The Lion Killer

The rain had been a steady downpour since midnight.  The three miners, Jack White, Bob Gray and Walter Moore hurried down Victoria Street to catch the bus for work.  The streets were shining with the reflection of the gas lamps off the soaking pavement.  As they walked, the talk wasn’t about football or racing or any of the usual stuff that miners talk about, it was about their three mates from the Army who had been murdered in the past week.  Their route led them down a lane which led to Whitechapel Street, which ran parallel to Victoria Street and led to Paradise Street bus station.  The lane was only about eight feet wide.  These lanes were built before cars or trucks were around, and were just alleys for horses and carts to travel on.  There was about a hundred yards between the two main streets.  When the men turned into the lane they bowed their heads against the wind that drove the rain into their faces.  They were about thirty yards into the lane when White raised his head up to squint down the lane.

“Aaaah!!”  His cry of shock brought them to a sudden stop.  White never felt the second bullet that hit his chest and spun him to the ground.  A figure was standing silhouetted against the ghostly glimmering of the lamplight about twenty yards in front of them.  Before they could move, a bullet smashed into Moore’s chest and killed him instantly.  Gray’s army experience took over.  He instinctively raised his hands over his head.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he cried.  The figure waved the gun and gestured for Gray to move away.  Gray backed off slowly, turned around and ran as fast as he could back up the lane, turned onto River Street and never stopped till he reached the police station.