The Stickler

“Damn it! That’s all we need.” I braced my arms and swerved over to the side of the road, pulling up with a sharp tyre squeal.

   “Ooh, oooh.” Sam groaned, cradling her distended belly. “Jesus! Roddy.”

   “Sorry, love.” I said, turning to face her. “Are you all right?”

   “Uh huh,” Sam said, closing her eyelids.

Sam’s face was clammy with perspiration as she clenched her jaw and inhaled through gritted teeth. I reached out to stroke her pale cheek, steadying my trembling hand as I did so. She winced in pain, gripped my forearm, and released a tight blast of air through her pursed lips. 

   Blue flashing lights illuminated Sam’s face as a patrol car slid in front of our vehicle. Sam bit her top lip and arched her back as I turned to see an officer approaching. He halted outside my door and rotated his forefinger until I responded.

   “Let me explain, officer,” I said, winding down the window.

   “I need you to switch off the engine, sir.”

   “Of course, officer,” I said, fumbling for the keys. “We were just—-”

   “You’re not wearing your seat belt, sir.”

   “My wife’s having contractions and—-”

   “Are you aware of the speed limit, sir?” The officer peered inside our vehicle and lowered his sunglasses. 

   “You’re joking---” I frowned and my knuckles whitened on the wheel. 

   “I’ll need to see your licence, sir.”

   “Marty, it’s me,” I said. “Roddy. Roddy Furlong?”

   “Do you have any ID, sir?”

   “We left in a hurry and---”

   A shrill RT squawked like an agitated goose in the patrol car.

   “Hold that thought, sir,” he said, turning to his vehicle. 

   “Please, officer, my husband was---” 

   “I won’t be a moment.”

   “What’s all that about, Roddy?” whispered Sam.

   “Due process, love.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. 

   “Playing it by the book, eh?” 

   “Something like that.”

   “Ooh, oooh! Damn it---”

* * *

I hadn’t seen Marty Hanwell since the day he got excluded from school. He was the school’s naughty lad who was always in trouble. Marty specialised in pranks and daft stunts, mostly. At least that’s how it started out. 

   “You go too far, young man!” his teachers said, tearing out their hair.

   “But---” he’d say, in all innocence. “How far is too far?”

   It was a time when rules were begging to be broken. Marty loved testing the limits and his mother revelled in his mischief.

   “He’s just spirited,” she said in his defence. “It’s all harmless fun.”

   There was no boundary without a stern father to deter him. His mother brushed away any criticism, and the town became his playground. Marty delighted in the freedom to be inventive and escalated his ambitions.

   His favourite trick was a variation of ‘knock-a-door-run’, which involved the tactical use of fishing line. My parents had heard about Marty’s escapades and banned him from visiting our house. However, he knew when I was at home and suggested throwing pebbles at my window. When I heard the sharp taps on the glass, I’d give my parents some ridiculous excuse or escaped through the back door.

   Marty had a thing about an elderly next-door neighbour and played an ongoing joke on him. Old Mister Protheroe was the local grouch who despised children of all ages and resisted all approaches to his house on Halloween. He even went as far as leaving bags of liquorice and sawdust on his doorstep, disguised as toothsome treats. Either way, he was just the sort of character who would react to Marty’s idea of fun in no uncertain terms.

   Marty’s alternative “knock-a-door-run” plan was simple. First, he’d borrow some of his stepfather’s mono-filament fishing line. One of us would then sneak up Old Man Protheroe’s pathway and tie the invisible thread to his door knocker. His house was located opposite an empty property with a low brick wall. It was convenient because it afforded a suitable place to hide while we twitched the line and rattled his door knocker.

   I’ll never know how he didn’t work out what was happening. We repeated the stunt on untold weekends and watched the old fellow open his door to find no one there. He’d curse and swear and slam his door repeatedly. Heaven only knows how he didn’t hear our laughter.

   All things have their moment and Marty just had to take it too far. His stepfather had hidden the mono-filament, and the only available replacement was a heavy-duty sea-fishing line. Marty explained the change of arrangements and reckoned we’d be fine. Everything went to plan until a removal truck passed by. We’d just tensioned the line and given the door a couple of stout taps. On cue, Mister Protheroe opened his door just as the oncoming vehicle passed between us.

   Twang!

   The van’s side mirror caught the line and removed the brass knocker from the door. 

