photo by Tina Bexson
Target ‘A’
Upon the higher planes of the sharp, pale mountain range, she took the Lee Enfield Mark 11 rife and fitted its wide angled scope.
Her young pupil stood submissively by her side.
“Timothy do get closer darling. You are going to be my eyes for this morning’s little exercise. You’ll find it has a hint of psychological warfare about it too.”
She smiled.
“Come on now, shoulder me.”
“Yes, mother.”
He sighed sulkily and pigeon footed his 4ft tiny frame until he reached her bulky left waist.
She looked through the scope and found her target, a drunken figure hovering within a blur of pink almond tree blossom in the valley 100 metres below them.
“Got you,” she murmured under her breath, purposefully inaudible. Then with her left hand she retrieved a pair of brass, bakelite military binoculars.
“Another relic from the British Empire’s escapades in north African”, she said, proudly, without a hint of humour, placing them over her son’s head.
“Binoculars have greater magnification, remember, Timothy.”
Timothy raised his eyebrows. Oh, what was she going to make him shoot this time? Please God, not another damn desert rat. They were a devil to kill.
With her middle finger, she pointed down towards the mass of pink.
“Locate target ‘A’ darling and keep it in sight. It’s 6ft tall with dirty brown hair.”
Good, he thought. No scampering vermin. Just another of her gardeners to take out. No gardener meant a new gardener, and a new daily treat.
Remembering his mother’s teachings, he grabbed a large slab of flat quartz rock from behind him, stepped upon it to ensure he was her height, and held the binoculars level with the rifle’s scope.
“Once you’ve got him – I mean ‘it’ – we’ll do the usual and swap places,” she instructed. “This is a tricky one so you can’t dither. I want to hear ‘target A in sight’ spoken from your mouth within 10 seconds.”
He set upon perfecting the task at hand while she craftily retrieved a metal flask from her right Berber’s pocket and gobbled down a giant glug of the colourless liquid, her eyes glazing as it hit the spot.
It was at least 30 seconds before Timothy managed to speak.
“Target A …,” he mumbled, before catching his breath.
“But it’s father, mother. It’s father. Your Target A is father!”
“Quite”, she replied, quietly.
Quite.
© Tina Bexson
Tina Bexson 