155-24-55

Tree branches bare of leaves. Summer had arrived and gone quickly as fall came. The grass had grown hard and bumpy. Dark clouds loomed above as the wind blew harshly; chafing cheeks of children being held tightly to their mothers' bosoms. The usual bustle in the streets had ceased. Summers were for markets and cheerful conversations as well as parties. These days, no one stopped to speak to one another, every one posed as a threat.

Fallen leaves rustled as I walked. I paused to look about the scenery that had become so sullen. Grief has gripped the city. Terror and hatred in the eyes of adults, children frightened but oblivious and innocent. I wondered aloud, "What has this city come to... ?" As I pondered, a shrieking scream came from behind. Nobody stopped, nobody turned. They all kept bustling on by, trying to get away from whatever trouble has occurred now. I turned around and headed toward the scream. Quickening the pace, I reached the house as the screams grew. Without rapping on the door, I shoved it open.

"Get out! Out!" a young girl cried out. Shoving me back out the door, I grabbed her wrist.

"Tell me what's wrong. I can help you."

"No! No you can't! Nobody can- LEAVE! Before HE comes back!"

"Are you hurt? What are you talking about?" I lightened my grip, trying to assure her that everything will be alright.

Tears flowed down her cheeks, "No. It isn't me. I mustn't tell. Please, please leave."

I wanted to contact the authorities, but with this country being reigned by tyranny, that's damn near impossible. Everything is crumbling underneath its' feet. Economy has seen a major decline, causing people to lose their jobs and homes. Unmarried women were not allowed to be seen without a man attending her. For God's sake, they're not even allowed a damned cellphone but yet bachelor men are allowed. A woman getting raped is ruined forever; banished from her family and sent to suffer on her own. What has become of us? We were once so strong and powerful. So free. So much has changed, now we are living in the purity of hell. We're England for Gods' sake! We're not Russia!

I gave the girl one last nod, turned to the street and walked away. Moments after, I looked back and seen she had slammed the door shut, drawing the curtains closed and turned out the lights.

I bowed my head in shame. I should of forced help upon her. I would have if she had let me. I knew, the terror in her green eyes will haunt me in my sleep.

I went on my way. The streets now clearer and the sun had set. The wind grew harsher. I drew the collar to my jacket up to shield my face. I quickened the pace as if I had a purpose.

Arriving the two story brick building by the river of Thames, I fumbled with getting the key through its rusty lock. The building worn, slanted to the right has been getting to its final days. I pushed open the door and climbed up the flight to my office.; 68 in big brass numbers. My name slid into the slot placed neatly underneath, JUDE MASON, it read.

I thrust open my wooden door that never quite fit into its frame. Heading toward the center of the room, I stumbled over things left astray, reaching to pull the chain off the light bulb to the ceiling. The paint had turned yellowish and the ceiling begun to peel. I slumped into my green chair. I'll never get rid of the damned thing; its even got foam coming out of the side. My elbows leaning off the desk, I cupped my face into my palms. The stress of the day has reached its toll.

I opened my eyes, the sun streaking through the dusty blinds. I sighed, "fell asleep at the desk again..." I got up, went over to the old coffee maker I've had for years. Gulping down the lukewarm coffee black, I tossed the cup onto the desk and headed out for the day.

Moments later, I didn't realize where I had wound up. The house from last night loomed in front of me, abandoned. The windows broken, the door barely hung off its hinges. The lawn was disastrous, full of debris. One would wonder how much worse it is on the inside. Without hesitating, I strode up the stony steps once again. I walked through the doorway, carefully looking about the living room for any sign of life. The coffee table was overturned, papers were scattered all over the floor among broken glass. Picture frames laid forgotten and empty. I turned to the right of the room, looking toward what seemed to be the kitchen, but as I glanced, I saw another doorway. Droppings of red led a trail on the old splintered floor. Quietly, I walked down the hall, pausing only to be sure nothing or no one was behind me.

I picked up a piece of wood from a broken chair, just in case. Peering into the room starting from the front to the center. Everything was destroyed. A bloody mess laid at the side of the room. I shrugged furiously, backed out of the room and continued on down the hall; only at this point, rushing. I shoved each door, trying to search for clues. I was stumped. Angrily, I wished I brought my Nixon. I took a last sweep of the house before leaving. I knew who was behind this, but yet I couldn't prove it. On my way out, I saw something black from a peripheral view. Bent to the side of the couch, pulling out a black object. I shoved it into my pocket and left.

Back in the office, in the dimmed light I leaned into the back of my chair. The wallet sat on the center of the desk, unopened. I contemplated whether to open it or not. Thought I might as well, whoever was missing it doesn't seem to be coming back. I flipped through the card holders, everything was gone. Empty. Except for a piece of paper tucked in the corner neatly. It read: 155-24-55.

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That day had been the worst of the worst. Jude Mason had suddenly appeared in my life through voice mail after years of no contact. None of which made sense. All he said was "155-24-55." It had to be important, otherwise why would he contact me out of the blue. I hadn't expected to ever hear from him again. I slammed my BlackBerry down. Shoving aside the piles after piles of cases waiting to be filed. How was I supposed to get all this done? I headed to the sixteenth floor, demanding to speak to the Director of B.A.U. The secretary kept saying he was in a meeting and can only be seen through appointment. He was a "very busy man these days." I stormed out of the reception area, only to hide behind a plant. Waiting for the woman to turn her back, I ran for the doors. I entered a long hallway, reminding me of an old hospital. I passed the room that held an meeting, after peering through the window, I kept on. The name "DAN PETERSON: DIRECTOR OF B.A.U." screamed at me. I glanced around, pulling loose a bobby pin from my hair and picked the lock.

