Abacus

mound, he decided to push the dung along with the outside of his shoe as he advanced.
    Inching his way along the narrow ledge, there was no turning back. It was now official he was scared as his heart beat out of his chest and the sweat slowly soaked his shirt and pants. He could even feel that sweat on the soles of his feet as he tensed his toes to maintain a grip on the ledge.
    As he approached the window to the room, he grabbed hold of the handle and felt instant relief. The thick window curtains prevented him from seeing in. He had a quick look down onto the street and could see a few tiny figures walking across the pedestrian crossing. Directly below on the pavement, he saw a familiar-looking male shading his eyes with his hands as he looked straight up. That’s that useless bloody Duty Manager , he thought. If he had only got me the right bloody key I wouldn’t be out here. Randall glanced down at the large mound of pigeon crap he had accumulated. He carefully pushed the powdery mound off the ledge with the outside of his shoe, and smiled as the cloud gently fell towards the unsuspecting manager.
    He pushed the window handle gently and felt it slide open. Sliding it back a little further, he used his fingers to carefully open up a small gap in the thick curtain. Stealing a quick peek, he saw the silhouette of a man seated near the door. Once his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw what appeared to be blood splatters on the wall behind the man and an object the shape of a rifle between his legs.
    Randall was con fident this guy posed no threat to him. Pulling the curtain wider, he scanned the room to make sure there was no one else. Squeezing through the opening, he jumped down from the windowsill onto the floor. Now in the room, he could hear a deep wheezing sound, Shit he’s still alive. With one wary eye on the dying man he reached across, flicked the light on, and unlocked the front door to let Hobbs in.
    Hobbs entered the room and joined Randall in staring at the dying man as he clung to life. Whilst the sight was grotesque Randall could not look away. He saw the double-barrelled shotgun was wedged between his legs and was pointing straight at his head. The gun had blown away the majority of the top half of his head, leaving the intact bottom jaw, which looked like a cup of overflowing blood. His heavy breathing created a red froth, which bubbled from what used to be his mouth. As he breathed, a loud gurgling sound filled the room.
    “Ring the ambulance , mate,” Randall said calmly, without haste. He knew what the outcome would eventually be; the question was how long was he going to hold on for. Randall was hardened to death and unpleasant crime scenes but this was different. There was absolutely nothing he or Hobbs could do to help. He only wished the man had “checked out” before they had arrived.
    Hobbs returned from making his ca ll and joined Randall who was still fascinated by the fact he was still alive. Randall reached down, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and gently eased it from the hands of the dying man. While carrying the gun across the room, a single drop of blood fell from the butt of the gun and landed on his right sleeve. “Oh great, blood on my new shirt. Can you friggin’ believe it!” Throwing the gun down in disgust, he stomped over to the basin to wash his sleeve.
    “Only use cold water, boss. If you use warm the blood will set in the fabric,” Hobbs advised while still keeping a vigil.
    L ooking back as he scrubbed his sleeve, Randall studied the bloodied wall behind the dying man, the giant pool of blood at his feet, and the fragments of hair and brain scattered throughout the room. If we get out of here with just a drip of blood on a shirt sleeve we have done bloody well, I reckon .
    The gurgling breaths had now started to become more shallow and sporadic. “What’s the plan if he stops breathing, boss,” Hobbs asked anxiously.
    “Mate , if there is a God, as you tend to believe, he will stop this poor bastard breathing,” he said, still feverishly working on his sleeve. “Bloody hell it doesn’t look too good.” Randall said, drying his sleeve with a towel. “The stain is there for good, I reckon.”
    “What can we do if he stops breathing? How do you resuscitate a bloke with half a head who really doesn’t look human.” Randall knew that with Hobbs being a religious man he felt an obligation to help in some way, to do something.
    After a lengthy silence