Lance's Lament - Path of Doubt

"God Loves You"

Lance yawned and gazed up at the large, colourful words. Sewn into a giant hanging wall cloth at the far end of his room, they were quite hard to miss.

Sunlight streamed in through window, making him squint as he readjusted to the waking world. What time was it? He groaned and rolled over. Whatever it was, he knew it was still far too early. It was Saturday after all.

"Clancy?" A booming female voice echoed up from downstairs, quite easily audible even through the thick floor boards. "You awake, baby?"

Lance squinted his eyes shut and buried his head under the pillow. Couldn't he get one decent sleep in? Just one? He'd always thought of home as a place of comfort and relaxation; somewhere to come back and rest, away from the busy world. But lately it seemed his mother was determined to shatter that fragile expectation.

"Clancy, you get your lazy ass down here. You promised you'd take your brother out shopping. Don't you be acting like you've forgotten."

"Five more minutes!" Lance yelled, lifting the pillow up enough so his voice could be heard. She could be so persistent sometimes.

-

It'd been two months since he'd moved back into the house he'd grown up in. The house where his parents had lived most of their lives, and raised six children; three boys, three girls. In terms of placement, Lance was the second last. The final son, Michael, was the only one left at home. And now Lance was back too.

Eight weeks ago, he'd received an emergency phone call. His mother had suffered a stroke, and now lay in hospital. Lance had to make the twelve hour flight immediately, leaving not only his job and share mates behind, but a growing love interest as well.

It wasn't that he regretted it. This was his mother after all; the one who gave him life. Coming to see her in a time of need was the least he could do. What annoyed him most was the fact that, out of the four older siblings he'd grown up with, none of them had been able to find the time. Lance was the only one.

Patrick, the eldest, was somewhere in Italy, organising new business contacts, and was simply far to busy to make the plane trip over. Sheree said she was unable to find a baby sitter, claimed that her family had never supported her being a single mother, and hung up. Lucinda said she'd come, and then never turned up. She didn't answer any further calls. And Kristine... well, she'd disappeared into the darker, sleazier parts of the inner city long ago. The last time she'd been seen, she was standing in a queue at some V.D. health clinic. Her mobile had been disconnected.

Lance felt sorry for his mother. Ever since his father had died three years ago, she'd seemed somehow... lost. Being a mother and a wife was the only job she really knew. With most of the children moved on, and suddenly absent a husband, it had been a trying time for her. She'd had Michael, of course, but it seemed like a small consolation.

Lance had hope for the kid though. He was growing up to be a kind and caring young man. But what would happen when Michael too eventually left home? Lance couldn't stay here forever. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. Not yet, anyway.

"She needs bed rest," the doctor explained, "and plenty of it. That means no vigorous activities such house work, shopping or recreational sports. And absolutely nothing that could cause stress. She's in a very fragile state at the moment, and even the smallest shock could cause damage to her heart. She might not pull through it so well a second time."

So Lance had arranged for his belongings to be sent up, moved back into his old house, and prepared for the long haul. It had taken two weeks for his mother to feel well enough to get out of bed, and during that time it had been entirely up to him and Michael to take care of her. They cooked, they cleaned, they prayed for her recovery. God had been significant source of strength for them... even if Lance did find himself questioning why such an event had happened in the first place.

Mike had been particularly good about the whole business. Having to change those horrifying adult diapers was beyond the call for a kid his age. They were both relieved when she was able to take care of that herself. After a month, she seemed good as new, and even insisted on making dinner and doing some mild house cleaning. The little that Lance allowed her too.

"I've been doing this for nearly forty years, boy," she scowled, shooing him away from the stove, "it don't feel right me sitting here all useless like. Now you be getting out of my way."

Michael continued to help as best he could, in-between the usual teenager duties of homework, television and mucking about with friends. It was his first year of high school, so Lance didn't blame him for trying to have a life of his own. For being the sixth and final child (and what could have been described as a medical "accident") he was showing promise of being the most successful of the lot. Lance found the bond between them to be strong, and it was comforting to have a best friend, as well as a brother, through a time that was difficult on all of them.

"You done well, bro," Lance beamed, giving his smaller sibling an affectionate rub on the head. "One of these days, I'll take you out to the mall, and we'll buy whatever the damn hell you want. How's that sound?"

-

And today was that day.

Lance sighed, and raised the pillow slightly. His old bed was comfortable, but he found it a lot smaller then when he was growing up. Looking to the end of the covers, he could see his feet sticking out a good four inches. He should probably see about getting a longer one.

Twenty six, and living back at home. He would have been embarrassed if the reason hadn't been so important. He guessed, in the long run, it wasn't such a bad thing. It was nice being back in his 'home town', so to speak, and he'd even caught up with some old friends while he was here. Lance could think of worse places to be.

"Clancy! It's been ten minutes. Don't make me come up there."

"Alright, I'm coming. Jesus!" he yelled back, throwing the pillow onto the floor in frustration.

"Don't you be taking the Lords name in vain!" came the bellowed response. "You're not too big that I still can't give you a hiding."

"Counts as vigorous activity, Ma; no beatings allowed."

