The alley

Danny smiled to himself as the door of the chip-shop slammed shut behind him. In his hands, the warm, paper-wrapped parcel of fish and chips was as close to perfect as he knew and in just a few more minutes he would be able to relax. This knowledge added pace to his steps and to their echo, equally determined to see its day done. Ahead he could see the normally busy main road, silent and empty for a change and with just a quick dash he was safe in the alleyway that led back to his estate, his dinner clutched protectively in his arms. It started to rain as a dark shape detached itself from the blackness behind him.

Danny screamed as he felt himself grabbed and thrown backward to the ground. He leapt up instinctively and tried to run, but strong hands held him securely by his coat. He could just make out a grinning face under the hood of the Parka coat and sagged as he realised who it was. He knew his only chance was escape.

Behind him the hedge was an impenetrable barrier, a guard in his inescapable prison. There was no sanctuary there. It was at least ten feet tall; it might as well have been a thousand, and its leaves were a mixture of dark, foreboding greens, browns, and mouldy yellows. Here and there passers-by had thrust litter into its spiny embrace; pierced by its thorns they looked like escaping prisoners in their multicoloured jumpsuits. They, and he, would never escape. They were both victims of this merciless wall of spines, leaves and loss.

The ground at his feet was covered in brown, withered leaves. Slowly he scanned the path, desperate for any sign that might lead him to freedom and safety. There were none. Around his feet there was simply the discarded detritus of the cold, uncaring wind: metallic crisp packets, a garish fast-food wrapper and yellowing cigarette butts. To his left a small pothole had filled with filthy, oily water and for a moment he imagined his own blood mingling in its depths. To his right someone had spilled paint, a bright streak of white scarring on the tarmac. As tears began to fill his eyes, the boy struggled, wriggled, and squirmed, trying to see behind his much larger assailant.

The third wall of the alleyway was a twelve-foot chain-link fence. It’s posts bled rust where the paint had surrendered to the ravages of time and its links were warped and often broken. Even in its weakened, almost infirm state there was no safety there. Whistling, the wind blew through its tiny hexagonal apertures and mocked the boy who was too large for such a feat of escapism. Spots of rain started to pitter-patter on the ground and dark clouds massed above to witness the unfolding events.

Grimly, the bigger, stronger boy smiled and tightened his grip on the fragile collar of his victim. He had danced this dance many times, knew all the moves, knew how his target felt and knew the feeling of power he gained in return. His coat was stained with mud, as all boys’ coats should be, but some of the stains had a reddish hue and gave the observer an uneasy feeling. His face, though smiling, was an island of inner pain and torment: not for him the joys of friendship, not for him the camaraderie of a gang of ‘pals’. His eyes were dark, and his teeth gritted as if he were the one expecting pain, tension evident in his every fibre. He raised his fist…