The beginning of a novel, long since abandoned. I started this eight years ago, forgot about it, wrote Burn, Baby, Burn instead.
Joe approached the park entrance breathing hard now, a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow. A motorbike was parked near the gate, policeman astride the powerful machine. Bulky, helmeted, yet strangely comforting. The man pointed to his watch as Joe approached.
‘Twenty minutes yet, mate,’ Joe called out. The officer nodded. Joe ran through the gates, striding out. Twenty minutes were plenty time enough for a full circuit before the gates were locked for the night.
He ran hard, breathing heavily now, sweat stinging his eyes, completing the circuit. He slowed as he approached the exit, darker under the trees, wary of turning an ankle. Deep in concentration, eyes on the uneven surface underfoot, the bulky figure came from nowhere. The collision of two heavy bodies sent both men crashing to the floor.
Joe started to stammer out an apology; not knowing whose fault it was, just the standard reaction. The other man leapt to his feet, knife in hand. He held it to Joe’s throat, motioned him to walk along the side path back under the shadow of the trees.
‘I’ve got no money.’
The other man made no reply but pricked the skin of Joe’s neck with the blade.
‘I’ve got a watch,’ Joe babbled, scrabbling at his wrist. ‘Here, take it.’ The other man dashed the watch from his hand.
Under the trees it was dark. Forbidding. Joe shivering as the sweat dried on him, held his head high, away from the blade.
The man prodded Joe along the path, towards the dim silhouette of a shelter by the lake.
Night had closed in. The park was deserted. He forced Joe down, onto the floor, face down. Laid an open newspaper alongside Joe’s prone body. A match flared and by its light Joe saw the article he’d written a week ago. A dramatic piece, exposing the growing influence of drug dealers in the city. Scum, he’d called them. The word leapt out from the headline in the instant before the match burnt out.
The knife touched Joe’s neck, drew blood. Just a nick, but enough to prompt a whimper of fear. Joe closed his eyes.
The blade was removed. He didn’t hear a sound, but when Joe opened his eyes again, turned his head, he was alone.
At the park entrance the police motor-cyclist, astride his machine, stretched and yawned. A figure shambled from under the trees, shaking the iron gates. The policeman struggled to free the lock, hampered by Joe’s fierce grasp on his arm.
‘Help me…’ The policeman interrupted Joe’s garbled explanation. Even behind his visor an air of quiet competence transmitted itself.
‘Easy, sir,’ he said. ‘Take your time.’
‘I’ve been attacked. In the park. A knife…’ His voice tailed away.
‘Let’s get you home, sir. Take some details, eh? You’re shaking like a leaf. Do you live far?’
‘No. Just the end of the road.’
‘Come on, I’ll walk you back. Best get you indoors so we can have a chat.’
Joe fiddled with the door, keys jingling as he vainly tried to find the right one. Finally, the door swung open and the policeman, still in his bulky coat and crash helmet, motioned Joe to go ahead.
Joe stood in the hall, shaking. Heard the door close behind him, then the pain hit him like a tidal wave as the policeman stooped and hit Joe on the inner part of his right knee. The crack of splintering bone was stunningly loud in the narrow hallway. Joe screamed and crashed headlong to the floor. The other man, leaning over, leather jacket creaking, brought the claw hammer he held in his hand down with tremendous force onto Joe’s other knee.
The pain caused him to black out for a moment. When he came to, the other man was sitting alongside him, on the floor.
‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘Going to the police. Bad choice. You’ve been writing about me. Scum, you said.’
The voice was cultured. Urbane. Very calm. It came from right next to Joe’s head.
‘I run this city. You should get your facts straight. Nobody forces these people to take drugs, and as for crime, like the poor, it has been with us always. You write about crime as if it’s a new fashion. Don’t you remember how it used to be? There is virtually no random senseless crime in this city any more. It’s all controlled. Yet you don’t give any credit for that.’
Joe moaned as the man gripped his shattered knees, dug his fingers in.
‘I’m quoting you here. Word for word. Verbatim. Blame the parents, you say. What sort of mother would allow her child to grow up with no human feelings, you say?’
He paused, leant closer. ‘You dare to write this about my mother? My mother?’ His voice was a scream now, spittle splashing Joe’s cheeks.
‘Lesson time.’ The voice was calm again now, passion spent. ‘You had an accident. Fell over. Say any different and I’ll come back. Won’t be so gentle next time. Maybe have a word or two with your wife. Your kids. Two lovely boys. You must be very proud, and their mother, such a warm giving person. Lovely complexion, I thought. Be a shame to risk all that.’
The man stood, stepping carefully to avoid the blood. Tucked the hammer inside his jacket. Joe looked up at him. He’d still not seen the man’s face, but he’d met powerful men before. Newspaper proprietors, movers and shakers. The man above him was of that ilk. An alpha male. Accustomed to command.
‘The bike,’ the man said, over his shoulder. ‘You know nothing about it. Right? If anyone asks. Carelessness, letting someone walk off with it. Shocking that.’
He walked to the end of the hall, opened the door. ‘I’d get those knees looked at if I were you,’ he said. ‘Dangerous place, that park. Give it up, mate. A lesson learned.’
He went out, closed the door behind him. Joe curled into a ball, his shattered legs sending out waves of pain. Two hours before his wife came home from her yoga class. He could last that long.
You should finish!