TWO DAYS BEFORE THE MURDER OF CARROL SMITH

Everyone hated Jackson.  He looked outside. In front of him, he sees the campus of Regmont High School.

The front rugby pitch is packed with tiny year eights failing to catch a rugby ball, let alone throw one. The newly built Technology suite sits aside from the main school building.

The brick structure is packed with bored, tired students struggling to listen to Mrs. Dawson's droning voice without falling into a coma, permanently. The car park nearly is packed with:
Renaults, Mercedes, Toyotas and Ford Fiestas. Why bother? Honestly, you can't choose cars worse.

He remembers the time he broke into a car with his gang mates. They bought hammers from a hardware store a day before. The cashier seemed to know what their plan was, she looked at them, examining in great detail, disapproval etched on every corner, and then scanned the items.

Next they chose their location, an abandoned car park in the south-west of town. It was perfect for car theft. There were no CCTV cameras visible, multiple exits, a low wire fence which could be smashed into if they needed a quick exit and a number of well-paid bankers with their flashy Mercedes parked there.

At 6:47 Jackson and his mates entered the car park cautiously, hammers in backpacks. A man drove into the car park. The boys loitered, waiting for him to leave. There were to be no witnesses. When the coast was clear, they drew their weapons.

They spotted a Mercedes SL 63 and advanced towards their target. They moved quickly but cautiously, almost as if they were afraid that the ground would crumble around them. Bob swung first, crushing a wing mirror with the blunt end of the hammer. Meanwhile, Jackson used the sharper end to smash the back window of the saloon.

Stuart dented the driver's side of the bodywork. Fredrick just stood there, his hammer hanging at his side. Bob brought the hammer down again, smashing the passenger window on the right side. The glass gave way.

They were in.

They crowded round their carved entrance. In the back seat was a white Apple Mac, it looked brand new, but then it probably was. Snobs. In the glove compartment was a mobile phone and twenty pounds in cash. Bob was still swinging. Jackson swore at him. The banging stopped.

The gang acted quickly, Jackson took the Mac while Fredrick took the mobile phone and the money. Suddenly they heard sirens, someone had seen them. Jackson swore under his breath and then broke into a run. If he could reach their car two blocks down he could get away. He sprinted down a back alley, passing an old drunken man as he went.

He was now in the center of a square. This was dangerous. He heard more sirens, no less that a block away and catching. He started running again. He felt like his lungs were going to explode but he had never felt more alive in his life.

He took the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the car, a BMW M3. Tyres squealed and soon he was gone. He yelled to no one in particular swearing around another pothole, the big game was on today and people were walking down the same road to the arena. Up ahead there were pedestrians, madly waving at him to stop, screaming, running away, and stupidly recording him. (There goes his identity again). The car was at 70 mph down the road, if he didn't stop right now someone was going to turn into a human pancake. Then, he'd be dead for sure.

He pressed hard on the brakes just a second late.
The car skidded sharply, leaving black tar marks on the road. Bracing himself back on the seat, he spotted the cops that has formed a barrier a few feet away, aiming their guns at his BMW.

To his horror, a little kid ran out in the middle of the road to grab his football and he was right in the middle of the scene.

"No!" A woman yelled horrified.

Jackson's car wasn't stopping, the brakes weren't working, he tried swerving the steering wheel but the car only turned sharply.

I think I might kill someone today because of my stupid decision, he thought. The cops shot at his wheels in an attempt to slow it down however, the tyre only burst as the vehicle spun wildly out of control.

Thump!

He didn't have to see the body that the car had slammed before crashing into a brick wall. The sudden impact made him slam his forehead onto the dashboard knocking him half unconscious.

'I just killed a kid. I killed a kid. I just took the life of a kid. An innocent kid...', he said. No matter how many times he muttered about what unforgivable crime he just committed it didn't seem real.

I just murdered a kid.

With the little strength he had left, he kicked the battered, bullet-wounded car door open and dragged his body out.

Well, staggered, really. However, he didn't get very far. A sharp pain erupted from his right thigh knocking the breath out of his lungs, followed by the echo of a gunshot.
"Freeze!" Dropping to the ground in pain, he saw through the tears that blurred his vision, a police woman jog towards him before pressing her knee on his upper spine, dragging both his hands behind cuffing them.

Jackson exhaled a painful breath through all the blur.
It was over for me.
I hate that woman.
"Jackson Kinglsey you are under arrest for reckless driving, theft and the murder of an innocent child. You are required to remain silent, anything you say will be used against you in the court..." Her voice faded to the back of his mind as hands grabbed his biceps, raising him to his feet.

And in the distance, the cry of a mother haunting him like an unsettled spirit.