Jarmila Jackson, Contributor

It had rained on the hill and the roads were slippery. The car had not been serviced in nearly two years; he could not afford to, His mother's diabetes had progressed very quickly, only weeks after its diagnosis. The rain had filled the crab-holes and they scurried from the lights. It was too late to swerve away from them. He stopped to see what it was he had heard crush beneath his wheels. The tires were bloody and he felt his dinner resurface as he approached what looked to be the remains of a little boy. When he felt strong enough, he flipped him over, and gasped as he realised he knew the boy's mother.

He had been missing for weeks, after his father had misplaced him at a football match. He had been distracted by a fight that had erupted on the field, and it was only the peanut lady who had seen him run off into the direction of the sea, but she had a line in front of her, and he was not her responsibility. So she turned to her bidding.

As he lifted the boy's body to place it into the trunk, the rain began to pour again raising a stink from the corpse that made him want to change his mind. He hesitated a moment too long and now the police had pulled up behind him. They did not believe his story and they handcuffed him and flung him into the back of the car, before flinging the corpse into their own trunk.

"What are you doing here this time of night?" asked the one bursting out of his clothes in the passenger seat.

"I was on my way home, coming from the pharmacy," he says, squirming in his seat from the discomfort of the wet clothes clinging to his skin. He had no time for this, he was tired and his mother needed medicine.

"So where is the medicine yu say yu buy?" asks the other glaring suspiciously at him through the rearview mirror.

"Well sah, yu mek mi leave it in mi cyar, yu seh yu neva want mi touch anything".

"Well wi going go back for it," he says, spinning the car around.

"Wa bout the bwai sah?" asks the fat one.

"Nuh worry bout dat, him already dead, jus spray some more a dat air freshener," he says holding his breath to stop the scent escaping the trunk from entering his lungs.

The car was still there when they returned, slowly filling with the water dripping from the holes in the ceiling. The brown bag in the back was soaked and torn from the impact, and it revealed its contents to be a single white feather, a black and red candle and a bottle of bright purple fluid with no label on it.

"Where yu seh the medicine is?" shouts the fat one over the sound of the rain beating on the car roof.

"On the back seat him seh", shouts the other from the driver's seat.

Unable to bear the wet any longer, the heavy-set man rejoins the others in the car, with the deteriorating bag in hand. The car jerks a little as he spins around to question his captive.

"Is this you talking?" an exasperated and confused look on his face. The man in the back answers with only a nod, and so the large man turns and gives the same look to his partner, who laughs in recognition.

"Is sciance yu a work wid di poor bwai? Bout yu comin from the pharmacy, come wi going straight to the station", he says switching the car back on.

Now he was angry. They sped along the highway bordered by the swampy mangrove, chatting and laughing, speculating about his disposition. He did not like to be judged, and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. The stench seeping from the back did not make things better. He appealed to the officers once more, "Please, is just find mi find the bwai lie dung inna di middle a di road, mi madda sick bad, she need ar medicine, just let mi go please."

"Shut up bwai!" yells the fat one, connecting the butt of his gun with the man's forehead. He had gone too far now.

They returned to their mindless chatter, and while they continued to gossip, the man in the back contemplated a method of escape. He adjusted himself so that he lay on his back with his feet pointing to the door on the right. They had not seen him. The fat one was now sipping rum and the other was lighting a cigarette. Seeing his chance, the man lifted his legs and with all the force he could muster, shattered the glass that was the window to his freedom.

He had never jumped out of the window of a speeding car before, but he had seen it done on television. He knew that is was important for him to keep rolling. He knew it was harder than it looked, but he never imagined the excruciating pain of his skin being scratched from his flesh, and the flesh being scratched from the bone, and how in hell was he going to get out of these handcuffs? As he stood he felt his left leg give way. It might've been broken, but he had no time for pain, the officers had been stunned for a minute, stopping the car a little distance up the road. But they had turned around now, and they were coming for him, so he dragged his limp leg into the mangrove and felt the wetness of the swamp soothe his sores. It was harder to move in the mush; his clothes were now twice as heavy as they were before, and he would have to remove them if he meant to escape the officer who had now entered the marsh after him. The fat one stood helpless on the edge, he was not up for this type of strain. He pointed his worthless flashlight in the direction of the escapee, as compensation.

The other officer was too far in to benefit from the light his partner shone. He now relied solely on his own and it flickered on and off now. He suspected it was due for a battery change. The night seemed to have grown darker since he entered the mangroves and every sound it brought; every cricket, every lizard, every frog sent a shiver up his spine. In his fear, he grips his gun.

The escapee had not made it far, but his nakedness hid him well. He had seen the officer walk by him, hand perched on his holster. He found it difficult to suppress the laugh and the tension it created awakened an unbearable pain that escaped his lungs with a shriek. The officer spun around to find the face of the fugitive, who knocks him unconscious before removing his gun and vanishing into the night.