Upon entrance, I stole into the room. Brightly colors beckoned me, clearly designed to be "Feng shui." I rummaged through his desk and cabinetry. Several empty bottles of spirits hidden in the bottom drawer. "Disgusting!" I uttered under my breath. After finding the key I was searching for, in the bathroom of all places. I started to leave. But not before a black marked name stood out on a brown folder, "JUDE GRAHAMS," it read; Mason's old last name. Mason had changed his last name after his wife died and moved away. Why would Peterson have this? I photocopied every document in the folder, shoved them up my shirt and left.

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I cursed under my breath, tearing a piece off my shirt to dab my wounds. Grime and dirt was all over my body. "Where the hell are you?" I sat down a bench in the gloomy train station, the light ahead flickering. I flipped through the wallet again as I had many times before earlier in the day. Jansen popped in my mind. Has she found out what I meant yet? If anyone could figure it out, it's Jansen.

Subway trains came and went. Never did I glance to see if it might have been the one I was waiting for. Perhaps I didn't know what I was waiting for. A title, "MURDER IN THE CITY, LONDONY! TWO FOUND DEAD!" screamed from a newspaper that was dated a few days ago. The rough feel of paper slid through my fingers. I licked my thumb to peel back to the third page. Scanning for whatever news I may have missed in my lead, which was nothing. Still was nothing. All it was about was how it was suspicious and probably "related" to gang wars. Bull fucking shit. The murders were of a man and a woman. Bodies found half a block away from Saratoga Drive, the house I was at recently.

Nothing. Nothing about HER. Her eyes pierced my dreams every night. The wavy black hair, pale and terror stricken face. WHERE is she?! Surely, she's got to turn up somewhere. They're after her, WHOEVER they are.

"Hey! Hey you! Give me your wallet!" somebody yelled.

Frustratingly, I whipped out my badge. "Do you really want to go down that road?" I snapped back. The man had run away, and rightfully so too. I hadn't had the patience to deal with anyone lately. My whole life resolves around this girl. I have to find her. SOON.

To the upper right corner on the wall on the left side of me, near the tunnel that allowed the trains to go through, sat a huge prison-like clock. Quarter to 5 A.M. it read. It's no wonder the station was deserted. People get killed all the time out here at this ungodly hour. A loud crash sounded around the corner. Quickly, I scrambled to my feet, staring at the direction where it came from. A dark figure appeared beckoning, "come,Grahams come," then disappeared into the darkness.

on contrary to disbelief, HOW did they know my name? My old name at that. I haven't gone as Grahams for YEARS.

On my guard, I followed unwillingly. I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder and shouted, "come out so I can see you!" No answer replied. Regretting what I was about to do, I took off into the darkness.

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I was amazed. Absolutely amazed at what that folder documented. Fucking unbelievable. Peterson had Mason followed for the last few years; if not decade. Pictures of Mason out to eat, talking to strangers. The worst was of him crying over his late wife's grave. So fucking deplorable. At my desk, I scanned all the texts on him. Relaying where he came and went. It was sickening, why the hell would Peterson of all people be tracking Mason? Did he think Mason had something to hide? Did Peterson have something to hide? My mind began to wander... what if Mason had a dark secret? No. I shook my head. "No. I cannot think of Mason like that." I scolded myself.

Mason and I had once been involved. We worked together before I came to the agency. We ran into tons of cases and called each other up at any moment without doubt. I cannot abandon my old partner. Mason, once Grahams upon a time, had gone through such an ordeal he couldn't even talk to me about. Then he met her, his would be wife- Darla Montgomery. He broke all things off, work and personal. Once he had married, he ceased phone calls and all together. The way he's come into contact was weird, yes... but I was glad he called. I am. He wouldn't have unless it was absolutely necessary. So, now what? What am I missing?!

I went over the pictures, scanning for anything I may of missed. What was the importance of these photos that Peterson had taken? What am I missing?! Sighing, I tossed them aside and went for the coffee that sat on my desk. RINGGGGG....RINGGGGG...RINGGGGG.... Startled, I spilled the cup all over my files. "SHIT! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!" I attempted to wipe off the contents with a shirt. Reaching for the phone, "Jansen here, make it quick."

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 I woke up to darkness. I slept in darkness. It seemed that's all there was. Disoriented, I had no way of telling the time or day or even the week. How long have I've been here? Where is here? What the fuck. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the concrete room I was in. The floor I was lying on was grimy, full of God knows what; the room had no windows. Then it hit me, I was being kept prisoner. Against my will, my body succumbed into yet another medicated sleep.

Whether hours or the day or merely seconds had past, I wouldn't know. I awoke to voices across the room; intelligible to make out what they were speaking about. Hell, was that even a language? I need to escape. I am dying of thirst. My head, my head hurts. I need to get out of here.... I need to get out... I helplessly closed my eyes once again. "Jansen, please.... Jansen" I whispered.

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