Infernal: Emergence

by Ricky Fleet

  “Of course, boss,” Mal answered.

  “And she was happy to sign it?” Jim pressed.

  “Yeah, she was more embarrassed than hurt. I saw her eyes roll and caught her before she could do serious damage,” Mal said.

  “Her knight in shining red uniform,” Jim chuckled, smile returning. “Ok, good work, boys. Did you manage to stop Mr. Darlington opening a can of whoop ass on any more customers?”

  “He was chatting up a couple of the ladies from the local knitting club but no punches were thrown,” Malachi replied laughing.

  Jim studied the day’s income and his smile grew.

  “You’ve really been pushing the protein drinks, that’s nearly two hundred pounds more than normal take.”

  “They don’t taste like powdered shit anymore since we switched brand. With the new flavors, they sell themselves.” Kevin shrugged.

  “Don’t be modest, they still don’t taste that good,” Jim added, taking out two twenty pound notes from the spring loaded compartment and offering them over the desk.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Malachi took a step back.

  “Look, I know you both don’t like taking money. Mr. Darlington has told me about your moral code, but this is well deserved. I can’t pay you as much in wages as I would like because the gym doesn’t make a fortune, so this is just a little thank you.” Jim wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Malachi nodded in gratitude.

  “Now get your asses out of here!” he barked, “You know I don’t pay overtime!”

  With a final thank you, the two young men gathered their belongings and left Jim to cater to the night customers. The sun had settled to the west as it continued its rotation, and the cloudless sky was awash with stunning blues and darkening magentas of twilight. The small scenes of beauty were a salve to the growing trepidation and Malachi hesitated long enough for Kevin to notice.

  “Are you going to admire the scenery all night or are we going to get a drink?”

  With a sigh of resignation, Malachi looked at his friend and begun walking towards the local bar. Not a word was spoken on the short walk, but their friendship had grown to a point where the silence wasn’t awkward. Kevin knew the mental weight crushing his best friend would come out in time, like a boil filled with pus being lanced. The pressure had just grown too much to bear and he hoped to be the doctor who could aid in the healing process.

  “What am I getting you boys tonight?” asked the bar owner in a heavy Jamaican accent.

  Desmond DeCosta was the epitome of Jamaican heritage. A huge, welcoming grin showed rows of uneven teeth, and the thick dreadlocks hung most of the way down his broad back. His family had moved from the Caribbean when he was a teenager to take advantage of all that Britain had to offer. Fiercely patriotic to both his new home and the old country, their cultural pride had led to the opening of the ‘Paradise Bar’. Desmond’s parents had invested half of the capital, but kept away from the day to day running so they could enjoy a peaceful retirement.

  “I’ll just have a pineapple juice, Des. I still have to drive home,” Malachi replied and sat down at the bar.

  “Fuck that, man, you look like death. I’ll make you a real drink, a Jamaican Zombie will do you the world of good.” Desmond clapped his hands.

  “Thanks, Des, but I have no other way of getting home. The buses stop running in two hours and I think we are going to be here a while longer than that,” Malachi tried to dissuade him from the already half created cocktail.

  “You leave that to me, I will call my cousin and he will take care of you,” he said, adding the shots of rum. Desmond’s cousin was even bigger, with longer dreadlocks all kept in place by a huge Rasta hat. He was a local celebrity for the big yellow and black taxi he drove with Bob Marley playing loudly on repeat.

  “I can’t afford it, mate,” Malachi admitted with embarrassment.

  “Shit, brudda, did I say anything about paying him?” Desmond looked hurt as he topped the gorgeous looking drink with a slice of orange and a cherry.

  “I don’t like taking charity,” he replied quietly, knowing he meant well.

  “I don’t like giving it!” Desmond declared, putting the drink down on the coaster, “I call it investing in one of my best customers.”

  “I still have to get to work in the morning...” Malachi was still putting up a fight.

  Pulling a face that said, well damn I had never thought of that, Desmond said, “I will come get you, I have a business proposition to make you anyway.”

