JOHN FINNIE (35y) AUGUST 2022, 09.32

'Hindsight, the most beautifully non-existent thing a person could wish for.' John rattled the tub and tipped four Vicodin into the palm of his hand. The ice had almost melted in his whiskey, which he reached for with a trembling hand. 'Hindsight,' he spat the word out in the empty room. The tablets clung to the roof of his mouth, and he swallowed them down with the whiskey in one well practised movement.

'Hindsight,' he grumbled as he wheeled his chair to the bed. A glimpse in the mirror stole his attention. The reflection of a tired older man stared back at him. 'Who are you? Who are you with your crippled body and old face, John?' He sat staring. 'I hate you!' he growled, bursting into a blur of movement. The whiskey glass hit the mirror hard, spider-webbing its full length. Several warped reflections stared back at him, to which he spoke. 'Used to have hindsight, but it was taken from me.' He lifted a gnarled left hand up to the reflections. 'You took everything from me, you bastard.'

The sweet release of the painkillers doing their work saturated John's weary bones, and his head lolled forward. For the umpteenth time, he remembered "that day", when all this had started, and wished he could change it. Seventeen years of dreams, and each one had the murderer in it. Was he the only one who ever saw him?

The clarity of the dream never wavered. The murderer pulled over and opened the car door. He talked for a few seconds and beckoned her in. The little girl hesitated and then got in the car. The car sped away into a blurred horizon.

Seventeen years he dreamed the dream. Seventeen years he stood and watched. A tear streaked down his cheek, and his chest ached with sorrow. 'I'm sorry...'

THAT DAY (17y) JANUARY 2005, 11.45

A creak sounded from under John's chair as he leaned back in it, removed a sufficiently chewed spit bullet from his mouth, pulled out the ink inner from his Bic pen, and stuffed the paper in one end. He eyed his target and smiled. Samantha Grimes. Mr Atkinson, his math teacher, wasn't paying any attention. Good.

The target turned to talk to her friend, and John's smile widened. A clean shot. He took a deep breath and blew hard. To his absolute horror the target bent down to pick up her pen, and the paper spit bullet flew straight over her, spattering off Mr Atkinson's glasses.

In a rush, he darted so close John could smell his cloying stale cigarette breath and lynx deodorant mix. The class went silent, knowing a clash of wills between John and "Acko the Bastard" loomed. Mr Atkinson's face reddened as he fought to maintain control then spoke through gritted teeth. 'You boy, out of the classroom now. Go count the railings.' The lads at the back of the class cheered, drawing a smile from him, but a sharp look from Mr Atkinson quietened them down fast.

John opened the door and turned to the rest of the class. 'Freedom!' he shouted, fist-pumping the air. The class roared with laughter as he legged it down the corridor.

Mr Atkinson ran to the door. 'John Finnie, I'll see you at the Head's office after you're done counting the railings!'

John ran down the stairs then slowed to a walk, safe in the knowledge he wasn't being followed. With every step he took, he kicked at his satchel. Count the bloody railings. 'Ugh.' He knew exactly how many railings there were: one hundred and twenty-three, and one missing after number fifty-two. Why were math teachers so dreary? I mean, why would he ever need the formula for calculating the circumference of a circle anyway? He pushed the fire doors open. Couldn't be bothered going through the main entrance.

The spring air was nice and warm, which was just as well; he'd left his jacket in class. Damn! Mud and grime covered his clothes from the soccer earlier. After a second he shrugged. By the time he got home it would be dry and he could rub it off. Mam was a clean freak, everything had to be spotless. Everything. He was more a "who cares" sort of kid. Although they rarely saw eye to eye, he still thought she was the best mam in the world, the only person who could talk some sense into him. And she had a way with Charlie, his little sister, which made him smile when he watched them.

Acko the Bastard glared down at him as he sauntered up to the railings. John sighed and pretended to count them, pointing at each railing in turn. 'You're a prick, you're a prick, you're a dick...'

The teacher had gone back into class by the time he reached number ten. He grabbed the railings and looked down the street on the other side. Nothing. He looked up the street. A man dressed as a World War Two British Soldier walked down the path, heading in his direction.

'Fancy dress party mate?' John said when the man was close enough to hear.

The man stopped and unslung his rifle. 'Who goes there?'

John snorted. 'Yeah, whatever mate.' He moved away from the railings.

The soldier stalked closer to where John had been standing. 'Who goes there,' he whispered. 'Show yourself.'

John shook his head and moved further away. 'Friggin' nutter.'

