Baton

Two policemen stood at the bend in the alley, half-obscured by shadow.

Their presence felt too large for the space . . . broad shoulders in dark uniforms, the glint of a badge, the telltale shape of a utility belt weighed down by a radio, cuffs, a gun.

The older officer stood in front, one hand raised, palm out, the other hovering near his belt. His stance was firm, authoritative, like someone who expected to be obeyed immediately.

The younger one was a step behind, less sure, his eyes flicking between Ellen and the mess at her feet.

Ellen’s pulse thundered.

She stayed frozen, her hands half-buried in the pile of clothes.

The older cop . . . the one in charge . . . stepped closer, boots grinding against the wet pavement.

“I said, hands where I can see them.”

Ellen’s head snapped up, her breath caught mid-inhale, heart slamming against her ribs. She gingerly pulled her hands free from her suitcase.

A memory flared, unbidden . . . her father’s breath, sharp with whiskey, filling the small space of their old apartment hallway. That same acidic, pungent mix of alcohol and sweat, curling around her as he grabbed her wrist, his grip too tight . . . Did I say you could leave?

Ellen blinked hard, shaking it off.

“Good,” the officer said, his voice low, husky, the kind of voice that never needed to be raised to command attention. “Now raise them higher and step away from the suitcase.”

She hesitated. The rush of adrenaline had locked her muscles into place, making them feel sluggish, unresponsive, like she was moving through water.

Slowly, carefully, she managed to uncurl her fingers, raising her hands with her palms outward. The sleeves of her oversized cardigan sagged, the fabric still heavy with rain.

The officers moved in, their boots crunching softly against the wet ground in a steady, deliberate rhythm.

The younger one hung back slightly, his gaze flicking to the shadows between the dumpsters, scanning the alley like he expected someone else to be hiding. His posture was stiff, uncertain, his jaw tight with something that wasn’t quite fear, but wasn’t confidence either. He was new, she realised. Still learning where to place his suspicion, still adjusting to the weight of authority sitting on his belt.

She might have clung to that . . . if not for the other one.

The older officer moved with certainty. No hesitation, no flicker of doubt. The swagger of a man who had done this too many times before, who had long since stopped questioning whether he was right. His thick handlebar moustache twitched as he studied her, his thumbs hooking casually into his belt loops . . . too relaxed, but not in a way that made her feel any safer.

Ellen could smell him before he even spoke . . . cigars. The scent wrapped around her, clinging to the back of her throat, mingling with the alley’s filth.

She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to step back again.

“I’m gonna ask you some questions,” he said, voice slow, measured. 

Then his tone changed. Sharp and loud, like the crack of a whip.

“And don’t you dare lie to me, you hear me?!”

She flinched. Her father again . . . Did I say you could leave?

The officer’s eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking over her like he was looking for a crack, a tell, something to catch her in.

Then his focus dropped.

The open suitcase.

The damp clothes, still mud-streaked from the park, piled in a mess around her like the evidence of a crime she hadn’t committed.

“Who’d you steal this crap from?” he asked, like he was giving her a chance to tell him what he already thought he knew. A smirk played at the corner of his handlebar moustache. “And don’t try telling me it’s yours.”

Ellen’s breath hitched. The air in the alley felt suffocating now, pressing into her too close, too thick. 

“I… I didn’t steal anything!” she rushed out, her voice too high, too breathless, as if she could outrun whatever he had already decided about her. “These are my clothes… I swear! I… I just left my boyfriend. It’s all I have.”

For the briefest second, the younger officer hesitated. His eyes flicked to her . . . really flicked to her, this time. Something in his face softened.

But the older officer? He didn’t budge. His gaze stayed cold, sharp with something that wasn’t quite cruelty, but wasn’t far from it. He didn’t believe her. He wasn’t even trying to. His gaze bore into Ellen’s face, unflinching, unwavering, like a man who enjoyed watching things squirm. 

Ellen held his stare for as long as she could stand it. But, she knew she couldn’t do it forever. 

His dropped. Not in submission. Something else. A slow, deliberate drag of his eyes travelling downward. Lingering. 

Her stomach knotted, a cold, sick feeling twisting deep inside her. It wasn’t just the way he looked at her . . . it was the way he wanted her to know he was looking.

A sharp metallic snap shattered the moment.

Ellen jumped. So did the younger cop . . . Rodriguez.

The baton gleamed in the dim alley light, polished, an extension of Chief’s hand. He held it loosely, casually, as if he hadn’t just cracked the air open with it. His stance didn’t shift. His grip didn’t falter. Like it was second nature.

A slow, satisfied exhale left his nose. Then . . . “Rodriguez!”

The name cracked through the alley like a gunshot.

“Yes, Chief?” Rodriguez’s response was quick, but his voice wavered, something uneasy creeping in around the edges.

“What’s the booty?”

Rodriguez blinked. “The what?”

Chief’s expression hardened.

“The bags, Rodriguez! What’s in the damn bags?”

Ellen barely breathed as Rodriguez crouched, rifling through the open suitcase with mechanical movements, his fingers hesitant as he sifted through her life, her last remaining proof that she existed.

