Accidental Don. Episode one...

His breath came in shallow puffs as he almost fell through the door into the darkness, eager to be out of the rain. No voice of greeting met his ears and, with no sympathetic ears to hear his voice, he said nothing.

The ill fitting door rattled in the frame as he closed it behind him, a dim orange glow from the street lights seeping through the gaps that ran along the top and bottom of the wooden portal whilst the wicked wind whistled a macabre tune through a space where a letterbox should be.

Heavy drops of rain collected and fell from the brim of the cap he wore as he unfastened his inappropriate coat and stooped to remove the heavy chain from around his sodden dog's neck. The sodden dog repaid his owner for liberating him by vigorously shaking the water from his own, more appropriate, coat. The owner spluttered and squinted, a smile creeping across his lips.

“Oh, you little bastard.” He exclaimed as laughter broke through the splutter. “Right, kitchen...”

The dog swung around, tail wagging furiously, as he obediantly bounded away along the hallway that was only slightly larger than himself and through the second door he came to. His owner dropped his own wet coat and hat onto the floor and followed, though far less energetically. He flicked the switch by the door as he entered, an automatic action that was today, as it was at least for a couple of days every fortnight, pointless. But tomorrow was 'money day'. In a few hours time he could queue up behind the other benefit claimants at the ATM on the petrol station forecourt, all waiting for midnight when their money would magically appear in their accounts and they could begin spending most of it in the petrol station's twenty-four hour convenience store.

The dog's tail continued to wag as he stood before the redundant washing machine, waiting. The man removed an old towel, once blue but now grey, from within the drum before throwing it over the dog and sinking to his knees to administer the spirited drying that would bring those appreciative moans and growls from his best friend.

His only friend.

Once the drying was over the dog sat, tail still swiping left to right and back again. His owner admired him as he removed a biscuit from the pocket on the front of his hoody. He was certainly a fine beast. A German Shepherd. An expensive dog, far too expensive for a man on benefits. The dog was all that remained of the days before the man had become the man he now was. The days when the dog hadn't been the most important thing in the world to him.

“Be nice.” He placed the biscuit between his lips as the big, fearsome beast gently rose up on his hind legs to take it from him.

The man was fortunate enough to have a gas cooker and eighty-six pence on the gas meter, so he filled the ancient, whistling kettle and began the process of brewing up. He held his hands, purple and swollen from the rain and the Raynaud's, above the kettle on the hob. 

He couldn't have the heating on. The boiler, although gas powered, annoyingly required electricity to run and his inefficient, electric fire was as redundant as the lightswitches.

As his fingers thawed he tried to count his blessings...

...and wept.

_____________________________________

The new widower stood by the door, watching as his fellow mourners filed out of the chapel. Some paused to offer condolences, some smiled. Some ignored him. A glib song, chosen by people that hadn't the right to do so, was playing softly now that the service was over.

He tried to stand tall as the grieving parents approached.

“Will you be coming back to the house, Donald?” His mother-in-law (was that right, now that her daughter was dead?) asked as her husband ignored him.

“I don't think so, Val.” Both his parent-in-law's lips curled in disdain at his use of her name.

“Well, take care.” She looked at the floor for a moment. “I...”

What remained unsaid would remain unsaid. Donald's father-in-law took his wife's arm and spirited her away...

...leaving Donald, finally, alone.

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The rain was coming down even heavier than earlier. He sheltered in the doorway of the pharmacy across the road from the little, independent petrol station. He'd elected not to stand in the queue for the cash machine. It was day three since last he'd bathed properly and, although he couldn't smell it himself, he was aware that by now he must smell ripe. He'd wait there, his best friend by his side, until the queue was gone.

It took about ten minutes. Those visibly queuing withdrew their meagre money, followed by those that had been sitting in their lovely, warm cars. Then it was his turn.

