Hovering in the darkness, I focused on controlling my breath, keeping it shallow yet steady. My heart raced with the nearby shuffling of feet, but there I remained; still, undetectable. The footsteps edged closer, then gradually faded along the cobbles, carrying my anxiety with them. My chosen nook was an inconspicuous doorway, halfway along the narrow passage. The chill of the aluminium door calmed me as I pressed my back against it, reassuring me of my existence within the darkness. The doorway was slight, but then so was I. Perfectly concealed, I remained obscured from any apprehensive, inquisitive eyes. Periodically arching forward, I scanned the alley’s opening. A low, perpetual hum reverberated from the surrounding streets of Beacon City. Bars thinned out as tourists slinked back to their hostels, sticking to wider avenues, following advice. For the time being, the passage remained my own.
Their city was different from mine. Boutique hotels and coffee shops lined the streets. Pin-striped twenty-somethings served up poached eggs, smashed avocado and smoked salmon bagels to tourists all-too-eager to pay the grossly inflated prices. Elaborately decorated froth sat atop roasted Italian beans and the ever-present scent of freshly-baked sourdough filled the air. Record shops blared Beatles and Bob Marley tracks on repeat, enticing hordes of day-trippers from the capital. As the golden hour hit, jazz cafes effortlessly morphed into rock bars with a simple replacement of ‘artisanal coffee’ with ‘craft beer on tap’. Politicised murals dominated wall space. They lamented the past, yet warned of the future. And they were right. However desirable the city had been, it was fast becoming a different beast. Bars were closing earlier; overnight stays were becoming the exception rather than the rule. Boarded-up hotels stood next to wilting businesses. Jobs were scarce and fought over with ferocity. As the national newspaper recently put it: ‘a bloated cloud of perturbation had settled over the city, threatening to drench those who remained’. The story’s been told before, from Johannesburg to Detroit via Rio and Paris. Very few places on Earth haven’t tasted the bitterness of desperation, and I was keen to get in on the ground floor before things became that little bit too desperate.
A cough and splutter set me on alert, though a quick glance confirmed that the poor soul wasn’t worth pursuing. A local who’d jumped headfirst into the pool of hopelessness, spending what was once his wealth on what is now his addiction. A perfect case study of the city’s downward spiral. He bounced from wall to wall as if he were being shoved by the bricks themselves. Piss dribbled from the bottom of his trouser leg like the last trickle of water from a hose. I leant back, clearing the way, attempting not to startle him. Rum and ammonia invaded my nostrils as he staggered past, aiming a nod and a grunt my way. I pressed myself harder into the doorway. I felt a gurgle of stomach acid rise up my throat, which I painfully swallowed back. A half-forgotten patriotic ballad slurred from the vagrant’s lips as he re-entered the city, though his scent continued to haunt the trail behind him.
The music quietened, genre by genre. First the rock, then the cumbia, until only reggaeton persisted. In my mind, two gyrating bodies refused to accept the night’s conclusion, demanding one final pisco from a barman who was grateful for their money, but secretly longed for bed. I squinted at the distant light. Shadows passed, chatting in foreign tongues, laughing in European accents. Few spoke in Spanish, though they didn’t possess the sing-song intonation of the locals. I imagined these figures pointing to my slice of abyss, regurgitating the warnings they’d heard from the capital, debating their believability.
A small group settled in the light, creating silhouettes that stretched to my feet. I tentatively leant forward, my muscles taut, my hand retaining contact with the door. Three distinct bodies stood side by side, though it’s possible more were present beyond my field of vision. A shock of blonde hair reflected in the street lamp; its locks like tentacles, exploring the cool evening breeze. The group’s speech was animated, almost antagonistic with one another. The blonde pointed accusatorially towards the others, silencing them with her shrill, raised voice. They stepped away from her; their silhouettes momentarily disappearing from sight. Edging back into view, I saw them presenting their palms in innocence. This only caused the blonde further angst. Theatrically waving her arms, she stepped forward, as if daring them to challenge her. Her bracelets violently clashed against one another with each stab of her index finger. I was being treated to my own private soap opera, unfolding on a narrow-screen TV.
