RobBanBur90
The Old Man - Shelly and Thomas
THURSDAY – PART II
Title: The Old Man
A crime drama short story
⸻
Southbury. 2:47 a.m.
Rain on pavement. Quiet estate. All streetlights still.
The Ford Mondeo sat in the shadows, engine cold.
Inside: Thomas smoking, Shelly tying her hair back into a tight knot.
She wore a fitted blue denim jacket, collar popped, and underneath: a black polo shirt, open at the neck.
Black nitrile gloves already on.
Same cheap boots.
Same silence.
No need to speak.
They both knew why they were here.
Target:
GEORGE HAVELOCK
78 years old.
Lived alone in a semi-detached off Stanmore Road.
Ex-military. War medals.
Rumour was, he never trusted banks.
And rumour was always right.
⸻
EXT. BACK GARDEN – NIGHT
Thomas boosted the back gate open with one kick.
The house loomed dark, silent — curtains drawn, back door half-rotted.
Shelly checked the door. Locked.
She slid a folded screwdriver from her back pocket, jimmied the old lock with the patience of someone who’s done it before.
Click.
The door opened.
⸻
INT. KITCHEN – NIGHT
Dim, dated.
Old teacups. Wallpaper stained brown from years of smoke.
The hallway was cramped, lined with picture frames, thick carpet. It reeked of damp and dust.
A stair creaked overhead.
He was awake.
Shelly looked at Thomas. Nodded once.
He peeled off into the living room.
She headed up.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
GEORGE HAVELOCK sat upright in bed, eyes bleary, lips parted in confusion.
He wore only a thin undershirt and boxers.
His walking stick leaned against the wall.
SHELLEY stepped into the room slowly.
No mask.
Just denim, dark eyes, and something violent humming under her breath.
GEORGE:
“Who the hell…?”
SHELLY (calm):
“Don’t move. Don’t speak. You do what I say, you die slower.”
He reached instinctively for the stick.
SHELLEY:
“Touch that and I’ll snap your fucking wrist off.”
She stepped closer, blade already in hand — short, clean, gleaming.
He froze.
She knelt on the bed, one knee pressing against his thigh.
The knife hovered just under his eye.
SHELLEY (low, focused):
“There’s a safe. In the cellar.”
GEORGE:
“Wh-what?”
SHELLEY:
“Don’t be fucking stupid. You’ve got cash. I know it. I know where.
I just need the code.”
GEORGE (panicked):
“There’s nothing in there—”
SHELLEY (sharper now):
“You really wanna see what this does to your eyeball?”
GEORGE:
“Seven… eight… four-two-one… it’s under the carpet… corner of the wine rack…”
Shelly held his gaze.
SHELLEY (flat):
“Good boy.”
She stood.
George exhaled. A moment of false relief.
Then—
She turned, stepped back to the bed, and stabbed him cleanly in the side of the neck.
He gargled.
Twitched.
Slumped.
Gone.
SHELLEY (quietly):
“Talking’s over.”
⸻
INT. BASEMENT – 5 MINUTES LATER
Thomas rolled the carpet back.
There, beneath the rack: a small steel safe.
Digital keypad. Shelly keyed in: 7-8-4-2-1
Beep. Click.
Inside:
•£45,000 in cash – mostly 50s
•Two Rolex watches in green boxes
•A .38 revolver with five bullets
Thomas whistled low.
THOMAS:
“This man didn’t trust no one.”
SHELLEY:
“He was right.”
They took everything except the gun.
⸻
INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT
Back upstairs.
She wiped the knife clean in the bathroom sink.
Rinsed her gloves. Dried them on the dead man’s towel.
Thomas zipped up the bag.
It bulged heavy.
SHELLEY:
“We’re done.”
They left through the back — just as quiet as they came in.
⸻
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
They walked two blocks in silence.
Shelly lit a cigarette.
Thomas cracked his knuckles.
SHELLEY:
“He gave it up quick. Bit disappointing.”
THOMAS:
“Not everyone wants to die in their bed.”
SHELLEY:
“He still did.”
She inhaled.
Tasted the smoke.
The win.
SHELLEY:
“Jackpot tonight.”
THOMAS:
“Clean work.”
She nodded.
⸻
INT. FORD MONDEO – NIGHT
They sat in the front seats. Engine still off.
The bag of cash on Thomas’ lap.
The Rolexes resting on the dashboard.
Shelly pulled her hair loose, leaned her head back.
THOMAS:
“What now?”
SHELLEY (quiet, with a grin):
“We wait. For the next lonely house.”
He looked at her.
Didn’t say a word.
She didn’t need him to.
