The Veterans’ Club – Robin Bailes

The Veterans’ Club

by Robin Bailes

If you’re ever on Mars and in the capital, and perhaps find yourself on Jutland Street where it joins Tranquillity, then look to your left (standing facing the War Memorial) and you will see a side street, half hidden by the statue of General Goshe. It’s easy to miss and most people do, but if you follow it down, past the wholesalers of patent medicines, intoxicating foodstuffs and knick knacks it’s best not to look too closely at, then you emerge into a little square. It’s dark, except when it catches the sun which it does every day at around 3 pm, and is dominated by a memorial to the dead of the First Galactic Light Infantry. This is Veterans’ Square, and it is here, behind a plain white façade and an unassuming black door, that you will find the Veterans’ Club.

Peter had worked at the club for the last six months and did not enjoy his job at all. He could not imagine that anyone would enjoy being tea boy, gofer, cleaner, and all round odd-job man for a group of men who, while they had undoubtedly served with honour in their day, were now well past their best. He did not enjoy polishing the regimental silver, which was ‘on display’ in a high security triple-locked vault on the second floor. He did not enjoy having to make conversation with a group whose favourite topic was who had died recently (and recently could mean at any point in the last twenty-five years). He did not enjoy cleaning up after men who were all injured in some way or mentally incompetent in some other; dusting the biscuit crumbs from their beards, extracting half-eaten sandwiches from robotic prosthetics, and washing cushions which had become unavoidably soiled. In fact, Peter would have long since terminated his employment at the club were it not for two things. Firstly; he badly needed the money and was qualified for little else. Secondly; there was Eve.

Eve was the tea girl at the Club, and Peter fancied that he had fallen in love the first moment that he had laid eyes on her. That had of course been six months ago, and thus far, he had not got together the courage to say a word to her that was not to do with work. He could ask her to pass the sugar without a tremor, but every time he tried to ask her on a date the words caught in his throat and he stood, gaping dumbly, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously like a frog trying to swallow a tennis ball. At first, he had hoped that this natural diffidence and anxiety around the fairer sex might make him appear the strong, silent type, but he quickly realised that for a man whose job it was to run around after aging soldiers for whom mobility, short-term memory, and bladder control were all things of the past, an appearance of strength and silence was not enough. Such a man could never hope to win a girl like Eve. None of this was aided by the fact that the veterans insisted on addressing Peter as ‘Peewee.’

On the afternoon in question the club was quiet, much to Peter’s relief. Only three of its regular members sat in the regimental smoking room. Of them, Colonel Ronald ‘Catseye’ Umbridge was the senior in every sense, he had recently enjoyed his hundred and second birthday (as far as anyone could tell).

“Come along now, Peewee.”

From his seat by the fire the Colonel watched Peter pouring the brandy with a single steely eye, the other was currently concealed behind a patch. The Colonel had got his nickname when, after losing his right eye at the Second Battle of Titan, an enterprising surgeon who found himself short of replacements nerve-wired a cat’s eye into the vacant socket. This gave the Colonel excellent night vision in one eye, but his brain struggled to cope with the two very different sorts of information with which it was being supplied, resulting in a crippling headache. From then on Catseye had worn a patch over one of his eyes depending on how dark it was.

“Coming, Colonel.” Peter finished pouring the drink and took it over Catseye.

His age to one side, Catseye was in far better shape than either of the other two current occupants of the smoking room. Sniper Matthew ‘Blink’ Horngate had been nicknamed for the speed with which he could fell a man at virtually any distance and his eyes had remained keen with the advancing years, his brain had not; the soubriquet now referred to the length of his memory. He was also missing his left arm, which put him one limb ahead of Master-at-Arms ‘Red’ Kelly, who legs had been blown off along with much of the left side of his face during the Cruithne campaign.

“Did I ever tell you,” they were words which, coming from Blink, held a special horror for Peter, “about how I lost this arm?”

“You told it twice today already, Blink.” Catseye came to the rescue.

