Paint It Black

By Peter Harrison

After a decade in prison, triple-killer Emanuel black is finally freed to resume a normal life. Within days of his release his ex-love - stripper and good-time girl, Melody Campion, is murdered. all fingers point to the ex-con. when the murder weapon is found the police start the search for a disgraced cop with a score to settle. they find him ... dead. then Emanuel’s thirteen year old daughter, Blanche, is kidnapped. are the crimes related, is Emanuel black the link between the two incidents, or is it all a bizarre coincidence?
a frantic tale of cat and mouse as innuendo and false claims lead to frayed nerves and wrong diagnosis as crooks, bent cops and Durham’s top brass are led on a merry dance.
Is the killer someone from the past holding a grudge against Emanuel Black or is it one of Melody Campion’s married ex-lovers fearful of being named and desperate for permanent closure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barny Books
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310708367

Book preview

Emanuel Black took a deep breath, pulled on the balaclava and knocked at the door. Moments later the door eased open and Emily Concannon’s beaming face appeared. The smile faded. It was not the company she was expecting.

What on earth! she gasped, and tried to retreat.

The female was hit with a bludgeoning uppercut to her jaw. Emily Concannon collapsed with barely a sound. Emanuel Black, a tall, solidly-built black man, stepped quietly into the plush landing. He stared momentarily at the scantily-dressed, unconscious victim. The door was quietly closed.

Has he arrived, darling? a voice called out.

The intruder moved quickly towards the nearest room. He observed a man lounging over a newspaper dressed only in garish shorts and tee-shirt. He was sipping from a can. Emanuel Black pulled out the replica pistol and used it to tap a jarring tune against the open door. Shaun Concannon, spasmed with shock, dropped the lager into his lap and gawked in horror at the burglar.

Mr. Concannon? said the young hoodlum casually, aiming the gun at the fidgeting figure.

I’m not a rich man, said Shaun Concannon nervously. Take whatever you want. He glanced nervously at the door and stammered, My wife! What have you done with my wife?

She’s fine! snapped the intruder. Shut up!

Emanuel Black entered the room. He squatted on a sofa opposite the quaking victim. Pointed the pistol at the man.

Local boy done good! said the young thief. Thirty years old and already a bank manager!

I don’t have a lot of money, replied Shaun Concannon nervously.

"You don’t think I’m after your dough?" said Emanuel Black.

The realisation made the older man blurt out, You want to rob the bank? he asked, his tone incredulous.

Clever!

Concannon struggled to find an answer. It’s not that simple! he said.

Really! answered the intruder, his words oozed sarcasm.

For the second time the older man glanced at the door hoping to see his wife. Gnawing at his inner lip, he asked, Please let me see Emily!

Ask again and I’ll shoot Emily!

We’re expecting company, said Concannon, his words barely audible.

Emanuel Black ignored him, Tell me about the bank!

After an awkward silence, Shaun Concannon whispered, The vault is on a time-lock. It opens eight-thirty tomorrow morning. It takes two keys to open the safe. I have a set of keys and my under-manager has the other. Both keys have to be used simultaneously before the system becomes operational! The manager grimaced at the gunman, There is no way of over-riding the security, he said falteringly.

Emanuel Black smiled through the balaclava while he rummaged in his coat pocket. Henry Holdsworth sends his love, he muttered and threw a bunch of keys at the man.

The victim stared helplessly at the stranger, dejection and defeat etched over his ashen features.

Aren’t you curious about your under-manager, asked the young thug, Henry Holdsworth?

What have you done with him? he croaked.

Last time I looked, Henry was trussed up tight with nowhere to go!

The bank manager looked crestfallen, You know his address?

Man, I know what after-shave he uses. Emanuel Black paused, wanting to create the right impression, Henry lives in Peterlee. He has a hefty mortgage on an apartment in Oakerside Park.