The blonde turned towards my hideaway. Just for a moment, our eyes locked, or at least I felt like they did. A bolt of panic shook my body and the vomit in my oesophagus threatened to rise once more, but seeing me through the darkness at that distance would have been near impossible. Despite this, I eased myself back to the comforting aluminium, all while keeping sight of my personal telenovela. The tallest of her friends, an imposing male with a baritone voice, reached for the blonde’s arm, but she immediately batted him away. Someone must have turned the volume up as her loudest screech yet followed. The squeal was unequivocally North American. My pulse quickened as her expletives echoed past me.
With her final battle cry, the war was won. The vanquished retreated, speaking slowly and carefully as if talking the victor down from a rooftop. Though I struggled to understand their distant English; my best guess is that they were requesting a call upon her safe return home. A service that she was unlikely and probably unwilling to provide. After another harsh rebuke, the pair solemnly disappeared from view. The blonde directed an audible sigh towards the defeated as a parting gift.
Finally solitary, the blonde leant against the wall. A muffled howl of frustration reverberated within her palms. I found myself subconsciously imitating her actions in silence. I remained still, quiet, waiting. My legs had begun to numb and an almost overwhelming urge to cough consumed me. I knocked back my own saliva, attempting to drown the sensation. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, attempting to aid circulation. However, the numbness refused to subside. The issue may have been more mental than physical.
Minutes ticked by, both of us refusing to abandon our vigils. Though she had quietened, the blonde’s presence was palpable. My breath appeared before me as the night’s chill settled in. The bile bubbling within me began to settle.
***
My mind wandered away from the alley. I thought back to my meeting with Alé two weeks previously. I was nestled into his decades-old sofa. The smell of weed clung to the walls and cumbia blared from his tinny speakers. Alé handed me a lukewarm Cristal, which I half-heartedly clinked against his. After the usual small talk about football and girls, conversation turned to the operation. I expressed my concerns, which were inevitably met with laughter. Alé was an old friend, but an imbalance of respect existed between us. He always treated me like a simple younger brother who needed constant reminding on the true state of the world. After repeating my question back to me, as he always did, Alé took the following twenty minutes re-educating me on his theory of ‘new colonialism‘. I’d heard it many times before but I was reminded once again: ‘first the Spanish came with their swords, now the gringos come with their wallets’. Mateo sat listening in the corner of the room. A gormless, open-mouthed smile fixed permanently upon his face, revealing a scattering of teeth. His eyes focused on the cigarette rolling between his yellowed fingers, as he silently nodded along to Alé’s ramblings. He and Alé had struck up a friendship of convenience since Alé took to the streets. The pair had been introduced by Alé’s uncle, and Mateo’s influence had acted like a magnet to Alé’s moral compass, much to his uncle’s pleasure. Though I’d only had limited interaction with Mateo, I’d already decided that he was someone who needed to be kept at arm’s length.
Alé continued his monologue. He’d gone from vilifying the Spanish colonisers to praising the courage and efficiency of their conquest. His eye contact erratically jumped between me, Mateo and his gold rings, which he frantically adjusted as if trying to complete an unsolvable puzzle. Once the history lesson was over, Alé, as usual, began to regale us with his personal ‘economic successes’ against our new colonisers. These were never listed by description but by number and date. He didn’t delight in their losses, but assured us that for them robbery is just a ‘temporary inconvenience’, while for us ‘it is survival‘. Alé didn’t view himself as a violent man, but he did appreciate its occasional necessity. “A short, sharp shock will do the job 99% of the time. The ones that are prepared to fight are the ones with the most to lose.” In these circumstances, he advised that I would have to use my own judgement. Higher risk, higher reward. Mateo added an affirmative grunt to his ongoing nodding, momentarily raising his enormous head and widening his smile. I felt that for Mateo, the violence was more of a welcome bonus than a necessity.
I finished my bottle of Cristal and weighed up my very limited options.
***
Back in the alleyway, the silence persisted.
I contemplated whether the blonde had the potential for violence. Her volatility had been proven, and she was almost certainly drunk, which wouldn’t necessarily work in my favour. The words ‘short, sharp shock’ danced from ear to ear like a Buddhist mantra. I mentally walked through the plan; I’d wait until she was parallel, barge her to the wall, take what I could, then disappear into the night. She’d protest, swear, maybe even give chase, but all she’d leave with would be a few small bruises and a sympathetic story to share with her friends back home. An unwelcome stumbling block until mum’s money pinged into her bank account, a swish new phone found its way to her hand, and her holiday continued with her all but forgetting what happened. I’d be nothing more than a nasty incident with a native. An angrily scrawled footnote in her otherwise flawless travel diary. If anything, I’d add an air of authenticity and excitement to her time in our continent.
