Years before, he would have shied away from the prospect. In the playground, at least, he was desperate to avoid attention. Keeping a low profile was his speciality. And it served him well, enabling him to slip under the radar of the other children's eyes and ears.
Lesser mortals might have clamoured for recognition of their presence, insisted on it even, but that was never Michael's way. He was that rarest of children, not driven by a clamouring to be heard, to be recognised, to be valued by others at any cost.
Even his school reports bore out the teachers' lack of certainty as to his accomplisments. Grade C, Average, But Tries Hard. Expressed in the blandest of tones, their comments were spread as thinly as the margarine on his mother's morning toast. She poured over them with forensic care, desperate for a clue as to what was going on in her own son's inner landscape. He never spoke. He never shared. And she suspected the worst; half fearing the teachers would one day speak in couched terms, of special needs, identified too late in the day. Of social inhibition.
Now thirty years later, she was no nearer acquainted with his motives than she had ever been. All she knew, was that he slept his days away, refusing books and visitors, as he languished behind the bars of his dreams. An unknown quantity and all the more dangerous for that. His drifting, dream-like voice spoke to her of the violence of corridors, and the burning need to reclaim the past and avenge those who had stolen his childhood.
It had taken her the best part of thirty years to summon up the courage to finally dig out his old school photographs. The Class of 1972, lining the walls of the old school gymn, grinning, gap toothed, ties askew, rebellious and candid.
It was the last photograph anyone had ever taken of them. Now there was only Michael left to account for them all. Michael and his gun and his poor, misunderstood soul. She shut the book and closing her eyes, let out a silent tear. Incognito. Her son. Grade C. Average. Tries hard. What mother could not support such efforts? Only Michael had gone on to excel as a marksman. Special needs, now spoken of in couched terms by the prison psychologist. Discovered too late in the day.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.