Shaun Concannon blanched with incredulity at the hooded figure, imagining he was in the presence of a master crook. Wondered how much he knew and how many gang members loitered outside waiting for his command.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. The criminal’s girl friend, Melody Campion, a seventeen -year old stripper and good-time girl, had met under-manager Henry Holdsworth months ago in one of Horden’s busy pubs. He was celebrating the birthday bash for Harry, his young brother. Henry Holdsworth, numb with alcohol, vaguely remembered dancing with the young, voluptuous dancer. He had the best night of his life and soon forgot the married woman who had so dominated his life for the past months; whose sexual peccadilloes had initiated Henry towards a darker, dangerous side, the relationship temporarily pushed aside as he followed his heart and chased the beautiful Melody Campion. He woke up the next day with a momentous hangover, and a telephone number inked over the back of his hand. Henry Holdsworth, bursting with unspent adrenalin and bouncing hormones, was tempted enough to contact the girl. A meal followed, and then a drink and the naïve young man was ready to sell his soul and dance with the devil. The young female teased and toyed with the heart and head of young Holdsworth, badgering the trainee banker until he finally succumbed. Henry told her all she wanted to know, about his family, his friends, his aspirations, his dreams, even his tedious work at the bank. So attentive and captivated was the girl that he confided and confessed his innermost thoughts. Henry Holdsworth was mesmerised, totally smitten by the conniving female.

How’s your boy, Shaun? asked Emanuel Black nonchalantly. Sleeping is he?"

The victim slumped further in his chair, his face a picture of dread and despair, his mind frantic with fear.

Strange name for a boy, Otis Concannon? said Emanuel Black, taunting the fellow. You like the blues?

Please, whoever you are, begged Concannon, squirming in the chair, leave my wife and son out of this … I’ll do whatever you want!

I’m staying the night, said the thief. He stood and walked from the room. Come with me. We’ll put your wife to bed!

Shaun Concannon meekly followed. He saw the crumpled, unconscious figure of his wife and retched uncontrollably, falling to his knees.

The burglar muttered, I’m putting away my gun! We’re going to carry Emily upstairs! Do you understand?

The banker looked at the masked man with a mix of hate and disbelief. He nodded reluctantly.

Please, begged Concannon, embarrassed for his unconscious wife who was dressed in a provocative, see-through nightgown. Please let me cover her.

Grab her arms! grunted Emanuel Black, feigning indifference at the sight of the beautiful, senseless woman. He pulled his eyes from the alluring flesh and glowered at the panicky spouse, You try and be the hero and someone upstairs will cut your boy’s throat!

The threat was hollow. Emanuel Black always worked alone. The policy had paid dividends in the past. Knew that most of his ilk worked to a format: driver, lookout, technicians, heavies, etc … the whole caboodle. Emanuel knew that tongues loosened after the completion of any successful job. Worry was thrown out of the window as bravado replaced tension and all thoughts of capture forgotten. Time and time again crooks ignored the ongoing threat of snitches that were ready to shop anyone for pennies, or for leniency from the law. Good men had ended their days in jail because paid informers reported all the tittle-tattle to the local police. Emanuel Black was different. He worked alone, trusted no one. He was nineteen years old and had robbed and stolen all of his adult life and never once been caught. Only occasionally did he deviate from the norm. The present job was one such time. There was no way around it. He had to rely on Melody Campion. It was his idea to use his girl to seduce the under-manager into giving away secrets. Cost him dearly but it had been worth it. He had known Melody since school-days. Knew she was loyal. They were an item and he would marry her one day. They had a daughter, Blanche, almost a year old and as cantankerous as her mother. Emanuel trusted two people in the whole world; Melody was one, Cynthia, his mother, the other …..

They carried the whimpering female up the stairs. Emanuel’s eyes were locked on the struggling banker as the steps were attempted one at a time. The bare thighs of the female were held in one of Black’s arms whilst the other was used to grip the banister, Shaun Concannon, overweight and unused to physical exercise, wheezed and gasped as he backtracked slowly up the steep staircase. They reached the large bedroom and the woman was placed carefully on the double bed, her eyes flickering and registering the growing nightmare. Emanuel Black sat on the small wicker-chair and gave instruction.

Dressing-gown cord will do, Shaun, said Emanuel. Turn her on her side. Fasten her arms and her legs with the same cord.

The intruder smiled and watched as the fellow nervously obeyed the order. It took several nervous minutes to bind his fully-conscious wife. Emanuel Black gazed around the room. He was astonished at the décor. Made him smile, especially the ceiling mirror.

