Free STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense by Derek Thompson Page A

sorry I won’t be there tonight or at the club. Sheryl knows the score.”
    He dithered for a second then stabbed the delete button. “Of course she does,” he seethed in the dark, “you tell her everything.”

Chapter 10
    Karl held the heavy metal door open as Thomas stepped through. It felt as if that door was shielding him from the outside world. Once the formalities were dispensed with, Karl led him to a bay and went off to procure the equipment.
    He leaned against the wall and gazed out at the targets, seduced by the stillness. A perfect backdrop to the maelstrom of his own thoughts.
    Karl soon returned with two Browning 9mm pistols. “You won’t find any answers staring down there!”
    So there were answers to be had? He opened the case and, under Karl’s supervision, primed the weapon and took the stand. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the roar in his ears carry him. The barrel wavered. Sweat massed at his brow and his armpits felt sticky, as if the growing web of deceit and half-truths was oozing out of him.
    He sighed, took aim and squeezed the trigger. Somehow he’d expected the first shot to settle him, but it had the opposite effect. The barrel shuddered — no chance. He flipped the safety catch and put the gun down.
    Karl stepped up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all about being able to close in, to focus on one thing. No distractions or prevarications. Because if it came to it, that’s what the other guy would do.” Karl nudged him aside and drained the magazine without breaking a sweat. “Now, try again.”
    Thomas lined the target up. His stomach contorted and he fought against it, making himself breathe steadily to counter the nausea. It all came back to him then, the first time he’d held a gun.
    * * *
    1984. Maybe not the dystopia Orwell had predicted, but in Yorkshire, a police state nonetheless. Night after night, woken up by the sirens; the procession of policemen, like the invading Roman army they were learning about at school. At first it was exciting; they played at Blake’s 7 , from off the telly, space rebels against an evil, galactic federation. Or else they tried to get close to the horses.
    But the screw quickly tightened and then it wasn’t fun at all. When coalmining collapsed, so did the world they all knew. There were arguments at friends’ houses and rows at home; relentless shouting and door slamming. School became a refuge from home.
    Every day his dad swore vengeance on ‘that heartless tyrant bitch, Margaret Thatcher.’ It was the first time he’d seen his father so full of hatred. In some ways, childhood fell away. The older kids talked about a revolution. They hadn’t covered that in class, so it didn’t all make sense.
    And then there was that day, playing around in the greenhouse. That’s when he found it, wrapped up in newspaper and hidden in an old rucksack: a real gun. Next day his dad came home unexpectedly, caught him red-handed. He really went off on one; raged at him, threatened him — his own son — to keep his mouth shut about the pistol and to never go in the greenhouse again. Thomas had been so frightened that he’d pissed himself, right in front of his dad. Even now, just thinking about it, his face burned.
    * * *
    He swallowed hard and heard the echoes of his own laboured breathing. How long had he been standing there? Just pull the fucking trigger . One, two, three, four in rapid succession, gunning down his shame and the past. As if that was ever really possible. “Done,” he called aloud. As he stepped back, he saw Karl leaning casually against the wall, watching him. “Peterson and Christine asked what I thought of you, yesterday. I told them you were dependable.”
    Karl nodded and packed away the pistols, game over. Thomas waited for him in the corridor. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here this time. The strangled whistling of a familiar tune made Thomas turn — ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ — Karl of