Dark Alley: Second Chances

By Mike Anka

Dramatic circumstances bring together two people, and there is a spark between them. She is fourteen, homeless, smart, wild, and alive. Meanwhile, he is forty, a veteran, straight and slim, decent but "dead inside," with his life on hold. After some more dire developments, he loses her, but his determination manages to reconnect him with her on her own dangerous and temporary turf - the dark alleys of a sordid downtown hood.
With hard work and open minds, they forge out a rewarding father-daughter family of sorts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645367512

Mike Anka

Mike Anka is a published author in the UK and USA. He is also a gold and silver award winner for two of his screenplays in International Script Competitions (USA). He is an ex-superbike racer and an active supporter for children and adults with special needs.

Book preview

Epilogue

About The Author

Mike Anka is a published author in the UK and USA. He is also a gold and silver award winner for two of his screenplays in International Script Competitions (USA).

He is an ex-superbike racer and an active supporter for children and adults with special needs.

Dedication

For Meghan and Bridget

Copyright Information ©

Mike Anka (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Anka, Mike

Dark Alley: Second Chances

ISBN 9781643783413 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643783420 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645367512 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917003

The main category of the book — FICTION / Family Life

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Jessica Beck for the first professional edit of this book.

Chapter I

The angry screams and dynamic rustle of a physical struggle breaks up the momentary urban peace. The place is the sordid and decrepit corner of Vancouver’s East Hastings dark alley. It is a definite fight for survival for Jessica Poliuk, a fourteen-year-old street kid living on the streets. Swaying her long switchblade with laser accuracy, she takes a chunk out of her assailant’s shoulder.

You cut me, bitch! screams out a young man in his early twenties with saggy, baggy, draggy designer jeans, covering his bleeding shoulder with the other hand—a perfect opportunity for Jessica to plant a firm knee into his groin and make him drop his military knife.

An instant later, the second assailant, also a young male in his late teens, kicks Jessica on her back, making her fling forward and crash onto the dirty pavement. The first male, outraged by the sight of blood, pushes himself up and joins his buddy in the kicking, swirling, screaming, knife-swaying scrap with the biting teenage girl.

Jessica Poliuk is no shy chicken—raised on the streets, she learned to fight at a very young age and managed to ‘hang around’ thus far. Swirling quickly to the right, she kicks the second guy’s ankle, making him lose his balance and collapse; his knife aimed at her chest on his way down. Jessica quickly rolls to the left, connecting with the bleeding guy’s shoe. Blood starts gushing out from her left cheek, but she does not stop. Jumping up on her feet, she hits the ‘bleeder’ in the face with the stock of her knife. More blood escapes from the first guy as he places both his hands over his face. Jessica kicks him in the groin again—hard. The guy collapses, screaming in pain as they all stop for a brief moment and listen to the approaching police sirens.

The second guy helps his buddy get up from the dirty street, Hurry, Jeremy…we’ll get the bitch later…

A moment later, they set in running, disappearing into the dark alley while cursing and threatening Jessica.

Yeah, whateva’, she mumbles and recaptures her breath while wiping the blood off of her face. She quickly gets up and hides behind some empty crates just moments before the police car’s searchlight cuts raw slices of light into the back street. Not seeing any commotion, the cruiser moves along, slowly disappearing down the hood.

Jessica, limping and cursing, holds her stomach with one hand while the other hand helps her support herself on the filthy walls as she heads toward the main street.

Pulling herself into a dark cavity along the alley, she drops down with her back against the wall and makes herself a cocaine line which she snorts eagerly, releasing a deep sigh.

She sits there, curled up in a ball as the cocaine kicks in, helping her aches from all over her body ease off a little. She stares in front of her without focus, but her eyelashes twitch nervously under the surge of her thoughts. The crack of light shining on her dirty face reveals silent tears running down on her pretty face.

Chapter II

Peter Conrad sits at the dining table, his right hand trembling when he reaches for the half-empty whiskey tumbler. He brings it to his lips and drains the glass. This loneliness is wearing him down, nearly killing him.