  Handing over the extra twenty he had been given, Desmond dismissed it with a quick wave of the hand and moved off to another customer.

  “The man doesn’t like being told no,” Malachi smiled as he put the money away.

  “He’s worried about you too,” Kevin admitted.

  “Let’s take a booth, I want to have some privacy.”

  They seated themselves on the creaking red leather and faced each other. Still unwilling to unload his feelings, Malachi looked around at the brightly colored bar. Half a dozen Jamaican flags of varying sizes were mounted on the walls as well as the Union Jack flag of the United Kingdom. Barely anything within the establishment wasn’t some shade of red, green, yellow or black. A lot of the locals had argued against the garish changes from the original Irish pub, but customers had flocked to drink here. The long bar was topped with a totally unnecessary grass roof and exotic plants stood in pots at regular intervals to bring a sense of nature. Murals on the walls were a mix of proud animals and icons from Jamaican history, with quotes about confidence and roots from Marcus Garvey; a prominent civil rights activist.

  “This is really good,” Malachi sighed in appreciation as the drink traced a warm glow down his throat from the rum.

  “I know,” Kevin replied bluntly, eager for the real conversation to begin.

  “You aren’t going to let this go are you?” Malachi slumped in the chair, his heart racing with anxiety.

  Kevin only shook his head slowly, “It’s for your own good.”

  “Fuck,” Malachi spat, “Where do I begin?”

  “At the beginning?” Kevin offered logically.

  Stomach churning with apprehension, Malachi admitted defeat and began, “The first time it happened was when I was about twelve years old.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The orphanage I was moved into wasn’t all that bad, certainly not what I had been expecting. The care givers were all motivated by love of the waifs and strays which came through their doors,” Malachi said.

  “I remember visiting you. It could have been worse,” Kevin replied, then looked horrified. “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean as a place to be put it was…”

  Malachi smiled, “I know what you were getting at and you are right. There were far worse places I could have wound up. Anyway, the home was well funded which ensured we all had a clean bed and slept two to a room instead of being more crowded.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I will never forget. It was early February and the day had gone from bad to worse,” he started the story.

  Malachi walked in and Pam, the senior caretaker rushed over to give him a hug. The orphanage had a no touch rule except in the case of restraining a violent child, but this occasion was different. Sporting a black eye and a split lip that had only recently stopped bleeding, his uniform was stained with droplets of claret.

  “Are you ok?” Pam flustered around him and gathered some ice in a cloth to hold to the swollen eye.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. I had a bad day and during lesson the teacher was talking about parent’s evening,” he said slowly, reluctant to use his painful lip more than necessary.

  “Oh, honey,” Pam cooed.

  “I nearly made it out of the room before I started crying, but Jeff Lancaster had seen me and started laughing. I was in the toilet for a while trying to stop myself from being such a baby,” Malachi said, voice wavering.

  “It’s
not being a baby to miss the ones we love,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “The principal said that you got into a fight with the boy. How did it happen?”

  “He came in with a couple of friends during break and heard me in the cubicle. I tried to stay quiet but he knew I was in there because he looked over the top of the door,” he answered, mind returning to the afternoon.

  The flimsy door was weak from years of use and one good kick threw it inwards toward Malachi as he wiped away the tears. All three boys were laughing and pointing at the pitiful figure cowering inside.

  “No wonder your parents killed themselves with a faggot of a son like you,” Jeff taunted and the two accomplices slapped him on the back.

  “They didn’t kill themselves, just leave me alone!” Malachi shouted and tried to close the door.

  Jeff stepped inside and blocked him, “Why don’t you make me? Faggot!” He jabbed a finger into his chest.

  “That hurt, get lost!” Malachi pushed the assaulting finger away.

  “I don’t listen to pussy faggots. What do you think we should do with him?” Jeff carried on pointing and looked over his shoulder for support.

  “Make him lick the toilet,” said one.