“Did I? Have I?” Blink continued to be astonished by his own short memory, “I don’t recall it.”

“We all do,” put in Red with feeling.

This debate could have kept the three in conversation for some hours yet but at that moment the door burst open.

“Don’t move!”

“Can’t,” volunteered Red, chuckling at his own wit as three masked men carrying guns strode into the room and aimed the weapons threateningly at the occupants. Peter hid behind the drinks trolley.

“Where’s the silver?!” the leader of the men thrust his gun directly into Blink’s face.

“What silver?” Blink’s face creased in confusion.

“Don’t be a hero, old man! Where is it?!”

“What the devil’s he talking about,” Blink confided in Red.

Red rolled his eyes. “He means the regimental silver, Blink.”

“Oh, that’s all upstairs,” said Blink dismissively. “But we’re not allowed the key.”

There was a moment of irritable disappointment amongst the robbers; this would not be as easy as they had thought.

“No,” Blink went on conversationally, “Only Peewee’s got a key.”

Peter felt his heart leap into mouth as he heard the words and saw Blink point in his direction with a helpful stump.

“I. . . Me. . . I. . .”

The lead robber strode across to where Peter crouched and pointed the barrel of his gun into the tea boy’s face.

“Hand it over.”

The leader wore a mask over his face, only his eyes showed, hard and black. They alone were more than enough to convince Peter that the man was serious. With trembling hands he reached into his waistcoat pocket, brought out the key-cards and handed them over.

“Bad show, Peewee,” said Red.

A noise from the corridor distracted the attention of the whole room and a fourth armed robber entered. Peter gasped; he was holding Eve. She kicked and tried to scream but the robber was far bigger than her and had a hand grasped firmly over her mouth.

“Look what I found downstairs,” the man cackled in harsh tones.

“Anyone else?”

“Nah, the building’s empty.”

“Good.” The leader rounded on the veterans and the terrified tea boy, “Any of you make any trouble, and the little girl gets it! Kent,” he addressed one of his men, “stay here and watch the old boys. If they move, shoot them.” He eyed the veterans with a half pity, “You’d probably be doing them a favour.”

The man, whose name was apparently Kent, grinned dumbly, and turned his weapon to point at the three old soldiers as the leader led the other two of his masked goons out, one of them still dragging the struggling Eve. Peter’s eyes followed her to the last. He ought to have done something, but what could he do? He felt sick to his stomach. And the senile incomprehension of his doddering charges made the situation no easier to bear.

“Any of you so much as wet yourselves in a threatening way you get it between the eyes.” Kent was enjoying himself far too much, he was clearly itching to hurt someone.

“Who is this little tick?” asked Blink irritably.

“I’m the one who’s robbing you blind!” Kent replied, waving the gun in Blink’s direction. “Though one of you’s part way there already.” He looked at Catseye, grinning at his own poor wit.

“They’re after the regimental silver, Blink,” Catseye explained to his friend. “And I see just fine.” He raised his patch to let Kent see his other eye.

The key thing about a cat’s eye, as far as using one as a replacement for a human eye is concerned, is size; the medic who had worked on Catseye had done his best but aesthetics had not been his primary concern and the result was best described as ‘loose.’ If you had not seen it before, the sight could come as quite a shock. Kent stared open mouthed at the eye in its too large socket, his attention temporarily distracted.

Whump! A heavy, glass whiskey tumbler hit him smack between the eyes and the man crumpled to the floor without a sound.

“Dashed impertinent blighter!” said Blink, whose aim with any sort of weapon had not diminished with the passing years. “Who is he?”

“A robber, Blink,” said Catseye who had, with astonishing speed for his age, crossed to the unconscious thief and relieved him of his weapon. “Here to steal the regimental silver.”

“Is he, by Jove!” said Blink, “Good job he passed out.”

“You threw a glass at him, Blink,” said Red patiently.

“Did I, by Jove?” commented Blink. “Sound decision.”

Catseye threw the gun over to Red. “Red?”