Hey, Shaun! he mocked. If I’d known your preferences I’d have brought the handcuffs!

Shaun Concannon winced. His wife, Emily, flushed with embarrassment, turned her head towards the wall.

The task completed, Emanuel Black barked, Other bedroom! Saw the surprised look from the man and added, You’re sleeping on your own tonight, Shaun … Bring your dressing-gown.

Minutes later Shaun Concannon lay subdued on the single bed, eyes tightly closed as he was bound and gagged securely. Emanuel Black walked from the room, glancing back at the silent, suffering casualty. He closed the door and moved to the boy’s bedroom.

Early the following morning Emanuel Black lay spread-eagled across the huge settee. He glanced at the wall-clock. It was 5.45. He tried not to dwell on the events of the past twenty-four hours. Wondered about Henry Holdsworth. The under-manager had cried like a baby when Emanuel Black confronted him; soiled his trousers when he was tied to the bed with the noose tight around his fat ankles, looped through wrists and snagged securely round his jowly neck.

The young criminal finally sat up and rubbed his eyes. Knew it was a make or break day. If everything went well he would have money to burn, maybe enough to start something legitimate. Emanuel pushed aside pessimism and thought positive. Walked from the room and into the large kitchen, looked across the small, neat garden, and watched the occasional car zoom along Pennine Drive, one of the better council estates in the town. The Concannon family lived in a detached, three-bed roomed house in Dinting Close, a small private enclave, close to the southern end of the estate, and drove a year-old Volvo. His wife, Emily, worked for Dennis Dowen, one of the biggest estate agents in the North-East. Emanuel muttered some disparaging remark about the Concannons, never gave a moment’s thought that the banker’s success had been achieved through years of toiling, perseverance and graft. Emanuel Black cared less!

Surrounded by council houses, sneered a contemptuous Emanuel. He’s not so clever!

The couple had one child, a fifteen year old boy called Otis. He was tall for his age. Spunky. Nothing like his father. The youth was wide awake when Emanuel slipped into the small bedroom as if waiting for the inevitable mayhem, monitoring the intruder then gaping forlornly at the bedroom door with a strange mix of hatred and expectancy. When Emanuel approached the bed the youth suddenly lashed out. The flaying fists caught the young crook flush on the mouth and made him wince with discomfort. The school kid had the grit of an alley cat. It made Emanuel Black chuckle later. He had to tie the boy tight and stick a sock in his mouth to stifle the commotion.

Emanuel Black fitted the balaclava and slowly climbed the staircase, remembered his parting words to the trussed-up banker the previous evening, I’m not interested in how you do it, but tomorrow you return from work with that brief case filled with readies! You want to be the hero, you call Inspector Frost! Just remember this ain’t the television and Jack Frost is really Del Boy! I’ve got men watching you all day, every word you say I’ll hear loud and clear … believe me! The hoodlum had paused for effect before adding ominously, I’ve someone on the inside monitoring you! If she smells something wrong, even a look, I’ll be told, and your wife and son will be dealt with!

It was 7.30am and time to stir Emily Concannon. He needed to persuade her to phone her employer and make excuses for her absence from work. Emanuel reached the landing, knife in hand, wanting to frighten the female enough to make her do his bidding.

He stepped into the bedroom and froze. The woman lay on her back, the duvet an untidy heap next to the bed. The sheets under her were damp. The wafting aroma of urine and bile permeated the room. Emily Concannon’s dead eyes glowered at him from behind saggy duck-tape. Her features were puffy and grey. The satin scarf lay askew next to her frothy open mouth. Emanuel groaned; his monumental blunder obvious. Three times the previous evening he had threatened the woman. Warned her he would use a gag if she continued calling out for her husband. After the fourth visit to the bedroom he lost patience. Found a scarf and wrapped round her face as well as an additional wrapping of duck-tape for good measure. He had left Emily Concannon groaning and wriggling frantically like some giant worm.

