Abacus

waited with his back to Randall. Walking through the now opened gate, he peered back to see the sinister smiling Randall holding the cake in one hand and making a blade cutting motion across his throat with the other. From that visit onwards, on the very same day, every year, Randall turned up with a sponge cake for him whether he liked it or not. Jenkins had understandably avoided seeing Randall ever since. He may have even thought from that time on he was probably better off dead.

CHAPTER 3 - RANDALL

    Fumbling through his cluttered glove box and trying to drive to work at the same time was an art that Randall had mastered. Retrieving a tired-looking audio cassette tape from the mess, he used his elbows to control the steering wheel while he pushed his thick index finger into the round winders to make sure the ribbon was nice and tight. “Now I’d like you all to give a very warm welcome to the Rolling Stones,” he ranted before madly clapping as if at a live concert. His ex-wife used to hate his introductions to music, but his two kids loved them, so he stuck with it.
    Excitedly, he pushed the tape into the player and waited with anticipation for the first song , Sympathy for the Devil . With Mick’s help, Randall sang enthusiastically, thumping his hand on the big shiny pearl-coloured steering wheel to the beat of the song. Thankfully the old Mercedes still had its original tape player, so he could still play his old tapes.
    At the next red light, he adjusted the rear vision mirror and gave himself a quick once-over. His gold-rimmed, mirrored aviator sunglasses looked back at him in appreciation. The guys at the office ribbed him about his sunglasses, but he knew it would be a matter of time before the aviators were once again commonplace. He brushed the remainder of breakfast from his thick moustache with his fingers, then ran his hand through the fringe of his blond shoulder-length hair, which was slightly greying at the sides. Now happy with his appearance, he got back to singing with Mick.
    Not a bad looking rooster for forty-eight years considering what I have put myself through , he thought. His self-appreciation ended with the toot of a loud car horn from a frustrated female motorist behind him. He looked up and saw that the light had turned green. “Calm down, love,” he mumbled, adjusting the rear view mirror back before smiling and giving her an apologetic wave. The throaty V-eight engine of his vintage Mercedes Benz coupe purred as it eased through the intersection.
    Detective S enior Sergeant Bob Randall, or Randall to his mates, knew he was always destined to be a detective. From an early age he was an inquisitive young man who continually pestered his parents for answers. Once they fell into the trap of answering his first question, he had a rapid-fire dozen more to call upon. His ongoing quest for knowledge drove his parents mad, and usually resulted in being sent to his room. But this did not deter him. He used this time of forced captivity to formulate his next line of inquiry. After all, the truth was out there and his parents were holding back vital information.
    As a nine-year- old only child, Randall had shared a very close relationship with his parents until their brutal double murder. Their death deeply affected him and shaped the man he had become and the line of work he now undertook. As a ward of the state through his teenage years, he had been totally unaware that his every move had been closely monitored. His future had been mapped out for him, his choice of subjects at school, his hobbies and friends, all carefully scrutinised without his knowledge. It had to be this way. His tragic loss made him the perfect candidate who could be trusted with the huge responsibility that lay ahead. He would receive no thanks or fanfare for his secretive assignments. His only reward would come in the form of something he would always crave. Revenge.
    Outwardly, Randall the Chief of Detectives was very well respected and had worked in various dodgy inner city patrols where drug dealing, prostitution, robberies and homicides were the norm. His choice of busy locations was no accident. Randall had a huge secret, the secret organisation Deliver Live or DL. By working in busy locations his “Secondary employment” as he often thought it as, could be more easily concealed. He always thought the organisations name was a little peculiar, as it was totally at odds with its mission. The secret