He dashed across the street, from the shelter of the doorway to the shelter of the petrol station's canopy, as a little car drew onto the forecourt. The little car's expensive stereo system pumped a thudding bass through the expensive, but badly fitted, speakers as a young man wearing an expensive tracksuit climbed out from the passenger door and flicked his cigarette away across the forecourt. Fortunately, the shower of sparks ignited no fumes and the glowing, smouldering butt came to rest, harmlessly, by a drain cover. This action brought a stern admonishment from the cashier, delivered via the crackly Tannoy system.

“What? Fuck off.” The passenger shouted at the little window, a look of distaste on his face as he spat the words.

Donald and his dog remained unnoticed by either the passenger or the chap on the till as they walked along the edge of the canopy and to the cash machine. The dog, whose ears had pricked at the raised voices, growled and stared at the passenger as his master tapped away at the buttons by the glowing screen.

Donald held his breath, as he did every fortnight, while the machine chattered, whirred and deliberated on the question of whether or not he was to receive any money. This time, it decided in favour. Donald breathed a sigh of reief and allowed himself a small smile. He drew out as much cash as he could, begrudgingly having to leave £4.83 in his account to be swallowed up by whichever debts reared their ugly heads this week, and went over to the little serving hatch by the cashiers seat as he tucked the notes into his inside pocket and his bank card into his deep coat pocket, the one with the bank card sized hole in it.

Even at this time of night the store doors were open, the owner of the station having decided that allowing the local benefit scroungers to spend his taxes in his shop rather than at the twenty-four hour supermarket a mile away trumped any worries about security. He'd had a dummy CCTV camera installed, so he was sure everything would be okay. But Donald had the dog and dogs weren't allowed inside, so he walked to the little window behind which the cashier was staring at an iPhone. All he needed was gas and electricity, the cashier would serve him through the hatch.

“Evening, Hassan. How's tricks?”

“Shit.” He laughed, “Still, soon be Christmas.”

“A tenner on each of those, please mate.” Donald placed the gas card and the electricity key into the drawer.

The window rattled as the passenger from the little car pulled open the heavy, metal door to the shop and strutted through. Hassan was typing numbers into a yellow, handheld contraption that currently contained Donald's card but politely looked up and acknowledged his new customer, who in turn ignored Hassan and began perusing the shelves.

“Where's the fucking vodka?” The driver shouted across the shop.

“We have none.” Hassan smiled politely. “Just beer and wine.” He gestured toward the end of the aisle the passenger had yet to explore.

Card and key now containing credit, Hassan returned them.

“Twenty, please.” Hassan smiled as, behind him, the driver put a huge bottle of cider on the counter.

“'Ow much?” The passenger demanded, still wearing a look of distaste.

“One moment, my friend.” Hassan opened the till as Donald pulled the money from his pocket.

Then came the first explosion.

“Oi, you black bastard, I asked you a fucking question.”

Donald raised an eyebrow, not quite able to understand why this young man was reacting in this way. Maybe he hadn't seen Donald being served at the window and thought Hassan was ignoring him but, still, his reaction was rather over the top.

“And what are you fucking staring at, you little prick?” The increasingly flushed passenger screamed past Hassan. Plainly, he had been aware Donald was being served. Donald furrowed his brow.

“I'm fucking talking to you, knob-head.” The passenger's attention now fully on Donald.

“Leave it out, mate. No one's staring at you.” Hassan interjected as he stood and faced the passenger.

A smidgeon short of two metres tall and with a chest like a barrel, Hassan was an impressive specimen of manhood. The driver, younger, shorter and far skinnier than the cashier, coughed up a noisy ball of phlegm and spat it at the cashier.

Hassan's hand snaked out, his palm connecting with the passenger's cheek and sending him staggering backwards. Donald laughed, though more through shock than mirth.

The passenger was a bully and, therefore, a coward, but not a stupid coward. He knew that a fight with the man-mountain behind the counter was unwinnable. But there, outside, piss wet through and looking ready for the knacker's yard, stood Donald. He rushed to the door and threw it open, loudly proclaiming that he was about to knock Donald, the “scruffy little prick”, out.