Emanuel crept gingerly to her side; no longer the tough guy with the stench of death so close. He took a deep breath and pulled away the sodden scarf. Bloody vomit trickled from her open mouth. Emily Concannon had choked to death. Panic-stricken, Emanuel Black stumbled towards the second bedroom, pushed open the door and saw the tape wrapped tightly round the banker’s mouth and nose. Shaun Concannon’s bulging eyes gazed blindly at the ceiling, his skin waxen and cadaverous. The criminal crept into the room; his mind exploding with panic, his whole body trembling with gut-wrenching foreboding. He nervously prodded at the silent figure. There was no response. The body was cold. The banker was dead.

Emanuel Black staggered from the bedroom and stood for an eternity at the top of the stairs. He was deep in shock. Closed his eyes as the horror scratched weals across his aching heart. Knew he had to escape, but where to go and what next to do? His body shivered involuntarily. Two people were dead! Who would believe a word he said. He had not meant to kill them. It was an accident, a horrible mistake. It was manslaughter. He suddenly remembered the boy. The kid would vouch for him … Henry Holdsworth too.

Emanuel took a deep breath, pushed open the door to the single bedroom and peered inside. The youth was still under the duvet. Only his head was visible. His eyes were nipped shut, his head thrashing from side to side as he attempted to struggle free of the loosening gag. Emanuel stepped into the bedroom. The lad froze, his wild eyes fixated on the hooded intruder. Tears erupted from young Otis Concannon. Finally free of the gag, he started pleading for his life. Emanuel Black edged to the side of the bed, his features awash with grief. He stammered excuses, told the youth it had all been a terrible accident and stood rooted to the spot as if expecting some response from the hysterical, squirming victim.

Emanuel Black hurried from the house and ran blindly from the deserted estate. He slowed to a walk when the small shopping precinct was reached. A few meandering pensioners carrying newspapers looked in his direction. Three youths decked out in regulation school outfits gawked at him. Emanuel reached his car, sat moments trying to marshal his terrified thoughts before gunning the jalopy towards the nearby A19. He headed southbound without rhyme or reason, only knew he had to get as far away as possible.

Reaching the outskirts of Middlesbrough, Emanuel scorched across the fly-over, zigzagging between lines of traffic. Saw the occasional puzzled looks as he shot past vehicles and trucks, heard the sporadic car-horn and the intermittent flashing of headlights. Then he glanced into the rear-view mirror and realised he was still wearing the balaclava. He groaned and pulled off the disguise.

He was apprehended three days later in a sleazy bed and breakfast in Goole, south of York, incoherent and intoxicated, crying inconsolably over a full English breakfast. It was the end of the line for the young criminal.

Emanuel Black’s first major job went horribly wrong and he had the proverbial book thrown at him. No one blamed the authorities for acting as they did. In their eyes the young criminal had threatened and then assaulted three decent, hard-working folk. His actions had resulted in their deaths.

Henry Holdsworth, the unfortunate under-manager of the bank, struggling to free his bonds, had fallen from the bed and slowly strangled.

Emily Concannon, according to the inquest, had suffered a massive heart attack as she retched and struggled against her bonds.

Shaun Concannon had been asphyxiated with the bountiful amount of duck-tape that had been wrapped around his face. He had died that night.

Their couple’s only son, the traumatised Otis Concannon, had been left orphaned.

Emanuel Black was held wholly responsible for the tragic deaths. He stood in the dock, grim-faced with fear, knowing what was coming. He closed his eyes, prayed for the first time in his life and then listened as the verdict was read out:

Manslaughter! said the defence.

Murder! argued the prosecutor.

Life! said the judge.

Chapter One

Emanuel Black followed Garland, one of the more decent wardens, towards the warden’s office. He was about to be released after a lifetime behind bars and Bower, the prison governor - God, Christ Almighty - wanted a word in his ear. Emanuel walked behind the shortest, widest screw in the place, Garland talking like he’s on commission but the prisoner wasn’t listening, he stared instead at the warder’s pock-marked bull neck, coloured crimson because of the straining collar, and thought about his freedom. The pair stopped outside the warden’s office, Garland stole a glance at Emanuel Black, knocked at the door and entered the room. The prisoner followed.

Sir, said Garland standing next to the governor’s desk, Black’s here. He stepped to one side and motioned for the prisoner to step forward.

