Waiting for Sarah.

Larry picked at his grubby fingernails. Using the blade of a rusty penknife he plucked out small lumps of caked black dirt, flicking them onto the floor of his battered Volkswagen Crafter van.

She knew too much and had to be dealt with.

The left thumb was proving to be a tricky one. He had caught his nail it on the lining of his weathered green army Parka jacket earlier. Not wasting time, he subsequently chewed it off and filed it by rubbing the tip swiftly over his black corduroy pants.

Wiping the knife, he finally caught a glimpse of Sarah leaving her workplace.

I have a lot to do this evening. Pick up the dry cleaning and do a food shop on the way home. Chicken and roasted vegetables for dinner sounds good. Then make calls to some friends in the force. Maybe there will be some fresh leads on this murder hunt.

She descended the steps from the red sandstone building in such blurring quick movement. Sarah paused to do something on her phone. Larry started the engine of his white van. He checked that his electrical numberplate changer was working. He followed stealthily, not getting too close. The alleyway beyond the north end of the park would be where he would make his move.

I turn on music - Calvin Harris beats fill my ears and tune out the day. A smell of pine trees and a warm autumnal breeze invade my nostrils - a complete contrast to the frustration I seemed to encounter all day. This investigation is going nowhere - fast.

She walked gracefully as always, pointing her toes like a ballerina, moving effortlessly. Her slight, slim frame could be blown along by a strong wind. Larry had watched her for the past few days and knew her ritual. This would have to be timed right down to the millisecond.

Her long red hair billowed behind her as she moved along the tree-lined path that framed the exterior of the city park. The contrast of her hair and her bright canary yellow coat made her stand out against the more earthy colours of the oak trees and dark railings.

The song Summer was interrupted by an incoming call. The tone on the opposite end of the phone was terse and forthright. The instructions from the Detective Garda were clear and simple. 

Sit down and stay put. We're coming to you.

She walked down past the eastern side elf the park and entered the pedestrian entrance. This wasn't her normal habit. He had to pull up and park, watching her from a distance.


Her routine had been broken by a phone call. Her expression changed dramatically. She began to look around, doing a full 360 degree turn.

Her multi - coloured spin reminded Larry of Wonder Woman.

Except this girl wasn't anyone special - she was just a cheap journalist bitch.

And she had seen Larry's face. And she would pay.

I was now shitting myself. How would this evil bastard know who I was? Was it the story that flushed him out? Or was the Detective over-reacting? 

How did he know what I looked like?

Sarah sat down but then got up from the park bench.  Confused, she sat back down again. Her gaze darted to and fro, watching anyone that approached her with suspicion. Larry had to act swiftly.

How long would they be? I knew that in the city I wouldn't be too far away from a copper, but what would I do if they didn't get here in time? 

I searched my handbag for anything that resembled a weapon. My apartment keys were the best option, as I slipped them in between my fingers with the metal prong protruding.

She was spooked, rummaging around her handbag.

If the murder hunt was stalling, well I definitely had a new lead! If this Detective was correct, he was coming for me. 

I was number four.

Larry donned the uniform, hat and pulled on a hi-viz jacket before closing the side door of the van. He walked at an even pace and entered the park at the same point Sarah had. She was just metres away.

Thank God they're here! A lone Garda approaches me with his hands upturned, indicating calm down. His dirty hands register with me, but don't distract me fully.

I feel anything but calm. I say nothing but exhale loudly. The last few minutes have been anything but normal.

She suspects nothing. She trusts the uniform, silly bitch.

"Sarah, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. You were quicker than I expected." 

He takes me by the elbow, leading me toward the street and a parked white van.

"My colleague had told me where you'd be - and what you'd be wearing."

His grip is firmer than I first imagined and I can feel him near lifting me. I know this is wrong - his hands, the information he divulged - but he is very strong.

Out of the corner of my eye I see another two Gardai running toward us. 

With guns raised. 

My stomach sinks. Oh shit.

Time to go Sarah. Time to go.

Bright Pink Knickers.

My eyes struggle to open.  Sleep is caked at the corners, preventing light getting through. A dullness seeps through me.

I hear the sound of a repetitive monotone bleep before my eyes adjust fully. They focus on a small TV screen about ten feet away.  The colour pink flashes behind my eyes as I close them once again.

The next time I wake my throat is on fire. My movements are stunted as I try to wriggle my fingers. They respond as the rest of my body remains motionless.

As I clack my dry mouth open, I feel movement beside me. My wife’s face comes into view. She is speaking to me frantically, but I am not quite hearing her. 

I can see her lips moving and I notice how beautiful she looks. Despite the puffy cheeks and dark circles. A thought pops into my head - why does she look knackered? I smile at the word and how funny it sounds in my head.

Water is brought to my lips. I sip through a straw, being very aware of how the plastic feels against my tongue. I don’t know if five seconds or five hours pass, but the next thing I know is that several people are in the room. The room is too bright for me as I drift off again.

As I wake once more, I am far more alert to my senses, yet still a bit ropey. There is no hazy or almost surreal feeling like before. But everything moves as if in slow motion. And the next thought that pops into my head - women’s knickers?

Things start clicking into place. I am far more in control of my body and voice, and am starting to feel the pain from my two splintered and shattered legs. I know that I am paralysed from the waist down – long before any man in a white coat confirms it. 

I have come to terms with it – my flying career is over. 

I will never be a commercial pilot again.

On the fourth day, I am up to seeing visitors and investigating officers. The doctors don’t want me to be over exerted. 

Flashes of moments in time start coming back to me.

It was the end of a long day. We were about nine hours into our duty. 

Hurry up and wait was the theme of the day. 

Pressures were being applied by ATC and our own company to maintain the schedule.

That's where the slow motion starts.

Tim got up to use the restroom from the left seat and I strapped in. 

Thank God I did.

Out of nowhere, we hit a large pocket of clear air turbulence.

Tim’s body hit the underside of the overhead control panel, flopping him down hard.

Blood oozes from his head. I can see a diamond shaped gash.

Haley has survived the initial pocket in the forward galley. I heard her hitting the floor. 

I contact Haley through the interphone and buzz her in.

She screams at seeing Tim’s limp body on the controls, after I have contacted ATC and appraised them of our situation.

I calm her down and advise her to strap into the third seat.

Then pocket number two catches us by surprise.

Tim is a heavy, dead weight missile in the cockpit - flapping left and right.

His right arm hits me square in the left temple.

No one is flying the plane. 

I am conscious but unresponsive.

ATC keeps hailing me.

Flashing lights, sirens and horns are lighting up the control panels like a Christmas tree in suburbia.

I notice how pretty they look.

I hear a loud, bone-chilling shriek behind me.

I turn my head to see blood spattered all over my left shoulder epaulet. The deep red colour contrasts starkly against my white shirt.

Perfect shaped circles of spattered blood.

The sweet smell of sweat fills my nostrils.

Then I see Haley with her blood stained uniform standing in the gap in front of the locked cockpit door.

My first thought is “what is she doing out of the third seat?”

She is freaking out. Her skirt has risen up, almost to her waist.

Exposing her bright pink - almost luminous, knickers.

A fabulous, yet distracting sight. 

I somehow know I shouldn’t be staring.

Another blood curdling shriek from her brings me out of my reverie.

Thirty two seconds later, I manage to regain some control of the aircraft.

We crash land into a field, just over two miles away from our final destination.

Only for Haley’s knickers – no one would have survived.