Stolen Redemption

By R B Alonso

To Adrian Powell, the easiest way to get what he wants is to simply take it, and the quickest way to deal with an obstacle in his path is to destroy it. After forming a lawless alliance with his two closest friends, Willy and Riley, Adrian Powell makes himself the most feared man in Chalvey. But he then tries to expand his criminal enterprise by stealing a kilo of cocaine from a dealer in Slough, then eighty thousand Pounds from another, which leads the dealers to join forces in a move to have him eliminated. To get the job done, they turn to a corrupt police inspector named Ray Warran, who owes them favours. Warran has no interest in committing a murder, so he sets out to concoct a fraudulent case against Powell that will get him locked up for life. Warran and Powell soon find themselves drawn into a desperate game of cat-and-mouse, but quickly become their own worst enemies by making one reckless decision after another, until both their lives are in danger of collapse. When the two men end up alone and out of options, they both realise that any hope of redemption for them has fallen beyond their reach, and their karmic debts have now come due.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R B Alonso
• Release date: Aug 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201559205

Book preview

No human being is so bad

as to be beyond redemption. ~Gandhi

Chapter One

Bad Omens

Amy Willis glanced in the mirror and frowned when she noticed the worry lines on her face. To her, they seemed to have grown deeper since the hour before sunrise when Amy was jolted from her sleep. An ominous dark shadow had passed through her bedroom. The unsettling apparition caused her to jump from her bed to check the omens, which was her morning ritual. But on this particular day, she decided against it. She knew without looking that the omens would all be bad.

Amy was only in her early twenties, but she had already achieved national acclaim as a respected psychic. She lived in Chalvey, a largely forgotten council estate in the parochial town of Slough. The locals ignored Chalvey out of tradition and had cursed it with the spiteful label of ‘dangerous,’ or more pointedly, ‘not for decent people.’

Amy’s house was an innocuous brick and tile flat that stood at the end of a potholed road named Emerald Lane. Her weed-infested back garden ended at the outside fence of an abattoir and was shaded throughout the middle of the day by the shadow of a rendering plant. Amy’s wardrobe consisted solely of flowered house dresses that she had sewn together herself. She kept her long, braided hair coiled in a loose pile on top of her head, and her short, thick body was lumpy and amorphic.

When Amy’s omens were bad, she needed to surround herself with as many people as she could to draw her attention away from her troubled thoughts. So when the morning sun flooded her kitchen and brightened her dour mood, she began phoning. By the time she had finished her morning tea, a dozen people she regarded as being loud and fun had accepted her invitation. All of them were now packed into Amy’s tiny living room and partying their cares away. But in spite of Amy’s careful preparations, she still didn’t feel safe.

Amy stared deeply into the mirror and ran her fingertips over the worry lines. She gasped quietly when a shimmering veil of light flashed behind her reflected image. She spun around and studied the area behind her in the hope of seeing something obvious that had generated the light, but saw nothing. Her chest tightened and she felt tears brimming. Amy squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed her emotions, then forced an uneasy smile. She considered telling her guests that something terrible was about to happen, but didn’t. They all knew that Amy’s psychic talents were genuine and documented. Her guests would run when she told them, and Amy would end up alone and at the mercy of the annoying specter that had found its way into her home.

In the living room, Leo Willy Williams stood quietly off to the side and kept a close eye on the developing scene around him. Willy was an unremarkable, tall and slim black man who could easily disappear into a crowd and not be found. His slightly retro hair was short and wavy, and he wore a thick moustache to hide three thin scars under his nose that he had picked up from a straight razor fight in his fledging hoodlum days.

At the party, Willy had kept himself sober, remained observant, and was preparing to take the reins of the gathering as it reached a tipping point and threatened to get out of control. Strangely, the party had never been intended to grow rowdy. All the guests invited were the sort of people who would be content to simply numb themselves with a routine mixture of weed and alcohol, then crash for the night. Because of that, the event had begun as civil, although loud. But then a small plastic bag of MDMA appeared in the corner and began making the rounds. Before long, the merry and relatively subdued crowd dropped the mask of civility and got ready to pull on the black hood of unfocused rage.

The wild eyes and crazed smiles on most members of the group signaled that they were about to amuse themselves with senseless acts of destruction. A few weed-mellowed and pacifist revelers had withdrawn to the bedroom. Willy decided the time to step in had arrived.

He pulled his phone from a pocket in his jeans, then tapped a familiar speed dial number into it, waited a few seconds, and said, They’re warmed up and ready for you, A. It’s gonna be like lambs to the slaughter.

The front door flew open, and the imposing form of Adrian A Powell burst into the room. He was just over two meters tall and fleshy, with an inherent power that rippled beneath his deceptively rounded features. He had learned years ago how to use a combination of weight and disguised strength to knock his opponents off balance and gain a fast advantage. He needed that edge because he had been bullied and challenged virtually since birth owing to his mixed-race heritage. His head was shaved, but not out of a need to reflect current fashion. He did it to keep a lattice of badly-healed scars on his head exposed. They were his trophies. And to add to his threatening appearance, he wore a sparse, scraggly beard and moustache. He often hoped that someone would be stupid enough to suggest that he shave the messy thing off.

