The old fellow always took his place in Booth Seven.
Same greasy spoon, every time.
Same mug of black tea, strong as you like.
Same quiet way of gazing out past the steamed-up window, turning the passing street into something else entirely.
All the staff just called him Mr. Hickmana gent with white hair and a tidy beard, always with his battered walking stick close by. He had the kind of hush about him that made you instinctively drop your voice, though no one really knew why.
He never made a fuss.
Never lingered long, either.
But every Tuesday, right on the dot at midday, hed arrivealways alone.
That was the day the bikers burst in.
Six of themmaking far too much racket, taking up the entire café with their bravado. Leather jackets, dirty boots, thunderous laughter, egos you could spot a mile away. Their ringleader, a massive bloke called Spike, clocked the old man before hed even sat down.
You know how the quiet ones always manage to get under the skin of the showy types.
Spike strolled over, cheeky grin plastered on his face, slapped the edge of the old chaps booth, and leant in.
Well, would you look at this, he crowed. King of the café!
Mr. Hickman didnt so much as blink.
That just got the gang roaring even louder.
Then, right in front of everyone, Spike snatched the walking stick from his hand.
The table rattled; a tea glass toppled and shattered on the tiles. Laughter echoed from every corner as Spike swaggered off, brandishing the old stick above his head like hed just nicked the crown jewels.
Careful now, one biker hollered. Hes not as quick without that!
But Mr. Hickman just sat there.
Didnt raise his voice.
Didnt make a scene.
He didnt even look at Spike, not at first.
He stared down at the stick, now abandoned on the floor after Spike flung it there.
Then he glanced at the puddle of spilled tea trickling across the table.
Finallyslowlyhis eyes latched onto Spikes jacket.
There, stitched just inside the collar, nearly hidden, was a well-worn silvery hawk badge.
Mr. Hickmans face changed, just slightly.
He quietly slid a hand inside his jacket and brought out a little black key fob.
Spike barked another mocking laugh.
Whats that, old boy? Gonna set off my alarm?
Mr. Hickman pressed a button with confidence.
A soft mechanical click.
He held the fob to his ear, practiced as if hed done it a thousand times.
Its me, he said, quietly.
The giggling faltered around the café.
Brief silence.
Bring them.
He set the fob down.
Spikes smirk wobbled, lost some of its swagger.
All of a sudden, outside on the high streetthe squeal of tyres tearing in.
Everyone turned, craning to look.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Three black Range Rovers skidded dramatically into the car park, headlights blazing through the window panes.
Now you could hear a pin drop.
The bikers shouts dried up, one by one.
Doors flung open outside.
Several men in sharp suits stepped out, moving briskly.
Mr. Hickman finally fixed his gaze on Spike.
For the first time, not a scrap of embarrassment on his face.
Just pure, steely certainty.
Spike made another crack of a laugh, but it sounded feeble.
Whats this supposed to be, then?
Mr. Hickmans eyes flicked once more toward the faded silver hawk stitched into Spikes collar.
When he spoke, his voice was so even it sent goosebumps around the café.
If that badge came from the man Im thinking of
He stared right at Spike.
…then youve just nicked your grandfathers stick.
Spike went white as a sheet.
Not anxious.
Not sheepish.
Just pale.
Like a ghost from years ago had reached out and touched him on the shoulder.
The other bikers stared at Spike.
Then to Mr. Hickman.
Then back at Spike again.
Granddad?
Laughter was dead.
Even the grill chef went silent.
Spike tried to swallow, hard.
No, thats notno, cant be.
But his voice wobbled.
He knew that badge.
The silver hawk.
His mum herself had stitched it in on his eighteenth birthday.
Before she sewed it, shed said just one thing:
If you ever meet the chap who wore this originally stand tall.
Hed never asked.
Never cared.
Not until now.
Outside
the Rover doors slammed.
Heavy boots crunched up the path.
The café bell jingled
and six men in smart suits filed in, silent.
No, not bouncers.
Not the police.
Something far older.
More disciplined.
Every single one of them paused when they saw Mr. Hickman
then gave a respectful nod.
The real kind.
Spike glanced back at the old man
and finally saw him clearly.
That scar by his jaw.
That old soldiers bearing.
Those eyes: calm, keen. Impossible to read.
Mr. Hickman lifted his mug, took a steady sip of his tea, set it back down.
Your mothers name.
Spikes throat closed up.
Daisy.
The old man shut his eyes a second.
When he opened them, there was real sorrow in them.
Red hair?
Spike nodded.
Left-handed?
Another nod.
Mr. Hickman let out a sigh, as if hed held it for decades.
He reached again into his jacket, pulled out a weathered old photograph.
Edges curled and soft.
He slid it gently across the table.
Spike blinked down at it.
A young woman, hair like a copper penny, stood grinning between two men in military uniforms.
One of themMr. Hickman.
The other
looked just like Spike.
Older, harder, but unmistakable.
And with the same silver hawk badge.
Spike nearly dropped to his knees.
Thats
My son, said Mr. Hickman.
Things got heavier then.
The silence rang.
Spike looked up, hands trembling now.
My dad died before I ever saw him.
Mr. Hickman nodded gravely.
Thats what they told her.
Everything seemed smaller then.
Spike stared in horror.
What do you mean told her?
Mr. Hickman leant back.
His eyes were sharper than before.
Your father didnt die.
The whole room froze again.
Spikes breath came in shallow gulps.
Then Where is he?
Mr. Hickman glanced out the window.
At those black Range Rovers.
At the men standing ready, waiting.
Then he said itthe line that would flip Spikes world inside out:
Hes the reason those men still come when I call.
Spikes heart thudded madly.
Mr. Hickman pressed the fob once more.
Outside
one last Range Rover rolled in, quieter, weightier.
Its beams washed over the glass.
The engine cut off.
And when that door swung open
a tall man stepped out
grey streaking his hair
the silver hawk blazing on his lapel
and the very same eyes as Spike.
Leave a Reply