From my short story: Every Night is a Holiday for Death

Doors slam closed. Television volumes are turned to their highest settings. Windows slam shut as screams break the cloying darkness into a thousand pieces. The shattered slivers bounce
and careen down a littered alleyway. A few shards stick to the glue like dirt, dirt that has built up over the years and turned old, weather worn bricks into nondescript ugliness. Jane street residents huddle close together and shiver in the oppressive, fear filled night.

The screams end as suddenly as they began. A death rattle is followed by the splashing of two pairs of feet racing through the garbage filled puddles. This too fades away into the endless heat. A brilliant bolt of lightning rips the darkness to shreds, tipping over a large cauldron near to overflowing with heaven’s tears.

The rain that had paused for an hour, to take a breather, starts up heavier than ever. The only sounds are the occasional cracking of distant thunder and the rain sizzling into puddles and knocking on darkened windows.

Thunder rolls, booms and bounces up Young Street. The weary, bedraggled street sleepers huddling in doorways pull soggy cardboard closer around them-selves and try to get comfortable.

No one living in this ghetto of ramshackle tenements is interested in sticking their respective noses into anyone else’s business. Screams and death rattles are nothing new to the dwellers of this drug filled war zone. Death stalks the streets day and night and it’s better to ignore it or it might be you and yours spilling guts onto mounds of rotting refuse.

Sirens wail, howl their way between rain soaked canyon walls, walls of brick, walls of stone and glass. Their haunting song of sorrow echoes long after the ambulance, long after black and white cop cars have raced past them. Rain drops hissing into fetid pools does nothing to relieve the oppressive heat of a mid August, Toronto night.
****
Detective Ryan Telford slammed the door of his non-descript grey Chevy and splashed through puddles filled with the flotsam and jetsam of life. The dank alleyway smelled rancid from three weeks worth of uncollected garbage. Telford edged his way around mounds of rotting, rat filled refuse and entered the alley.

Light from two large flashlights shimmered through raindrops and guided the detective to a half naked, headless, spread eagle body of a young woman. There was something hauntingly familiar about the broken, almost nude bit of cold human clay. “But there always is,” Ryan reminded himself.

“Hell of a night boys, just what do we have here? And for God sakes cover her up, no woman decent or not should be exposed like a sideshow.” Detective Telford bent over for a closer look. It was difficult to make out the color of her drenched, expensive, looking dress.

Ryan wasn’t an expert on women’s fashion but he had spent long hours gazing into store windows with his wife Miranda and knew quality clothes when he saw them. “That was a life time ago,” he reminded himself. The young patrolman gagged in answer. Telford shouted, “Damn it man, if you’re going to regurgitate your supper, get out of the alley to do it.”

Heavy boots splash through deep puddles. Little waves washing against grime crusted bricks do nothing to soften the years of filth.

The other patrolman looked a little green around the gills but it was hard to tell in this light. “Won’t it disturb the evidence?”

“Hell man, any evidence has been washed away.” Ryan felt like shouting so he could drown out the retching sounds coming from the corner. He sighed, “I guess you’re right. The forensic boys will give us hell if any foreign fibres are added to the body. He bent over, turned his head and pulled the dress down as far as he could.

The hammering rain gave up its useless attempt to cool the sun heated bricks and faded to a trickle and then stopped altogether. Storm clouds parted and a half crescent moon peered down onto the gruesome sight.

Windows squeak open. Sounds of life, love and anger, trapped inside tiny sweat boxes escape from behind pigeon dropping crusted window panes. Somewhere in the distance a tenor sax begins a plaintive wail, piercing the darkness. A soft voiced violin joins in, adding its two cents worth to the impromptu jam session. The haunting duet’s tune sounds familiar to Ryan. Memories long buried in little cupboards and cubby holes at the bottom of his mind surface for a stretched moment.

A vision of a star filled, moon bright night flashes across his memories eyes. Warm, jasmine scented air and the odour of a female in heat wash over him. Miranda’s sexy, throaty laughter echoes in the corridors of his mind.

Sweating, eager bodies, couple in fiery passion in a life boat on the cruise ship Sea Sprite as strains of saxophone and violin escape the ball room’s half open door.

“Detective?”

The soft feminine voice drags Telford back from his honeymoon, back from better days, back to the reality of death and a stinking alleyway.