Gerry stood at the lectern, fidgety fingers scratching a fluster of wild grey hair as he tried to remember where he’d left his keys. It seemed such a trivial detail compared to the Newtonian equations he had been eulogising to a captive audience only moments ago. A detail so trivial in fact that Gerry had ignored it since the early morning lecture when he noticed they were not jangling against his creased trousers as he patrolled the platform. Yet now it mattered. Garry had somewhere to go, a deadline to meet and no other form of transport.

Gerry slapped his stubbled sunken cheeks. “Think!” he shouted to the empty hall. After a brief vacant pause, he began thrusting his hands into the pockets of his tweed suit. It was a well practiced routine, rummaging through used hankerchiefs, mint imperials and loose change, detecting shapes that didn’t belong.

Gerry’s right thumb and forefinger settled on a smooth metallic object in his trouser back pocket. He extracted it expectantly only to find it was a burnished red disk. Minute grooves formed concentric circles from centre to edge. Gerry flipped it over. The reverse was identical.

“How odd.” Gerry said, his focus beginning to sharpen.

The disk reminded Gerry of an impromptu encounter with a hotel housekeeper two years prior. As the housekeeper was passing, they had dropped a red disk exactly like this. Gerry had stooped to pick it up, inspected it briefly then hailed the housekeeper to return it. The housekeeper had claimed to have never seen the disk before but that it looked valuable and, snatching it from Gerry’s hand, had said they would hand it in at reception and thanked Gerry for bringing it to their attention.

Gerry thought no more of it that day, or any day since, until now.

“But when are you going to write?” exclaimed Jan. The broad rim of her glasses riding up beyond her eyebrows as she scrunched her nose in dismay.

“I don’t know” whimpered Tom. “The mood has to take me.”

Tom threw his hands in the air, launching his gaze skyward. “Inspiration, you mean bed fellow. You can leave me unsatiated for months and then bear down on me like a love-starved rabbit. Come back cruel lover, come back!”

“Enough with the dramatics Tom.” Jan sighed. “Save it for the first draft. The book deal won’t wait. They need to see at least 200 words by next Monday.”

Tom was painfully aware of the deadline. His partner Rachel reminded him  of it every morning at breakfast and somehow she had persuaded their teenage daughter to demand a word count every evening before bed.

Tom had tried to explain to Rachel and Jan that pressure was the last thing he needed but Rachel was quick to point out that carrots had yielded no words in almost two months and it was about time the sticks came out. If it wasn’t for Rachel’s home-run embroidery business, the family would be penniless as well as wordless.

Things took a sharp turn from the expected around midday. A knock on the front door – as if the door bell wasn’t obvious enough. A gentle amble to greet the visitor. Nothing out of the ordinary so far, but then I opened the door.

A man was holding a gun and what looked like an aged black leather attache case. The gun was not pointed at me per se. Held aloft in my general direction but not directly at me.

“Can I help you?” It was the first phrase that came to mind. I was surprised anything surfaced from within the emotional void that was rapidly smothering my senses.

“Come with me.” The man motioned over his shoulder to a small muddy green hatchback. 

“And take this.”

He offered me the attache case. As I placed my fingers around the handle, a sudden chill sprinted up my arm. A slick metallic substance rippled over my skin and in a matter of seconds, the attache case was part of me.

By this time emptiness had consumed my ability to think. I stood frozen, eyes transfixed on my block-shaped limb. The man pointed the gun barrel directly at my foreheard, tightening his grip on the trigger.

“I see we need more time.” The man growled. “Back into the house. Five steps. Slowly.”

My feet obeyed their new master. I reversed into the house. He pushed past me, shutting the door with a measured pull and in one deft move, turned me to face him.

His eyes were opal green. A mask covered his nose and mouth. A sturdy beard sat proudly on a sharp jaw, joining forces with a slicked-back forest of matted jet black hair.

“Do you have your house keys?”

“Yes.”

The man relaxed his shoulders. “Have you left anything running that might overflow or catch fire?” 

The blanket covering of fear began to lift from my mind. I retraced what I’d been doing when the man knocked the door. 

Congratulating myself for a productive client meeting. Enjoying a fresh midday espresso made from single-origin microlot coffee beans. Bracing for the typical afternoon melee of adhoc video calls and instant messages. That’s what I’d been doing. 

Now I had an armed madman staring point blank into my eyes and a vintage briefcase melded with my arm.

“Well? Have you left anything…”

“No!” I interrupt.

“So now we go.” The man briefly threw his gaze towards the front door and gestured with his gun. It looked heavy, clinically clean and dispassionate. It seemed almost too large for his stubby gnarled hands.

“Go!” He shouted.

I sighed. “You know what? I don’t want to.”

The man became a blur of movement. I felt sharp pain then slipped into darkness.

512 words (Scrivener count)

Written for the Open University Future Learn course “Start Writing Fiction” . Week 2

https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/start-writing-fiction