His momentum was such that, even though he'd immediately noticed the German Shepherd rearing up at him, he couldn't prevent his own continued advance. Donald had a tight enough grip on the dog that the dog didn't quite get his jaws on the passenger, but still the passenger screamed a scream that, in his own parlance, made him sound “like a little bitch” as he fell backwards onto the wet concrete.

That was when Donald had found himself, as he had so many times in the past, at a fork in the road on his journey through life.

He had his money, he had his electricity and his gas. He could, right now, walk away and be seen as the winner. Donald knew that's what he should do. That's what a good guy would do, and Donald was a good guy. He began to turn away.

Had the passenger resigned himself to the fact he couldn't win and just kept his filthy mouth shut then Donald would have continued to turn on his heels and simply walked away, as he had many times before. But the passenger could see his prey was backing off. He scampered backwards, on his hands and backside, then leapt to his feet.

“Tie your dog up, you prick, I'm going to fucking knock you out.” His recent scare having served nought.

Donald looked around, at the grinning face of the driver still fuelling his little car and the face of the cashier as he concentrated on dialling nine-nine-nine, and thought. As the passenger continued his verbal introduction to the violence that he swore would soon follow, Donald tickled the dog's head and hooked the lead over one of the bollards that had been installed along the front of the shop to prevent ram-raiders.

The driver rushed at Donald as Donald's eyes moved to the task of securing his pet. A look of fury masked the driver's face and murderous thoughts filled his mind. Then, once the passenger had committed himself to the headlong charge and forthcoming assault...

...Donald unclipped his best friends collar.

_____________________________________

The little boy couldn't believe it. Why?

The other little boy, the one now laughing as he walked toward his friends (who were all as disgusted as the first little boy) had spat in his face. For no reason. He didn't even know the boy.

The first boy stood, trying to process his thoughts. What should he do now? Why had this boy done such a thing? Images of retribution flashed before his mind's eye. He could punch the spitter, kick him in the arse, pull his hair, bite him. Surely no one would blame him? A teacher might tell him off, but his father wouldn't. His father would say “good on you, son” and probably refer to the spitter as a 'dirty little bastard' or some such. He might even give the spitter's father a good slap.

Then the bell rang and everyone ran away.

The little boy sat through lessons, thinking about what had happened in the yard. The time to exact revenge was now gone, he'd no longer be the righteous one. He did nothing, except set himself on a path to adulthood, the kind of man he would be now set in stone. A life of rising above, of walking away, of being the good guy.

Set in stone. Solid. Long lasting. But not everlasting.

Even a stone can crack.

_____________________________________

To all those bearing witness, the big dog leapt in slow motion.

Unlike last time, when the good guy had prevented him, the beast's jaws found flesh. The teeth that lined his powerful jaws pierced the man-made fibres of the expensive tracksuit the passenger wore. They continued to further puncture the cotton of the cheap shirt beneath.

Then came the warm, tasty, living meat of the passenger's forearm.

The dog's teeth tore through the flesh, destroying the tattoos that the passenger's mother hated. The mask of fury he'd worn now replaced by a visage of pure terror, his screams continued as he frantically tried to escape.

The big dog dragged the passenger down to his level before releasing his grip and attempting to find a more succulent piece of meat. Donald clapped once.

Still barking, the dog began to reverse toward his master.

The driver had dropped the nozzle in his haste to help his friend. He ducked into his little car and grabbed the knife that he kept tucked down the side of his seat, turning back to the rapidly developing scene of violence by the serving hatch just as the dog had dragged his screaming friend to the floor.

Wearing a mask similar to that of his passenger, the driver charged as he raised the blade he'd armed himself with above his head. His target was the danger, that danger being the dog now obediantly backing away from his friend.

The thick, rubber hose that was connected to the hastily discarded nozzle throbbed as it lay curled by the driver's feet, the now broken trigger mechanism allowing the pump to continue pumping the shimmering fuel from the tank buried deep beneath the concrete and creating a stream that trickled quickly towards the lowest point on the forecourt, the drain.

