anderson.’

“Arthur please, and thank you for the scarf, don’t know what was going through my

head forgetting in this weather.’’

And with that they both drifted away, the smog covering any trace that they were ever

there. He had only got as far as the Savoy Hotel, when a feeling of dread came over him,

there was someone following. Several times he glanced back but all he could see was

the swirling fog. It wouldn’t take much to find yourself pushed over the edge, the river

only too glad to devour another victim.

Upon entering Waterloo bridge, he felt a chill slide down his neck. Although the evening

was cold to the point of seeing his breath in front of his face, he was sweating. The fog

seemed thicker here, he was jostled and pushed by vague shapes as he tried to push

his way through the crowds. Every few seconds he would take a break, the thick cold air

causing him to cough. And every time he stopped, he saw him. A shadow, just on the

periphery of his eye, nondescript but defiantly he was there.

The clump, clump of his steady walk.

He can almost hear him gently whisper his name

He had started running now, which was suicidal in the fog. A girl was shoved out of the

way as he stumbled into the packed crowd.

Several people shouted at him, but he wasn’t listening, somehow, he had to disappear

and fast. The important point was that the microfilm was kept safe and in the right

hands. After the fog the station was a vast building of sound and noise, it was heaving

that night as everyone was traveling to various places, their worldly goods being

dragged around the concourse. As he entered, he took just one look and headed to the

baggage lockers. As he ducked down trying to find his locker number a massive hiss of

steam erupted from an incoming train. He could just out the figure that had been

following him. He only looked like a kid. Another train rattled out adding to the steam,

and the noise was booming as the station went about its business. Crawling on his

hands and knees he managed to find his locker, holding up he holds up the microfilm

which will save him. Of his pursuer there is no sign, but you can guarantee that he will

be there.

Swiftly he leaves the locker room, moving through the steam as yet another train is

departing. He can’t see his tail and guesses that he has given up this time, it almost

becoming comical this cat and mouse that ensures. Why can’t they leave the past

where it belongs and after all he was only following orders.

No, he needed to get back to the safety of home, get warm and get out of this dammed

smog, it was making him so depressed.

It didn’t take long to get back home, and he had decided along the way it was time to

start a new life once again, things were getting quite hot and he had the microfilm with

all that information that it held. Yes, he said to himself as he reached the dull,

clapboard houses jammed together along the east end. Getting his key out he decided

to surprise the lovely landlady, Mrs Carstairs who he seemed to do no wrong in her

eyes. I bet she's down there in the scullery feeding her pet kittens he thought as he

opened the door to the living room but there was no sign of her.

Alarm bells went off in his head as he heard the slow creak of wood upstairs, as if

someone was trying to keep quiet. Gripping his gun on one hand he slowly, almost on

tiptoe climbed the bare wooden steps before glancing into his landlady’s room. What

he saw made his whole body go ice cold, for Mrs Carstairs was sitting on her bed, while

his follower from earlier was standing next to her pointing a large gun at her head.

‘‘Glad you could make it Arthur Anderson, or should i say Doctor Dieter Mueller of the

concentration camp Auschwitz, last seen a little while back, a little like seven years

ago. Am I not right Dieter?

Mrs Carstairs didn’t know where to look as she started to have a seizure, coughing up,

her chest heaving with the scary notion she was going to be shot and then finding out

her gentle tenant was in fact a ruthless, cunning war criminal.

Seeing the window open Dieter went to close it before the man holding a gun shouted,

‘Stand still, this has gone on far too long!!

‘Look she needs fresh air, can’t you see that?’ he cried, once more trying to get to the

landlady.

‘All i care about is that microfilm that you stole. Just hand it over!!’

‘Not until I do one decent thing and that’s save my landlady.’

Even as he said it, she had slipped to the floor and was hyperventilating and shaking

‘Get out of my way!!!!’ Dieter shouted, shoving the other aside and gently falling beside

the old lady. All she could do was reply with gasps and breathless cries.

“She's got siliceous of the lungs, not surprised when she lived her whole life in a city

that polluted to the core!!’’ he shouted, before grabbing a pencil, desperately looking

round the small room. Then he saw it, a luxury in this still harsh of times - a packet of

straws.’’ he cried, shouting at the other man. ‘Quick, grab some of them straws.’’

‘‘It's too late she’s going’ shoving the straws across to Dieter.

Mrs Cairstairs was gasping at this point. Her breath coming in a hideous wheezing

groaning sound.he screamed, ‘She’s very much alive and i won't see

anybody die in front of me, like i did at them death camps. Out of all that sadness and

misery some good must come out ‘' This wasn’t over between the two of them as he

grabbed the Doctor down by the throat. He was just bringing to bear his pistol at the

German when he lost all balance and cascaded down the high staircase. Rushing down

to him all the dying man could say was ‘‘Why the pantomime with this microchip’’

Closing his eyes he replied with it was for my own protection. A compressed file of every

German who is hiding in fear for their lives to the realms of information about gangs and

enough in there to blow up several catatonic bombs and lead us into the third world war

As he knelt beside her body which was slowly stabilizing, in the mirror he saw a young

boy; incredibly smart and full of passion, just misguided by an idiot. It was time to

disappear once again; the images were burnt on his soul forever no matter how far he

travelled. There was no escape.

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© Paul Wood

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The last man standing