**The Black Streak**
Like most girls her age, Emily had big dreams—finish school, go to university, become a doctor. She longed for a grand, lifelong love, the kind every seventeen-year-old imagines. But not everyone gets their happy ending. Why? If only she knew.
Her mum raised her alone. Like Emily, she’d once dreamed of a prince, too—fell for a dashing bloke convinced he was her happily ever after. Turned out, he was a gambler. Luck rarely favoured him, but small wins fuelled his obsession. The losses, though? Crippling. He blew every penny at the table, took loans, drowned in debt.
To cover one particularly nasty sum, he got tangled with the wrong crowd. Got caught on his first job, landed in prison, and—well, let’s just say he didn’t make it out alive. One day, two burly thugs showed up at Sarah’s door. Said the debt was hers now, threatened her. What could she do? Handed over the flat with everything in it, grabbed two-year-old Emily, and ran, no plan, no destination. Maybe the thugs figured she was tapped dry, or maybe the flat covered most of it—either way, they left her alone.
Sarah and Emily settled in a sleepy market town near Bristol. Hoped the milder south would be kinder. Rented a room from a Welsh widower, Owen, who only asked for help around the house and garden in exchange. His wife had passed two years prior, his grown kids lived elsewhere.
Sarah agreed. Cleaned, cooked, weeded, harvested—plenty to do in a house with land. Owen sold the produce at the farmers’ market, got by. On good days, he slipped Sarah cash for clothes for herself and Emily. Even bought them gifts sometimes. Sarah knew where this was headed. So when he asked her to marry him, she wasn’t surprised. Owen was short, balding, round as a barrel, and twice her age. Fancy him? Not a chance. But what choice did she have?
He promised her the house and land when he died. Sarah said yes. Those years with him dragged like decades, but survival isn’t about choices—it’s about necessity.
When Owen passed, Sarah finally breathed free. At last, her own life, her own home. What more could she want?
Emily grew up lovely—olive skin, grey eyes, full lips, dark curly hair, a figure to turn heads. Men noticed. Of course her mum worried.
Sarah raised her strict, terrified she’d repeat her mistakes. “Don’t chase looks, chase stability,” she’d say. (The gambler ex left its mark.)
Every summer, tourists flocked to town. Sarah drilled it into Emily: *Don’t you dare fall for one. They’ll use you, leave, and you’ll be alone—God forbid with a baby.* But what seventeen-year-old listens?
Then came Oliver, a London student visiting relatives. Saw Emily, lost his head. Showed up at Sarah’s doorstep, boasting about his family’s wealth—his dad’s business, his future inheritance.
Sarah wasn’t daft. Didn’t buy the flashy talk.
“You want to marry her? Fine. Emily’s still in school. Come back in a year, we’ll talk. Till then, hands off,” Sarah said, sharp as a knife.
Privately? She was thrilled. If he meant it, Emily would live like a queen.
Oliver, smitten, agreed. Left, but wrote, called. Visited at Christmas. One more year of uni, then he’d work with his dad, learn the ropes, provide.
Emily waited, loyal. A year later, Oliver returned—with his parents. They took one look at Emily and saw a pretty face, not their son’s equal. But love won out. A beautiful bride? Good for show. They’d polish her up in London.
The wedding was lavish. Sarah beamed. Just one request: *Wait on kids.*
The newlyweds were happy. Emily applied to med school…
Then Oliver’s dad noticed her. The way he looked at her made her want to vanish.
One day, Oliver rushed to his mum’s—she’d called, said she was ill. While he was gone, his dad turned up at their flat. A sweltering August afternoon. Emily, in shorts and a vest, opened the door, thinking it was Oliver.
He pounced. She couldn’t fight him off. Screaming? Useless. The neighbours were out. Even if they’d heard, they’d ignore it. Knew who owned the flat.
By the sofa, a heavy vase. If she could just—
She swung.
Dragged herself from under his limp body. Blood pooled. Panicked, she called an ambulance.
By the time Oliver returned, his dad was in hospital, Emily in cuffs.
She told the truth. Who’d believe her? The investigator spun it: she’d lured him, planned it. With him dead, Oliver inherited the business. Motive? Clear.
Four years.
A week into her sentence, word came—her mum was dead. Heart failure. Owen’s eldest sold the house. Not for a convict.
Prison was hell for someone like Emily. Survival meant sacrifice. She found scissors. No money, but a promise to pay later. When no one looked, she hacked her cheek.
The prison doctor stitched it. Badly. The scar stayed, ugly. No one looked twice now.
She worked hard, kept clean. Release day came. Where to go? Oliver divorced her. Mum gone, house sold. No family left.
They asked where she’d go. “Relatives in Manchester,” she lied. Mum once visited with her dad. Liked it there.
She didn’t stay. A city that size wouldn’t hire an ex-con. The scar? Now a curse.
She stepped off the train at a tiny station at dusk. Where now? Little cash, no leads. Too cold to sleep outside. Needed a hotel.
As she walked, a battered old Ford pulled up. She tensed—then the window rolled down. A ginger-bearded man.
“Just arrived? Need a place?”
Before she could answer, he stepped out. A black cassock—a vicar.
“Fresh out?” Father Michael asked.
“How’d you know?”
“Sunlight. The way you look at it.” He smiled. “I’ve got a better offer than a hotel.”
Her guard up, she listened.
He lived with his wife and kids in a vicarage. Their eldest was away at uni—spare room. No rent, just help his wife. Decision? Made.
On the drive, she confessed her crime.
“The scar?” he asked.
“Self-inflicted.”
He nodded, asked no more.
The vicarage was modest. His wife, Margaret, welcomed her, no questions. The kids peeked at her scar but stayed polite.
That night, Emily told them everything. Margaret fought tears; Father Michael said suffering led to grace.
For the first time in years, Emily slept soundly.
She stayed a year—helped Margaret, tutored their youngest, Abby, sang in the church choir. Slowly, the past faded.
When Father Michael learned she’d wanted to be a doctor, he called a friend at Manchester Uni.
“They won’t take me. I’m a convict,” she said.
“You’ve got your A-levels?”
“Yes, but my records were with Oliver. Probably trashed.”
“I’ll ask. You’ve given up?”
“Why help me?” she asked.
“Because you can. Pass it on—no strings.”
Her documents turned up in London. She enrolled in Manchester. Visited the vicarage often. The kids adored her.
Classmates side-eyed her scar at first. Then a professor offered to fix it.
“Who stitched this? A butcher?”
She didn’t say *prison medic.* The new scar faded.
After graduation, she worked at a Manchester hospital. Five years later, a conference took her back to London.
Her pulse raced the whole trip. Kept scanning crowds for familiar faces. Then she realised—her old world wouldn’t cross paths with hers now. Relaxed.
On her last day, she shopped for the vicarage family. Heading to the Tube, someone called her name.
Oliver. Gaunt, scruffy, but him.
“Emily! You’re back?”
“Just for work. You?”
“Dad’s partners swindled me. Sold the flat…”
“Yours,” she corrected.
He nodded. “Mum’s gone. I’m sorry I didn’t help. Can you spare cash?”
She handed him what she had.
“Don’t pay it back.”
His eyes flickered with shame. “I don’t deserve this. Where do you live? No, don’t tell me.”
As he walked away, she called after him. He waved her off.
On the train, she wondered—did he deserve this? Should’ve asked how to reach him… Then she thought of Father Michael, Margaret, the kids. Warmth spread.
She often thought: without prison, she’d never have met them. Maybe all ofAnd as the train carried her home to Manchester, Emily realized that sometimes the darkest paths lead to the brightest beginnings.