The old armourer ran his experienced hands over the weapon. “Peashooter,” he pronounced dismissively, “Why you could barely take a man’s arm off with this.” He threw the gun over to Peter. “Should suit you, Peewee.”

Peter gulped, fumbling the weapon in his shaking hands. “I’ve never fired a gun in my life!”

Red shrugged. “Point the end with the hole at the person you don’t like and pull the trigger. Repeat as necessary. Now, let’s see about a proper gun.”

As Peter watched open mouthed the armourer unscrewed one of his legs and produced the stock of a gun from the interior. From out of the other leg emerged a barrel about the size of a man’s head. Red screwed the two parts together and eyed the complete weapon with undisguised relish.

“This, Peewee, is a Raysan 52. A proper gun. Banned in thirty-six galactic sectors.”

“Including this one?” remarked Catseye.

“Oh yes,” said Red, his eyes still glued to the weapon itself.

Peter’s eyes were glued to it too. “You’re not supposed to bring guns into the club.”

“Pity you couldn’t have displayed that sort of resolve when the robbers decided to bring guns in earlier,” said Catseye pointedly.

Peter hung his head and Catseye seemed to take pity on the young man.

“Come on, lad, we’ve got work to do.”

“Wait while I put my legs back on,” said Red.

“We going somewhere?”

“Going to bag some robbers, Blink.”

“Jolly good.”

Peter had been stunned by how quickly and, above all, how quietly the centenarian ex-soldier could move, it had made him feel slow and lumbering by comparison. Now, as he and Catseye hid at the far end of the corridor that led to the lift up to the trophy room, Peter had the definite impression that he was breathing too loudly, he could not hear his colleague breathing at all, which in other circumstances would have led him to make a few subtle checks but right now Catseye was more obviously alive than Peter had ever seen him. He pointed a gnarled finger towards the posed regimental pictures that hung on the wall opposite. Peter squinted; a faint reflection in the glass of the pictures showed the corridor, most pointedly it showed the image of another of the robbers, his gun held ready, standing on guard by the lift.

Catseye put a finger to his lips and leant back against the wall. Peter watched the old man; he could not see where they went from here, there was no way they could get anywhere near the lift without being seen and, most likely, shot. As Peter watched, Catseye looked at his watch, then moved his patch from one eye to the other.

Suddenly the lights went out plunging the corridor into darkness. Peter heard the rustle of movement next to him, and a voice from down the corridor.

“What the. . .”

The voice was cut off with a guttural yelp followed by a few seconds of urgent thrashing. Then, piercing the darkness, a scream of pain. Peter’s heart leapt into his mouth; the scream had been Catseye.

Using the wall to guide him, Peter stumbled around the corner, the gun held before him. He had no idea what he might be able to do to help, but he was not going to let the old man be murdered by these thugs! Not without doing everything he could. As he entered the corridor, the lights came back on and he found himself staring at Catseye who stood by the lift wringing his hands.

“Damn arthritis! I used to be able to snap a man’s neck just like that! Now all of a sudden it’s an effort?! Old age is so cruel!”

“Are you all right?” It was only then that Peter noticed the broken-necked corpse of the guard lying at the old man’s feet.

“Of course I’m all right.” Catseye switched his patch back to his ‘daylight’ eye. “But thank you for coming running. Follow me.”

Catseye pushed the button that summoned the lift.

By the time Red and Blink, who had been off fusing the lights at the pre-determined moment, joined Catseye and Peter on the top floor, the robbers had had ample time to open the vault and pack the silver into bags, slowed down only slightly by Eve, whose mortal peril had not stopped her from biting and kicking for all she was worth. Catseye held a finger up to his lips as his comrades approached.

“What’s going on?” asked Blink.

“It’s time for us to make an entrance,” whispered Catseye.

Red smiled broadly, hefted the Raysan down from his shoulder, and wheeled his chair around to point it at the door.

