Page 11 of Parker
“You attacked us, Nicky. It’s none of your bloody business. You could’ve killed us.” Turning to leave, he pulls the whore to him in a protective gesture as he pushes past me and out of the front door. They walk off down the path to what must be her car.
It’s a small red city car, the kind you see squeezed into inappropriate spaces that cause everyone else a headache. My father folds himself into the passenger seat. He smiles at her, and she does the same in return.
Highlighted by the mellow garden lamps, they look happy.
Actually, they look completely ecstatic about it.
I see red.
As they pull away, I storm to my car parked in the driveway. She’s seen better days, but she’s bigger than the puny thing they’re driving. I reverse without looking, and the front gate smashes from its hinges as it collides with my rear bumper. Pulling onto the main road, I take off after the pair of cheating scumbags, leaving a litter of broken wood and glass behind me.
At the start of my pursuit, following behind them and causing discomfort feeds my need for revenge. Deserted roads stretch before me. My gaze flicks to the clock on my dashboard, which shows 3:54 p.m. As I pull closer, forcing her to go faster, she speeds up and then slows again. It’s obvious she isn’t a confident driver. I decide to have fun with her.
Pressing my accelerator to the floor, I nudge the rear bumper of the compact car. It wobbles in front of me, and she increases her speed in response. I repeat the action until we are driving through the city streets at over seventy miles per hour.
Approaching the Kingston Bridge, she takes a corner too tight, and they fly out of control. They slide all over the road until the car spins and rolls onto its side, slamming into a metal crash barrier with an almighty blow.
My foot eases off the gas and I slow to a crawl, stopping beside the mangled vehicle.
Getting out to survey the scene, I feel completely detached. The metal is so twisted, it's hard to tell what is the front and what is the trunk. Shrill screams fill the night sky as I approach the heap of junk. I kneel beside the wreckage. Her frightened eyes lock with mine through the shattered glass. And something inside me snaps — all the way through.
“Is he alive?” I ask.
“I think so,” she whispers.
“Shame. The bastard deserved to snuff it.”
We stare at one another for a few minutes, then I hear the sirens in the distance. Blue lights race toward us, surroundingthe scene. Police officers run to us, firing questions with each step. I shrug and stick my arms out in front of me.
“Think you might want to handcuff me,” I tell the officer. He gives me a shocked look before leading me away from the wreckage to a future I never expected to live.
***
Reality bites.
Hard.
My hands hang low below my waist as I wait for the officer to check me into the station. Handcuffs are heavy on your wrists; you don’t realize it when you watch cop shows on TV.
After a thorough body search and being stripped of all my belongings, they lead me to a cell at the end of an endless corridor lined with heavy steel doors. Pathetic cries come from behind some, while screams permeate others. Police Constable White holds my elbow as we move before she suddenly yanks me to an abrupt stop outside cell number nine.
“Welcome to your new home,” she sneers. “Don’t get too comfortable. Someone will want to speak to you soon enough.”
My eyes widen at her tone, and she gives me a nasty smile.
“You’ve missed breakfast, Smith, so you’ll need to chew on your sock if you get hungry before lunch.”
Shoving open the steel door, she pushes me inside, then roughly removes the restraints. Deep-red welts mark my wrists, and I rub them to relieve some of the sting. Her eyes watch me intently.
“Get used to it. You’ll be in chains for years,” she calls over her shoulder as she drags the door closed.
How could a tiny person like that be so vicious? The officer clearly enjoys tormenting her prisoners. As we had walked through the corridor of cells, she had shouted obscenitiesto those trapped inside. Her appearance suggests she needs protection, but malevolence fills her dark eyes.
The room is minuscule with grubby walls. There’s a single window with vertical bars set too high to see anything, and a blue PVC mattress with a pathetic, stained blanket on iron stilts for a bed. The dirty concrete floor has the same level of appeal. In the corner, there is a metal toilet bowl and sink for my necessities. The room reflects my mood flawlessly—desperate and alone.
I’m unable to sit still, a trail appearing on the dusty floor as I retrace my steps. My mind whirls, attempting to explain away what happened. The blood on my clothes and the car wreck need to be justified somehow. Though deep down I know, no justification could explain away what I just did. I don’t understand it myself.
It feels like hours pass before anyone appears to collect me from my chamber. The heavy bolt slides back, and PC White’s snarled mouth rounds the door to face me.
