Blood Roses

chapter fourteen

A taxi ride back into the middle of town by the grey morning light isn’t exactly what I had in plan for today. Nor would having the driver unsuccessfully dodge the potholes have been in my plans. Even with my seatbelt on, I bounce around the back seat, gripping the one in front so hard that my knuckles turn white. We must hit a deep one as my head meets the ceiling, causing it to start to thump again underneath the patch. With a grimace, I reach tender fingers up and find the bandage patch heavier – with blood filling it once again. I let out a grunt as we hit another ditch in the tarmac. Surely the taxi driver could even try to dodge these – there hasn’t been a car to pass us all the drive, but then again I guess he can barely see over the dashboard. A booster seat would certainly come in handy for him...

Finally we reach the town and it is not surprisingly almost empty. Apart from the regular fitness driven joggers, the streets are deserted. I’m sure not even my mother, before the alcohol, would be out here jogging. Before she was addicted she would go for a run around the town once a day, no matter what weather. My heart aches as I find my mind wandering around the old Mum that is still somewhere behind the alcohol. The old mother that I didn’t have to drag up the stairs, the one that I didn’t have to look for and worry for. The mother that would worry about me and actually care.

In the wind today ripped papers are flying around the streets, the wind having no mercy on them. We’re about five minutes from the town when the engine suddenly cuts out. We jerk with a halt and brace ourselves as the car continues to slide on the road, making an extra effort to hit the potholes. Mary-Anne is thrust forward, and almost meets the windscreen, as we hit another. With me huddled on the back seat we finally slow to a stop.

“God damn car.” The taxi driver hits the dashboard.

I lean forward in between the two front seats and peer at the petrol meter. Perhaps we ran out of it... Surprisingly there is three-quarters of a tank left. Internal error? Maybe, but there would surely be smoke or a sign of it on the many dashboard controls.

I lean back in my seat, “I suppose this means we walk.” Not even waiting for an answer I gather my belongings and pull my hood over my head. Rain pours down on me and immediately my hood is soaked through. It takes Mary-Anne a few minutes to get organised and hand over cash to the driver. I am thankful when she exits the car, umbrella propped up, and I huddle underneath.

My flats are well and truly full of water by the time we reach Diers Street. The umbrella is almost instantly folded inside out as a huge gust of wind comes, bringing icy rain with it. Regret for wearing makeup haunts me as I now can be certain it is running down my face in streaks. Mary-Anne lets the umbrella hang by her side; it has little effect as to keeping us dry.

Large puddles splash at my feet as we run towards shelter. Why must it rain so much? This is the most we ever had – going on for three weeks now, only stopping once. It’s a miracle how we haven’t gone under in flood waters yet!

Undercover, I can see the street clearer – puddles that were only little pools have grown to take up half the road. I’m actually glad we walked the rest of the way – if the engine had cut out there we would have lost even more control and probably ended up smashed into a tree trunk!

The many light poles that line the street have white sodden pieces of paper strapped to them. From a distance I can work out the black and white printed face of a man, flapping in the wind until it finally breaks off. Once it has broken off, it meets at my feet where I pick it up, careful not to rip the soaked paper. It takes me a moment to realise that it is a missing sign.

My body tenses as I realise that all these papers are missing signs. I run over to a pole covered in paper and ignore all the rain falling down on me. With freezing hands I flatten the almost broken off paper. With a creased brow I let my eyes examine all the calls to action of a search for those missing. A man with heavy wrinkles stares back at me from a family picture, his description underneath. A child is the next I see; he looks a little bit younger than Tom and has shaggy hair which hangs over his forehead. It looks as though it is his school photo as some checked blouse pokes around his neck. A distinctive birthmark on his neck catches my attention; it strangely resembles an eagle soaring in the sky.