All was quiet for awhile, and then he heard a soft chuckle. At least she was in a good mood. It made him smile too. And then the familiar smell of fried bacon seeped under the door and started to fill his room.

'Damn, she is a sly one!' he thought to himself.

With a defeated grunt, he threw off his blankets and got out of bed.

-----

"Morning, Sunshine!" the elderly, well built woman said cheerily as Lance stumbled into the kitchen. For fifty four, she looked remarkably well, despite being slightly overweight and having recently suffered a life threatening illness.

"Mornin', Ma," he replied.

"I'm making your favourite," she said, turning her attention back to the stove where two frying pans were being jiggled simultaneously. "Egg and bacon toasties with hashbrowns. Mmmm-mm; just you smell that."

"You know you shouldn't be eatin' stuff like this, Ma," Lance said casually, sitting down at the kitchen table. "All that grease and fat: you want yourself another heart attack?"

"Nonsense," she scoffed, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "This's all part of a healthy morning's breakfast. Gotta look after my babies."

"I got a few years before I need to start caring about this stuff," Lance smirked. "It's you I'm worried about."

His mother didn't reply, but he knew she was most likely rolling her eyes or scowling sarcastically. She was a tough woman, always had been. Doctors told her she'd never have another kid after Lance... and yet low and behold, thirteen years later there was Michael. Now the boy was exactly half is age, and his mother was still going about her usual chores as if nothing had ever happened. He wondered how she found the energy.

"Hey, big bro," a cheery voice cried. Lance felt strong arms lock around his neck and a face press against his cheek. "You ain't forgotten about today, I hope?"

"How could I," Lance answered, gasping slightly for breath, "when you got me in a vice lock like this?"

Michael laughed and let his brother go, before sitting down in the chair to his left. Lance looked at him; a skinny weed of a kid, the first signs of acne beginning to dot the places where oil tended to build up. He was tall for his age, but well on his way to being bigger. Lance suspected maybe even taller then he was. Michael was wearing a white T-shirt, sporting a big headed, pink toy dog on the front. There were some Japanese letters printed over it.

"What the hell is that thing?" Lance asked, leaning in to look closer. "Isn't it kinda girlie...?"

"No way!" Michael replied. "That's Maromi. The shirt came with those new DVDs you just got me. He's awesome, and totally not cute if you watch the series. When are you gonna do that with me, anyway? I've been asking you for weeks now."

"Whoa, one thing at a time," Lance said, putting up his hands in a defensive manner. "Shopping first. I still got things to do myself, you know. A job ain't going to come looking for me on its own."

"Oh, you'll find one, baby," his mother said over her shoulder. "You got more talent in that shiny head of yours then any of your brothers or sisters..."

Lance looked up sharply after hearing her voice trail off. He knew she felt more then litle a hurt that none of them had come to visit her. As it was, she merely paused with her spatula half raised, seemingly staring into space, before giving a small shrug and continuing with her cooking.

"Breakfast's ready!" she hollered, making Lance cringe. Why did she insist on doing that even when they were both in the room? Probably just habit; when you've had six children and a husband, someone was nearly always out of ear shot at the important moments. And God help you if you didn't get there on time.

"Awesome!" Michael cheered, digging into his bacon. "Ma always makes the best pig."

Lance laughed and nodded, knowing he couldn't disagree. 'Mum Cooking' was always the best; there was no denying it.

"So where you boys going today?" the elderly lady asked, sitting down with a plate of her own. "Anywhere special in mind?"

"Just the usual; the big mall down on Ryder Street," Lance answered. "Reckon we'll be taking the train though. Car been making weird noises on me lately."

"Well, now, you be careful on public transport." His mother pointed a fork at him, a piece of bacon hanging precariously from its end. "There's all sorts of weirdo's out there and I don't want my boys mixing with the wrong crowd."

"It's ok, Ma, we can handle ourselves," Michael said through mouthfuls of egg sandwich.

"I bet you could, but it's your big brother here that I'm worried about. He's a right handful when he wants to be; never learned to control that temper of his."

"Ma!" Lance interjected. "Geez, I was never that bad. Well, I never killed no one anyway."

"You just watch yourself out there. Come back in one piece, okay, Clancy? Promise your Ma that."

"I promise!" Lance replied, rolling his eyes. "And for the last time; I prefer 'Lance'. Everyone calls me that Ma -"

"I'll damn well call you the name God gave you," his mother boomed. "Smart mouthing me... I brought you into this world, boy!"

"And I'm rightfully grateful," Lance smiled sweetly.

"Quit talkin' and eat!" Michael said forcefully; his own plate almost empty. "We'll be late."

"Hey, it's Saturday," Lance chuckled. "Give me a break."

-----

"10:07"

Lance looked at his watch and sighed. They'd been out for nearly an hour and a half, and Michael was showing no signs of boredom. Though he'd been pretty good with what he wanted, he still insisted on going into nearly every store they came across. And Lance had purposely avoided the DVD store until now, so the worst may have been yet to come.

"Sure you haven't seen enough yet?" He asked his smaller brother, who was walking beside him with wonder in his eyes.