  “Bog wash him,” replied the other.

  “Those sound like fine ideas,” Jeff laughed.

  The toilet was much the same as any in a high school, where the patrons were less concerned about hygiene than they should have been. Splashes of urine coated the floor and, inexplicably, so too did dried feces. Young boys could be disgusting creatures.

  “Just leave me alone!”

  “Just leave me alone, just leave me alone,” mocked the boys as Jeff stepped forward.

  Grabbing Malachi by the head and trying to hook a foot around behind his legs to topple him, he was astonished when his victim bared his teeth and snarled. Stamping down on the outstretched leg something tore in the limb, perhaps a tendon or ligament, and Jeff shrieked in pain. The fun was over and the two bullies looked unsure of themselves as the scrawny kid glared at them while forcing Jeff to the filthy floor.

  “You like that then?” shouted Malachi into his ear, “How does it taste?”

  “Mmmph, hrrmph,” Jeff bawled as his lips were crushed against the crusted porcelain.

  “Get off him!” cried one of the accomplices, stepping forward to swing a punch.

  The angle was off and in the confines of the stall it caught Malachi a glancing blow in the eye. It had no effect and he didn’t let go, the adrenaline and hatred were all consuming. The release of pent up grief was long overdue; like a pressure cooker it was bound to blow at some point. Unfortunately for the trio of bullies, they chose the wrong time to act tough and were now caught up in the explosion. With one final yell, he slammed Jeff’s face into the bowl and chips of tooth flew from the bloodied mouth.

  “What did you do that for?” squealed the third as he backed towards the door, hands raised in surrender.

  “Obviously because I’m a pussy faggot whose parents killed themselves,” Malachi laughed and it contained an unhealthy tone.

  “You’re fucking crazy!” yelled the bully, seeing his friend disappear through the exit.

  More out of fear than spite, he threw another punch and Malachi’s lip split open like an overfilled leech, blood streaming. A glare of pure malice contorted his face and the bully fell to the ground, begging for mercy.

  “Get up!”

  “Don’t hurt me, I’m sorry. We were only doing it for a laugh,” he sobbed as he was lifted to his feet by the shirt collar.

  “If you ever look at me again. If you ever talk to me again. If I ever hear you have mentioned my name in conversation, I will wait until you are alone and I will do worse to you than I have done to him,” Malachi said only an inch from the boy’s face. Blood was running down his chin and coating both their shirts but terror had paralyzed his enemy.

  “I won’t,” he gasped with terrified saucer eyes.

  “You need to pick his teeth up,” he finished and threw him into the cubicle on top of the wailing form of Jeff.

  Walking from the restroom, the unshed tears of childhood innocence lost flowed and the sure knowledge that he was completely alone in the universe left his soul barren. Malachi was totally oblivious of the shouting teachers as they came to investigate the reports of an insane child killing another pupil. Opening the double doors of the fire exit, he sat down on the low wall outside and wept for the years of loneliness that awaited him.

  “Yeah I remember that!” exclaimed Kevin. “You weren’t in for a couple of days afterwards and we had an assembly about bullying and violence. The whole school knew your name.”

  “I wish they hadn’t,” Malachi admitted, “I never wanted to hurt anybody.” The shame still burned brightly even to this day.

  “Nobody ever messed with you again though, so it wasn’t all bad. The rest of high school was a breeze.”

  “People did leave me alone,” he conceded.

  “So you had a fight, but I don’t see what that has to do with your brooding and withdrawing from the world?”

  “I said the day was bad, the night was so much worse.”

  Sat around the sprawling dinner table that was more suited to a medieval banquet hall, the other children had finished their dessert and moved off to play games on the computer. Malachi had offered to wash and dry the dishes, partly in self-atonement for the injuries he had inflicted, and partly because he enjoyed the feeling of making things tidy. It was a habit he had picked up from his parents; ‘A clean home is a happy home’.

  “You’re being awfully quiet, Mal, are you worried about getting into trouble?” Pam asked, helping him with the chore.