Still no noise. I was certain of her presence, but I no longer possessed concrete evidence. I, once again, gulped back the rising tide of sickness. Twenty minutes had ticked by since she’d slumped against that piss-hued wall. I began to worry that the night would soon produce other, more serious, issues for both blonde and myself. Staying motionless was proving more of a challenge with each minute that passed. I wriggled my toes, relieved that a semblance of feeling remained. From the streets, the reggaeton cut out mid-beat. Metal shutters punctuated the silence as they clashed against the concrete floor beneath them. The blonde’s voice was almost unrecognisable upon its return. It was now timid, sounding more defeated than defiant. Its spite had been drained. Her words soon turned to sobs, then wails. The alleyway amplified her woes, alerting the night of her presence. It wouldn’t be long until competitors made themselves known. I toyed with the idea of approaching, but held my ground just as Alé had instructed.
Against my better judgement, I craned my neck forward for a better view. She sat hunched, highlighted by street lamps as if she were the star of some tragic amateur theatre. Her blonde hair hung over her knees, and her bare feet had become polluted by the street’s dirt. A pair of black high heels lay next to her, as did her handbag. Her head remained cradled in her hands, her body convulsing with sobs. It was almost as if she were acting in an advert on what not to do when visiting Beacon City.
The dull thud of heavy boots made themselves known and increased in volume as the owner approached. For her sake, I hoped these footsteps belonged to her friends, backtracking on their earlier abandonment. For my sake, I hoped they would simply pass without incident. The hidden figure slowed then halted, leaving a large silhouette looming over her. The shadow’s head lowered, inspecting and investigating the blonde as if she were an exhibit in a museum. The blonde remained unmoved, but her sobs soon dissolved. She was aware of the other’s presence. The shadow straightened itself, scanning its surroundings. Its shoulders relaxed. A momentary glow emanated from its face with each puff of cigarette. It was as if they were two actors who’d forgotten the next line of a play, waiting for someone off-stage to offer up a cue.
Whatever the black mass was, I felt like it could somehow see through my obscurity. Its off-camera eyes bore a hole in me, scanning me from the inside out. The scene remained unaltered; the three of us in stasis, considering our next move. The blonde’s head slowly emerged from its cradle. Her movements were slow, seemingly calm. She reattached her heels, one strap at a time, then gently placed her handbag on her exposed shoulder. Her outstretched hand gently detached the lit cigarette from the shadow’s mouth and placed it in her own. Her movements were surprisingly smooth and methodical. The shadow obliged and sent a deep laugh reverberating down the alleyway. Invigorated by her chauvinism, the shadow approached her. It must have been at least a foot taller than her. The street light lingered on the unknown figure, making it human. My heart sank. Mateo.
Undeterred by his size, the blonde offered the cigarette back to its owner, but Mateo had other plans. He coiled his coarse fingers around her beautiful locks, yanking her to her feet. A small yelp slipped from the blonde’s mouth. Her confident façade slipped.
“Vamos, David!” The mention of my name ran chills down my spine, and with this demand, they both turned towards me. It was my cue to enter the scene.
Mateo knew my exact location and had done all along. Alé must have sent him to check up on me. My heart pounded violently, attempting to escape the confines of my chest. The vomit began its journey up my gullet once more.
Mateo held her at length, avoiding her desperate swipes. She repeatedly aimed a “fuck you” in his direction, which only brought laughter from her aggressor.
“David. Give me a hand here. This one’s got fire!”
With ease, Mateo spun her around and pulled her slight body towards his, pressing her back to his chest. Muffled profanities could still be heard from beneath his enormous palm.
“What the fuck are you waiting for, man?” Mateo’s patience was running thin.
Doing what I could to mask my fear, I stepped out of the shadows. I clenched my fists tightly, trying to subdue the shaking. I just hoped Mateo was too preoccupied with the blonde to notice my obvious trepidation.