"You kidding? I could be here all day!" came the cheery reply.

'Great,' was the only word that went through Lance's mind.

In their shopping bag currently resided a small assortment of relatively inexpensive but interesting purchases. New shoes. A second hand Playstation game. An amusing T-Shirt with the words "I Hear Voices, And They Don't Like You" on it. Quite reasonable, considering the desires a usual thirteen year old might have.

"Well, we can't take forever. I got things to do back home. Ma still can't do most of the cleaning, you know."

"Alright. Then can we go to the DVD store?"

'Damn,' Lance thought. 'So close. Should have known better then to think I could slip it past him though.'

"C'mon, bro. Please? We'll even get something you want!"

"Whoa, the generosity," Lance mused. "Fine, let's go."

They headed through the mall, observing the many stores and the busy shoppers inside them as they went. There were so many rich people around; far more then when Lance was Mike's age. Teenage girls strutting around in designer clothing, skirts or tops that might cost over two hundred dollars each... and those were the cheap ones!

Lance's family hadn't exactly been poor, but they certainly weren't as well off as some. It made him kind of ill to see money thrown around so easily when he'd been brought up to appreciate it. Special occasions, like today, were an extremely rare occurrence, so he was happy to indulge Michael while it lasted.

"Come on, why're we goin' so slow?" Michael cried, tugging his brother's hand energetically.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Lance said, following along somewhat hesitantly. He could just feel the budget breaker getting closer by the second.

Ahead of them, two mall cops were leaning against a wall, talking softly. Lance immediately felt uncomfortable.

It wasn't that he didn't like cops. He'd never stolen anything in his life, and tried to avoid most illegal activities. There'd been very little contact between him and the law. He'd never been arrested or charged or even abused by police in any form. But sometimes it doesn't take words to convey how someone feels towards another person. For Lance, it was the look they gave him every time he walked by.

That slightly suspicious, untrusting look through half-narrowed eyes. He'd seen it on numerous occasions, out of the corner of his eye; the look, the quiet whispers, the hands travelling casually towards the belt. As harmless as it may appear to them, it was both insulting and violating for Lance. To be thrown together in an all too common stereotype, to sense a subconscious prejudice emanating from those around him... it was an unpleasant sensation. And not one he could easily ignore.

Unfortunately, finding a way to deal with these feelings turned out to be a difficult task. His usual source of solace - the church and its ever friendly clergy - all seemed unclear on how to handle such things. An eye for an eye? Turn the other cheek? Do unto others how you wish them to do unto you? His faith in religion was strong, but sometimes...

A crackle of static snapped Lance out of his thoughts. They were walking by the police. But they weren't looking at him.

"... advised that the suspect may have entered mall vicinity," the cop's walkie talkie's crackled. "Reported to have fled the scene between eight and nine o'clock this morning. Description soon to follow. May have accomplices."

"Received," one of them said, pushing a button on the side of the radio. "We'll keep an eye out."

Lance ushered Michael quickly along, suddenly a lot more eager to get to the DVD store. Again, it was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw the two police glance up and give him the look. That look. Lance ground his teeth and kept walking.

"Come on, Mike," he said softly. "Let's hurry up and get you some movies so we can get outta of here."

Michael looked up to protest, but something in his brother's features seemed to make him change his mind.

"Sure, bro, whatever you say."

Lance gripped the hand of his kind-hearted sibling tighter and headed for the DVD store.

-

"Sweet!" Mike cried, clutching the DVD tightly in his hands. "Perfect Blue! I've been wanting to see this for ages."

"You sure that's not too old for you?" Lance asked suspiciously. The clerk at the counter had raised an eyebrow when Michael had paid for it, so he was a little doubtful of the cartoons content. He couldn't understand his kid brother's obsession with these weird animations at all.

"Yeah, fine, bro. Nothing I ain't seen before," Mike grinned. "It's all this weird head-trip stuff and shit. Really -"

"Hey!" Lance said, interrupting his brother mid-sentence with a swift smack up the side of his head. "What'd I tell you about using language like that? You wanna put our Ma in an early grave? Cause that's where she'll be going if she hears that coming out of your mouth."

"Why?" Michael asked indignantly. "You use it all the time. I heard you the other day when you nearly dropped a butter knife on your foot."

Lance scowled, annoyed at being caught out. The kid had always been swift with the comebacks. He hoped it didn't turn into a frequent habit.

"Yeah... well... that's cause I'm twice your age," he mumbled. "I earned the right to say things like that once in awhile. And I made sure Ma wasn't around when I said it."

"Riiighhttt, bro," Mike smiled cheekily. "Whatever you say."

Lance 'hmphed', and fished around his the bag for his own DVD. Fight Club. Nice. He'd been meaning to see it ever since high school, but had never gotten around to it. It was somewhat of a cult movie on the internet.

"Right, guess that means we can get outta here then," he said, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Yeah, no prob. One second..." Mike had been ripping off the plastic from the DVD's cover. He always wanted to check inside and look at the discs, as if he was worried that they wouldn't be there. "Just gotta put this in the bin."

