The heat of the day filtered in through the windshield as I drummed my fingers against the wheel. I was ahead of all the cars at the intersection, missing the light by a few seconds. South Dutton was extremely busy on Thursday mornings. Having left the cool hills and woods of Riverside behind, I had been in town not more than four minutes, and the blinding white facades of the buildings and blazing roads and vivid billboards was already getting to me. The light finally went green and the truck, with an exterior that belied its speed, shot forth towards the school. My first delivery was to drop off some shipments for the school library. They were mostly children's books – pop-ups and picture books, colouring books and fairy tale books. I pulled up inside the academic block and the guard surveyed me and the man in the passenger seat.
"What's with your friend?" He wanted to know.
I glanced at the man; even unconscious, he had a certain grace, certain poise about him.
"Oh, jet-lag," I lied and pushed open the door, going around to the back.
"Here, let me give you a hand, missy." The guard waddled towards me.
"I can do it, thanks," I said curtly, hoisting up a stack of books and putting them down on the steps of the library. He watched me repeat the process with his lips set tightly under his moustache. I dusted my hands, "all done."
I retrieved a clipboard and pen from the dashboard and thrust it to him, pointing out wherever needed to be signed. Once done, I returned to the wheel and pulled out of the school, directing the nose of the truck towards the market square.
My companion had not yet woken. I contemplated slamming the breaks and jolting him out of his trance. Don't be despicable, now. He was still out when I pulled into the alley between the backs of two rows of shops at the market square. It was a small space – two red-brick walls faced each other, stepladders leading up on either side. I waved my hand before the man's closed eyelids and snapped my fingers a few times. Nothing. I got out of the car.
The door of one of the shops was open, revealing the dusty inner room of the bookstore. It all happened very quickly – the owner came out, signed the clipboard and thanked me, while three of his employees cleared the back of the truck and then all of them disappeared into the store and the door was slammed shut. I checked the clipboard once and the back of the truck. There was a single book, tucked away between two grooves of metal. I hadn't noticed it all week; it must've gotten loose during a previous delivery. I leaned over the edge of the truck to dislodge it. It was one of those cheap pocket-books on mythology, tattered and yellowing.
I was about to toss it back when suddenly I was grabbed from behind.
I tried to scream, but a hand covered my mouth and I was being dragged further down the dark alley. I felt something close around my neck, an arm, wrapped in leather and steel. The hand over my mouth pulled away and I filled my lungs with air, ready to bellow to my last breath.
"Stop making such a fuss," my assailant ordered in a voice that was both calming and threatening.
"Please," I squirmed, "let me go! Take what you want, my wallet's in the truck!"
"Who are you," the voice hissed menacingly.
"What?"
"I will not repeat myself, answer me." The grip around my throat was tightening.
"My name is Paton McAllister," I choked, "I'm a delivery girl, I deliver the books from Riverside Harbour, I don't make a lot but the money's in the car."
Immediately I was released. In shock, I fell forwards on all fours, blinking spots away from my eyes. I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my neck and gasping for air.
"I don't want your money," he spat.
The man I thought I'd run over was awake and he was fixing me with a gaze that greatly hampered my ability to stand.
