Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  It rained hard the day that Ned Wilson ambled into court to face sentencing. He showed no remorse and didn’t say a word as he was led away. ‘Fuck you, too,’ said O’Neill under his breath. He would remember him every time he looked in the mirror at the long scar below his left eye.

  The sky was reddening, the dying sun an orange ball sinking fast, as he ran along the strand. The seagulls followed him, cawing as they swooped. He stopped and panted loudly, feeling the sweat drip from his face on to his damp T-shirt. He was feeling good, and enjoying the wind on his wet face. His phone rang - it was Shelly.

  ‘Hi, dinner at seven, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, like I said.’

  ‘Good, I’m looking forward to it. See you later.’

  He grinned. ‘So am I, Shelly … so am I.’

  He turned and sprinted hard down the beach, the air tangy and clear in his nose. He had been given another chance and this time he was going to make the most of it. He was now running for his life, not from it. He was free.