Pleasantwood Valley

Pleasantwood Valley – could any area of this city have a more ironic name?

For as long as you can remember, Pleasantwood Valley has been worthy of many other names, but not that one. Factory buildings, old and generally unused, as far as the eye can see; a layer of smog giving a grey hue to the sky, deceptively transparent from a distance; shady characters around every corner, from the large and burly to the demure and stealthy – all willing to either con their next victim out of time and money or threaten the poor fool outright.

You look at the beige envelope in your hand; around ten minutes ago you were carrying a computer in a shopping bag.

These buildings are generally unused, but there are still some that see a somewhat moderate amount of activity, hence the smog, you suppose. The client you saw ten minutes ago looked no more lawful than anyone else who you noticed eyeing you up when you arrived in this area, or who you still notice upon your exit. As a matter of fact, you remain certain that the newly repaired laptop you delivered has been the only reason she did not brandish a firearm and shoot to kill right there and then. People have certainly taken their final breaths in Pleasantwood Valley – disappearances, shootings, even rumours of concrete boots. The public keep quiet about it, but everybody knows that it happens. At times you have felt as though calling the police would be inefficient; the military would be far better suited to clearing out this crime zone.

You quickly pocket the envelope as you continue East at a somewhat brisk pace, as quickly as you feel comfortable without drawing too much attention to yourself. Your client was practically beaming when she handed you the envelope, and it does feel quite hefty. Whatever data that laptop contains must be invaluable to her, which may end up being detrimental when you consider the area in which she conducts business. Acutely aware of a pit forming in your stomach, you ignore all thoughts of the nefarious possibilities, instead maintaining focus on leaving as quickly and safely as possible.

You soon reach an overpass spanning across a busy dual carriageway. Each step up the staircase feels like a tremendous weight on your shoulders is being chipped away piece by piece. It feels strange to be thankful for an inclining journey up a set of stairs, but then again prolonged exposure to Pleasantwood Valley has strange effects on the psyche of many a person. Your pace quickens as you reach the top, turning your back on the industrial maze and walking across the bridge. Of all places, you never expected freelance technical support to take you there. No matter – you can freely stride forth and never look back, and it is not long before you are practically bouncing down the stairs on the other side of the carriageway.

Finally, you can breathe a sigh of relief – the city air is still somewhat smoky but compared to the other side of the bridge it is, for lack of a better term, pleasant.

There is an underground tram station in the area; however, despite your new feeling of safety, you decide it would be beneficial to walk along to the next station. The term “better to be safe than sorry” rings unapologetically true.

Velveteen Street – Underground Tram Stop. By the time you descend the stairs toward the station, you have admittedly lost track of time. This matters not to you, though. As long as you get home safely, who cares if you spent more or less time outdoors than you intended? After all, this station is still somewhat close by to Pleasantwood Valley, so it would make sense that at least one or two people may have connections.

You reach the foot of the stairs when a nearby traveller from around the corner brushes against you. She quickly, and rather quietly, apologises and heads on her way.

“Oh, no – it’s fine.” You offer, but she is already on what looks like an important mission to leave. She looks extraordinarily little like anybody you have seen before in this area. All the busybodies in business suits and office attire may as well serve as a background for such a striking figure. Her short, curly red hair bounces with each step, and she slips into the crowd before you realise that you have been staring. Your eyes still catch glimpses of her between the nine-to-five office workers, particularly due to the technicolour scheme of her jacket, and a frame that, while short in stature, suggests that she routinely looks every fad diet dead in the eye and says: “No thanks, friend – I choose life!”.

Perhaps your fixation is a blessing in disguise – before you continue your own journey you notice something drop out of her jacket pocket. The waves of people within the underground station either have yet to notice, or they are largely ignoring the event. You make a start toward the object, persevering in your journey through the crowd of busybodies. You somewhat puff your chest out and stretch your arms before crouching near the object. An odd gesture, perhaps, but it at least assures that you are at no risk of being trampled.

You claim the dropped object and inspect it closely – a small notebook, it seems, encased in black faux leather. A leather strap folds from the back end to the front, combining forces with a gold padlock to seal the book shut. It clearly holds some importance, but it has no other distinguishing features; having the book returned would prove difficult if she needed to call the station.

Your eyes quickly scan the area – a tuft of red hair surfaces from the crowd to the West. You push forth through the sea of people, finding yourself pushed around oftentimes before finally breaching through to a less populated section of the station. Honestly, how do people function like that? Is there an unwritten law of the lunchtime rush of which you are unaware?

Still, you have a notebook to return. You can ponder the rituals of the underground station later.

You easily spot the owner of the notebook – thank goodness for all that bouncy hair!

“Excuse me?” You call out. She quickens her pace without even looking. Perhaps she is about to miss her tram?

“Wait a moment!” You accelerate as you pursue her. She does the polar opposite to your request. She runs even faster, as do you. Then, in a sudden blur, you find yourself tackled to the floor – pinned down in the middle of the station by a security guard who has just witnessed you running as fast as you can after a woman who was sprinting at a feverish pace. The notebook flies out of your hand and crashes onto the floor, breaking the padlock on contact. To your surprise, you find that your envelope had slipped out of your pocket the moment your body met with the cold tiled floor. You watch in stunned silence as the bouncy-haired woman slips away once more, only just registering a second security guard examining your belongings.

“Jesus!” He says out loud. “Hey, Richie – there must be at least twenty grand in here!”

Hold the phone – twenty thousand dollars!? All you did was fix a computer; what on Earth could be on that machine that warrants such a high reward? The second guard shows a letter to the guard who has you pinned down.

“Consider this payment for a job well done…” He reads. “What do you think it means, Eddie?”

You cannot help but wonder why neither of the security guards have asked you directly. The guard you assume to be Eddie is now inspecting the notebook. He frowns, and for the first time addresses you personally.

“Would you care to explain this?” He asks, showing you the pages within.

This little black notebook contains no notes at all – at least, not in any written form. It is instead a scrapbook of sorts, filled with photographs that have been pasted onto the pages. Each photograph is a portrait of an individual, though their eyes have red crosses crudely etched over them in red ink. You recognise some from news stories – people that have gone missing with their last known location being Pleasantwood Valley.

You feel all shades of colour drain from your face.

One solitary photograph remains untouched: a portrait of her.

This situation has little potential to end well.