They both knew — Southbury still had plenty left to
The Old Man - Shelly and Thomas
THURSDAY – PART II
Title: The Old Man
A crime drama short story
⸻
Southbury. 2:47 a.m.
Rain on pavement. Quiet estate. All streetlights still.
The Ford Mondeo sat in the shadows, engine cold.
Inside: Thomas smoking, Shelly tying her hair back into a tight knot.
She wore a fitted blue denim jacket, collar popped, and underneath: a black polo shirt, open at the neck.
Black nitrile gloves already on.
Same cheap boots.
Same silence.
No need to speak.
They both knew why they were here.
Target:
GEORGE HAVELOCK
78 years old.
Lived alone in a semi-detached off Stanmore Road.
Ex-military. War medals.
Rumour was, he never trusted banks.
And rumour was always right.
⸻
EXT. BACK GARDEN – NIGHT
Thomas boosted the back gate open with one kick.
The house loomed dark, silent — curtains drawn, back door half-rotted.
Shelly checked the door. Locked.
She slid a folded screwdriver from her back pocket, jimmied the old lock with the patience of someone who’s done it before.
Click.
The door opened.
⸻
INT. KITCHEN – NIGHT
Dim, dated.
Old teacups. Wallpaper stained brown from years of smoke.
The hallway was cramped, lined with picture frames, thick carpet. It reeked of damp and dust.
A stair creaked overhead.
He was awake.
Shelly looked at Thomas. Nodded once.
He peeled off into the living room.
She headed up.
⸻
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
GEORGE HAVELOCK sat upright in bed, eyes bleary, lips parted in confusion.
He wore only a thin undershirt and boxers.
His walking stick leaned against the wall.
SHELLEY stepped into the room slowly.
No mask.
Just denim, dark eyes, and something violent humming under her breath.
GEORGE:
“Who the hell…?”
SHELLY (calm):
“Don’t move. Don’t speak. You do what I say, you die slower.”
He reached instinctively for the stick.
SHELLEY:
“Touch that and I’ll snap your fucking wrist off.”
She stepped closer, blade already in hand — short, clean, gleaming.
He froze.
She knelt on the bed, one knee pressing against his thigh.
The knife hovered just under his eye.
SHELLEY (low, focused):
“There’s a safe. In the cellar.”
GEORGE:
“Wh-what?”
SHELLEY:
“Don’t be fucking stupid. You’ve got cash. I know it. I know where.
I just need the code.”
GEORGE (panicked):
“There’s nothing in there—”
SHELLEY (sharper now):
“You really wanna see what this does to your eyeball?”
GEORGE:
“Seven… eight… four-two-one… it’s under the carpet… corner of the wine rack…”
Shelly held his gaze.
SHELLEY (flat):
“Good boy.”
She stood.
George exhaled. A moment of false relief.
Then—
She turned, stepped back to the bed, and stabbed him cleanly in the side of the neck.
He gargled.
Twitched.
Slumped.
Gone.
SHELLEY (quietly):
“Talking’s over.”
⸻
INT. BASEMENT – 5 MINUTES LATER
Thomas rolled the carpet back.
There, beneath the rack: a small steel safe.
Digital keypad. Shelly keyed in: 7-8-4-2-1
Beep. Click.
Inside:
•£45,000 in cash – mostly 50s
•Two Rolex watches in green boxes
•A .38 revolver with five bullets
Thomas whistled low.
THOMAS:
“This man didn’t trust no one.”
SHELLEY:
“He was right.”
They took everything except the gun.
⸻
INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT
Back upstairs.
She wiped the knife clean in the bathroom sink.
Rinsed her gloves. Dried them on the dead man’s towel.
Thomas zipped up the bag.
It bulged heavy.
SHELLEY:
“We’re done.”
They left through the back — just as quiet as they came in.
⸻
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
They walked two blocks in silence.
Shelly lit a cigarette.
Thomas cracked his knuckles.
SHELLEY:
“He gave it up quick. Bit disappointing.”
THOMAS:
“Not everyone wants to die in their bed.”
SHELLEY:
“He still did.”
She inhaled.
Tasted the smoke.
The win.
SHELLEY:
“Jackpot tonight.”
THOMAS:
“Clean work.”
She nodded.
⸻
INT. FORD MONDEO – NIGHT
They sat in the front seats. Engine still off.
The bag of cash on Thomas’ lap.
The Rolexes resting on the dashboard.
Shelly pulled her hair loose, leaned her head back.
THOMAS:
“What now?”
SHELLEY (quiet, with a grin):
“We wait. For the next lonely house.”
He looked at her.
Didn’t say a word.
She didn’t need him to.
They both knew — Southbury still had plenty left to