The icy wind clawed at my face and filled my nostrils with a salty sea smell. My legs no longer able to sustain the weight of my emancipated frame, I collapsed onto the cold wet sand. A lonely crab scurried from behind an abandoned deck-chair into a plastic carrier bag to shelter from the rain, as if it was its natural habitat. I decided to haul my body up from the ground and head towards the faint humming of cars. My legs began to fail me, but with every step civilisation grew ever closer, the cars ever louder and my body ever weaker.

Silence.

Darkness.

                Alone, my body lay exhausted under the watchful stars. Soon my photo would be on the morning news. My mugshot staring straight into the eyes of every mother eating her breakfast, in a mad rush to get her children to school on time.

                In the midst of this morning panic, the mother will pause; stare straight back into those ice blue eyes, almost white, dominating a bored, pale face. She will gasp as she recognizes the aurulent hair falling onto a fluorescent green and yellow boiler suit. This being the standard uniform for an escape risk prisoner of her majesty’s prison; rather ironic really, under the circumstances of the news report.

                The news of my escape spread fast; police squads were searching for me by breakfast. But, by that time the whole of my maximum security prison had herd of my escape and were rioting; whereas I had vanished from the radar, leaving a vacancy in the prison black market.

                So, as the riot ensued, the girl who had collapsed on the beach in the dead of night now strolled down the busy high street, a new person, unrecognizable. She ordered a latte, tipped the coffee shop well, joined a group of seated people and grinned maliciously at each of them in turn, before removing her oversized sunglasses.

                “Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant, filled with odd waiters who bring you things you never ordered, and don’t always like. Would you not agree?” her voice so sweet and soothing, it could make the angels themselves weep with joy.

                The gravelly voice of the man seated to her right was the first to speak; “So, this is how you chose to spend seven years of your life, philosophizing?”

                The woman to her left didn’t speak immediately, but merely retrieved a large brown envelope from her leather briefcase. He held the envelope in both hands for a few seconds before speaking; “Miss Sandeé Jackson, I have all your details in here. Plus a plane ticket leaving in about 5 hours from East Midlands airport, you will arrive in Phoenix sometime later and be greeted by your new chauffeur and driven to your apartment, any questions?”

                I raised my eyebrows; “Sandeé?”

                Donovan handed me the envelope and began speaking again, telling me why I should be grateful and my name should be the least of my worries. I really didn’t care though because I knew I would get through customs and border security, they wouldn’t be looking for my face they would be looking for my passport; it will be on high alert. Silly officials, do they not think I could acquire a new identity in less than 12 hours.

                As Donovan spoke I embraced freedom; the mindless chatter of the public, the scorching hot latte glass against my finger tips, and the aroma of real coffee filling my mind with only pleasant thoughts. Obviously, I will have to get revenge on the three criminals sat near me, but right now it isn’t a convenient time to shoot them point blank, as much as I would like too. This is due to the fact there are approximately 35 security guards on duty at any one time in the Nottingham Victoria Center, where I am sat. Probably why this is their choice of rendezvous.

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