A few steps behind Adrian and to his right stood his cousin, Riley O’Neil, an Irishman with curly ginger hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. His heavily-lidded eyes were a moss green, and his muscles had been pumped up to an extreme level of bulk and definition from years of intense daily workouts. Riley was also a loyal disciple of Adrian Powell. Their close bond had formed during childhood when Riley’s mother grew tired of the countless tauntings and beatings her son had suffered because of his ginger status. She offered her nephew Adrian five Pounds a week to be Riley’s bodyguard. From then on, Riley grew to become Adrian’s shadow and strived to emulate him.

So now, Riley had parked himself just inside the front door of Amy Willis’s house and was keeping himself a few steps behind Adrian out of years of habit. Riley flinched and took a step back when Amy marched toward her pair of unwelcomed guests with stomping, purposeful strides. Amy, who still remembered the dreadfulness of being forced to attend school with both men, pointed a finger at Adrian and said, Move away from my house, A!

Adrian glared at her. Shut your mouth. 

You have no right to be here!

I have my right. Willy invited me.

This isn’t his house!

With threatening calm, Adrian said, This isn’t yours, either, woman. It’s mine now that I’m here.

Amy took a single step forward, then grunted and staggered backwards when a blinding flash of pain streaked across the side of her face. A second bolt of pain, more intense, sent her reeling. She lost her footing, banged against the wall behind her, and dropped to the floor. Her eyes struggled to focus. They locked on a blurry image of Adrian Powell with his arm cocked and ready to strike another blow. Amy turned her body to the wall and covered her head with her arms. The toe of a heavy boot slammed into the small of her back. Her body shuddered. She felt that she was going to vomit. She braced herself for the next kick and began praying as a blood-smeared trail of tears coursed down her cheek and stained the front of her dress.

Adrian smirked at the sight of Amy curled up and trembling, then stepped away from her and turned around to face the silent, wide-eyed crowd. He said, What happened to your party?

Riley walked up to him and said, Yo, A. It’s dead in here. There’s no more juice. Give me some P’s and I’ll go shop quick.

Yeah, we need money to keep this thing going, but I’m brass right now. What about you?

Riley shook his head. I used all mine at the fish shop.

Adrian strolled into the kitchen and glanced around. He noticed a counter with three open pizza boxes sitting on it. Each box had a few cold slices left in it, so he walked up to the counter, lifted a slice out of a box labeled ‘Cheese Only,’ and bit off a huge mouthful. He chewed it and swallowed it, then moved away from the counter and walked back toward the living room. His eyes gleamed and a sly smile spread across his face. He said to Riley, Yeah, I could get some P’s, but I got a better idea. How about we use these people’s money?

He opened the door of a cupboard next to stove, pulled out a stew pot, and headed back into the living room. He then strolled up behind a huddle of kneeling guests who were attending to Amy. He said to them, We need money to keep your party going. And you all know the Lord wants cheerful givers, so make Him happy by putting all your money into this offering plate.

He studied the group in front of him, chose the most visibly terrified man, and nudged the guy’s shoulder with the stew pot. Let’s have it, he said.

The man reached straight into his pockets and pulled out a trifling amount of wrinkled notes and a few tarnished coins. He dropped the meager hoard into the pot. Adrian took a step to the side and nudged the next guy’s shoulder.

Willy strolled out of the bedroom while carrying a small draw-string sack that Amy had made from a swatch of excess dress material. He said, I got the donations from them man in there. What about you?

I’m working on it. Go check the handbags on the floor over there.

A barefoot young woman wearing tight shorts and an undersized halter top was working to stem the flow of blood oozing from Amy’s torn cheek. When Adrian passed behind her on his way to nudge another shoulder, she said to him, This woman needs to be in hospital, A.

Then take her.

She’s not my responsibility, A. She’s yours. You did this.

Adrian watched another meager handful of cash being dropping into the pot. Nah, she’s yours now, so do your fucking job.

Riley, who was still standing by the front door and waiting for Adrian’s next instruction, said, Let’s leave, A. We got plenty. The police will be on their way soon.

Adrian turned to Willy, who was strolling across the living room and carrying the cloth sack. Willy said, He’s right, A. I got everything from the handbags. Let’s leave before trouble gets here.

Fair enough, Adrian said, then dumped the cash from the stew pot into the cloth sack and tossed the pot at the barefoot young woman. It struck her in the middle of her back, but she didn’t move or react in any way. She simply continued on with her work while refusing to give Adrian the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. Adrian, who had his moment of perverse delight stolen from him, turned toward the front door and started for it with Willy trailing behind.

Riley stepped to the side and let the other two through before he closed in behind them and stepped outside into the still, moonless night. He didn’t bother to close the front door.

