Survival Belongs To Those Who Dare To Survive Beyond The Shadows.
LIFE HAD BEEN A TUMULTUOUS JOURNEY. At thirty-five, Angela found herself in the back seat of a luxurious black Mercedes in the dark car park of the local hotel. She lay back on plush white leather, sensing the numbing high of the drugs coursing through her veins, a temporary escape from reality. Across from her sat a man exuding a sense of entitlement, reclining with a self-satisfied smirk, indifferent to the chaos he helped create in Angela’s life.
An intense beam of light pierced through the rear window, shattering his bubble of pleasure and solitude, followed by a loud thud against the rear door.
With her senses dulled and mind floating in a drug-induced haze, Angela barely registered the intrusion as the rear passenger door flung open, before she could react, a voice from the dark ordered, “C’mon, out you come.” two hands yanked her by the shoulders from the comfort of the leather seat flinging her out of the Mercedes, tumbling onto the crushed rock of the car park. Her dress flipped over her head, her dignity stripped away. The blinding light of a Police Officer’s torch shone directly into her eyes, exposing not only her, but also illuminating an unwelcome return of her reality. In that moment, her world, already hanging by a thread, crumbled even further.
Police Sergeant Fletcher turned the beam back towards the car’s interior, highlighting her client. Inhaling sharply through his nose as the light revealed the client’s appearance, he said with a tone of contempt, “Marius, I’ve been watching you for five minutes, I thought I’d let you finish the job before I got the young rookie here to bang on the door. Why the hell would you want this one? Check her out, she’s got so many blond roots coming through that fake dark head of hers, you’d think she’s a fucking zebra.”
The client had an aura of dated opulence, reminiscent of a character from a poorly made 1970’s gangster movie, a caricature of himself. The torchlight caught his shiny bald head, emphasizing the strands of a brown-dyed comb-over. He hastily zipped up his trousers.
“It’s cheap,” Marius said, “why pay some unknown, who knows what they’ll give you? Anyway, I’ve known Angela since she first came from some crap country town.” He stepped out from the back seat of the Mercedes, further adjusting his trousers and shirt, strolling around the rear of the car to where Sergeant Fletcher stood. “Geez Fletch, you didn’t have to be so dramatic.”
“And you, my friend, didn’t have to be so stupid.” In his mid-fifties, Sergeant Fletcher stood at six foot tall with a broad and heavy frame. His large stomach protruded under the fabric of his Police uniform, which hung on him awkwardly. His life etched into the lines of his face, each one a marker of hard years and harder drinking. The roundness of his cheeks and the reddened nose spoke of his battles, mostly silent, against the bottle. His presence commanded attention, though like an old, weary, heavy coat he carried the twilight of his career in his demeanour, a career he could have had as his professional journey had been a series of missed opportunities and overlooked promotions.
Turning to face Marius, Sergeant Fletcher’s eyes narrowed into a look of vehement disgust and disdain. He cleared his nose and spat, the spittle landing squarely on Marius’ shiny grey crocodile leather shoes. Unfa
