Jamie

"Jamie" came to live in Middlecome twenty years ago; he was a fit middle-aged man of forty. Now he has turned into a senile old man hunted by the police. "Jamie" -the nickname was given to him by the locals - is a lonely person, lost like a child in this lonely modern world. His house, if you could call it that, is a small tumbledown shack on the outskirts of the town, just before the rugged, barren country of Dartmoor. His only companion is a tattered old parrot which never strays from its resting place on his shoulder.

Until three weeks ago, none of us knew anything about James Potter, to use his real name; that is, until the body of a young hiker was found in a small hole, like the hollowed out core of an orange, not less than a hundred yards from the forlorn building that "Jamie" lives in. Obviously the police wanted him for questioning but he was nowhere to be found, until myself and a few other lads from the village entered our gang hut to find him lying asleep on the floor. That scene is still clear in my mind, and I doubt if I will ever forget it; he lay there his torn features against the icy stone floor, his chest swelling in and out like a balloon. He was not asleep for long, however. His parrot let out a terrific scream that echoed through my brain until I thought my eardrums were going to burst. Jamie clambered to his feet and wiped his scraggy silver locks from his face. "Who are you?" he asked. "You're not coppers are you?" He made a dash for the door like a frightened animal, only to find his way barred.

"Who are YOU would be more to the point" I remarked.

"I'm nobody, ... just an old man. I meant no harm" he stuttered.

"I think we should phone the police" I retorted.

Immediately Jamie fell on his knees, pleading. He said he would tell us anything, provided we did not phone the police.

Then his story began. He told us about all the events of the previous Wednesday. The wind had been strong that night, almost a gale, and I remembered how I had looked out onto the moor and thought how dreadful the night was. The rain splashed against the window like a 'rain-symphony', water flowed out of the butt giving a waterfall effect, and the water rushed through holes in the roof. That night, the young hiker, a good looking girl in her mid-teens, had called at Jamie's house to seek shelter and the kind-hearted Jamie invited her in till the torrential rain stopped. Strange though it seems the parrot took a dislike to the girl and strayed from Jamie's shoulder to swoop at the girl. She was terrified, her face went white, her arms waving in a frenzy. Then she ran to the door screaming and crying, the tears rolling down her face. She tore open the door and the last glimpse he had of her was when he tried to call her back. It would have been foolhardy for him to have tried to find her in the raging conditions so he went back into the house. He explained how he had started to think that if anything happened to the girl his parrot might be killed and eventually his thoughts turned into fear and he fled.

We harboured him for a week and at last persuaded him to give himself up. There was a court case, and the coroner gave a verdict of misadventure. Jamie returned to his house and we were satisfied with the pleasure of helping an old man.

P. Kenny 3B


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