The Rule of 72

The Rule of 72

A shrill of brakes heralded the arrival of yet another underground train. Arthur Withers – ‘Arf wiv us’ to his friends – raised a battered harmonica to his cracked lips and after delicately setting down a half-empty can of Carlsberg Special Brew, started to blow and suck an unidentifiable tune from the instrument. The usual throng of early evening commuters and theatre goers rounded the bend in the tunnel and streamed busily past him as he stood unsteadily with his back against the tiled wall.

They hardly noticed him and he them. Their minds were elsewhere whilst his was frozen, paralysed by years of loneliness and abuse. He played on, his senses numbed by drink. All that registered through the fog was the occasional chink of change as coins dropped into the tatty cardboard box at his feet. A sign, written during a rare venture into full consciousness, declared: ‘due to fine weather, all music half-price!’

Uncannily, Arthur could instinctively tell the value of every coin that dropped into his box. The tinkling sound of coppers would cause his face to contort and he’d squeeze his eyes shut as if the act caused him actual, physical pain, whereas when he detected the clinking of heavier metal that signified a one or two pound piece, he would reward the unknown donor with an especially energetic display of gratitude, accompanied by a manic, see-saw rocking of his head.

They soon passed by on their many different ways, like so many before them. All, that is, except one who lagged behind the others as they disappeared around the next bend in the subway tunnel. Arthur turned towards his unexpected audience and drew back his cracked lips as he fixed a smile on his worn face. Then he clasped his harmonica between the rotting stumps of his teeth, ready to give a special rendition.

Arthur glimpsed a momentary glint of steel as the blade tore effortlessly through his throat. Air wheeze from his lungs and then he heard a strange gurgling sound as blood began to flood his chest cavity. Throughout his last moments, he remained strangely detached from events, as if he were a spectator at his own death. Shocked and disorientated, his mind struggled to keep pace with events.

He lurched clumsily sideways against the wall, his hands fumbled urgently at his neck whilst his legs started to kick spasmodically, before he crumpled untidily to the ground.

Arthur’s last moments were spent staring glassy-eyed at the new leather soles of a pair of expensive shoes as his departing executioner walked away, unhurried, up the tunnel. He was dead before the next train disgorged its unsuspecting passengers to happen upon the gruesome scene.

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