The barefoot young woman said to the five men around her, We should take her to hospital. Lift her up for me. We can use Louis’s car. Agnes, go next door and wake Louis up.

Amy felt herself floating into the air. An adrenaline-laced fear gripped her heart. A sharp, coppery taste filled her mouth. She believed that her heart was failing and she was leaving her dying body. She then heard a chorus of soft, reassuring voices. Rest easy, Amy. We got you. You’re gonna be all right. Just rest easy.

She said, I’m telling you that man is the devil.

She wasn’t sure if she had spoken those words or just thought them. She then saw the dark shadow again, but now it was passing above her and moving toward the open front door. When it disappeared into the darkness that shrouded Emerald Lane, the crushing gloom that had filled her house since that fateful hour before sunrise left with it. 

Amy said, That man is the devil. Someone needs to end him.

Chapter Two

Old Acquaintances

Adrian Powell stood at the liquor kiosk at a BP petrol station and waited for his alcohol. He was still in Chalvey and only five minutes from Amy’s house. In his mind, he had been wrestling with the conundrum of whether he should take the alcohol back to the house party or just keep it for himself to use later. On the one hand, going back to the house would make a strong statement while also maintaining his standing in the community. On the other, returning to the house would be a bold and possibly dangerous move that would likely catch the attention of the police. They were always a worry; but Adrian imagined that if they had actually bothered to show up at all, they would have come and gone by the time he got back there. But beyond that, the problem still remained that Adrian’s ego had been bruised and his local reputation blemished by the barefoot young woman who had refused to acknowledge him. For a while, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her snub; but then, in a rare lucid moment, he came to realize that going back to the house to set things straight would be risky in too many ways.

Adrian glanced back over his shoulder when a group of three white men strolled into the station. He knew they were all drug dealers, but couldn’t remember any of their names, which wasn’t unusual. Adrian had stolen money and drugs from so many dealers in the Slough area that he had given up trying to keep track of them.

A short, stocky white man with slicked-back, oily blonde hair broke from the group and walked slowly toward Adrian. The man was dressed in a crisp shirt and faded jeans, along with handmade Italian loafers. He took a few slow, measured steps, then stopped and looked Adrian up and down. When the man spoke, his words hissed through his tightly clenched teeth. He said, Do you remember me?

With a blunt look on his face, Adrian shrugged and said, Nah. Who the fuck are you?

You know bloody well who I am, mate. I’m Scott fucking Davis. Do you remember me now?

The corner of Adrian’s mouth curled into a sly smile. Nah, I don’t.

Davis glanced up at the corner of the ceiling. Let’s move over there, away from that camera.

Go fuck yourself, Adrian told him, then pushed past Davis and headed for the door. Outside the building, he picked up his pace as he passed the pumps, then kept moving toward a small parking area near the road. He slowed a bit when he approached Riley’s car, which was a distressed and abused black Honda Civic. The side mirrors were both broken off and hanging by their wires. The dulled and scratched finish was peppered with countless dings, and the dangling muffler and exhaust pipe were spitting out greasy puffs of black smoke. Adrian pulled the door open on the passenger side and slid onto the seat. He said, "We need to go. That short guy in there is the one I robbed for that box.

Riley didn’t respond. He was sitting with his eyes closed and nodding his head in time to the sound of Bob Marley playing through his ear buds. Adrian reached out and shoved Riley’s shoulder. Riley pulled out the ear buds and turned toward Adrian. He said, Where’s the juice?

I had to leave it. Let’s go. We got trouble.

Riley popped the idling Civic into gear and stomped down on the pedal. The car lurched forward with a few jerking movements and threatened to stall out. Riley kept the pedal pressed tightly against the floorboard. The transmission chattered for a second, then grabbed and clicked in. Riley adjusted his grip on the twitching steering wheel and guided the wheezing car out onto the road. He watched the needle on the speedometer work its way up to 70, then hobble in the direction of 80.

Adrian turned around in his seat and squinted as he stared out the back window. He saw Davis’s gun-metal grey Mercedes c63 rocket out of the petrol station. He counted the heads in the car and came up with four. He knew right then who was in the car with Davis. The two other white men Adrian only knew by their first names of Jack and Adam. The fourth was the only man Adrian Powell avoided as a rule. He was Ryan Cox, another mixed-race man like Adrian, only older and infinitely more predisposed to the total destruction of humanity.

The Civic shot down a narrow, washboard road that carved a wide slash through the degenerate section of town known as Little Soho. It was a two-kilometer tract of land that had been cordoned off by the council in a move to contain the rampant debauchery that existed in Chalvey. The potholed thoroughfare that serviced Little Soho ran between ramshackle houses separated by ancient, sickly trees that crowded the footpath. People were constantly forced out onto the roadway to avoid them.

Tragic scenes of filth and squalor infected Little Soho. Swarms of emaciated prostitutes and homeless druggies wandered the streets. Drug dealers were there to supply the druggies, and pimps were there to keep their girls in line and to deal harshly with unruly customers. Around the outside of boarded-up crack houses,