He walked over to the bench, sat down in the sun, crossed his legs and straightened the laces of his grey, Converse pumps. From this vantage point he could survey the entire Exchange Flags and the nameless individuals who traversed the open courtyard that had witnessed centuries of trade and barter. What more appropriate place could there be? He would wait patiently for that one individual who was no longer nameless.  In the meantime he took in his surroundings.   A bright eyed, pretty girl flung her arms around her tousle haired boyfriend, delivered a bag of cookies for him to take back to his work place and then turned to leave, grinning like a Cheshire pussy. Two gay men on the next bench canoodled freely. A white stick led a distinguished looking man across the flags, striking the base of Lord Nelson as they passed. The man on the bench forgot the people momentarily and took in the statue. Death reaching out to claim in victory England’s greatest naval warrior. One foot treading on a fallen foe, the other upon the cannon that fired him to victory. Every man to do his duty. The inscription had a certain ironic truth for this particular time and place. The sun disappeared abruptly. A thick cloud darkened everything and a brusque chill drew goosebumps on the man’s bare arms. He shivered involuntarily. Was this a good idea? Should he be having second thoughts? It was only a transaction wasn’t it?

Two men in black suits came through the arch and headed towards him, locked in conversation. It looked animated. They came closer.

“He has to go,” said the taller one.

“Why?” The long haired companion looked shocked at the suggestion.

“He’s just not right for us”

“I don’t agree. I think it could work out eventually”

“No way. Balotelli is not a Liverpool player.”

They continued on, along the side of the Town Hall, in the direction of Castle Street, debating the important matter of Liverpool’s team selection.

In the meantime the man revisited the debate that had occupied his mind since the suggestion was first made two weeks previously and a price agreed. An inner turmoil had considered the proposition from every angle and from the viewpoint of all involved, including the child.

He had arrived at an inevitable conclusion and had come to this bench at this time to bring it to fruition. Still no sign. Just other individuals en route to some place elsewhere.

The description was imprinted on his mind. Grey trousers, black pin striped jacket, five feet eight inches, medium length, wavy blonde hair. Green eyes. It would be revenge, of course. For both of them. Retribution would taste sweet in their mouths. It was a perfectly apt solution. The joys of social media had brought them here. That first “You don’t know me but we have something in common.” That had led to other exchanges and now to Exchange Flags and an entirely different exchange. Still no sign. It was getting chillier. Cold feet? Backing out maybe? It was later than they had arranged. But still not too late.

And then a figure matching the description came round the other side of the Town Hall.

The man watched the approach but started to think random, unrelated thoughts. Why did I have three bowls of crunchy nut cornflakes for breakfast? Crunchy nuts. Terrifying. These Converse need washing. Conversely, that old man should get a haircut but his shoes are clean. Who works in all these offices? Yes, officer. I’ve counted one hundred and seventeen people come through the archway next to the Brazilian restaurant. Brazilian. Nice. I feel sick.

The figure reached out a hand and he shook it. A kind of physical agreement now to cement the agreement they had already reached online. They didn’t talk. He stood up and they both walked across the Flags, headed silently through the arch and along Old Hall Street to the listed building where his apartment was. He entered the pin code and they made their way through the heavy doors, into the tree lined courtyard and up the ornamental iron staircase. As he put his key in the door he stopped and glanced back, as if enquiring whether they should still go ahead with the deal. A nod of agreement. They went inside. Within seconds their clothes were strewn across the beige carpet. Within minutes it was all over. Businesslike. No passion. No romance. A transaction of sorts. A conception based on them both being wronged and the perpetrator not having it in him to do what needed doing. If only he could see them now.

 

Five years later

A tall, green eyed lady with short blonde hair walked over to the hospital bed holding the hand of a young boy. The man lying there looked old beyond his years. As he saw her walking towards him he thought of a day five years previously when she had approached him with a plan that had led them both to this day.

“I’m dying,” as he coughed out the words it sounded as if he was bringing up death itself.

“I know. I am truly sorry, you know. I couldn’t do anything about it. When I met you that day my husband was watching from the coffee place. He followed us and waited until I came out. He found out about the whole thing whilst searching through my Facebook page. He knew that we were planning to have a child to get back at him for cheating on me and swindling you. It was a kick in the teeth of his impotence. Your winning sperm outswam his drowning non-entities.”

“Maybe, but the parade was short lived. I snatched death from the jaws of victory. Just like Nelson all those years ago. Did you know he had infected you deliberately with HIV?”

“No. He told me about it as soon as I left your building. He had a big grin on his face. Of course all four of us have it so I guess he got the last laugh.” Deep sorrow etched on her face, she glanced down at the sickly boy, whose nose refused to stop running and was unable to control his cough.

©Cre8ivation