It is late in the afternoon, and the sun casts reflections off of his shiny tumbler. The living room is tidy and well-kept; trying to conserve times past and dear. The photographs on the center wall of the living room reveal the vivid looks and smiles of himself, his beloved wife, Jenny, and his daughter, Tiffany, sporting a smile which courts eternity.

Peter releases an audible sigh. Getting up from the table, he places the whiskey bottle back in the kitchen cupboard, then gently drops the tumbler into the sink. Walking slowly, as if with no purpose in life left in him, he heads for the bathroom and prepares for a shower. For a moment, he fantasizes that the hot stream of water beating down on his stiff body will wash away this abysmal sorrow eating steadily at his heart with no mercy to spare.

If I only could change things once…

As the hot water stream massages his tense shoulders, a frail, almost indistinguishable feeling passes through his aching heart—maybe there is a chance out there somewhere. He shivers vehemently and his mood suddenly changes. A delicate smile develops on his face for a passing moment, almost impossible to notice in the water stream covering his face.

He finishes his shower and grooming, and feeling a bit more cheerful this time, he walks over to his older entertainment center and installs a Bach vinyl on his large digital disc player. A temporary serenity enters his heart, and he knows that it won’t last, but he at least enjoys it for the moment. Sitting down on the living room couch in his bathrobe, he leans back and indulges himself for a few minutes in a transcendental bliss.

It has been almost six years since that terrible accident which left him empty and dead inside and contemplating occasional thoughts of pulling the plug and getting it over with. But something out of his understanding washed over him during his shower yesterday and made him levitate some new thoughts he never thought he was capable of.

Dressing into his dark blue pants and light blue shirt, which made up his chief security officer image at the regional hospital in town, he prepares for his new shift. A touch more cheerful this time, he tidies up the already clean kitchen, adjusts a wrinkle on the bay window drapes, and, finally, grabbing his large bundle of keys, leaves the house.

Chapter III

The early September in Vancouver, British Columbia can be most astonishing on a clear day like today, raising people’s spirits and adding an auspicious vibration to the folks populating the busy city.

Peter Conrad is no exception to the general consensus. All dressed up in his two-tone blue uniform, he locks his house and unlocks his 1964 well-kept black Mustang. Firing up the potent engine, he rolls down the driver’s side window and slowly sets his car in motion. He is in no hurry. Enjoying the sunny day offered by Mother Nature, he allows himself some extra time to drive around a little, sucking in the sunshine. He smiles to passengers at the intersections and tunes his upgraded car stereo to some current, soft rock and roll on his way to the hospital for his afternoon duty.

As he enters the downtown core of the city, nearing the hospital, he approaches the East Hastings area of the town. Out of an instinctive surge, he pulls his car into the back alleys of the neighborhood. As he passes dark alleys crossing his way, he hears and catches glimpses of violence and despair. A distant, frightened cry followed by a gunshot reaches his ears, and a second later, his sunny disposition is gone.

Rolling up his window, he turns his sound system off and silently focuses on his drive—he aims for the hospital’s direction. The sunny Vancouver day is just as beautiful, or even more so, as the sun shifts its position over Grouse Mountain, but Peter Conrad does not see that anymore. A deep but controlled depression sweeps over his heart as he approaches the hospital’s staff parking lot. For some unclear reason, he thinks of his past military years in Afghanistan. Releasing a small sigh, he turns his engine off and grabs a folder resting on his passenger seat.

Getting out from his vehicle, he remotely locks the Mustang and slowly heads for the main entrance of the hospital. He greets a couple of nurses crossing his path after a long shift. He also exchanges a few words with the old janitor washing the main entrance sliding door window.

How is your day going so far? he asks Ramon, the Peruvian janitor.

"Very good, muchos grazias, senór Conrad. I wish you, too, a very quiet shift, he replies, stopping from his window wiping. Looking sharp today."

