Lifers 24

‘C’mon Darcy, that’s it, loosen up, baby. You know you fuckin’ wannit.’

Blood and saliva dripped from Paul’s nose and mouth, merging with the sweat running down his face, all of which, dripped onto Darcy’s stomach. The stale scent of tobacco, along with cheap aftershave and alcohol, and now the pungent stench of his sweat, all combined to traumatise Darcy even more.

She was still struggling with his invasive hand when she saw smoke rising behind him, she looked again to see a thin stream of a cigarette smoke whisping up over his right shoulder. She couldn’t see it, but she knew the thick crystal ashtray would be somewhere near his right foot. If she could get to it, she could use it to knock him from her.

Still struggling to hold his intruding wrist with her right hand, she reached out with her left feeling for the ashtray, but all she found was carpet. She needed to sit, she needed to get nearer, but first she needed to get the anvil he called a fist from off her chest.

‘Wait,’ she called out. ‘Let me help you.’

At that he froze, looking down on her. Darcy saw doubt moulding his features, she had a plan, but would he fall for it?

‘What?’ he said, incredulous to her statement.

She knew she had no choice; she needed to turn things around if she was going to prevent this from happening. She let go of his wrist moving her hand towards his groin, his eyes followed her progress until she stopped a few inches short.

‘I can’t reach you; you have to let me sit up.’

He stared blankly at her, obviously unsure as to what to think of the situation, then she felt him slacken, she felt his weight relax, putting even more strain on her legs, but she could cope with that. Still keeping his left hand in place, he removed the hand that pinned her.

Darcy pushed herself up and reached for his zipper, after pulling it down she pushed her right hand inside taking hold of his limp, pathetic ... then, and amid this trauma, a story she'd read as a child suddenly sprang to mind, “The little acorn”. She liked that book very much, but this, this she hated, she hated her father for asking her to baby-sit, she hated herself for sparking off a conversation with the slob crushing her legs, but what she hated more was the fact that bile rising in the back of her throat would soon make her wretch, and he’d easily see right through her ploy.

Feeling a rigidity begin to form, she wanted nothing more but to rip his sad little dick from its moorings, and then sit back and watch the fat bastard bleed to death.

Blinking hard to hold back the tears, she watched a smile begin to grow on his fat, growth-stubbled face, and again she reached for the ashtray, but still couldn’t find it. She needed to lean in, to get that little bit closer.

‘You like that, don’t you?’ she asked, smiling up at him.

Her face was now no more than an inch from his. She then felt the bile in her throat rise that bit further as his laboured, heavy breathing, blew sweat-soaked bangs of hair from her forehead. She had to finish this, and soon.

Paul didn’t answer her; he just closed his eyes as his smile began to broaden. And that’s when his head jolted to Darcy’s right, once, twice. A strained guttural grunt accompanying each of the blows she delivered. And with the third strike, the crystal ashtray shattered the side of his skull with a dull, pleasing crack.

After swaying lazily from left to right, he finished up slumped at the foot of the sofa, the right side of his head was cracked like icing on a mishandled birthday cake, allowing thick, deep-red blood, to ooze on to the carpet. He wasn’t unconscious, but he was close to it.

In a harried panic, both panting and sobbing uncontrollably, Darcy managed to scramble to her feet and pull her jeans up, but her blood-stained, shaking hands prevented her from fastening them. She snatched up the phone to call the police only to see Paul reach out and rip the wire from the wall.

She looked down at him; his eyes were glazed and flicked left to right in some crazy dizzy-fit. She crouched, putting her face once more close to his, and then spat. ‘You’re a fucking bastard,’ she told him. ‘A ... fat ... fucking ... bastard.’ Then she kicked him three times as hard as she could about the face. Now, he was unconscious.

Darcy picked her bag from off the sofa and her coat from the floor and started to leave. Don’t look back, she told herself, fuck him, let the fat-fuck bleed to death. She then remembered little Christopher asleep upstairs, and realised just how well the two fuckers' suited one another. On her way out she slammed the front door with enough venom to subdue a rampaging African Elephant.

