Jump

Flash Fiction by Nate Hochstetler

Omair stood in an alley smoking what looked to be a cigarette but was really hashish, a habit he picked up in Pakistan as a teenager. That life felt so far away now. He took his phone from the pocket of his Adidas jacket. He had dark brown skin but he dressed like a Slav. As he scrolled his Instagram feed, he saw updates from a close knit family he had left behind. A wedding, a graduation, and a photo taken from a plane window, his uncle who had long put off Hajj finally taking the trip, passed by in quick succession. Then he saw the beautiful Desi girl his mother had always wanted him to settle down with, and he put the device to sleep.

Omair let out an excessive series of coughs and adjusted his cap. He was waiting for a man, five foot, nine inches tall, bright red hair, large gauges in his ears to exit the pub. Omair didn’t do pubs, he certainly wasn’t the best at following the rules he was raised with but he had maintained a life without alcohol. He hadn’t held true to much else though, as evidenced by the tattoos covering every inch below his jaw.

Matt took no more than three steps outside the bar before he felt a set of eyes on him. He was totally plastered but it wasn’t hard to notice the brown man watching him from a nearby alleyway. He stumbled towards him, calling out something obscene.

Omair realized he was spotted, he thought the man would be too fucked up to notice him and had let his guard down. As the man stumbled towards him Omair prepared himself for the thrashing he was about to dole out. He leapt like a grasshopper and landed on the man’s shoulders. The man was startled but Omair couldn’t be shaken as he squatted perfectly on the man’s shoulders. He kicked off and the red-haired inebriate fell to the ground. Omair grabbed him by the hair and smashed the man’s head into the pavement twice to knock him out.

Blood gushed from Matt’s nose.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he cried out.

“Your wife Becca paid me 300 pounds to smash your head in if I caught you drinking. Told me you swore it off,” replied Omair.

“I haven’t been drinking mate.”

“Shut up, I can smell it on your breath, now stay still I’ve gotta snap a picture,” he pulled out a blue bedazzled flip phone, a cheap secondary used only for work, clicked a button and a shutter noise sounded.

Omair leapt high in the air once again. He landed on the ladder of a fire escape, toes on, heels off the ledge, and then stepped up onto the platform. He jogged up the stairs as Matt stood in disbelief, mouth agape, for the full length of thirty seconds, then turned around and fell right back into the bar.

“Bad habits, they’re awfully hard to kick,” Omair said to himself.

The next morning Omair set out to do his regular training. As he trained Omair’s thoughts drifted into the past. He had fallen in love with parkour when he first moved to London at 19. He saw some videos on YouTube of some mad French boys doing roof gap jumps and knew he had to try it. The first time his baby brother caught him dangling off a windowsill at the neighbor’s, he had immediately run to tattle. Omair thought his mother might have a heart attack that day.

Parkour was the only sport that Omair ever excelled at, he had played cricket as a child and while he was a decent runner and a better catcher, he couldn’t hit the ball for shit. His father had been right when he told him that the sport would never pay his bills. Omair never could get the hang of marketing himself, and his clips only ever racked up a modest amount of views. As a PI, he had found himself a rather unique use for the skillset.

For his last bit of training, Omair landed perfectly flat on the rail opposite the one he had jumped from, as if his feet were magnetized. It was time to get to work.

He pulled out a cigarette. Just a cigarette. He leaned against a wall outside the pub.  He wasn’t trying to hide this time, Matt would have to come out eventually. Becca had promised him an additional 100 quid for each day he beat her husband’s arse. It had been a few hours, the sun was beginning its descent and Matt still hadn’t come outside. Omair decided to step inside to make sure Matt was still there, knowing full well a bouncer may throw him out for his questions.

He didn’t see the Irishman but he did see an older brown man with a thick beard slouched over the bartop.

“As-salamu alaykum.”

“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” slurred the older man.

The man looked up at Omair and was taken aback, “Omair, Beta, Alhamdulillah! You have returned.”

Omair’s father was drunk. He had never seen his father take even a single sip of beer, he had always been a devout man. Omair helped his father get up off his seat, draping one of his father’s arms over shoulder.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

“Your mother can’t see me like this Beta.”

“You can sleep in my bed tonight, I’ll take the couch.”

“And you will return home with me tomorrow? Your mother would love to see you.”

“Sure Baba,” he lied.

---

Bio: Nate Hochstetler is a comic book and hero pulp obsessive from Ames, Iowa. He attempts to express his love of superheroes through detective fiction writing. He lives with a wonderful partner who is kind enough to read every story, even the bad ones. He occasionally posts his work to his own blog. HERE

Photo by: Pexels

Read More Flash Fiction on The Yard: Crime Blog

Follow Us On:

Looking for a book to read? Try our Bookstore, or True Crime Library