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t happening.

Rodriguez straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “It just looks like clothes and stuff, Chief,” he admitted, the edge of uncertainty still hanging in his voice. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

For a brief second, Ellen thought that might be enough.

It wasn’t.

Chief didn’t move. He stood his ground, baton still extended, his eyes fixed on her. His silence wasn’t just silence . . . it was a message. A reminder that whatever truth Rodriguez thought he saw, it didn’t matter. Then, slowly, deliberately, he backed away, step by measured step, the baton hovering just enough to stay threatening. He stopped when he reached the suitcase.

Ellen’s lungs locked as he prodded at her things with the tip of his baton, not like he was searching . . . like he was playing. Her socks, her shirts, her balled-up hoodie . . . all poked and flipped.

And then, he hooked something. Something small. Something delicate. Lacy fabric unravelled from the pile, hanging limp from the end of his baton.

Oh, God.

It swayed in the breeze, a bra, it pink, cheap . . . hers.

Chief twirled the baton ever so slightly, making the fabric sway. His lip curled.

“These yours?” he asked, his voice mocking, casual, cruel in the way only someone with absolute power could afford to be.

Ellen’s cheeks burned hot, the kind of heat that came from humiliation, not anger. She nodded, unable to form words.

Chief’s expression darkened. “I asked if this is yours.” The tone was different now . . . not mocking, not taunting, just pure, raw authority, meant to cut her down. “Show me some respect and answer me so I can hear it!” The voice cracked and reverberated down the alley.

“Yes!” she gasped, voice too small, too fragile. Then, quickly, “Sorry… yes, it’s mine.”

Chief tilted his head, his eyes dragging over her, slow and calculating, as if measuring her worth.  The lacy fabric still dangled from his baton. Like a trophy. Then Chief lazily lifted the fabric toward his face, inspecting it like it held some great secret. But his eyes never left her.

“Well, Officer Rodriguez,” he said, drawing out the words, heavy with mock deliberation, “it seems we have ourselves a little dilemma.”

Rodriguez shifted uncomfortably, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. The movement was small, barely perceptible, but Ellen caught it . . . the way his spine seemed to stiffen. He didn’t want to be here.

“A dilemma, Chief?”

Chief nodded, his moustache twitching slightly as he cast a slow, scrutinising glance back at Ellen. “Exactly,” he said, voice slow, measured, as if he were leading them both somewhere neither wanted to go. “A suitcase full of what could very well be stolen clothes… and a suspect who swears up and down they belong to her. But how can we be sure?”

Ellen’s stomach turned over, a sickly wave rising from the pit of her gut. She could already tell . . . he wasn’t asking Rodriguez.

He was asking himself. 

And then, with the bra tipped baton held under his nose . . . He inhaled.

His eyelids fluttered shut, his nostrils flaring as if he were savouring something private, something sacred.

The alley spun. The world tipped, slipped sideways. And suddenly, she wasn’t here any more.

She was fifteen.

Back in her childhood home. The walls were yellowed, smoke-stained, thick with whiskey breath and old sweat. She had crept in late, too late, her heart hammering because she knew what was waiting. The way her father’s head snapped up as she entered the room. The slow, deliberate way his nostrils flared as he took in the smell of the outside world on her clothes.

He knew she had been somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

He sniffed her like an animal before the hand came down. Hard. Sharp.

Her lip had split on the first strike.

Did I say you could leave?

She had learned fast. Men like that . . . men like him . . . they didn’t just want control. They wanted proof of submission.

The alley snapped back into focus.

The air pressed down with a suffocating weight. The damp stuck to her skin, thick, muggy, making it hard to breathe.

And still . . . he held her underwear beneath his nose.

Rodriguez twitched, his stance shifting again, his jaw tightening. He looked uncomfortable . . . disgusted, even. But he said nothing.

Ellen’s fingers curled into her palms, nails biting deep into her own skin.

“What we need,” Chief murmured, finally lowering the lace from his face, his voice thick with something low, private, conspiratorial, “is a way to prove she’s telling the truth.”

She cast a glance . . . a desperate, pleading glance . . . toward the bend of the alley. Someone had to be out there. Someone had to be passing by.

But nobody came.

She flicked her gaze to Rodriguez, searching his face, willing him to do something, say something, anything . . . 

But he just stood there. His expression had shifted from discomfort to something almost like shame. Like he knew he should be stopping this. 

But he didn’t.

The way her father’s friends never had.

Chief took a step forward. He stopped just short of her. The lace still dangled from the tip of his baton. Then . . . he thrust it toward her.

“Take it.”

Her body obeyed before her mind even processed the order. Her trembling hand extended slowly, fingers brushing against the cold, wet metal of the baton as she plucked the fabric free. It felt wrong in her grip, like it no longer belonged to her, like it had been taken and turned into something else.

Chief smirked. The kind men gave when they enjoyed seeing something crumble. Then . . . he began to circle.

“What’s your name?” The shift in tone sent a fresh chill crawling down her spine. Polite. Gentle, even. The way a butcher soothes an animal before the knife.