The soldier moved even closer. John stared, fascinated at the fancy-dress man. Even his face was grey, just like the black and white photos his Nan used to show him when he went round there on Sundays.

'Look mate,' he said, 'all I have to do is shout.' He turned and pointed up to the classroom. His classmates had drawn a massive knob on some paper and put it up to the window. He chuckled then turned back to the soldier, but the man had disappeared. 'Eh?' John moving closer to the railings and looking up and down the street. He was gone. 'What the Fu...'

An old style police car pulled up to the curb just then. Two policemen in old style uniforms got out of a shiny Ford Anglia. One of them leant back into the car and spoke into his radio. 'Victor Two to base, no sign as yet. Search in progress.'

The policeman who'd got out of the driver's seat looked up and down the street. 'Do you think we will find her Sarg?'

The Sergeant put the radio back. 'I hope so, PC Blake. We don't want a murder hunt on our hands. Nasty business, that is.'

PC Blake nodded. 'Shall I put the posters up here then?'

'Yes, Blake. I'll knock on some doors, make some enquiries.' The Sergeant headed up the street.

John watched as PC Blake pinned a poster on the telegraph pole, straining to see the picture, but he couldn't make it out. Every time he looked at the picture it blurred up. He grinned. This was better than tele. The two policemen met back at the car.

'Who's missing?' John asked. They ignored him. 'Excuse me officers,' he called a bit louder, 'who's missing?'

The policemen got into the car without responding and started the engine. PC Blake turned back and looked straight at John from inside the Ford, his eyes wide with alarm. He looked young, John's age perhaps. They sped up the road. The car shimmered and vanished halfway down the street. Feeling stunned, John grabbed the railings and pushed his face close to get a better view. The car had definitely disappeared. Whoa! This was way too strange for a Monday morning.

Should he go back into the school building? He looked up at his maths classroom. Yes, he should leave, those coppers seemed not right somehow. He glanced over his shoulder as he started walking back. An elderly woman doubled over with age ambled past pushing an old wheeled basket.

'Did you see that police car?' he asked, hoping she might know more about the missing person.

The old lady stopped and put her hand up to her ear. 'Eh lad, what did you say?'

Through the railings, John pointed. 'Up there, a police car just drove that way.'

She squinted as she looked up the road. 'My eyes aren't that good no more sonny.'

She didn't know anything. John smiled obligingly 'Okay. Sorry to bother you, ma'am.'

The lady waved him away and continued her slow walk down the street. Clack, squeak, clack, squeak. Her crippled walk stopped. 'I can tell you something though,' her voice quivered.

Curious as ever, John leaned forward. 'Please?'

The old lady shot close and grabbed his hands in a vice grip. The pressure from her wrinkled clenched fists turned his veins to ice.

'Aaah!'

'Come closer, son.' She sounded suddenly ferocious as she pulled him towards her, forced his face against the railings.

'Save one, save them all,' she whispered in a hollow voice. Using all the force he could muster, he tried to wrench free of the woman, but she was strong. A glassy look came into her eyes and she looked up the road, shouting, 'Save one, save them all!'

'I don't know what you mean,' he whimpered, his face squished between the bars, his wrists throbbing.

The woman's head snapped back to him, so close their noses almost touched. To his horror, all he could see were holes where her eyes should've been. Her grip on his wrists loosened. 'Save one, save them all!' she screeched in a vile squealing moan.

'Oh, my god!' John stumbled away from the railings, his wrists freed, and landed on his back. The impact knocked his breath out. Damn it hurt, but he struggled to pull in a breath past the tight ache. Was the woman still there? 'Fuck!' He manoeuvred onto his back, straining his neck to see up the street. No, she was gone. 'Thank God.'

Blue bruises stained his wrists where her fingers had dug into them, and his arms were bone white. He lay on his side, willing the blood back into his hands and taking deep breaths. Gradually the colour and feeling returned, and his heart stopped racing.

Why did all the weird shit happen to him?

He stood up and looked out onto the road. Another vintage car pulled up. A man leant over the passenger seat and opened the door. A small girl who was skipping down the road stopped as the man in the car spoke to her. John could see her shaking her head. Realising that this wasn't right, he moved forward. 'Don't-' he began, but he'd hesitated too long and the girl was in the car. The door slammed shut and the car crawled away, vanishing before the end of the road.

P.S. Welcome to BLINK, a collaboration by me and Cashjo
If you're enjoying it, remember to click the star so more readers can find our story, and thanks for all the comments and reads. You guys are awesome.

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2015