Michael ran over to a garbage bin and made to put the plastic wrapping inside. Then he froze, staring with his eyes always bulging out of his head. Lance took a step towards him, afraid that he'd seen a syringe or something of the like.

"Mike? What's -"

"Holy shit!" his younger brother cried. "Check this out."

He dipped his hand into the bin, and Lance immediately dived forward.

"What the hell're you doing? Get your hand out..." he froze when he saw what Mike had found.

"Goddam! It's Platinum too!" the boy cried in excitement, holding up the shiny American Express card. "Who'd drop somethin' like this?!"

Lance snatched the card out of Mike's hand and looked at it. It was in perfect shape; not bent or scratched. He squinted to read the small, raised-print letters on the front.

"R. Bentley," he said aloud. The owner of the card. Mike was quite right; who on earth would throw this out? It could mean financial ruin in the wrong hands.

"What'll we do with it?" Michael grinned eagerly. "Can we use it?"

"Fu... Hell no!" Lance spluttered. "You know how much trouble this thing could get us in? We gotta get rid of it before -"

"Freeze!" The cry echoed throughout the whole shopping centre, making casual consumers stop in surprise. Lance's heart immediately jumped into his throat, and he felt cold sweat on his forehead.

Shit. This was not good. In fact, it was the worst. Worst timing. Worst situation. He had no idea what to do next.

"Hands above your head, and turn around real slow."

("Bro, bro there's two of them,") Michael whispered. ("What'll we -")

("Shut up,") Lance hissed. ("Just do what they say. Follow me.")

Slowly putting his hands up, gripping the card tightly in his left, Lance began to turn around. Michael, already facing those who gave the order, raised his arms in a similar fashion.

"That's good. Nice and easy," one of the mall cops said as Lance faced him. It was the two he'd seen earlier talking on the radio. Both had those nasty electro-shock stun pistols, raised and pointed menacingly. The one addressing him had a ridiculous handlebar moustache; probably thought it made him look tough.

"Listen," Lance said, "this ain't how it looks. My kid brother here just -"

"Pulled a Platinum American Express out of the garbage," Mou-Cop said. "Yeah, we saw. It's exactly how it looks."

The second cop, wearing a cap so low over his head that it almost hid his eyes from view, clicked on his radio and brought it up to his mouth.

"Centre management, this is security. We have captured and detained two possible suspects in the credit card theft. Female described is not with them; assumed to be accomplices."

"Whoa, what?" Lance cried. "What the hell is this? We just found the card; you said you saw us!"

"Yeah," Mou-Cop smirked. "We saw you pull it out of the trash. Now, call me crazy, but the chances of just 'finding' an itty bitty thing like that... not too likely. My guess is that your partner in crime, wherever she is, nabbed what she wanted from it and left the rest to you."

"What partner in crime?" Lance bellowed, clenching his hands into fists. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Sir, if you don't calm down we're going to have to take more drastic actions," Cap-Cop said smoothly. He had the electro-pistol pointed at Lance's chest.

"Bro...?"

Lance looked down and saw Michael gazing up at him with teary eyes. He looked terrified. It made Lance furious, but brought the reality of the situation to light as well.

He wasn't alone here. Any danger he got himself into, Michael would be a part of as well. He'd have to go along with it, if only for his brother's safety. It was, after all, just a big misunderstanding. They just had to explain their situation to someone who could listen. Or at least... someone who would listen.

"Sir, we're going to move forward and place you in restraints now. Any sudden movements will be viewed as a threat, and we will act accordingly."

Lance watched the two uniformed men begin to creep forward. Mou-Cop pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and waggled them in plain view.

"You got it all wrong," Lance said through gritted teeth. "You're nothing but mall-cops, not vigilantes. You'll get you sacked after this; I'll damn well make sure of it."

"That's nice, Sweetheart," Mou-Cop taunted. "Just stay where you are, and no one'll get hurt."

The cop moved behind him and clicked one of the cuffs around his wrist. Then he gave the arm a sharp twist, almost jamming it up into the high part of Lance's back.

"Ow, fuck man!" he protested. "Take it easy."

All the built up rage inside Lance was coming to the surface. All his annoyance at the silent discrimination, all the poor treatment he'd ever received under the guise of some weak excuse, when all it really came down to was the colour of his skin. If it had been some dumpy, spectacle wearing family man who'd found that card, there would have been no questions asked. Only 'cause he was black. Only 'cause his brother was too. These low life mall-cops were nothing but racists, and at that moment he would have given anything to spin around and slug Mou-Cop so hard he'd be picking bone fragments out of his knuckles for a month.

But Michael's whimpers were a constant reminder: that was not something he could do. Assault on a police officer - even if said officer was a two bit rent-a-cop - was a hundred times worse then suspected collaboration in what sounded like a petty theft. He couldn't afford to go to jail. He couldn't afford a fine or community service. He had a sick mother at home to care for, and a thirteen year old brother who had enough on his plate with the task of growing up as it is. He had to remain calm; there was no second choice.

Mou-Cop pulled Lance's other arm down and placed the second cuff around it. Then there was a telltale 'zchtt' of them being tightened securely around his wrists. He was locked in. No escape now. Nothing to do but go along for their ride.