Thank you, Ramon, Peter says and enters the main lobby of the hospital, a welcoming place decorated with large living plants and flower beds giving the place the temporary impression that this might be a tropical garden.

He reports in and signs the logbook at reception while exchanging a few friendly words with the clerk, Christine. Nodding a small goodbye, he heads down the hallway toward the security office located at the lower level. Many staff officials greet him with friendly smiles, many of them knowing his story.

When he reaches his office, he finds a note on the desk telling him that his counter shift officer is in the trauma room on overtime. He picks up a fresh service radio and, turning it on, heads for the emergency department trauma room. It is a common occurrence around here and no surprise to Peter. The hospital is located close to the downtown core of the city and the events are numerous and, more often than not, very dramatic.

When he finally arrives at the trauma room floor, he is immediately welcomed by the usual screaming, breaking of objects, swearing and hollering sounds of people hanging on the edge of their very existence—not always a sound one. He approaches the trauma room with caution, and as soon as he opens the heavy steel white door, a plastic food tray flies past him, smashing against the wall behind him. He sees his colleague, Gregg Winston, restraining the arms of a young male patient thrashing around the bed and cursing everybody in sight with the crazed eyes of a madman. The patient starts calming down as the restraining fluid, injected by one of the nurses, kicks into effect. Peter helps Gregg apply the solid leather restrainer around his body, pinning him loosely to the heavy-duty metal bed.

Not exactly a picnic shift by the looks of it, Peter greets his colleague who returns a stressed, sweated smile:

Is it quitting time yet? Gregg asks in one long exhale. Peter nods, and once they check with the nurses and the doctor in charge, they leave the room and stop outside in the hallway, debriefing.

Anything else I should know before they call me on it? Peter asks him.

Not really. These two OD cases are on some heavy synthetic drugs just new out on the streets. I suspect we’ll have some more coming shortly… It kills the young people, this shit, Gregg says angrily and passes over his service radio to his supervisor.

We take it as it comes, Peter mutters in agreement. You go home and take it easy, man, he tells Gregg, tapping lightly on his back.

See you in a couple of days, Gregg replies and walks away toward the staircase. Peter gives an almost unnoticeable nod—his mind preoccupied… Something is not right… He starts sweating vehemently, as if he was asked to help somebody and it was important and it was urgent…NOW! But he feels completely helpless, and this inability nearly kills him. It is not like him, but, somehow, he calms down slightly a minute later, as if sensing that he will, perhaps, have a delayed approach to this unknown but dramatic situation grilling him from the inside.

About the same time:

The rain returns to Vancouver, painting the landscape in many tones of gray. The vibrations of the city feel somber and unfriendly on this gloomy afternoon. In one of the darkest rooms in the slum neighborhood of the taped off downtown, condemned building, a young person shivers in the dark as she stares at a narrow beam of silver light penetrating from the street.

The room is miserable in its current condition: deep dust covers everything including the trash, spent syringes, food wrappers, broken pieces of glass, and obsolete furnishings. The young person, covered in an oversized, torn trench coat, is curled up in one of the dirty corners, trembling. The same tiny light beam reveals the stained face and clotted dark hair of Jessica Poliuk. Her pale face and body shake uncontrollably under her sobbing. Reaching into the pocket of the trench coat, she takes out her large stainless steel switchblade.

With a grimace of pain on her young face, she starts cutting up her forearm veins. Blood instantly gushes out, and it looks gray in the poor lighting. Switching hands, she cuts a deep gash into her other inner forearm. Losing blood fast, her face turns livid as tears start running down her aristocratic and dirty cheeks.

Her burning bright eyes start diminishing their intensity and focus. Her slim body crumples. Her dry lips mumble something unintelligible…Jessica Poliuk is dying.

Her mobile telephone starts ringing a wild rock tune, and there is no answer this time.

Several minutes later, the dark, abandoned building becomes slightly animated as a narrow flashlight beam bounces throughout the staircase, heading toward the upper floors. There is rapid panting accompanying the bouncing light as a very young pretty girl, not older than about fifteen skips two and three steps at a time on her rushed ascend toward Jessica’s room. Her wild curly hair falls into her eyes as she nervously brushes it aside, never slowing down.