  “A little, Miss.” He shrugged.

  “Well don’t worry about it. The principal has heard the story from the two other boys about how three of them attacked you and you only defended yourself. He has also taken into consideration your… troubled personal issues,” she said, trying to be diplomatic.

  “You mean my parents dying,” he replied.

  “Yes, honey,” she said sadly.

  “I don’t want special treatment, that will just make things worse. Most of the kids probably hate me now anyway,” Malachi said with worry. The fearful glances some of his housemates had shot him over dinner was eating at him.

  Pam came close and lowered her tone conspiratorially, “Word is those boys have been causing a real nuisance for other children in the school for months. The principal said off the record he was glad to see them get their comeuppance. Rumor is you are being compared to a mixture between the Incredible Hulk and Mohammad Ali.”

  “But I didn’t punch anyone,” Malachi giggled at the overblown compliment.

  “Well according to the gossip you went crazy and ripped your shirt off before beating all three of them up without mercy,” Pam chuckled at the grossly exaggerated story doing the rounds from some of the other children in her care.

  “I was the one that got beaten up,” Malachi protested, pointing to his bruised face yet still smiling.

  “I know, sweetie. How is it feeling?” Pam asked with genuine concern.

  “It feels like my face is really tight?” he questioned, unable to express the strange feeling.

  “That’s the bruising, it will go down in a couple of days. Do you want some more medicine?”

  “Nah, that’s ok. Please, may I be excused to go and watch a bit of television?”

  “Of course. Thank you for the help, Mal.”

  “No worries, Miss,” he said and hurried off.

  Pam smiled as he retreated. Her own boys were older and long flown the coop and it was a real shame her husband had refused to allow her to adopt. It was probably for the best, she was such a soft touch her home would look like something out of Lord of the Flies. Watching him leave the kitchen she still felt the old mothering instinct kick in, the need to protect the thin and gangly boy who she was so fond of.

  The television couldn’t hol
d his concentration, so halfway through his allotted time he passed over the controller to his younger roommate; Jack.

  “Really? Wow, thanks, Malachi,” he beamed as he changed the channel to his favorite cop chase show.

  “You’re welcome. Night, mate,” Malachi gave a thumbs up and excused himself as the sound of sirens and shrieking rubber filled the room.

  Closing the bedroom door quietly behind himself, Malachi quickly changed before brushing his teeth and using the toilet. The ensuite bathroom was another happy bonus of the generous funding and afforded the young men in the home some privacy. The bed was comfortable as he lay down and settled his aching head. The sporadic tick of contracting metal from the cooling radiator sounded like skeletal fingers tapping in the room and this triggered morbid thoughts of his beloved parents and their cold grave twenty miles away.

  “I miss you both so much,” he said to the empty room, hoping to solicit otherworldly contact and felt childish when, unsurprisingly, no answer came.

  The pain in his eye was aggravated by the pressure of the goose down feather pillow so he turned over and faced the wall. Tracing his fingers in the patterns of his parent’s names, tears came again but with less sobbing. The dwindling power of the emotional outpouring scared Malachi and he thought he was in danger of betraying their memory. Without any grief counselling so far, he was too young to understand the myriad paths in which acceptance of bereavement is reached.

  “I’m so sorry, mate,” Kevin patted the back of his hand.

  “It’s ok, you didn’t even really know me at the time,” Malachi appreciated the sentiment and scowled at Desmond in mock anger as he placed another free drink on their table with a wink.

  “I think he is trying to get you to loosen up, you’re like a coiled spring,” Kevin chuckled as he picked up the glass.

  “It isn’t necessary; I have started the story so I will finish. I feel a little better already, but I don’t think you will after you hear the next part.”

  “What happened?” Kevin whispered breathlessly, dreading the revelation to come.

  The combination of stress and spent grief acted as a sedative and before Jack had returned to bed, Malachi drifted off into the dark recesses of his subconscious.