"Alright, fine. Take me to the station," he growled. "I'll explain it to them there. Didn't expect nothing better from punk ass wannabe's anyway."

"Sir, if you have any concern for your future at all you'll do yourself a favour and shut the hell up," Mou-Cop said from behind him. Cap-Cop moved forward to grab Michael's arms. The boy flinched away.

"Leave him alone," Lance said, moving in front of his brother. "He's just a kid; he doesn't even know what's going on."

"Sorry, Sir, but he was witnessed at the crime scene. He needs to come with us."

"No, he doesn't," Lance said, glaring at Cap-Cop with the blackest look he could muster. "We got a sick mother at home, and if she hears that we've both wound up in jail, the shock could kill her. You really want that on your conscience, Badge Boy?"

Cap-Cop, obviously the more professional of the two, seemed to pause for a second and stare blankly from under his hat. Lance could see him mulling it over.

"Fine. I'll take the boy home and issue him with a warning. But you'll have to come to the station with no further resistance. That clear?"

"As crystal," Lance mumbled.

"Superb," Mou-Cop sneered. He spun Lance around and began to push him towards the mall exit, reaching for the radio as he did. "This is Mall Security, Staff Number 403. Have suspect restrained and proceeding to station for further enquiry. Partner has requested that he escort juvenile suspect to place of residence. Backup security will be required during the period of our absence."

"Message received. Standby security is on their way. Good luck, and well done," the radio crackled in response.

"Bro! Bro, don't leave me!" Michael's voice echoed down the mall. Lance tried to look over his shoulder, but received a forceful push towards the exit again.

"Mike, you be strong, okay?" he yelled. "And look after Ma. Don't let Mr. Hat there wind her up too badly."

"Okay..." came the whimpered response. Lance wanted to turn, to give his brother one last reassuring look. But Mou-Cop was far too wrapped up in his power trip to let that happen.

"Keep walking, homeboy," he snorted. "Let's make this as pain free as possible."

-----

"How many goddam times do we have to go through this?" Lance yelled angrily. "I've told you everything I know, and you've asked me the same damn questions for nearly four hours now."

The policeman whose badge read "Harver" paced the floor in front of the interrogation table, where Lance had been sitting for so long his legs were going numb.

"I know," Harver said with faux sympathy in his voice, "and I promise you that it won't take much longer. In fact, if you just told us the where the girl has gone, you'd get out of here right away."

Lance smacked the palm of his hand against his head in frustration. He was getting nowhere fast.

When he first arrived, he'd almost expected the room to be decked out with a subtle array of morale corroding accessories: a slightly dented steel chair, the dark stain of some kind of liquid on the walls or floor. Maybe even the good cop/bad cops, already waiting with their high powered desk lamp.

But there was nothing like that. The questioning room was cold, clean and bare, except for the table, a bolted down wooden chair, and a small surveillance camera in the top corner. To the front of the room, there was a wide mirror, which he knew was two-way. They'd most likely been observing him since the moment he sat down. Watching for sweat on the forehead. Monitoring eye dilation or unconscious hand twitching. The camera was probably fitted with a microphone and speaker, so they could even measure the variances in his voice.

Well, he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of showing any sort of fear or nervousness. They didn't scare him; he'd done nothing wrong. He just had to grit his teeth and bare it... and fight the urge to lunge over the table to strangle the pompous pacing asshole.

"Are you sure you don't know anything about her?" Harver asked, coming over to the desk. "Medium size, blonde hair, blue eyes. Partial to stealing from well-off business types? Come on, something must be ringing a bell here."

"I know plenty of women like that," Lance growled. "But not around here. I only just got here two months ago, like I told you earlier."

"I see," Harver nodded. "And why was that again?"

"Because I had to look after my sick mother!" Lance bawled. "Christ, don't you pigs listen to anything."

"I'd watch your mouth if I was you," Harver said sharply. "I'm not the only one liable to hear this conversation. Some people might take offence to tones like that."

He placed the palms of his hands flat on the table and glared at Lance through squinted eyes. Lance glared back, keeping his features as stony and unreadable as he could manage.

"So you don't know anything about this girl? She's not a lover, or friend, or even an acquaintance. You've never seen her. You have no idea why she stole a credit card and raked up nearly ten thousand dollars worth of purchases, and why she threw the card away. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And you especially don't know why she threw it into the very bin you were caught fishing it out of?"

"My kid brother found it! Kids have sharp eyes; they see these things."

"It's a very convenient skill, wouldn't you say?" Harver smirked.

Lance stared at him but kept his mouth closed. The cop waited for a minute, then continued.

"What about the name on the card? The innocent owner who's now ten grand further in debt? What did you have against him? Do big credit card holders 'provoke your envy'?"

"I've never met an 'R.Bentley' in my life," Lance said slowly.

Harver snorted and pushed away from the table. He began to pace again, giving the mirror a quick glance as he did.

"Alright, well I guess that's that then," Harver sighed, slapping his coat pocket. Lance could see a rectangular bulge there. "You sound sincere enough. I would apologise for such intrusive investigations... but I really couldn't care less anymore. You have to understand: we get all kinds of scum in here, day in, day out, who'll say anything just to get back out on the street so they can score the next hit. The 'I have a sick mother' routine is a common story."

