Almanac Fiction: The Search for the Shield (Episode 3)

 

 

As the search for the missing Tony Williamson Shield continues, flatfoot Swifty Taylor meets up with the ‘running man’.

 

My regular barista, Lim, is one of the laziest people I have ever met. Even by the time of my mid-morning entry, he is sauntering around the coffee shop in slippers, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. And woe betide any customer who happens to enter the shop when he is chowing down – which is often. Every single morning, I get the urge to apologize for darkening his doorway and causing him an inconvenience. Then I catch myself. I am the customer here! And it’s not like Williamstown has a paucity of coffee shops. However, it would be churlish of me not to mention that he brews a superb coffee, just the way I like it.

 

On this morning, he shuffled over and plonked the cappuccino in front of me, the excess froth spilling onto the saucer. Just like always. His mouth was still full of toast and jam, but that didn’t stop Lim talking. “You search for a shield?” It was a statement rather than a question. “What of it, Lim?” I answered. There was a dull throb behind my temple, reminding me that last night I may have had one or two shots too many of the bootleg bottle of Jameson commandeered from the fishing shack. “A man came in here. A running man. He told me he knew something about the missing shield”. A running man? In Williamstown, that could only mean one person.

 

When I bid my man Lim a good day he was already greedily sizing up the open loaf of bread on the bench. And I just knew that when the battle was over, Lim would emerge victorious, with only the crusts and crumbs left to tell the tale of his one-sided victory.

 

My sinuses had been played havoc with by the unseasonably warm Autumn weather. I was not normally cursed by hay fever, but this northerly wind was taking no prisoners. By now it was mid-afternoon, and I had decided to stroll the main streets of the town without trying to draw too much attention to myself. Williamstown had seen better days. Maybe it was online shopping, maybe it was the high cost of living, maybe it was greedy landlords, maybe it was just ridiculously thought-out business models – but it seemed like every third shopfront was empty, proudly announced by a “For Lease” sign. I peered through the window of one such shop, forlorn and empty save for the messy pile of bills and fliers that the postman continued to insist should be poked under the door. But I turned away as soon as I caught sight of my reflection. Like dead men, mirrors and windows told no lies.

 

I took a seat on a bench in Ferguson St and checked my watch. It was about this time of the afternoon that Fa, the running man, passed by on his daily jog. The motors of Audis and BMWs throbbed above the voices of passers-by. I softly whistled a sea shanty I had learnt long ago when I spent a term in the sea scouts. But I let the tune die on my lips when I saw him striding toward me. Orange shirt flapping, loose white shorts, headband, sunscreen applied liberally across the bridge of his nose, he looked for all the world like some Nordic tennis player. But it was me who would be taking the first serve. It was only at the last moment that he noticed me. “How are you, Fa?”

 

My tone suggested a friendliness, as if I was saying hello to an old comrade. But Fa knew better, and he was immediately on guard. “I have no beef with you, Fa. I’ve known you a long time”. I asked him what he knew about the missing shield. Fa crossed the length and breadth of this town, and if there were any rumours fluttering about in the sea breezes, he was certain to hear them. And he certainly was not afraid to share them, either. A thoughtful look passed across his face – but maybe he was just passing wind. “I have not been in there lately, but I am led to believe that the Historical Society recently took delivery of some artifacts. I am told that one of them was a shield of some sort”. As a lead, it was only a morsel. But I had nothing else, so I clutched it as hungrily as Lim might a buttered slice of toast.

 

As he continued off down the street, he paused and turned back to me. “Hey Swifty Taylor, I’ve always meant to ask you…are you related to B.T?” The furiously incredulous look I gave him caused him to quickly break into a canter. “No, we are merely just acquaintances,” I called after him.

 

Note: The Swifty Taylor series first appeared earlier this year in the Williamstown CYMS FC coterie group weekly newsletter.

 

You can read Part 1 Here.

 

You can read Part 2 Here

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

 

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Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

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