The Writers' Circle

Swings and Roundabouts

The crisp layers of leaves crunched underfoot as Seth swaggered through the park. Copious conkers covered the ground like mini bombs awaiting detonation. "Fuck!" Seth spat as his sole-less shoes squashed down on the smaller ones, hidden like mines under the leaves.
	"Spare a quid, Mister?" A voice brought Seth out from his thoughts.
	Seth looked at the beggar, scrunched on a wooden bench, which was positioned in front of a line of thick cherry laurel. He wore an oversized, tatty coat, held the obligatory puppy and had filthy fingernails. Seth told him to "Fuck off!"
	"You fucking suited-up nobs are all the same!" the beggar shouted after Seth.
	"You stupid fuck-wit. If you're going to try to blag people out of their fucking money, don't get a fucking expensive haircut! Stupid cunt." Seth muttered the last bit as he stomped off, trying to avoid any more conker-mines.
	"Tight bastard." The beggar scowled at Seth then turned as he heard the chink of coins in his dog's bowl. "Still, swings and roundabouts, swings and roundabouts" he grinned.

	Seth stepped slowly. His heart settled into a steady beat, which seemed to block out any other sound around him.  
The autumn dusk was falling as he twisted the silk scarf around his worn leather-clad hands. When he'd first seen the scarf on the floor, he thought he could get a few pence for it at the flea market but on second thoughts.
Looking around, Seth checked the beggar was alone. He was. Seth was going to have to be quick - the beggar was counting his coin cache before sneaking out of the park to his Toyota Celica. 
Seth had watched the beggar for the last two days. He hadn't intended to.  He'd just happened to be in the precinct when he saw the beggar coming out of the priciest salon on the row. He wasn't sure it was the same man at first because he was clean-shaven and well dressed. But it was the dog and the shoes.  The same black brogues he'd seen on a beggar at his local park. The same black and tan mongrel puppy he'd seen sitting with a beggar in his local park.
Sitting in the same spot, with the same pathetic look on his face, wearing the black brogues, hugging the same black and tan puppy, Seth was now sure. The quality shoes weren't necessarily a sign of someone faking homelessness - he could've just gotten lucky, the guy. But what kind of homeless twat would spend around £80 on a haircut. What a bastard! Stealing the money from the real homeless. Seth's anger burned from inside his bones.
	He crept up behind the lying cunt and quicker than he thought possible, the scarf was around the fakers neck. Tighter, tighter, he pulled. Strong, young arms tried to pull the scarf from their healthy, well-fed neck. The smartly hair-styled head ranged back in an attempt to contact with the unseen attacker but still Seth pulled, pulled and pulled until the arms dropped, the head bowed and the body became still.
Seth removed the shoes and smiled as he saw they were his size. "That's fucking lucky," he said to the dog.
Swapping the shoes for his own, Seth let the dog free and looked down at his feet.  "That's better," he said to himself  "Looks like I'll be able to leave the hostel sooner than I thought." 
Stuffing the scarf into the dead man's pocket Seth patted his shoulder and said "swings and roundabouts, mate, swings and roundabouts".