X Marks the Spot

4 - The Street With No Name

The hospital on Prince's Avenue and Shelley Community High School were miles apart although they coexisted in the same county; somewhere around the midpoint was a large cul-de-sac. It was difficult to make out anything in the heavy snow, but this was not the reason very few knew the original name of the street. Many decades ago, a group of young thugs decided to channel their unjustified rage into the destruction of the signpost of this street, thus leaving the street with only two short metal poles on the front of which the sign had been exhibited.

A young woman was slumped against one of these poles, using it as support in the bitter weather. It was hard to tell how old she might be, for all of her years of living at this spot had aged her at an immeasurable pace; she was foolish, the naivety of her teenage years still corrupting her, but also wise beyond her years. She was once pretty, but her bedraggled blonde hair, unclean teeth and the cheekbones protruding from her face attracted nothing but instant judgement from onlookers. All except one, perhaps.

An elderly man emerged from one of the houses in the cul-de-sac. Michael had befriended the woman when they were both in need of a friend. They were both in need of much more than that: food, water, warmth, a home, a family - but they both welcomed each other's companionship gladly. Strangers had often been more willing to give money to the pair of them, as Michael was well into his sixties and the woman could often be mistaken for a young girl due to her stature; they were magnets of pity. When she met him, she could not have guessed that he would be in a better situation than her; only a couple of years after he met her, not only had he found accommodation, but also a woman who grew to love him dearly and was willing to share everything she had. Now, he exchanged a smile with the girl on the street every time he saw her and did anything he could to help her, greatly improving her chances of survival.

He hurried towards her now, not wishing to linger in the cold. He greeted her jovially, giving her a few pounds in his pocket.

"I wish it was more, Paige," he looked at her with remorseful eyes, "but Clem wants me to pick up some groceries, so..."

"No worries, Michael," she smiled, and with that, he walked away from her.

Paige's view of the world differed incredibly from when she had viewed it as the young girl many passers-by had mistaken her for. Only fifteen years ago, she had belonged, she'd had friends, and a home, and a loving family. She'd had it all.

And now, she was reduced to this. Begging on a street in the snow. She'd dreamed that when she was thirty, the only reason she'd be out in the snow was because her children wanted her help in building a snowman, or her husband wanted to invite her on a romantic walk on Christmas Day. However, she had no children, or husband, and literally nothing to lose. Except Michael. It could have been worse. She could've had no one at all.

She hugged her arms tightly around her knees. When would the snow stop falling? It hadn't been this heavy for at least thirty years, she heard a postman mention to his colleague a few days ago.

Paige saw Michael walking up the street in her direction again, this time carrying a plastic bag full of groceries. He gave her a cheery wave when he was a few metres away. She raised her hand to wave back when she saw a man approach Michael from behind, wrap his arm around his neck, and plunge a knife into his chest.

Paige watched, catatonic, as Michael's limp body fell face-first into the snow. The killer, being watched by several stunned witnesses from the windows of the houses lining the street, proceeded to repeatedly thrust the knife into Michael's back. He suddenly stopped and pulled Michael's arm out from under him. Paige finally came to her senses due to her own curiosity. He'd already killed Michael, Paige realised with a pang of sadness and guilt. What did he want with his arm?

The murderer dropped Michael's arm back into the snow. A witness pulling up on a motorbike was more courageous than, I believe, at least thirty people watching, but he unfortunately met the same fate as Michael.

As soon as the killer ran to his car (Remember, Paige. Remember his car - a red Honda), Paige examined Michael's body. A thin layer of snow was already beginning to cover his frail body. To satisfy her curiosity, she looked at his arm. The killer had daubed an 'X' on Michael's forearm, using his own blood that was now steadily leaking onto the snowy road.

No way...

There was no time to lose. Paige sprinted to the abandoned motorcycle and started it up, just as the killer reached his car and began to drive away. Paige didn't know what she was going to do or say to him, but she couldn't let him get away.