Sweating and panting hard, she finally reaches the top floor landing and runs along the cracked concrete floor of the dark hallway. She reaches Jessica’s temporary room and, producing a single key, she unlocks the steel door quickly, sliding inside and locking it with a heavy steel bolt lock. She sweeps the room with her small flashlight, revealing more misery and subhuman conditions of the room.

Jess! Hey, Jessy! She breathes hard while searching the room. Omigod! Jess! She finally sees Jessica passed out in the dark corner, facing up, unconscious, and covered in blood. She immediately runs to Jessica and, kneeling in the blood-caked dust, checks her face, trying to do something for her. She touches Jessica’s forehead—still warm.

Jumping on her feet she paces the room quickly for a couple of seconds, thinking. Shit! Shit! She runs and unlocks the heavy bolt on the front door, opens it wide, and then runs back to Jessica. With adrenalin charged energy, she gently picks Jessica up from the blood-covered floor and, with Jessica in her arms, rushes out from the room.

Guys! Help! Hurry!

A group of four young people appear from the shadows: three young men and another teenage girl running in their direction.

She cut herself again. It’s really bad this time…

Two of the young men immediately take over Jessica’s limp body and make haste with her down the stairs toward the dark street. Rachel, Jessica’s best friend, is already on the mobile talking with a 9-1-1 dispatch woman, giving calm and precise directions and answers. She is intelligent and articulate. A moment later, she hangs up and places her mobile in her back pocket.

An ambulance will be here in front of the building in less than ten minutes. As they descend the stairs, they all can hear the ambulance siren approaching and getting louder.

I’m not sure if she’s gonna make it, one of the guys carrying her addresses Rachel.

She’s tough…she’ll survive, answers Rachel in a weak voice, lacking any confidence.

Moments later, the ambulance finds the youngsters, and the paramedics immediately begin life support procedures on Jessica’s lifeless body. Rachel is standing right beside the paramedics, her eyes watery, watching the best friend she ever had. You can do it, girl, she whispers, touching Jessica’s white, almost bloodless hand.

One of the female paramedic attendants, Paula, radios in the hospital and prepares the operating room for the soon arriving new critical case. Receiving the confirmation from the hospital dispatch office, she gets behind the wheel as the ambulance storms out with all lights flashing, the sirens howling and sending shivers through this part of the neglected neighborhood of the city. A real sad and ignored pocket of life, carelessly window dressed and detoured by the city council.

***

A large bundle of service keys rattles on the right hip of Peter Conrad who patrols without hurry through the large hallways of the hospital, making his rounds. There are people everywhere in the hallway, waiting for their turn on this busy day where the demand exceeds the means and medical staff of the hospital.

As Peter approaches the emergency ward on the main floor of the building, he hears a familiar cacophony of male and female voices, ordering, instructing, asking, and following up; all at the same time, all in perfect tune with one another—another typical high risk trauma case demanding their full attention and skills level. Peter comes close to the duty desk clerk, Tanya, who he knows.

Looks like we have a real live one here tonight, he addresses Tanya.

Quite the opposite, Peter, acknowledges the duty nurse. She’s almost a goner. We’re struggling with everything and everybody we’ve got to bring her back to life.

Another OD teen?

It almost looks like that. But it’s worse; she cut herself a few times, she lost a lot of blood. We haven’t win this one over yet…and she’s merely fourteen.

Peter Conrad suddenly glances over to the operating table, surrounded by medical staff and equipment—hoses, cylinders, advanced flashing and beeping apparatuses—all

Reviews for Dark Alley

[Mike Anca · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Somebody recommended me DARK ALLEY, the new Mike Anka novel. I got hooked by the first three pages, I couldn’t put it down. Great and captivating young female character building a strong identity through dangerous and rough times. Great read - definitely recommend it to anyone.
Charlene Morrison, Avid Reader