Bower didn’t acknowledge the inmate. There was no eye-to-eye contact. He chose instead to study the file in front of him. The psychological Hocus-Pocus was wasted on Emanuel Black. He stood quiet and waited for his next move. The ploy worked. The governor snorted, slowly lifted his eyes and focussed on the coloured prisoner.

Last one, Black? said the sardonic Bower, faking a smile.

It was Emanuel’s final day inside the lock-up. He had spent ten lonely years in Durham high-security prison. Yes Sir, he answered.

How long has it been, Black?

Long enough, he replied.

Ten years, said the warden. He leaned back on his swivel-chair and folded his arms, You’ve been very lucky! His cold eyes mocked, wanting some response.

The inmate’s name was Emanuel Samuel Black, twenty nine years old, well over six feet tall and a shade under eighteen stone. He was Peterlee born and bred. Kids called him Manny when he attended the Primary, transferred to the Comprehensive and folks started calling him Mamba, which sounded cool. Behind his back the same people called him Black Mamba. He didn’t like it when he was growing up in the rough back-streets of the town but it toughened him, made him a force to be reckoned with. And when his mother once mentioned he had a passing resemblance to the heavyweight boxer, Evander Holyfield, Emanuel Black shaved his head and grew a thin moustache. Made him look mean.

It was an accident, sir, Black replied. It was never meant to end the way it did …

Do I look a fool? Bower grunted, interrupting. He glanced contemptuously at the prisoner.

Emanuel Black stood impassive, in control.

Lost for words, Black? said the warden, irritated that the man had not snapped at the bait.

Sir, waiting for you to turn the key so I can get out of here, he replied, staring too long at the warden.

Bower stamped release-papers and scowled at the big man. You’ll be back! he said acerbically. Get out of my sight!

Black nodded, pirouetted expertly and marched towards the anxious-looking Garland who turned as deftly as any soldier on parade and followed the inmate out of the room.

George Longstaff was waiting patiently outside. Tall and slim with shoulder-length fair hair and thick horn-rimmed spectacles George looked a poor man’s version of billionaire Bill Gates.

Geordie, you managed, said Emanuel Black and hurried towards the Honda bike.

George Longstaff loved motor cycles. Over the years he’d owned most of the named brands, Yamaha, Triumph, Suzuki, Harley-Davison. Used to borrow them until he was eighteen but, after a couple of short stints in Young Offenders Institutions, he realised his lack of prowess in the criminal game. He stopped borrowing, found regular employment and started buying the bikes instead.

George grabbed his friend and held him tight until he was pushed away, Steady on, said a chortling Manny, we’ll get talked about!

Missed you, Manny, said the beanpole. He added dryly, And since when have you been bothered about people talking?

It wasn’t Elton and David embracing. The pair were red-blooded males who had been friends since childhood. Emanuel Black was a one-woman man who had loved and lost someone because of his long interment. George Longstaff, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. He liked to enjoy and then return.

The freed man straddled the big bike, accepted the helmet which was two sizes too big and clung on to his friend as the machine was kicked into life. Ten minutes later Emanuel Black was dropped off outside his mother’s house in Yoden Road, Peterlee, shivering with cold. He promised to join his friend later for a get-together then watched George disappear in a cloud of dust.

Emanuel walked slowly towards his old home. With stomach churning, he opened the door and stepped into his old home. He called out for his mother.

Cynthia Black, the colour of coal, was short and stout and with an infectious laugh like Rusty Lee … a hardened version of Oprah Winfrey minus the gloss and safety-net of money. With an enormous mop of crinkled hair and multiple chins Cynthia Black was one of life’s optimists, and as tough as they come.

Hey Baby, bellowed the woman waddling into view chortling and snorting like a beached walrus, Let me be seein’ you!

She squeezed and shook the big man like tomato ketchup, stuck big lips on her son as tears filled her eyes.

Where’s Bee? asked Emanuel, gently prizing away from his mother’s grip.

