Here’s something I wrote for my English class. Naturally the most unimaginative title was chosen for this particular exercise, and naturally we had to do this under timed conditions (fifty minutes to be precise). If you think it’s dreadful, so be it, but just remember to tell me how to fix it to your liking rather than telling me that it’s broken beyond repair.

I hope you enjoy it,

Georgia.

The Prize

He’s running. Running faster than he knows how and he’s hurtling down the street so fast that he feels he may fall over at any second, but he just can’t stop.

Berny’s there. So is Franksy and Rickshaw and Buck. They were all there, out of the drawing board stage, out of all stages but one. It was raining heavily, so all around was the pitter patter, pitter patter sounds of the rain and the sloshes of drainpipes as they were beaten to overflowing. And they were running, and running, and running.

Franksy artfully side-stepped a huddled pair, sheltered by a large black umbrella, like a fox and a dancer all at the same time, running as he did so. Always running. His long coat fluttered and spluttered on the wind and the rain, like the King of capes, whirling and twirling and swooping like a gull does over the vast, beautiful sea.

Rickshaw’s heavy frame pounded the pavement, one two, one two, breathing matching his heavy, lumbering feet and the bounce, bounce, bounce of his thick rolls of fat. He rasped and moaned dumbly in time to his wheezy, dry breath. And still running.

Buck was ahead, leading, watching, thinking. Always thinking. He ran comfortably, bounding up and down the streets, puddle to puddle, as a gazelle might. Hand grasping hat, hip and arm embracing ‘walking’ stick, ‘This Way!’ He ordered, pointing, directing our happy little crew into a side alley.

They turned as a unit, Buck taking the lead, as ever, and Rickshaw hounding them from behind. Berny took the left flank, and as he ran his glasses bounced up and down, up and down on his nose and the laptop bag swayed and danced uncontrollably from his shoulders where it had been hastily slung. His thin arms slew the air and sliced it to pieces with every stride he took, awkwardly as a cartoon character.

All at once the reason that they were running so fast, fast, fast came into view. There, way back, beyond the skip and the green restaurant side door, ran four, maybe five, men. Heavily uniformed, heavily booted, heavily set. Police.

But the trivial act of this hour was not their ultimate prize, so they must keep running, pounding, breathing, until tonight, when they shall once again come out to play.

They took a right and oozed between a set of dumpsters that were emitting tinny sounds as the rain struck them. Buck slapped them away as they evolved quickly into a single, marching line. Rickshaw taking the rear, he slammed his fat, pink fists into the piles of rubbish and sent the lot crashing down noisily in their wake, awaiting the law. The officers split, soome running around and some leaping as easily as pussy cats as they cleared Rickshaw’s wrath.

Free from the narrow pathway the crew, all five of them, ceased to be herded like cattle and separated out into their original formation. And there, in the middle, he ran. There, in the middle, ran Norton, soon to complete his rite of passage into this heavenly group. He was neither elegant, nor strong, nor clever; he was just Norton. His divorce had cost him his house and his hair, his job and his belongings. The air rushed around him as the blood pumped and pounded around his body, and his waster muscles –office muscles–fought to carry him to sanctuary.

Buck pumped a number into his mobile phone. He brought it to his ear and his damp black hair, droplets of rain drip, drip, dripping from his saturated brow as he did so. The group were directed left down another alley network, surrounded on all sides by dark, red bricks.

‘Rosie! We’re nearly there!’ Spoke Buck into the receiver. ‘Be a good girl and make sure you have the doors unlocked and ready for us,’ he paused, ‘and make sure you have a nice cup of tea awaiting my return!’

Buck ended his conversation and replaced his mobile back into his breast pocket.

‘Right!’ He shouted. ‘We’re nearly there as planned. Just follow my lead and remember what we agreed. Don’t mess up!’ He cast his eyes back to their pursuers, who were still sufficiently far behind, with the heavy clop, clop, clop sounds of their dark regulation boots.

They were almost out of the narrow alley system, at a point where the green and white awning of the Café Nero on the street corner was just visible.

Buck reached the end of the alley and continued to run across the road, dodging traffic like a mad thing and giving every other car that honked at him the finger and the cursing of a lifetime.

Next came Berny, Franksy and Norton. Berny swerved left, glasses hopping madly and leather shoes clacking on the unyielding pavement. The laptop bag crashed against a display outside a newsagent and sent newspapers flying like magpies into the air in a shower of black, white and page three models. But Berny never looked back.

At the same time came Franksy, who twisted and danced playfully, dragging Norton with him by the sleeve of his jacket. In a whirl of coat and giddy laughter Franksy and Norton were under the green and white awning and away.

Finally came Rickshaw, who turned left in pursuit of Berny, who was already into the distance and far away. He side-stepped the carnage of the newsagent as an elephant might, tripping and pushing himself up once, twice, over and over until he was free and away, feet pounding faster than the rain drops fell.

It seemed to Norton that they would live to see the ultimate prize that only the night could bring.