At long long last he had a real live gun in his hands: the gun his father had always kept locked in the night stand beside his parent’s bed; the gun he wouldn’t let Jamie so much as touch, even though the little boy had begged and pleaded. This was infinitely better than the toy guns the five-year-old had been given as presents.

  To relieve the boredom, he had gone exploring, one afternoon, and couldn’t believe his eyes that this time the drawer had been left slightly ajar. He held his breath, willing the gun to be still there and not moved elsewhere. Gingerly, he opened the drawer and there it was: the object of all his fantasies, laying sedately next to a box of bullets. He hesitated to touch the weapon lest it was just a mirage and he’d be cheated of his dearest, most earnest wish. But the longer he stared at it the more certain it was the genuine article just inches away from his face. There was no sound in the house. His mother must have gone outside to hang laundry, so, Jamie would not be disturbed.

  The first surprise he got was the weapon’s weight. When he grabbed it, it slipped from his hand. With a firmer grasp he lifted it up and ogled it in amazement. Solid and black and radiating power, it was indisputably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It didn’t just have a trigger, it had buttons and catches too. He’d find out what they did anon; now, he just wanted to hold this mechanical wonder and inhale its heavenly aroma. It smelt like a hot engine but wasn’t in the least bit warm; it was hard and cold and all the more majestic for it.

  His small hand couldn’t reach around the butt, but that was okay, he would use two hands to fire it like they did on TV. With feet apart and arms extended, he’d point the barrel at the target and his aim would be sure and true. He could hardly miss with such a magnificent tool like this. It was so clean and streamlined and utterly without blemish, it must have been made by master craftsmen.  

  He stroked the gun and called it fond names. He held it up to the light and marvelled at it from every angle. He was now the proud possessor of the means of life and death. He could shoot anyone he wanted. This was the day his life changed: he had become the master of his own fate and everyone else’s. When his gun roared the world would quake. It was the ultimate arbiter in all matters. It would be his voice and others would harken or else. He had come into his inheritance at last. Never had he known such excitement and intoxication. The world took on an entirely different hue, suffused with the golden light of untrammelled opportunity.

  He was no fool: he knew perfectly well that small boys weren’t supposed to have real guns – it was verboten. He wasn’t about to give up this treasure to anyone. Consequently, he would need a special hiding place, one his parents would never find. They had discovered his other caches, where he had hidden all the knives, razor blades, matches, cigarettes and other contraband he had pinched, so it had to be somewhere extraordinarily secret.  

  But before he attended to that he had to be sure the gun worked. He took aim at his reflection in the mirror and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, just a clicking sound. He pulled the trigger again and again to the same effect. He was beginning to fear this wasn’t a real gun after all, that it was only a toy like all the others he had. He examined it again and concluded the buttons on the side must have something to do with the malfunction. He fiddled with them, pushing them in and out.

  For good measure, he rapped the weapon on the table a few times. The magazine fell out. He picked it up and tried to count the bullets inside, but hadn’t really learned to count yet. At least he knew it was full and slid it back where it belonged. But the gun still wasn’t working. Then he remembered that a bullet had to be chambered first, so, with all his might he pulled the slide back and a bullet clinked into place. It had to work this time. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Again!

  This was frustrating. He was really beginning to lose patience. There had to be some way of making it work. It was only at that stage of exasperation that he noticed a tiny lever. Why hadn’t he seen it before. It had a red dot on it so it had to be important. He pushed it forward and, now, was convinced the gun would work. He raised it again but before proceeding further he thought he’d check for obstructions one last time, so, he turned the gun back-to-front and peered down the dark barrel, while, imperceptibly, a small finger of his gravitated towards the trigger.

  It came suddenly. Not the bang he had been expecting, more a mighty crack to the side of the head. It knocked him off his feet while the gun skittered across the floor, discharging into the wall. His mother leaped over his prone body to retrieve it. Then she roared at him. He couldn’t make out what she was saying: the pain of her slap and the shock of sudden discovery had completely disoriented him. The right side of his face burned hot.

  She pulled the magazine out of the gun, then hauled him roughly to his feet. By this time the shock had worn off and he was crying frantically. His mother wouldn’t let up: her pulling and yelling at him was relentless. If it was this bad now, what would it be like when his father came home and he had to face them both. It would be unbearable. He would promise anything to make it stop. One thing he knew was that he was finished with guns, all guns. He’d never touch another. He’d have nothing to do with them as long as he lived. Guns were a disaster; he wished he’d never seen or heard of them.

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Liam O’Buachalla was born in Dublin, Ireland, where he currently resides. He works in the Arts. To date he has fiction published in, among other journals, The McGuffin, Portland Review, Confluence and Eureka Literary Magazine. His surname is pronounced oh-boo-kal-ah.

Art:
Joseph A. Miller
Fallen
Graphite