For Peter, the next second was a blank, like he had stroked out for a moment. He came back to reality with a searing white heat plastered across his retinas and the sound of Catseye’s voice cutting above the loud ringing in his ears.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. This is a Raysan 52, its use is designated a war-crime in many galactic sectors, and if my friend Mr. Kelly here pulls the trigger then all the authorities will find of you will be a burnt red stain on whatever remains of the far wall. In fact, if you weren’t hiding behind a woman (not very chivalrous by the way) we’d already be washing you off the ceiling and replacing the carpet, but since you are hiding behind a woman (again, just not the done thing) you’re free to go. Take the silver, we just want the girl.”

There was a brief murmur of voices from within the room; Peter held his breath.

“You won’t call the police?” The leader’s voice had none of the bravado of earlier.

“Best not to for all concerned,” Catseye confirmed, “The hole in the wall would be hard to explain without the subject of the Raysan coming up, and it’s not exactly licenced.”

“We’re coming out.”

Peter trained his gun on the hole in the wall, if push came to shove he was not sure that anything could actually induce him to pull the trigger but it was a good show of strength. The leader emerged first, carrying a bag that clinked with the silver inside it. He was followed by a second robber, holding Eve with a hand over her mouth. She looked frightened but otherwise unhurt, and Peter was overcome with a desire to go to her. Or do something. Anything.

“Let the girl go,” said Catseye, and Peter cursed himself; why couldn’t he have said that? That would have sounded so good, so in control.

“Put the guns down,” the Leader replied. Peter had almost forgotten he was holding a gun.

“When you let the girl go.” Catseye’s voice remained wholly calm.

“You put the guns down first.” The Leader however was tense, angsty.

“On three?”

The leader nodded and Catseye looked at Peter, “You got that Peewee?”

Peter nodded and Catseye began to count, “One, two, three.”

Peter put down his gun, Red laid the Raysan to one side of his chair and, to Peter’s immense relief, the second robber let go of Eve. She broke away with a little cry, the stress of the ordeal finally starting to show.

“Come here, my dear,” said Blink, offering a stump for Eve to lean on. “Perhaps you can tell me what all this is about.”

Again Peter cursed himself as Eve grasped the proffered stump and Blink put his arm around the girl; that could have been him.

“Get out,” Catseye said to the robbers. “There are two friends of yours downstairs who’ll need to be carried.”

“Dead?”

Catseye shrugged, “One almost certainly no, the other almost certainly yes.”

The leader seemed to accept this with equanimity, he beckoned to his last man. “Come on.”

The two robbers headed for the lift and the veterans went to make sure Eve was all right. For himself, Peter could not look at Eve; he had let this happen to her and had done nothing to help, she had been rescued by a trio of elderly men while he had cowered and clung to their coat tails, probably more a hindrance than a help. He could not look at her. Instead he watched the two robbers walk to the lift, saw the door open and saw them enter, saw the doors start to close and saw the leader reach into his pocket, saw the handgun as it emerged and saw the barrel point at Eve.

There was not time for thought, Peter just reacted, throwing himself forward in front of Eve.

And then the world went dark.

Life was very different for Peter when he returned to the Veterans’ Club at the end of the month. Eve met him at the door and kissed him. That was not so unusual, she had been to visit him every day since the break in, and their first ‘proper’ date (one that did not take place in a hospital room), was scheduled for that evening. Making the tea took Peter longer than usual and Eve offered to help, but he declined; he had to get used to the new arm and the only way to do so was to use it, though it meant a few crushed tea cups along the way. When he got to the smoking room, the tea things on a tray held by his good arm, he was welcomed by the occupants; Catseye patted him on the back, Red smiled at him, and Blink politely enquired where he had been and what had happened to his arm. But, oddly, the change that meant the most was the fact that they now all addressed him as ‘Peter.’

Robin is a freelance writer with various credits on stage, page, screen, and radio, and will write almost anything for money. He has written everything from horror films to pantomime, and from greeting cards to stage musicals. He is currently available for paid work.

The Veterans' Club - Robin Bailes, 4.7 out of 5 based on 12 ratings