Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (38 page)

By Mark Bredenbeck

He could hear the dog's ragged
breathing a short distance behind, he could almost feel its hot
breath on his heels. His own breath was coming in short rasps, the
oxygen fighting for space in his tar filled lungs, his body
rebelling against years of smoking in one malicious
moment.

Turning right into the darkness of a
service alley he nearly stumbled, tripping over his own feet, the
alcohol coursing through his bloodstream along with another shot of
adrenalin.

He was not far from home but he was
running out of time. The dog had sensed its opportunity and had
increased its pace, the scattering of paws on the rough surface got
louder, touching every fear receptacle in his brain.

He knew there was a tall fence here
somewhere he desperately needed the escape.

A muffled silence invaded his head, his
vision blurred. He sensed the dogs’ presence getting closer. There
was no noise, the sound of paws on tarmac disappeared as if the dog
was suddenly floating.  Turning his head, he saw a vision of
hell as a flash of sharp white came out of the darkness in line
with his throat. The dog had found its target.

He panicked and kicked out at the last
minute, his foot colliding with the meaty part of its chest just
below its vicious head. He heard the air go out of its lungs
through its mouth, so close he could smell the fetid stench of its
sour breath. It deflated onto the ground below him, an angry growl
gurgling in its throat.

The dog was scrabbling on the wet
surface trying to regain its footing, giving him precious seconds.
Pulling the knife from his belt, he thrust it downwards, putting
all his force into the movement. There was a small sucking sound as
the sharp blade entered its skull through the eye socket. The blade
lodged itself in the bone and stuck fast, the dog shook violently
but then became still, light disappearing from its good eye. He did
not even hear a whimper as the brave life faded away. Pulling the
knife from its destruction, he felt only sadness.

The sight of this life ending was the
same as he had seen less than ten minutes ago, that life to had
ended on the end of the same knife.

A life traded over a difference of
colours, a rival patch of allegiance. A fight over a woman
possessed by another but lusted after by him. He had lusted and she
had lured by using that lust. She took him from the bar with
promises of heaven and he had seen glimpses of it as well, with
gentle hands and welcoming wetness. He had been well on the way
before the man had shown up. He could not remember the anger
although he knew there had been some.

She had tried to calm things between
them, she had done her best, but she was the alchemist that had put
them together, his foe and him. Her boyfriend’s death was the
outcome of her unfaithful desire. He would have left it, normally,
but for the different ‘patch’ on each of their backs. It was not as
if he had not been in that position before.

A gang's strength came in its ability
to subdue the rest of the pretenders. When he saw the man’s
allegiance displayed openly on his back, he could not let it lie,
not now that this man had found him using his treasure so openly.
He could not show any weakness.

He was surprised how easy it had been.
He had moved fast, taking the man by surprise. This patched foe had
just stood there and taken it, no great struggle, no fanfare, no
begging for mercy. Once the knife had entered his sternum,
punctured his lungs and pierced his heart the man had fallen to his
knees, a look of surprised indignation on his face. The dying
patch, his life cheating him so cruelly, and then his death had
found him because of nothing but a difference of affiliation. He
had tried to say something with his last breath, his words
struggling with the lack of air, but then his lights had gone out
in front of him, taking something from his soul he could not
explain. It was the eyes he remembered most, they had been vacant
and lost, a bit like his own. Had he seen an acceptance in them
before he had passed? It certainly looked like he had found a
certain sort of peace.

He looked down in the dim light at the dog
quietly panting, the dog knew it was dying, he knew the patch was
already dead… his knew his own run was over.

He thought of the
woman.
The hands that had been so gentle
shortly before had turned on him, words of hatred spewing from
within in an angry torrent. He remembered her naked breasts
flapping about as she had clawed and kicked at his bare skin, tears
and snot staining her once pretty face.

He touched at the drying scratches on
his cheek.

She had been so sultry, sensuous even,
he was a fool to himself, and he had wanted it all. It was
something he could not control.

Looking around at the darkened
alleyway, the brave animal bleeding out below his feet, he knew it
was his weakness to blame. The darkness that surrounded him echoed
his life.

The sound of heavy boots bouncing off
the walls of the alleyway suddenly presented another danger; this
one was more urgent. The policeman in those boots had been quick
off the mark; he had hardly left the woman's house when he heard
him release the dog. He must have been in the neighborhood when she
had called for help. Now his dog was dead and the policeman would
be here to witness it very soon. He looked around at the fence
behind him, home was so close but his body was too tired to run
anymore.

He looked at the bloodied knife in his
hand, then back towards the approaching policeman, a shadow growing
larger. He thought about his infant son, safe at home in the
innocent arms of his mother, no knowledge of the world he
inhabited. He thought of the star he had placed above his cot,
telling him quietly that it was there to guide and to protect
him.

Do not live my life, he thought sadly,
you are daddy's little Star.

He held the bloodied knife to his
chest, sat back against the wire of the fence behind him and
waited.

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Wasted Lives is the second book in the
Bridger series, available now.