Another sneak peak. Potential spoilers all XXX’d out.

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved

I make it about two blocks away from the church when I decide it’s time to ditch the umbrella. Sorry, Father XXXX, but getting drenched wins next to getting beaten up by some massive European psycho. I glance back between my long and frantic strides to try and throw it at him, not that umbrellas, especially broken ones, are known as great projectile weapons. I miss him by a mile. Plus, even if I was on target, chances are he’s probably good at the baton relay anyway judging by the serious look on his face, the grip he had on my neck when we first met, and his ever-increasing pace bringing him far too close for my own comfort. He must only be about 15 yards behind me.

Even now, in this fight or flight moment when my choice is clearly ‘flight’, I can’t help but think of how the priest called me ‘XXXX’. Was it…a guess? I almost slip as I make a sharp turn down an alleyway leading to a large open square area obstacle-course filled with fire-lit trash cans. Or does he actually know me? I see a host of homeless people ahead of me as I dodge and weave through the burning cans, the smell of kerosene and methylated spirits absorbed by my adrenalin-aided acute sense of smell. Have we met before? I begin tipping over the bins, hoping to set up some sort of fire trap between him and I, much to the annoyance of my fellow bums whose moans I hear in-between the sounds of clattering and the stomping and slapping of our feet on wet pot-holed concrete. Maybe he just called me XXXX through randomness, seeing if I’d react. And react I did.

The questions in my mind stop when we get to the end of bumtown and my exit path returns back to a narrow alley. Ahead of me a half-dozen or so overfilled wheely bins are blocking the path, with a congregation of feral cats ceasing their paw licks and arching their backs as they see me coming before flinging themselves away into the balconies above. Baton relays, obstacle courses…now it’s the long jump. I don’t have the time to look back at my pursuer, never mind question my ability in pulling this off, as I stop momentarily to ready myself. Those bins are at least a yard and a half high, and maybe 12 yards long. And it looks like their lids are open. Fuck knows what’s behind it all, too. Shit. Puffing out my cheeks and without any other options, I go for it.

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I’m not sure how or why, or whether it was even my intention, but I leap through the filthy garbage-soiled air arms and head first, as if I’m diving into a pool. I land square onto the contents of maybe the third wheely bin out of 6, breaking several bin liner bags upon impact and immediately embraced by an Extravaganza of Shit: rotten bleeding tomatoes, domestic garbage juice, lipstick smeared cigarette butts covered in flakes of wet ash and stained yellowy black by putrid nicotine, discarded fast food outlet condiments in half-ripped little containers, even the carcass of a dead medium-sized fucking DOG. You name it, I’m covered by it: Fun for the Whole Family. And…I can still probably look forward to a slow death. Fuck, my lucky day. Best not to dwell on that last bit. I dig my elbows into the the bloated puffs of garbage bags and loose paraphernalia to keep on going onto the fourth bin, whose lid is open as well. Thankfully the last two have their lids closed and so I only have one last sojourn through a dumpster, which surely can’t be as bad as this last one.

Mercifully, this fourth bin is practically empty bar a pair of neatly tied-up and, I suppose, ‘average-looking’ liners. Good to see someone in this town cares about hygiene and cleanliness. As I appreciate the qualities of well-mannered waste disposal and its previously unbeknownst benefits, I hear the squeak of partially locked, rusty and overloaded wheels. The Euro is shoving the dumpsters out of the way! Perhaps he didn’t fancy a bit of a dip into garbage juice and has decided to forcefully clear the path, maybe his muscle bulk is holding him back? I don’t know, but it buys me some time.

I opt not to rest on my laurels and scurry across onto the fifth bin’s lid, losing my footing for an instant and slamming hard onto its surface. My European pursuer in the meantime has made it to the second bin, pulling it away and getting frustrated by the locked wheels as his actions become more violent: this time he’s the one who’s acting all frantic. He lets out an angry grunt as I dig my fingernails into the hard black plastic lid of the final dumpster, lashing out with kicks to try and dislodge the wheel clamps. We both know by now that I’m going to escape.

As I slide off the last obstacle and back down to the ground, I hear him shout “No! No!” repeatedly, still kicking the slippery clamps ceaselessly and with no apparent pain. We must be less than ten yards away from each other, but humanity’s waste and unwanted belongings have provided me with a much-needed safety barrier. With much relief, I get back on my feet and keep on running ahead for another three blocks through narrow alleyways and small streets.

I run until I am exhausted, hunching my hands onto my knees as I find myself struggling for breath. I draw much unwanted attention onto myself when I see that I’ve made it onto a main road, where several heavily coated pedestrians start whispering to each other and even the odd car passengers hang out the side windows of moving cars to hurl abuse at me. What a city, indeed. I may be covered in smeared pulps of fruit and smell like hell, but I am just so so relieved to still be alive, even if I am gasping for life. Surely I’ve lost him by now, the relief settling in as I lean onto a dented steel trash can’s circular lid as a fulcrum for my unbalanced physical self. I concentrate my by-now starry eyes on the wet bin lid. To think that garbage containers are my new saviour; I’d kiss this one if it wasn’t for the overriding final flickering sign of common-sense firmly telling me “NO”. I begin to feel the onset of an asthma attack and need to better focus my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

A well-dressed blonde girl in her early twenties with a bright green umbrella passes by, her heels clickety-clacking on the pavement as she conjures up a revolted look on her face. I don’t quite know why; it was I who almost had to contemplate the undesirable issue of sharing a final resting place with a dead bulldog. Her thoughts enter my mind, and I can tell she perhaps isn’t that well educated from the way she’s reacting to the sight of mouldy yoghurt on my chest: “Ewww, yuck that is SO gross.” Again, people’s thoughts entering my head as the asthma attack starts to loosen its grip. I squat down to speed up the recovery process.

Minutes pass as I hover there, peering over the movement of people and the rushing of cars, the blur of colours reminding me of the euphoric feeling of Father XXXX’s codeine-laced soup. I’m beginning to enjoy it but my vision starts to sharpen, and I am left just a little disappointed at this resumption of normality. That was a close one. My mind is now back to a more sane state, the adrenalin going through its final laps in my body. I wonder who this European hulk of a man is and, importantly as far as self preservation goes, why the hell he’s after me.

“Me,” I say out loud.

“XXXX”.

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved