Short story writing contest - voting - *CLOSED*

It was another rainy day. And like every other of its kind, it came like a sheet of gloom that covered the entire city of New York. Whenever this happened, people tended to withdraw into spaces that would lend them some cheer, which is what most of them did that day too. But in a secluded, slightly cluttered street, there was one little group huddled at their doorstep, who knew no semblance of cheer at that moment. Angela's husband, Will, had died that morning, along with their daughter Hailie. The two of them had dropped her at the door of the Legal Aid office, and she had never seen them alive again. She couldn't forget their faces in the dim glow of the morgue, their eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling as she stood at a distance. Walking out of there, the prospect of facing the world outside had been so frightening that she had almost closed her eyes for fear of what she would see, as though all she ever cared about was in the room she was leaving, and everything outside was just too trivial for her hollow heart to care about, and too hard for her waning strength to bear. Back home, just as she had begun to crumble under the weight of ceaseless thoughts of what she'd have to face at the funeral and after, she had felt a hand tenderly slip through hers. She had looked up warily to see two faces, both with an expression that spoke straight to her heart. She was not the only one to have lost two people she loved that day. She was staring at the faces of her twins, Mark and Chris, two men, still boys to her, who were shedding silent tears for their own grief, as well as their mother's. And it was that sight that broke her, more than anything else. Tears came before she had time even to reach for Chris, who was the one holding her hand. The three of them had sat there in a tight embrace, each attempting to comfort the other as well as himself, in a collective grief, and a collective search for solace.

Mark and Angela now stood huddled at the door, seeing off friends and family members who had arrived to pay their respects at the funeral. The only remaining guest now took his leave, and Mark turned to his mother with a sigh. "You're drenched, Ma. Get inside before you catch a cold." Angela barely heard him. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, "Ma'" She started, looked at him, still a bit dazed, and said vaguely, "Sweetheart, you're drenched'get inside before you catch a cold." They heard a light splashing as Chris came into view, sprinting towards the house. "Here, Ma. Got Dad's stuff from Mr. Greene's office." He looked at her face, lined with so much pain, "It's getting heavier, the rain. Let's go in, come on," he turned away, and went into the house before either of the other two could notice the tears in his eyes. Mark, who hadn't needed to see, gave his mother's hand a gentle squeeze, and went in after him. She stood there, absolutely still. From being a mad rush of thoughts and images, her mind had now gone to being a complete blank. All the guests apart, it was one particular face that kept coming back to her, as she recollected the events of just a few minutes ago. She had seen a big, luxurious car drive up to the door, and had watched a man in a black suit step out of it and make his way into the gathering. His face had at once seemed familiar, although she did not initially understand why. The lone White man in a sea of Blacks, he had drawn quite a bit of attention, not just because of the conspicuousness of his skin, but also because of the expression of very obvious discomfort and contempt he wore as he searched for the woman he was looking to find. Having spotted Angela, he had walked up to her and asked her to step aside for a word in private. He had then addressed her thus: "Mrs. Glover, my name is Ethan Powell, your husband worked for me, he'was a part of my factory workers' Union. So sorry to hear of your loss. Strange how life can take a sudden turn' I have not been in town for the past three days, and thought of coming by here personally to pay my respects. I hope you do not mind, I'ahem'have brought you a little something which, well," and he had handed her a sheaf of crisp bank notes. Silent for a moment, she had looked from the money in her hand to him, and had been overcome by disgust. She knew this man, Will had spoken of him quite often. Will and many of his fellow factory workers had been struggling against his thoroughbred racist policies, denying them promotions or a pay rise for years together, and treating them with the utmost contempt. She had handed the money back to him, and had quietly asked him to leave. His face had flashed a look of absolute outrage, that a Black woman should have the audacity to look him in the eye and tell him to leave. But a woman who has just lost two reasons to live doesn't care much for audacity, or pompous, arrogant men looking down upon her. It was only after he had left that she had realized that his face was familiar for more than one reason.

She raised her eyes up to the sky. Was it true, what everyone said? What everyone had said at the funeral? That there was a Higher power, watching over you? All she could see was heavy, grey-black clouds. Even clear blue sky seemed like a long lost dream. Where was this Higher power? Where had it been when they had needed it most? When Will had sat around for a job for two years, denied so many opportunities because the colour of his skin didn't match that of the people who worked there? Where was it when this very colour had cost him his life, in a silent by-lane, at the hands of seven drunk, white men who had held him down and violated his 12-year-old daughter, murdering her right before his eyes, and then beaten him till life left him too? She put one hand to her head. Too many questions. She turned around, and made her way back inside.

* * *

It was nearing twilight, as two men sat across a table at a Caf, conversing in urgent, hushed tones. They made an odd pair. This was one of those Cafes frequented by rich, luxurious men and women. Rich, luxurious, and White. The presence of a Black man was therefore something of a revelation. And that too, brought in by one of their own kind: a well attired White man, who sat at the other end of the table. They appeared to be arguing about something, with animated gestures and expressions, although not a word of it reached anywhere beyond the only occupied table next to theirs, where a man sat alone wearing a heavy black coat and a hood that hid his face from view. He was drinking in every word of the conversation. The Black man was saying, "I've been keeping an eye on her. After you met me at about 1.30 outside my office, I went straight to her neighbourhood. She was still busy with the funeral, I don't think she's up to anything so far." The White man nodded, "Hmm'but keep an eye on things for some more time. You never know. They aren't always as savage and stupid as they look." After a few more minutes, the two men stood up, and made their way towards the door. The man in the coat followed. He walked a few paces behind them, and kept himself as clearly out of their vision as he possibly could. The two men parted ways just as the lane ended. The Black man went off on his way to the right, while the White man got into his car and drove off towards the left. The man in the coat made his way towards his bike, and rode off in the direction of the car.

***

Powell smirked as he placed the receiver back on the instrument. His man had done a good job, a second time over. Strange, how handy these middle class kinds could be at times like these. Would do all the dirty work for you, and clean up the mess too. Arranging for the end of Will Glover, on of those absurdly principled men who become an insufferable pain after a while of vain negotiation, had not been an easy task, but Dan Stevenson was a man of resources. He had arranged for a perfect lynching incident. No questions asked. This happened everyday in some by-lane in the city. How many of these miserable creatures could the police track after all? Pity  the 12-year-old had been collateral damage. Minor miscalculation. Had given the group a fair share of fun though, perverts that they were, the lot of them. Things were fairly settled now, as far as Glover's family was concerned. Stevenson had even hired one of their own kind to spy on them, some Black private detective who'd not look an oddity in their filthy Black neighbourhood. And by the account he had given, these people seemed to have accepted the lynching as a lynching and nothing more. Pathetic, miserable vermin, Powell thought to himself. What could they do to a man with his kind of power? Here he was, in a suite in the city's most luxurious hotel. As far as everyone knew, he hadn't even been in the city when it had happened. There was no way they could pin this on him. As he sat there, musing over his success, the calling bell rang to the room right across the corridor from his. The door opened halfway, to let in a man in a coat. "I have the information."

***

It was nearing midnight, as Powell sat with Stevenson in the warehouse, waiting. Stevenson had informed Powell that his Black detective had finally unearthed a pathetic little scheme to go to the police. Something about knowing that he was in the vicinity when the incident had occurred, claims to an eye-witness and some such balderdash. Powell could have laughed it off. He had made sure no one had seen him when he was there, at the corner of the by-lane. He couldn't trust anyone, not even his White middle-class associate. He had to ensure things were carried out perfectly, and so, had been in his car, as a silent and inconspicuous spectator. But Stevenson had pointed out that it's always better to be cautious. He had a point. Powell asked him to do the needful, as usual. And he was there at the warehouse with him, to oversee that things went the way he wanted them to. Stevenson had arranged for his Black detective to approach Angela Glover as the son of a friend of her husband's who had also been killed by Powell, and to call her to this warehouse under the pretext of giving her some information that could help her link Powell to her husband's death. She had taken the bait. The Black detective was here too, waiting for the fish with the hook. Powell made sure he stood as far away from him as he could, and didn't have to look at his face, which he had thankfully almost entirely concealed under a hood.

A car pulled up outside. They were here, Glover's wife and her son. He had already seen one of the creatures Glover had spawned, and alas, he would now have to set eyes on another. Stevenson and he were carefully concealed behind a huge iron instrument, while their man welcomed the woman and her son inside with a smile. He reached in for the documents he had promised them, and in one quick moment, had a gun pointing straight at the woman's head. Powell's insides coiled with pleasure at the sight of fear and outrage on their faces. He let out a laugh inadvertently. Now that things were where he wanted them, there was no harm in being a more direct part of the fun. "Well, hello Mrs. Glover, that your son there? Pity even he can't get you out of this one. I told you that day, take the money. You should've listened, and kept your little mouth shut. But no, you think you're so smart, trying to pull a fast one on me. I'll tell you what you really are: you're pathetic, the whole lot of you. Trying to disrupt Nature's order, getting your 'way' in a world where you don't belong'you and that husband of yours," he scoffed. Then he grinned, and said, "Oh well, I've set that one right haven't I. And all it took was a couple of phonecalls. That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? Well, here it is. I was the one who had your husband killed. Murdered. Lynched. Take your pick. A few calls here and there, and that was it. And now, I'm doing the same with you. Which is, nothing at all. I never do anything, you see. I'm not even here right now, just like I wasn't in the city that day." Angela raised her eyes to meet his, and the look in them was one so full of loathing, that it unsettled him for a moment. He looked away and directed his gaze at Stevenson, "Go ahead. We're done here." But Stevenson wouldn't move. He was looking directly behind where Powell stood, with a very curious expression on his face. Confused, Powell turned, only to face a gun pointed straight at his own face. His own man stood facing him now, and slowly took off his hood. Powell was stunned. What he was now looking at seemed unreal. It was impossible. How could it be? His man and the lady stood side by side, and just behind them was the lady's son. And the faces of the man holding the gun and the man standing behind him, were exactly the same. I must be going mad, Powell thought. This was a dream. A nightmare he would snap out of in just a moment. But that moment never came. What came instead was the earsplitting sound of police sirens, and the many dark figures that now appeared from behind crevices and corners, running in their direction pointing guns and waving badges. He was saved. They approached the group cautiously and took the gun from the hooded man's hand. But just then, Powell felt a pair of hands grab a hold of him from behind, and handcuff him. "What are you doing?! Do you even know who I am? I'm Ethan Powell. ETHAN POWELL, you hear?! You can't arrest me, you filthy little piece of'" but he was cut short by a sharp blow to his head. This couldn't be happening. He looked at Stevenson, who had already been taken by a pair of officers. He cast about wildly for some kind of an explanation, and his gaze fell on the woman standing in front of him. She seemed to read his mind. "This isn't a dream, Powell. Don't look so disbelieving. This is very, very real. My husband was a good man, and you killed him. I was there. At the counter of the Legal Aid office in the next lane, and I saw what those men did from behind the glass window. I tried to get to them too. It was I who broke the glass that scared your men away. And I saw you sitting in your car, driving away as soon as they were gone. I recognized you the moment you entered my house that morning. I've heard all about you from my husband, Powell. And he's been struggling all these years to give his fellows a better life, with a better place to work, and a better cause to work for. A man like you could never stand that, could he? But his voice was not one to be silenced so easily. Even after he died. I had made up my mind standing at my doorstep, seeing the last visitor leave, that I would not let Will's death be for nothing. Chris had been exiting the same agency your friend here went to that day, and that's where he met him, outside the door. Strange how you claim to be so smart yourself, and yet unquestioningly hire someone during Lunch hour, when no one's working anyway? Your very contempt of me and my kind let you down today, Powell. You didn't know Will and I had twins, did you? You would've known something was odd if you had only been able to stand within a few paces of Chris here, whom your friend hired. But Black people repulse you too much. And this is what you get for it. We may not be as rich and powerful as you, but we can make a living well enough, and set things right where they are wrong, if it lies within our reach. Will's insurance gave us enough to afford a room in your hotel, and that's where we kept an eye on you, and made sure things went the way we wanted them to. As of this moment, there are about a dozen police officers who heard everything you said, along with a tape recorder in my purse just in case. Strange how life can take a sudden turn, right?" She gave him one last, disgusted look, and turned away.

***

It was another rainy day. But unlike every other of its kind, what it brought with it was not gloom. Angela and her two sons stood just outside their house, eyes closed, feeling the raindrops on their faces. They weren't cheerful, but they felt as though some little blockage inside their hearts had been cleared. Angela opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was cloudy and grey-black today too. But she knew, in her heart, that there was a clear blue sky behind it, and a sun that would rise one day, bringing with it a new dawn, for her, for her children, for her people, and for the world.