   Ker-Ching!

   The blasted knocker catapulted across the street.

   Crack!

   The windscreen shattered, and the truck skidded to a halt. The driver jumped out of the cab and ran towards us. He must have glimpsed our little gang as he passed. In those days, a clout round the head was commonplace. He collared Marty and gave him what for. We couldn’t stop him from laughing so much.

   The damage wasn’t deliberate, of course, and we laughed about it afterwards. However, we all had to pay our share of the repairs and that was that. 

   My father was furious with me. 

   No more Marty. 

   Period.

* * *

Years later, I couldn’t believe it when my father told me Marty had joined the local constabulary. Despite being six-foot-one, he was the most unlikely candidate to be a policeman. I recall he was the kid who released a dozen white mice from his lunch box during Miss Davenport’s English class. 

   Apparently, he’d liberated the mice from the Petersham Pet Store and smuggled them into school, intending to cause a stir. He did that for sure. The English class were in uproar when the furry horde headed towards their hysterical teacher. In a panic, she took to her desk to evade the scurrying vermin. The cheers and shouts of Miss Davenport’s pupils drowned out her screams and, with no one to help, she collapsed on the floor with chest pains. 

   It was funny at first until she started clawing the floor and gasping for air. We all froze. The only sounds in the room were the mice scuttling under the skirting boards and Miss Davenport’s fingernails scratching the linoleum for dear life. 

* * *

The last day of our friendship occurred one summer after the school said, ‘That’s enough!’ Miss Davenport refused to return from her sick leave and that proved final. Marty’s mother received a letter explaining why the school had excluded her son. I don’t think she’d believed the verbal reports until that time. Maybe she’d been in denial. Anyhow, she joined her second husband and hit the bottle.

   Marty bragged about the headmaster’s letter as we headed off to indulge in target practice. I’d disobeyed my parents one last time and joined Marty’s shooting party. He’d suggested firing rocks and pieces of broken glass at tin cans in the local woods. We’d gathered a wheelbarrow full of ‘targets’ and took turns in lining them up and catapulting missiles at them.

   The rest of the gang were content, chuffing away on hand-rolled ciggies and firing at tin cans, but Marty got bored. He wanted a challenge. 

   “We need a moving target,” he said. 

At first, we agreed to line up bread and apple pieces to attract birds and squirrels. I don’t think anyone took it too seriously, except for Marty. He relished the prospect of nailing a sparrow or maiming some hapless fieldmouse. However, that thrill didn’t last long either. It was when Bobbi, his kid brother, put an unfortunate jackdaw out of its misery that Marty turned to him and said, “Hey, Bobbi!”

   “What’s up Bro?”

   “You’ve got until ten.”

   “Marty?”

   “Go!”

   “What the—-”

   “One…”

   “Roddy?”

   “Two. Better get going.”

   “No!!”

   “Three…”

   Bobbi knew Marty wasn’t joking. 

   “Four!”

   He ran for his life.

   “Five! Coming ready or not!”

   “Hey!” Bobbi stumbled to the ground and turned to face us. “That’s not fair!”

   Marty ran towards him as he struggled to his feet. “What’s not fair?”

   “No, don’t!” Bobbi raised his hand to defend himself as Marty drew back the catapult’s thick elastic. “Noooo!”

   I grabbed Marty’s hand. “You can’t do that, Marty!”

   “It’s my catapult and my game,” he said, with a glint in his eye.

   “Play by the rules,” I said as he aimed his catapult at me. 

   “What rules?” He smirked and fired. 

   At point blank range, the shot could’ve blinded me. The scar across my cheek bone and tattered earlobe are testament to that moment. By the time I got to the hospital, my tee-shirt and jeans were saturated in blood.

* * *

   “You never told me who gave you that scar, Roddy.”

   “Now you know.” I sighed, facing Marty as he returned. “It’s been a while---”

   “You need to present your documents tomorrow, sir.”

   “I know the law, Marty.” I said, rubbing my chin. “Rules are rules, right?”

   “Yes, well,” he said, sniffing. “I’ll put on the blue light.”

   “Thank you, officer.”

   “Follow me and try to keep up.”

   I wound up my window and turned the keys in the ignition.

   “And what about Marty?”

   “His drunken stepfather thrashed the living daylights out of him.”

   “Oh, Dear God.”

   “Then he joined the police.”

The End