Silvertroll

Downtown

Dawn light enters the rear window of the van, the icy beam stabbing at my eyelids. I open them to a world of pain. I could sleep some more but the freezing morning air and an underlining urgency to wake up override it. From the shadows, milk crates emerge, stacked up to one side, computer monitors and equipment sitting precariously on top. I lay on the steel floor, motionless for a long moment.

The palm of my hands sting with pain, the flesh wound throbbing as my blood pumps into the torn tissue, the cell repair process well on it's way.

My muscles really don't want me to get up.

But I have to.

I crawl to the door, slide it open and climb outside to confront the fresh morning chill. The van is parked in a desolate alleyway, nestled under a railway overpass, its tracks cutting through an older part of the city. The nearest corner street adjoins a narrow street adorned with decrepit shops and warehouses.

I reach in the van and pull out a bucket full of dirty clothes, at least a week's worth of laundry. After quickly surveying the surrounding neighbourhood, I don't find much traffic, on the road nor on the footpath, I slam shut the door and cross the street, heading over to the newsagent. It's one of the only lively establishments on the row. I enter and place my bucket of rags on the counter. The store's agent takes it, saying, "When would you like back?"

"Today."

"Tomorrow will be ready. Come in the morning."

Feeling a bit bamboozled, I frown but I accept the terms. I should know Ben's dry cleaning operating procedure better than most of his customers. I take the docket, and my next stop is the bakery. 

I order a spinach roll, muffins and two cappuccinos, and pay with my card...

...transaction failed.

I smile and try again. Same result. Before the shop owner's face shrivels with distain, I spend what few remaining cash I have on a feed. I exit the store wondering if it's Alicia who's call in to cancelled the credit card. I try to fathom why she'd commit such a low act. I still had time...

...come to think of it, no. My time had run out a day ago, my promise to my wife now officially broken. 

But cutting me off financially?

A low blow. A clever move, from her perspective, an irrelevant action from mine, my hurt hands testament to it. I head back to the van and climb into the driver's seat, place the cardboard tray containing two cups of coffee and a paper bag full of muffins onto the dashboard. I open the spinach roll and bite into it and look over at the passenger...

...at Peter Zansk, his wrists handcuffed to the door handle, his feet taped together, and mouth bound with a gag. Dry blood has caked around his brow, his sunken eyes glare at me as if I'm the one who's done something wrong.