Sometime after midnight, there was a sharp crack. Nadine hurled out of sleep and forgetting, groped the space beside her. It was cold. She sat, ears straining. The wail, when it came, was that of an animal scalded and left to die. It strengthened, assaulting the minds of those who like her, waited. When there were enough voices, Nadine felt for her slippers and went outside.

9.00 a.m.

Settle on a wide shot. We don't need lights or reflectors, for here houses gleam in the morning sun like teeth in a toothpaste ad. Pan slowly across glass, concrete and steel, and pause at high, wrought iron gates that swing slowly outwards to let out one sleek motor car after the other.

Cut to the patio of old red brick, still cool despite the light which bounces from a kidney-shaped pool some paces away. A woman in crisp linen slacks and shirt paces, stopping every now and then to glance at her watch. Inside the house, a child cries loudly, then begins to scream. An old woman in a cook's apron appears in the doorway with another child in tow.

'Miss Helen, don't bother leave them with me for I can't manage them today ... a-oh.'

'Don't come to me with your mouth this morning Prudence. Only God knows why I don't fire you.'

'After I rush with you mother to maternity ward, change you nappy and teach you everything you know in life, you want to fire me? Who you must fire is Nadine ... nine o'clock now and she don't reach work yet ... that's the kind of nursemaid job I want, where you can come in any time you please.'

Prudence scoops up the child and turns back into the house.

The woman returns to pacing the patio. Then, as the baby continues to cry, she picks up her bag and keys, marches through the living room where the older child is now eating a bowl of cereal and calls out 'Prudence, I am not here.' Two minutes later, the gates swing open and Helen Wishart sweeps down the hillside to her appointment at the day spa.

Cut. cut to oily black smoke; to orange flames licking at tyres piled on the roadway. Close up on tired, care-worn faces; skins dulled by bad food and bleaching cream; hair straightened and then starched with aggression. Close up on Nadine, placard dangling from listless fingers; eyes narrowed against the smoke. A sport utility vehicle mounts the sidewalk across from her. A trendily and expensively dressed young woman alights, followed by similarly dressed friends. The young woman scans the crowd, eyes lock with Nadine's then veer away.

9.10 a.m.

A television crew piles out of a marked van. Discarded placards are now picked up and those standing on the pavement surge into the street where the burning tyres form a hellish backdrop.

'Justice, we want justice.'

'Ma'am, can you tell us why you are here today?'

'Talk to mi fren'.'

'Mi eena mi house last night and me just hear 'bow'! A white Corolla drive up and give Wall Eye one shot ina him head ... Wall Eye send we pickney go school. Wall Eye ah we saviour.'

'Did you see the Corolla or its occupants?'

'Naw, but is so me hear.'

'Yow! Somebody a go dead fi dis ... Tell the whole Jamaica, nuff man a go dead fi dis.'

'At two a.m. we received reports that there was shooting in the Wainscott Lane area. We dispatched two cars to the location where we saw the victim on the ground. Onlookers allege that he was playing dominoes with a group of friends when he was fired on. We have not yet established a motive for the killing. '

'We want justice, police nah help we round yah. Justice!'

The young woman, who had earlier arrived in the SUV, lets out a wail and collapses. She is helped up by her friends. Her face is twisted, the sound from her throat is so harsh the camera man steps back involuntarily. Across the flames, Nadine watches, eyes shrouded and inscrutable. The camera swings towards her. She becomes animated, raises her placard and shouts with the rest.

Flashback! Flashback! How does one effect this flashback? Dissolves are for romance, not death; for warm moonlight nights, not for darkened alleyways raked by gunfire; for sandy beaches, not burning asphalt. Cut then. Cut to a narrow alleyway of rusting zinc fences; to a yard where houses of wood and tin and plyboard huddle as if for comfort and for security ....

'I pass. I pass all eight subjects, see the paper here!'

' Whey you mother? You tell Nadine?'

'No, she not here.'

'Eight subject!'

'Yes, the ones mean that I got top grades in those subjects, like, distinctions, and the two is like a credit.'

'So what you going to do? You must can get a office job easy.'

'Well, actually I'm planning to go to sixth form.'

'Sixth form? But dat is plenty money. Tomorrow I talk to Missa Hammond, maybe him have a place in the stock room. The money small but it will help out. But wait, what happen to Nadine?'

'See her here coming through the gate.'

'Oonu mean to say oonu come home and couldn't teck the clothes offa di line.'

'Woman stop the noise and come here. Nicki pass.'

'Chile, go take the clothes off the line.'

'You hear what me say? She get eight subject with seven distinction.'

'Jesus Christ, don't tell me so!

'What the backside! Woman why you crying?

'Wall Eye send come here today.'

'What Wall Eye want?'

'Him see her.'

'What you mean?'

'Him see her and send fi her. But mark it down, I kill her miself than meck him touch her.'

'That won't be necessary'

'You don't gone yet? Don't I send you to do something?'

'Every day I wonder when it will be my turn. Sandy, Shawna, Natasha, all of them I go to primary school with, end up with Wall Eye and him man dem. Why should I be different? It was just a matter of time. But maybe something will come out of it. Sixth Form is expensive, and is not like we have money.'

'You give in so easy? You want Wall Eye?'

'Who could want him? But what's the point fighting? Remember what they call Wall Eye on the news? 'Community Leader', not murderer or rapist. 'Community Leader.' How we going to fight that?'

9.25 a.m.

The television crew has packed up and left. The protesters begin to drift. The show is over and at last the young, trendil-dressed woman crosses the street and into Nadine's arms. For the first time that morning, despite her previous wails and protestations, there were tears on the young woman's cheeks. Nadine cries too; sobs that well up from the dark places where young girls surrender dreams and where foolhardy, resisting fathers and brothers choke on their own blood in the streets. Those standing closest to them are uncomfortable. These tears are more than required by the script. The unwilling spectators edge away and soon there is nothing but the burning tyres and two women who cradle each other and weep and weep.

7.00 p.m.

The children are fast asleep in pyjamas they have worn all day, for true to her word, Prudence has fed but not otherwise touched them. Helen Wishart makes herself a mug of strong black coffee, tips in some white rum and switches to the evening news. Scenes from yet another roadblock fill the screen. She raises the remote to switch the channel then freezes. At the front of the protesting crowd is a placard-bearing Nadine with flared nostrils and wide eyes. 'Justice, we want justice.'

'Justice! Well, we'll see about that,' Helen thinks grimly as she switches off the set and prepares for bed.

- Karlene Morgan