"It's the truth," Lance replied. "That ain't the type of thing I'd lie about -"

"So credit card theft would be something you'd lie about then?" The cop asked quickly.

"No," Lance snarled, "because I wouldn't do it in the first place."

"Heh. Have it your way. Fact of the matter is: truth or not, you're stuck here the night. Law requires we keep you in the lock up, for one day at least, just in case new evidence crops up and you're needed for further enquiries. Don't worry, we'll let you call home so that sick ol' Ma of yours doesn't worry herself."

For the first time since entering the room, Lance lost the tenuous grip he held on his temper, and slammed both fists on the table simultaneously. Harver flinched and immediately reached for his belt, even though no means of defence hung there.

"You can't do that!" Lance yelled. "How the hell am I supposed to explain this to her? God knows what that rent-a-cop told her, or how much she pushed my little bro to explain. She could be on the edge enough as it is, so just how the hell do I tell her you assholes are keeping me in jail all night for a crime I got nothing to do with?"

Harver relaxed and allowed himself a smirk, confident that the tall black man wasn't going to lunge from his chair and inflict any grievous body harm. He strolled over to the heavy metal door and took hold of the handle.

"That's not my concern, bud. My job is to probe your ass till its cleaner then a nuns vocabulary, then get you into your cell before bed time. Your Ma is your business."

He pulled the handle, and the door opened with a high pitched squeal. Then he gestured for Lance to step through. Lance sat in the chair, staring daggers at the cop and showing no signs of moving.

"Leave by your own will or by force, sir," a voice boomed into the room. It must have come from the mystery viewers behind the mirror. "We have more cases to get through today so we don't have time to mess around."

"You heard 'em," Harver grinned. Lance scowled and stood up,

"I want me some privacy for that phone call," he said as we walked through the door. He had no idea how this was all going to unfold.

-

...drrrttt...drrrrtt...dddrrtttt... click

"Aye, this is Michael. Whatta ya want?"

"Whatta'd I tell you about answering the phone like that? You want people to think we're white trash or something'?"

"Oh, hey bro. Sorry, I'm still a little shook up from the morning. What the hell happened? Where are you? Did you tell 'em it wasn't us?"

"More damn times then I can count. Think they believe me, but the pricks are keeping me locked up for the night anyway."

"Damn, bro..."

"Yeah. The mall cop didn't rough you up did he?"

"Nah... actually he was ok. He talked to me in the car. Said it was just all part of the job and shit. He didn't really reckon we stole the card."

"Well at least that's something. What'd he tell Ma?"

"Nothin'. Didn't even come into the house. Just dropped me off on the street and said to take care of her."

"Ha... I guess rent-a-cops ain't all that bad after all. Some at least. So is Ma ok then? What'd you say?"

"Ah... well... she was a bit surprised when I came home alone, so I told her ya met some school friends and stuff. They gave us a lift and dropped me off, and you went with 'em for a bit. Kinda hinted at a girl being there."

"Sly, bro. Good thinking. It'll make the whole 'staying over for the night' story a little easier to spin. Hmph... well, you better put her on then. Wish me luck?"

"Yeah, man. All that. Oh, and how you getting home?"

"Recon I'll walk to the train station. There's one not far from here. Catch the early one; 8:30."

"Sweet, I'll meet ya!"

"Alright, bro, sounds good. Now put Ma on."

"Kay, catcha man..."

"... ... ..."

"Clancy, that you?"

'Hey, Ma. Yeah, it's me."

"What in the Lords name do you think you doing? Driving off with your ol' gangs and leaving Mike all by himself. You promised him, you know you did!"

"It's not a gang, Ma. They're school friends. I ain't seen 'em in years; it'd be rude not to take some catch up time."

"I'm disappointed, Clancy, don't think I ain't! You're just lucky Mike's not more upset. Least you got him a few things before abandoning him on the doorstep."

"Look, I'm sorry, Ma. Okay? But this is important. I won't be home tonight, so you think you can manage things?"

"Won't be home?... It's a girl, ain't it? You've met some cheap, godless street tramp. Haven't you? Haven't you??!"

"Ma! It's not like that! Geez..."

"Well, fine then. You just stay with them 'important school friends' of yours. But don't you be thinking I'll take you to a clinic if you catch anything!"

"Damn, Ma. Why not twist 'em abit harder, there's still some feeling there."

"Eh?... aah, Michael's yelling about something burning in the oven. You ain't off the hook though; there better be some damn good explaining done tomorrow. Take care, Clancy. Ma loves you."

"I know. I will, Ma. See you tomorrow."

-click-

---

Lance hung up the phone and smiled slightly. Well, that went a lot smoother then he anticipated. Good old Mike had done some clever planning before hand, making it all the easier to tell a believable lie. Now his Ma never need know about the whole stupid ordeal.