“Grab her bag. Quickly. She’s not letting up.”
My muscles constricted, rooting me to the spot. Mateo grimaced and grunted disapprovingly at me. He then turned his attention back to the blonde, shouting at the back of her head.
“Look puta, if you don’t fucking calm down, I’m going to have to do something about it. Do you understand?”
The blonde’s heel thudded into Mateo’s shin bone, causing his hand to briefly dislodge from her mouth. Her piercing blue eyes were full of terror. She screamed “hel-“, before Mateo’s returning hand silenced her.
“David, sort yourself out and silence this puta. Knock her the fuck out if you have to. Quickly!”
The whites of the blonde’s eyes grew as her limbs began to tire. Mateo’s patience had reached its limit. The spotlight fixed on me as I took centre stage. My mind clouded with panic.
Against my better instincts, I swung my right fist towards Mateo, barely brushing his cheek. Without a moment’s pause, he tossed the blonde to the floor like a ragdoll, refocusing on his new target.
“I fucking knew it. You cowardly piece of shit. Alé knew you didn’t have it in you. You never had the balls, did you?”
I backed up, running my fingers along the wall, hoping for the touch of aluminium. Mateo lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar. I wanted to swing again, but I was paralysed by fear.
“Please, don’t tell Alé.” My words were as meek as I felt. They fell out of my mouth like a child begging a school bully for mercy. I filled with shame.
“You fucking pussy.”
Mateo’s vast forehead collided with the bridge of my nose. I heard a crack before my knees buckled and I crumpled to the concrete, covering myself in vomit. Mateo positioned himself above me, my head leaking between his feet. He watched me squirm with disgust as I felt his spit land on my neck. I kept my eyes lowered to the floor, watching as a crimson stream mixed with stomach bile and urine.
Mateo hauled me up by my sleeve, forcing me to look him in the eyes, daring me to face him like a man. I did so, not out of bravery, but out of fear.
Mateo lifted my chin with his index finger, admiring his work. The taste of blood and vomit lingered on my tongue. His perpetual, toothy grin mocked my frailty.
Mateo’s head jerked back. The sinews on his neck strained with pain. He stumbled against the wall behind him, cracking the back of his skull, then blindly attacked the brick with his clenched fist. The crunch of bone made me wince. The blonde was standing metres from him, motionless but primed, watching his every move. Something sharp shone between her fingers. Mateo swung his heavy frame, absently searching for retribution, but his left leg buckled and he slipped on the fluids beneath his feet. His head struck violently against the concrete once more.
The blonde had driven whatever she was holding into Mateo’s calf. A river gushed from the wound and joined my own, though the flow of his was far stronger.
Against my better judgement, I attempted to stabilise Mateo’s gargantuan frame against my own, but he still retained enough strength to discard me back to the floor.
“Where is that fucking puta?”, repeatedly spewed from Mateo’s lips as he continued to swing wildly in every direction.
The blonde reappeared from the darkness and pierced her shank deep into the already gaping wound. Mateo finally crashed to the ground, cursing her through exasperated breaths. The river burst its banks as the blonde tore into Mateo’s other leg with two lightning blows to the back of his knee. She stepped back, ensuring she was beyond Mateo’s reach. We both watched as his movements slowed then ceased. Her focus shifted to me.
We held each other’s gaze, waiting for the other to make the first move. The blonde wanted to establish whether I remained a threat. I caught a glimpse of the weapon in her hand and lowered my head in submission. Picking up her sodden handbag, she returned the shank to where it must have originated. Without averting her eyes, she then produced a set of keys and walked towards me. I backed myself against the wall, allowing her to pass. Her face, once filled with terror, now showed no emotion at all. Her movements had returned to being stable and calculated. She placed a key into the aluminium door that had once given me comfort. The key turned and the door opened. The blonde then disappeared from the alley without trace, leaving me with an unconscious Mateo, and a mountain of decisions to face.
[Image Credit : Photo by Leo_Visions on Unsplash]
Originally a singer-songwriter, I spent many years exploring storytelling through music before turning to prose in 2020. Since then, I’ve written several short stories and am currently working toward completing my first novel. Based within touching distance of Oxford, my fiction tends to be character-driven and explores the grittier edges of everyday life.