Donald's dog was obedient. Donald has spent many an hour in his company over the previous four years, since the day he and his wife had brought him home and presented him to their daughter. Obedience only went so far though.

Donald had stepped past his best friend and was approaching the prone passenger as the driver had begun his charge. Told to wait or not, the big dog had Donald's back. He ran and leapt at the driver, who plunged the knife into the beast's side before those vicious teeth could wreak any damage. The pitiful yelp of the soon-to-be-dead dog chilled Donald to the bone as he brought the sole of his right foot down onto the back of the head of the passenger who had, by now, realised the error of his ways and was trying to crawl to safety.

The stamping action drove the passenger's face into the concrete, shattering several of his rotten teeth, his chin, his nose and one of his eye sockets and creating such internal damage that, had he not discarded his cigarette earlier, he'd have been left with just a few more years of life, lived in a wheelchair parked in front of a television in a care home and being fed liquidised lunches through a straw.

The lowest point of the concrete forecourt wasn't the lowest point by accident. The forecourt was designed to slope gently away from the shop front, funnelling any rain toward the big drain. The big drain was covered by a drain cover, the same drain cover by which a still smouldering cigarette continued to glow brightly in the breeze.

_____________________________________

“I'm connecting you now” The lady that had answered the emergency call said.

“Quickly, please...”

“Hello, what is the nature of the emergency?” Another lady, with a much more official manner, now spoke.

“A man is being attacked...”

“Is the attack currently taking place?”

“Yes, please hurry.”

“Officers are already on their way to your location, please try to remain calm. Are you safe?”

“What? Me? Yes, yes, I'm...” Hassan's voice became more shrill as he spotted the driver begin his charge, “Oh God, he's got a knife.”

The lady on the line heard the pitiful yelps, the sound from outside being picked up by the little microphone attached to the serving hatch and amplified by the tinny speakers set into the counter.

“He's stabbed his dog, he'd stabbed his fucking dog...”

“Sir, please try and remain calm, the officers will be with you in a moment. Can you take yourself somewhere safe until they arrive? Sir? Sir?”

Hassan discarded the telephone and grabbed the rounders' bat that his employer had provided for his employees' protection, then clambered over the counter. He was half way between the counter and the front door when the fumes from the spilled petrol reached, and were ignited by, the passengers cigarette.

_____________________________________

Little Donny needed toughening up. So said his father, the butcher.

Donald's father had been a real man's man. Average height, average build, just like his son. Unlike his son, though, Donny's father was a heavy drinker and had a keen interest in amateur pugilism, usually on the car park of the local pub at chucking out time.

For a good portion of his early years little Donny had genuinely believed that once blighted with a black eye, like a scar or herpes, it would never leave you. His father had a seemingly perpetual shiner that would occasionally change eyes.

Little Donny's father was determined that his son should follow in the family tradition and, eventually, take over the business. 

The family business was a medium sized and successful butcher's shop in a small northern town where, from an early age, Donny would work on a Saturday. At first just sweeping up or nipping to the paper shop across the road whenever his father ran out of cigarettes, then a spell of manning the counter before, ultimately, being shown how to butcher an animal.

He could just about cope with chopping a rack of ribs or even the legs from a freshly plucked chicken, but little Donny couldn't stomach anything sloppy. Legs wobbling and knife hand trembling, he couldn't bring himself to be the first to prick the flesh that his father would lay on the slab for him. He'd once managed to approach the carcass, a pig, and had placed the point of the knife against the abdomen of the dead animal but, at the crucial moment just before the flesh began to give way, he'd looked into the pig's deep, dead eyes and cried.

His father tried every week to get his son to “man up”, even plying him with brandy, but it was no good. His only son, his only offspring, was a bitter disappointment.

Boxing lessons didn't raise the kid's testosterone levels, nor martial arts. Camping trips encouraged an interest in wildlife and beauty rather than hunting and survival. 