"Done already?" The security guard asked. He'd been standing over Lance the whole time; baton held in one hand, eyes nonchalantly studying the opposite wall. Lance knew he'd been listening, even though he was attempting to look casual. Wouldn't want a vital piece of verbal evidence to slip through now, would we?

"Yeah, all done. I guess this is where you drag me off to my five star accommodation?"

"Yeah, in your dreams," the guard chuckled. He pulled Lance up by the shoulder and gave him a nudge with the baton. "Down the corridor now. No funny business. We got cam's in here."

Lance obliged. A police station was the last place you would want to start trouble. He and his escort walked though the busy desk-job section, where five officers sat diligently writing reports and guarding donuts. One even appeared to be asleep sitting in front of his computer screen. The cities tax dollars at work.

In the distance, he heard what sounded like an interrogation.

"... look, this is the third time you've been caught for purchasing illegal substances. We know you had some. Where'd you hide it?" The irritated and impatient voice of the questioner could be heard quite clearly through the stations many corridors.

"You're crazy, man. Fuckin' seein' things! I got nothing! Did you find anything on me? Anything at all?"

"Auugh... we know you had it! Just tell us!"

"Crazy, man. Tight arse, just like all the rest. Think 'cause you got a badge you can treat people however you want. Nothing but an anal retentive self-server..."

The voices faded as Lance rounded a corner and began to descend some stony stairs. The soft gold light coming from the windows began to change into the cold blue of florescent tubes. Despite the warm air rising from below, he felt a chill run down his spine.

It was his first time. He'd never been into a cop shop before. Not even his occasional violent outbursts had landed him in one. He reckoned it came down to the fact that cops didn't really care about the neighbourhoods. Hell, if someone died, then they'd come running. Until then, brawls between random residents - especially black ones - could be sorted out themselves. So even when he'd broken the knee cap of some punk kid who was spraying graffiti on his car, or left some wise ass with a concussion, he'd never been booked for it.

And now here he was. For a crime he hadn't even committed, he was being led down into the dark intestines of the law. The secret, hidden cells of 'the lock up', where people deemed unfit for society were kept until they could be sent to a place even worse. Prison. Lance didn't know what to expect. He'd only seen things like this in movies.

Would a cousin of Hannibal Lecter be waiting for him? ("Hello, Clancy") Ready to whisper his desires of eating Lance's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti ("Fh fh fh fh fh")? Would there be serial killers and rapists, huddled in dark corners and mumbling to their various personalities? He didn't belong in a place like that. He was none of those things. Having to deal with people like that... not something he needed after a day like today. But, as they reached the bottom of the stairs, he realised he needn't have worried.

The holding cells looked nothing like a horror movie set. They simply lined a small hallway that ended in a big steel door. There were six in all, three on each side. At the entrance was a desk where he assumed a guard sat, although there was no one there now. Everything was plain, concrete and bare.

"Third on the left, let's go," the guard said, prodding him between the shoulder blades. Lance shuffled down the hallway. Thankfully, it appeared all the cells were empty. Perhaps he could get through this whole ordeal with nothing but his own thoughts to bother him.

The guard's key entered the lock with a loud 'click', and the steel barred door swung smoothly open.

"Inside," the officer directed, pointing with his night stick. Lance stepped into the cell and stared at his new abode. A shabby bunk bed. A toilet, next to a grimy looking sink. And a bolted down bench against the wall. All the classic décor a law breaking citizen could expect.

The door slammed home behind him, and Lance knew that his sentence was final. This was going to be his first night in jail. He'd just have to deal with it.
He walked to the bunk beds, and sat down heavily, a cloud of dust immediately fluming up and floating around in the florescent lighting. This place obviously hadn't been cleaned in months. Water dripped in the sink, amplified by the polished concrete walls.

Lace sighed and lay back on the bed, resigning himself to his fate.

Perhaps this wasn't such a bad thing after all? He'd barely had any time to himself since his Ma got sick. Everything was go go go, all the time. If he wasn't running to the doctors or to the pharmacy with prescriptions, he was looking after Michael, taking him to school and picking him up. Cooking dinners, packing lunches, measuring medical dosages. Not to mention the all too strenuous activity of asking for work from people who clearly did not want a six foot three black man working in their businesses.

This was the first time he'd actually slowed down. In here - in this box of stone and iron rods - he could finally sit and be alone with his thoughts. Just wallow in the recesses of his own mind while waiting for the seconds, minutes, hours of his forced confinement to end.

And he did have things to think about.

Something had been bothering him for a long time now. He wasn't sure exactly when it started... perhaps after his father died, three years ago? That's the closest time he could pin-point. His father... Pa... it just hadn't been fair.

So the man hadn't always been the best father or husband. So perhaps he'd punished his children a little too hard for things that might seem paltry now, or broken a promise or two. But one person he'd never let down was God. When it came to his religion, no one was more devoted then Lance's father.

No matter how bad times got, his father always trusted that the Lord would see them through. And quite often, things did get better. Even if it took awhile. They always said grace and went to church every Sunday. No other plans were ever made for that morning; it was family time, and their time to be with God in his own home.

