Page 2 of The Reaper

“Be honest with you darling, Bratva got me by the balls. I pulled a few favours for them, they paid me enough for a decent retirement. IF you report it, you’ll get laughed out of the room. Bratva runs deep in the force round here. Got me by the balls and my chief by the windpipe and the Chief Commissioner by the heart string-”

“You are going to do it and you are going to do it by the end of the week, otherwise-”

She stuffed her phone back in her pocket, and pushed through the doors, marching down the corridors, head down, trying to get out. Fucking corruption. Fucking Bratva, what was Paul Roper doing, getting mixed up in the organised crime gang? That is why she enjoyed her job at the prison. There was nothing more honest and raw and real than helping someone in need. A prisoner was still a human being, still someone worthy of medical help; non judgemental, non political help. And she didn't want to be tainted with any organised crime mess.

She needed air. She just wanted to pop out for some air. Easier said than done at Eastward Prison. This was one of the problems with working in a prison.

She needed a miracle.

“Hi Hannah. Wait, you haven’t signed out… you can’t just march out there-”

She gritted her teeth, determined not to cry, determined not to let anyone see how her heart rate was spiking. She just needed to figure this out, she needed to pace about a bit, she needed to buy some time.

How could she avoid Roper and his request? How could she avoid the Bratva? She knew there were many affiliated prisoners here, would she be in danger if she didn’t comply? She knew the answer to that was a big, fat yes. And his threat about her family’s business, she felt sick thinking her brother and father could get hurt. But smuggling drugs into the prison… professional misconduct, hell, criminal, she could end up in serious trouble if she complied with this request. Not to mention she’d never be able to forgive herself, bringing substances into the vulnerable people who were meant to be under her care… no, she felt sick thinking about it.

Maybe she just needed some time. Time to figure out what to do. To weigh up her options properly and figure out who best to tell, how to proceed… she felt lost, alone. Scared. Trapped.

Finally, she was out in the sunlight. The quickest route to light had been out through the kitchen, she was by the dumpsters, the big rubbish bins that got collected weekly. So it stunk. But it matched her mood. She just needed a moment to-

She froze.

She heard a noise.

Through the maelstrom in her head, and the quiet clatter of prison life, she heard a strange noise.

She swallowed loudly, and listened.

There. She heard it again. A groaning sound.

A person, groaning. In pain.

She snapped out of her mire and her medical training took over.

There. Behind one of the dumpsters. A pair of legs, lying prone on the floor.

A pair of male legs. She rushed over, rounding the dumpster. A man. Tattered white shirt and some sort of dark trousers and covered in dried blood. An icy grip tightened her chest. She crouched down immediately, her eyes sweeping him up and down. Assessing the damage. Triaging.

From what she saw, she became instantly aware of three key facts.

Firstly, he was beaten up, badly.

Secondly, he had a tattoo on his wrist. She could see it, past the dried blood. A grim reaper. She knew what that meant. A member of the local outlaw motorcycle club, The Reapers. A shiver of fear shot down her spine. You stayed away from the Reapers. You let them get on with their own concerns. She occasionally saw small groups of them in town, riding side by side on the road, their bikes so ridiculously loud. She didn’t mix in their circles. For a member of the Reapers to have been worked over this well… you didn’t mess with the Reapers. But the Reapers were a rival of the Bratva.

She narrowed her eyes.

But thirdly, he was good looking. Under the crusted blood, and the bruises and swelling and ripped clothes. Excluding the mess he was in… he was tall, muscular, clear, tanned skin and dark hair. Tattoos everywhere. About her age.

She swallowed.

He had a white dress shirt on, but it was dusty, covered in blood, ripped. It was all rucked up, as if he’d been picked up by it, thrown about. His arms were cut, bloodied, his knuckles split. He’d tried to fight back. A leather bracelet around his wrist had a name plate on it. Jack. She looked at his face. One eye swollen shut, broken nose, bent at a strange angle, face bashed, split lips. Dried blood everywhere. Left for dead round the back of the prison.

“Oh my-”

He groaned again, he was in pain and close to passing out. In fact, she thought he had been unconscious and had only just come round.

“Can you hear me? You need to come with me, you need some medical attention…” She felt stupid for stating the obvious.

“Fuck… who…?” he stuttered. A deep, gruff voice, pinched by pain.

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