Little Donny slowly grew into young Donny and left school.

Donny's mother was more understanding. She was happy when he announced he'd be going to college, berating her husband when he called his son a “fucking poof”at the dinner table, and so proud she felt she could burst when the time for University came. The future was bright for her Donny. He was going to be something. He was going to be a good man, she knew it. She was so sure of it that this one thing dominated her mind during her final moments, bleeding in the passenger seat of the car Donny's father had drunkenly crashed on the winding lane that connected their small, northern town to the next.

Donny's father's last thoughts were a jumbled mess of testosterone, Irish stout and American bourbon. His wife died as she begged for help from his rapidly cooling, already dead, body.

Donny had been away from home for two weeks before having to return and organise the first of the many funerals yet to come.

_____________________________________

The petrol station's owner had a similar attitude to safety as he did to the security of his staff. A fire exit stood at the rear of the shop, away from the forecourt. It had a push bar, was painted green, properly illuminated and had the correct signage. A perfectly serviceable fire exit.

It was also a potential weakness from a security point of view. No problem during the daylight hours when the owner and two members of staff were present to keep an eye on things but, once darkness fell and the workforce was reduced to just one man, it provided a way of sneaking in without being spotted and robbing him blind. So he bought a lock.

A lock that Hassan now held in his hand, rattling hard and hoping it would snap rather than force him to return to his till for the key hidden within. He glanced over his shoulder.

The flames had reached the little car and, along their journey, had spread to the canopy above. Covered in years of grime, the canopy had become a sticky and very flammable shelter for the fuelling drivers below. Now, dirty orange flame rolled and tumbled upside-down against it's surface, rushing toward the shop. Hassan ran and dived behind the counter.

The still-open till drawer didn't give way, but the impact of Hassan's forehead caused it to vibrate violently and shower the small space behind the counter with coins as Hassan began to bleed and lose consciousness.

_____________________________________

“NO!” Donald screamed as he saw his dog slump to the floor, the animal's legs describing the motion of fleeing as his stomach spilled out onto the cold concrete.

The tracksuit of the driver ignited quickly as the inferno spread across the forecourt behind him, turning him instantly into a ball of screaming flame as the blade clattered to the floor, the flames denying Donald the furious vengeance he now craved.

Donald felt the heat from above, steam pouring from his sodden clothing, as he surveyed the scene. Wide eyed, he turned on the spot. The screaming driver, his best friend's twitching carcass, the blood from the passenger's devastating head wound and facial injuries mixing with the wet floor and spreading quickly toward the inferno as the inferno rushed to meet it.

The car interior was already alight. Thick, black, acrid smoke seeped from beneath the bonnet as the plastics within began to melt. The burgeoning flames that were spreading rapidly through the wiring loom tinged the black smoke with scarlet, then a tyre burst.

The pneumatic explosion shocked Donald from his state of bewilderment a split second before the half filled fuel tank on the little car exploded. The little car leapt on the spot as the driver's side door blew open and the chassis buckled. Cubes of hot safety glass flew in all directions, carried on a wind of flame.

First to strike Donald was the wind, taking his breath and forcing him backwards as the flame that followed singed his beard and dried his coat. Cubes of hot glass tore his clothing and the palms of his hands as he was propelled through the air, landing heavily a metre or two further from the scene of devastation developing before him. He had come to rest, flat on his back and struggling for breath, on the outer side of the low, brick wall that lined the furthest extent of the petrol station's boundary as an alloy wheel, with portions of smouldering rubber still attached to it's rim, struck the inner.

Raindrops fell upon his upturned face as he opened his eyes. He pushed himself up, wincing as he did so.

What remained of the petrol station burned like a Roman candle. Bangs and crashes added to the cacophony created by the maelstrom of flame, though to Donald the scene remained silent but for the painful whistling of his battered ear drums.

Thinking time was over, Donald did as Donald should have done earlier.

Donald ran away.

Episode two