So why, in all Gods infinite mercy, had he deemed it necessary to remove a man as devoted to him as Lance's father was? Why had God not stopped that walkway from collapsing in the steel mill where the old man worked? Was sitting by idly and watching a trusting follower falling into a machine that could only be described as a 'mincer', really be just another case of 'working in mysterious ways'?

Lance wanted to believe it. For the past three years he'd be trying to rationalise it in his mind, trying to overcome the doubt he felt welling inside. But it was becoming harder and harder to do that.

Maybe other people were content to weep and get over it. To just lie back accept 'God's plan'. Lance was not that kind of guy. For starters, he held grudges. In his opinion, if someone deserved a reward for their efforts and instead received what seemed like a sick and twisted punishment... that was enough to question a faith. Even if you had been brought up to believe in it all your life.

But still, Lance wanted to believe. He'd worked so hard to do so in the first place. After all, it wasn't until after his own experience - his own 'divine intervention' - that he'd actually accepted the religion fully. And once he did, life had felt so... full! Nothing can describe how it feels to know you have someone who will always be there, to watch you and guide you and love you unconditionally. You feel invincible, yet insubstantial when compared to such power. To lose that feeling...

Well, to tell the truth, Lance hadn't felt strongly like that in a while. He was twelve when the event occurred, with his whole life ahead of him. Now he was twenty six, had a dead parent, an ailing one, and scattered siblings who seemed to have given up on their faith long ago.

How was a man supposed to stay strong in times like this? He hated the feelings brewing inside him, bubbling up like warm tar. Surely denial could only keep them down for so long. If he didn't let them out someway, he knew something bad would happen. Would he snap, explode? Or just get a really bad ulcer.

He'd just have to wait and see, because there was no damned way he was going to a shrink. All those jerk offs did was sit on a couch and nod while writing out shopping lists on their note pads. If he wanted someone to ask him "How does that make you feel?" and "Tell me about your childhood" he would have stayed with his ex-girlfriend. Nosy bitch just did not seem to understand the concept of 'privacy'.

There were confession booths, of course. If he so wished, Lance could have walked into any church and divulged his fears and vices till his heart was content. Safe and warm inside that wooden box, a friendly, faceless voice beside him, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. "Gods loves you". "Your sins are forgiven". "Everyone has ups and downs in their faith, it's just a matter of staying true to the one Lord and trusting that he'll guide you through it all". It wasn't that Lance didn't like priests, he was just... not comfortable with them.

When it came down to it, priests were still human. They were still prone to rash judgements and emotions based on events within their own lives. They were in no way divine; they only claimed to be acting out Gods will. How could Lance trust what they said as being what God truly wished of him? In a word, he couldn't. There was only one way to speak to God, and that was directly. Whether in prayer or through dreams, it was the only way to be sure. Though Lance couldn't rightly say he'd ever received an answer for certain, and never when he had truly needed one.

Besides the priests, Lance just didn't like the whole idea of a confessional anyway. It was false hope, a quick fix. Sure he might feel better. For about a day. Then what? Run back to the church for another hit of confidence? It was a slippery slope, the path to becoming a confession junkie. And frankly if Lance was going to become addicted to anything, it was at least going to be something that would make a night on the town a hell of a lot more fun.

Not that he'd ever tried, or even thought about, choosing that path.

In fact, he'd always felt sorry for drug addicts. Smackers, shooters, snorters and smokers... all just people who wanted to escape reality. They had nothing to believe in, and their only comforts came in powdered or liquid form. He used to pray that God would eventually find them and give them some guidance in life. But, as the years went by, Lance soon realised that God, along with the rest of society, had abandoned these wayward travellers. Left them, doomed, to sit on the side of the road until the substances coursing through their veins decided it was time for them to leave this world.

No, that wasn't the solution. There were no answers there. So what was left? His family? They were the ones he believed to be suffering, it wouldn't be right to burden them with his concerns. His mother was in no condition to be worrying about whether she failed at raising her son, and Michael was still too young. Besides, he wanted the kid to make up his own mind.

And so, laying on his dusty, tattered bunk bed in a cold cell beneath a police station, Lance realised for the first time that he really was alone in his struggles. There was no one else in his life that he trusted or wanted to confide in. And the only being that might have all the answers was the one he was pissed at. Was there any hope for him? Any at all?

It was yet another question from the seemingly endless stream, running through his head. And he knew as little about where to start as he did how to answer them.

Lance got off the bunk and began to pace his cell. If the only one he could rely on was himself, the only thing he could do was think. After all, he still had another twelve hours of solitude remaining...

----

A loud metallic clang made Lance sit bolt upright on his bunk. What the hell? He'd fallen asleep. He vaguely remembered lying on the bed and closing his eyes for concentration. Must have been more tired then he realised. Rubbing his temple, he swung his legs off the almost-to-small bed and looked to the door of his cell, the source of the awakening noise.

Two people stared back at him.

Lance blinked. One was the guard that had escorted him down here in the first place, looking tired and irritated. The second was someone new. The man stood in the middle of the room, staring down at him. He had a pleasant, almost cheerful smile on his face.

"Hi," he said, thrusting a smooth skinned hand towards Lance's face. "I'm your new roomie."

The hands on his watch read midnight.