Blanche - Bee - was his daughter, his only piece of good fortune. Months old when the bars were shut behind him, Blanche was now eleven years old and the tallest girl in her class, five-seven, according to Cynthia with a figure too old for her years. Her nature could have been cloned from the tetchy, tempestuous Naomi Campbell with the looks, sensuality and slickness of a schoolgirl Rihanna. Emanuel closed his eyes and prayed the rumours about her pedigree were not true. He had carried the pain for months and it had been almost too much to bear.

Be along soon. Almost lunchtime, said Cynthia Black, pulling her son into the kitchen. Scraping aside a chair, she added, Gotta eat first, Emanuel, need some grease stickin’ to those bare bones!

Emanuel nodded. He was not hungry for food, more gluttonous for news and information. He had heard the tittle-tattle about Melody Campion, his ex-lover and mother of his only daughter. The gossip had filled his head with anguish, made him question whether Blanche was his own flesh and blood. When he was on the mend in prison and months away from release, Emanuel received a few letters, hand-written and almost unreadable. The notes were anonymous, telling Emanuel that Blanche was not his daughter and that he should confront Melody Champion if he wanted to know the truth. Same person ridiculed Emanuel, said he’d been a fool for years believing Melody’s lies. The letters bothered him enough to write to Melody but nothing came back from his ex. In desperation he gave his mother a sealed letter when she visited the jail. He didn’t want his mother - his daughter’s custodian - embroiled in the squalor, especially since she doted on Blanche and treated her like her own daughter. Emanuel gave her the letter with strict instructions to call on Melody and hand over the unopened letter. It had proved a fruitless exercise.

Melody Campion had been an item, once. Emanuel had almost married her, the pair so close there was not a thing she would not do for him. She reined back her excesses for a time, the indiscipline and recklessness pushed aside as the relationship deepened. But it proved a temporary affair. When the veneer lifted the real Melody Campion emerged. She lived on the edge, a wild, wanton girl who cared for no one other than herself. Truth was, Mel never had a chance, and it wasn’t that she came from the wrong side of the tracks, but more the excuse of a mother she had. Patsy Campion, her parent, was a whore with a weakness for booze and drugs whose antics forever tainted her only daughter. Emanuel wrongly thought she’s come through unscathed, imagined for a short while that she’d beaten the demons. He should have known better. Melody was damaged goods. At sixteen she was stripping and lap-dancing for Frankie Jennings, one of his so-called friends. Played the innocent too, told lies like it was no big deal and used men like Emanuel and Frankie as if they were pawns in a game. Melody was the genuine article. The only one she truly loved she saw in the mirror. Wasn’t only Emanuel who thought Melody was a bad egg. When he was jailed, the Courts gave Cynthia Black custody of the child. Melody Campion, with several convictions for drug use, was deemed unsuitable as a parent.

Have you seen Mel? Emanuel asked.

Only when I got no other option, Emanuel, answered Cynthia sourly. Don’t need no grief!

Has she phoned?

Naturally! She wanted to know release-date. Thought she might have to take a vacation in case you decided to check on her. Girl’s a fool and a half.

Cynthia didn’t like Mel Campion. It was not because of the colour of her skin. It was not because she used to work the circuit. It was all about morals and Melody, according to Cynthia, was singularly lacking in that department. Told her jailed son about Melody’s gallivanting. Cousin Seth had spread gossip about Melody seeing Frankie Jennings, manager of the Argus Butterfly Pub in the Lowhills area of the town. Apparently she’d been fooling with him before and after Emanuel came on the scene.

Cynthia was adamant that the only positive thing to come out of the mess was her granddaughter, Blanche. Thankfully the courts in their wisdom had granted her custody of the girl. Cynthia called her Bee. Always buzzing about she was. Always had an opinion, and with a tongue that could sting.

You out for good honey? asked Cynthia, nonchalantly.

Got it one, Ma, he said.

Hold you to that, sugar, said the woman. She was about to say a lot more when her granddaughter made an entrance.

Blanche clomped in, all pout and feigned aggression. She was dressed provocatively in too-high heels, skimpy shirt with buttons undone, skirt like some elongated cravat showing off thin thighs, afro hair akin to one of Lady Gaga’s finest wigs and make-up garish and over-the-top like she’d spent the morning shop-lifting in Boots the Chemist.

You’re home then? she said nonchalantly, glancing at her father.