After tossing her coat and bag on the front passenger seat, she climbed in and drove away, her sobs still audible, and her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. And that bastard, that limp-dicked, poor excuse for a life-form was going to pay for what he’d done. No way was she letting this go. No way. But in her rush to get away from there, she hadn’t noticed the blue Ford with a red trunk parked just across the street.

She left the house with every intention of driving into Richmond City to call at the first police station she found. Then, after turning right onto Naglee Avenue, she saw a police cruiser coming her way. She slowed, ready to stop and flag it down when another vehicle reversed from East Union Street, catching her right rear side. When Darcy’s car eventually came to a complete stop, it was facing in the direction she’d come from.

She just couldn’t believe it, this had to be the last fucking straw, she’d been terrorised by a five year old, beaten and almost raped by his father, and now this. She was seething, livid, a whole herd of African Elephants couldn’t stop her now, and this moron was going to get the fucking lot. She climbed from her car and started towards her unsuspecting quarry. At the same time, two men stepped out of the vehicle; the passenger waiting there whilst the driver walked in her direction.

‘Hey, lady, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ She heard him say.

‘That’s because you’re a blind fucker who shouldn’t even be on the fucking road.’

Before they could meet, the cruiser rolled to a stop between the two cars where two officers climbed out. Both black, one male, one female.

The male officer rushed to halt Darcy. ‘Ma’am, I saw what happened, so if you’ll return to your car I’ll handle this,’ he told her, trying to block her path. But she just ignored his request. ‘Ma’am, if you’ll just calm down, I’m sure-’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down,’ she shouted, pushing passed him.

Darcy saw the passenger of the other car slide back inside, she also noticed the driver had stopped in his tracks and was about to turn away, but she still headed for him, even with the policeman by her side, who was trying to keep pace.

The female officer was looking at the damage to Darcy’s car, leaving her colleague to handle the human element. The male officer managed to edge in front and put himself between Darcy and the other driver just as she reached him.

Without any form of a warning, the driver of the blue Ford wrapped his arm around the officer’s neck and began to squeeze. Darcy watched as the officer tried pulling on the arm in a bid to clear his airway, and by the choking noises he made continually, she could see he wasn't gaining much purchase. The man, who was so casually throttling him, reached down taking the police-issue from its holster and raised it. He then fired one shot, which hit the female in the centre of her back putting her on the floor, where she now lay motionless.

Darcy’s jaw dropped, she couldn’t comprehend what the hell just happened. This had to be the worst nightmare she’d ever had. It had to be a nightmare. No way was this real life. She looked at the felled officer lying beside her car, then back at the shooter, and the struggling officer still held in his grip. She turned wondering what to do for the best when fight or flight sent her sprinting along the road.

*

The male officer was still trying to free himself when the gun was pressed hard against his temple. Then another shot rang out, this one covering the driver’s face in the officer’s blood. Then, after dropping him to the ground, he took aim once more, and again he fired, this time hitting the fleeing woman in the back of the head. She immediately dropped to the sidewalk where she slid for a yard or two before her momentum ceased.

The driver wiped the officer’s blood from his face with the back of his hand and then licked it, savouring its flavour. ‘I ain’t that keen on fuckin’ redheads anyways,’ he said, before making his way back to the blue Ford. ‘I think it’s time we were headed back,’ he called to his passenger.

‘Sure, but we ain’t goin’ back empty-handed, Sam.’

‘Well we can’t stay out here for ever, Dane!’

‘We’re not. Trust me, we’ll get what we need on the way back.’

Sam held out the keys. ‘Well would ya mind doin’ some drivin’ for a while? I’m plum tuckered out!’

‘No, ya know I hate this heap o’ shit! You were dumb enough to steal the thing, so you can drive it.’

Sam pulled a face as he climbed back inside the car, mumbling wordlessly to himself as he did so. He turned the car around and set off heading for Martinsville.
Or so he thought.