Her lips were dry. She had to swallow twice before she found her voice. “Ellen,” she whispered. Then quickly, “Ellen Persephone.”

He hummed. Tasted the name. Let it roll over his tongue like something rich and thick. “Ellen Persephone,” he repeated. His gaze dragged over her, head to toe, slow and assessing, like she was a product on a shelf, something to be evaluated. “That’s a pretty name.” He leaned in, just enough for her to smell the stale, acrid breath curling from his mouth. “Ellen,” he said again. Savouring it. Stretching out the syllables.

He liked saying it. That terrified her. 

“Ellen,” he drawled. “Let me ask you something… Assuming for a moment that these are indeed your bags… would you say they’re precious to you?”

Ellen blinked. The question felt like a trap. She forced herself to answer, though she already knew there was no right answer. “Yes,” she said carefully. “Yes, they’re all I have.”

“Exactly! That’s exactly what I thought… Ellen.”

He moved behind her, his boots scraping against the alley floor, the sound slow and deliberate, filling the spaces between each breath she forced herself to take. Then . . . a bounce. The shift in weight, the soft jingle of his belt, the slight give of the pavement beneath him. He was bouncing on his toes, like a man warming up for something.

Her lungs felt too tight.

“Now imagine this,” he mused, voice dripping with mock friendliness, like a parent explaining something to a slow child. “If someone were to take these precious possessions from you… you’d want them back, wouldn’t you?”

Ellen’s fingers twitched against the lace in her grip. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her voice even despite the pounding against her ribs.

“Yes…”

A chuckle. The sound grated through the alley, low, amused, thick with satisfaction.

“Good girl, and you’d want the law to step in and help, wouldn’t you?” Chief’s voice was honeyed now, smooth in a way that made her feel sick. “Someone like me, for example?”

Her eyes darted to Rodriguez . . . pleading, begging. His face had gone pale, the tension in his jaw stark against his skin. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing if he stepped forward, he’d fall. His hands fidgeted. 

He knew. 

He knew. 

But he didn’t move.

Then . . . the baton struck. Sharp. Unexpected. The metal bit into her thigh, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to send a shock-wave through her system.

She yelped, her body instinctively jerking away, stumbling slightly. The alley seemed to spin for a second, but before she could recover, Chief’s voice crashed down again.

“What did I say about using your words?” The voice. That voice. Sharp. Barking. Like a command she should have learned by now. Another memory . . . a backhand across the mouth. A man with whiskey breath, gripping her by the collar of her shirt. What did I say, girl? Huh? Are you stupid? I told you to answer me when I speak!

Her hands trembled.

“Show me some respect,” Chief continued. “Answer the question!”

“Yes!” she blurted, her voice breaking before she could stop it.

Chief hummed. Satisfied. The tension coiled tighter around her ribs.

“That’s more like it.”

The baton returned, but this time, it didn’t strike. This time . . . it was worse. Ellen felt the cold metal slide against her thigh. Slow. Deliberate.

“But here’s the thing, Ellen.” His voice dropped, the playful lilt evaporating into something low, intimate, poisonous. “I’m having a real tough time figuring out how to prove these are your bags.”

Her body locked up. Every muscle turned to stone, like if she stayed completely still, she could halt time, stop this moment from happening.

His next words brushed against her ear, the tickle of whiskers, his breath thick with cigars. “Luckily, I have faith in you. I bet you can think of a way to convince me and Officer Rodriguez that what you’re holding . . . really belongs to you.”

Rodriguez. He was stiff as a board, jaw clenching, unclenching, fingers twitching at his belt. He wasn’t okay with this. But he still wasn’t stopping it.

Chief’s baton shifted, pressing lightly against her inner thigh.

The world blurred. 

Think, Ellen. Think.

But, she couldn’t think of anything other than . . . submission.

Her hands moved first. Fumbling. Shaking. Reaching for her cardigan, her fingers clumsy, numb, missing the button once, twice, before she finally popped it loose.

Then another.

And another..

Her vision swam. A heavy ringing filled her ears, drowning out the sound of the city beyond the alley. The wet fabric slipped down over her shoulders. She pulled her arms free of the sleeves.

One.

Then the other.

Her bra changing hands.

The cardigan dropped onto the suitcase with a damp thud. She was almost visible through her soaked t-shirt. The only barrier between herself and the world. She crossed her arms, grabbing the bottom of the t-shirt, about to pull it up, over her head.

“Good girl,” Chief whispered. His voice dripped with grotesque satisfaction.

Then, like a sudden break in the clouds, a voice sliced clean through the moment.

“Hello, is that The Washington Post?”

The words were calm. Deliberate. So out of place, so jarring, that Ellen almost thought she had imagined them. 

The Washington Post… she recognised the name. That was the local newspaper wasn’t it?

The voice came from behind her. Measured, polite. Completely unfazed.

She felt Chief flinch. It was small, barely a shift, but she felt it . . . the way his bravado cracked for just a second. 

The voice continued, unhurried, with the cool detachment of a man discussing the weather.

“I have a news story you will certainly be interested in, but you’ll have to hurry.”