Blanche brushed past both adults, stomped into the living-room, clicked on the television and draped herself over the nearest arm-chair. She fished for the small hand-mirror from her bag and inspected her face, fingers caressing and preening eyes, nose, and open mouth.

Cynthia waddled towards her grandchild, arms on hips, bearing down on the girl, What’s with the attitude, Bee? Your Daddy is home. Don’t he get no kiss?

Grow up, Grandma, retorted the girl as she put aside the mirror. Way too old for kiddie stuff!

Hi, Babe, said Emanuel Black. He fondled the crinkled perm, Like the hair.

Blanche shrugged her slim shoulders, It’s no big deal.

Emanuel found money and waved it at her like a flag of truce. Pocket-money, Bee, he said, and stared too long at her beautiful, arrogant face.

Pa, get with it! she whined, snatching the money before he could change his mind. It’s called an allowance, okay?

I’ll remember that, he said, retreating to the kitchen to rethink strategy. Cynthia followed.

The woman said, Son, your room is done and dusted.

Emanuel nodded an acknowledgement, his thoughts in freefall. Prison welfare had hinted he’d be fast-tracked for a council home. He didn’t tell his mother. Didn’t want to put a damper on the homecoming. If Cynthia had her own way he would be lodging with his parent until she kicked the bucket. He was seeing Yvonne Kemp, probationary-officer, Monday morning. The agenda was supposedly ad-lib but accommodation and employment had been mentioned the day before his release. The powers-that-be wanted Emanuel integrated as soon as possible. He was sceptical about finding work. Truth be told, he’d never held a job more than a week in his life. It wasn’t only his dark skin that would be a drawback, reckoned his chances at getting a job were almost nil. After all, who in their right minds would employ a barely literate, violent, coloured guy who spent the past decade behind bars for murder?

It was his first day of freedom. He looked at his mother and saw the pain behind the bravado.

Cynthia brought him out of his stupor, Emanuel, she said simply, "Bee don’t mean nuthin. She’s not bein’ disrespectful, only a little shy seein’ her Pa after so long.’

I know that, he replied stoically. Feel the same way myself.

Outside the house, a lone vehicle slowed and parked. The driver fumbled for cigarettes and lighter and spent minutes idly watching the house, sucking casually on the smoke and pondering his next move, occasionally shaking his head as thoughts rattled movement and emotion from his skull. People walked past the stationary car and glanced at the blurred figure sitting behind the tinted windows. He was safe from prying eyes. The man switched on the engine and gunned it mischievously hoping that the noise would draw his quarry to the window. He wanted to see Emanuel Black so much. The exercise proved fruitless. Mumbling incoherently he drove away.

Chapter Two

Well? asked Helen Jacobs, passing the fag-end to her best friend, Blanche Black.

What? asked Blanche.

Your Dad! What’s he like?

OK, said Blanche. He gave me some money … Where do you think I got the cigarettes from?

Tell me then! replied roly-poly Helen. Tell me about him!

I dunno, replied Blanche, shrugging her shoulders. The stupid moustache is gone, his hair is longer ….

Were you scared?

Don’t be stupid!

The pair strolled through the school gates. The school grounds were deserted.

The bell’s gone, Bee, said Helen Jacobs, passing the fag-end to her best friend. Shall we go to the lesson?

Why not, it’s only Miss Nugent, drawled Blanche. It’s afternoon. She’ll be rat-arsed more than likely.

The pair sauntered towards the main block. Blanche switched away from mischievous mode when she spotted the maths teacher looming into view. Mr. Ritter was a tall, middle-aged, balding tutor with a known reputation as an authoritarian. He was old school through and through and cared enough about the pupils under his care not to acquiesce and join the growing band of tutors who courted popularity in preference to the task in hand. His position, however, was becoming more difficult year by year as he struggled against the rising tide of disruptive behaviour.

Get a move on! ordered the teacher. You’re five minutes late!

What shall we say whispered Helen; last thing she wanted was a fusillade of temper from the disciplinarian.

Blanche nodded whimsically, thinking there was more than one way to skin a cat.

Mr. Ritter was on his way to the Resources Centre, thankful