by Ricky Fleet
“Fucking dyke cunt,” growled the man, spitting onto the table top inches from her hand.
Malachi had heard enough and was in far better shape than his adversary. Satisfied to keep the violence to a minimum, he was correct in his assumption that the other man was blind drunk. With a firm push, he went flying with arms flailing until he hit the wooden floor hard.
“You just fucked up really bad,” said one of the thugs who wasn’t wasted. Helping his friend up, the third man started to circle around to attack.
“I don’t want any trouble; I just came out for a quiet drink. Your friend was bang out of order with how he spoke to the lady,” Malachi said, trying to defuse the situation. He really didn’t like to hurt people.
“I’m sure you didn’t want trouble, you prick,” snarled the man he had pushed as he smashed the neck of a bottle off.
“But you have found it anyway,” finished his friend.
“Not so tough without your mate, are you? He was going to get it as well for staring at me, but for now you’ll have to do.”
“We’ll have to do!” bellowed Desmond as he smashed a baseball bat onto the counter making them all flinch.
“This isn’t your fight, old man.”
“Old? You cheeky mother fucker.” He leaped over the bar for dramatic effect, glasses smashing; the hatchway was only a few feet away.
Their alcohol bravery faltered at the solid Jamaican and his bat, Malachi smiling coldly by his side and making a come on then gesture.
“This place is a fucking shithole anyway!” shouted the man wielding the broken bottle. In frustration, he launched it at the wall, shattering into shards against the Jamaican flag and leaving a small rip in the fabric.
Shaking with rage, Desmond stepped forward, “You disrespected my place, and now my flag. If you come in here again, you won’t be leaving.” He meant it too. The Jamaican Yardie gangs were brutal and ruthless in dealing with their enemy, and Desmond was loosely affiliated by old acquaintances. He had avoided the gangster life, but there were still numbers he could call to ask a favour or two.
“You haven’t heard the last of this!” sneered the trio as they left.
“I will be waiting, man.” Desmond blew a kiss as they slammed the front door.
“Thanks, Des, you just saved me from getting a good hiding.” Malachi shook his hand.
“It was nothing. You are my friend and brudda; I wasn’t going to let that bumbaclot take a liberty,” he said with passion. “Let me get you both a refill.”
Desmond walked to the entrance, looked outside in both directions and was satisfied the men had left. Placing the bat within easy reach, he set to work on the drinks.
“Sir, I’m sorry but can I have a soda? I don’t think my friend is coming so I will just drive home,” she asked shakily.
“Are you ok?” Malachi asked the young redhead.
“I am now. Thank you for helping me,” she smiled, revealing a beautiful set of even white teeth, “Please, sit down.”
Heart skipping a beat at the sight, Malachi shook himself when the reality of his psychological predicament came crashing into his mind. No romantic connections, he reminded himself with regret.
“It was nothing; they were just idiots out to make trouble. I wasn’t going to let him speak to you like that though.” Malachi smiled back and shook her outstretched hand.
A tingle of anticipation ran up the extremity at the contact and he snatched his hand back, causing her to frown.
“Sorry, you gave me an electric shock,” he lied.
Mollified by the deception, she laughed, “You help me and I end up hurting you. That’s gratitude right there.”
Her giggle contained such innocence and a musical timbre that Malachi found himself laughing along. It felt good after years of self-imposed isolation to make a connection with someone new, however unlikely any further development of the relationship was.
“I think I can forgive you. I’m Malachi, pleasure to meet you.”
“Chloe. The pleasure is all mine,” she replied, eyes wandering to his broad chest and strong shoulders.
“My eyes are up here,” Malachi chided with a grin.
“Huh? Sorry.” Her cheeks flushed red.
“Don’t apologise, I was only teasing. Have you heard anything from your friend?” he changed the conversation to spare her feelings.
“I can’t get hold of her by text or phoning,” Chloe replied.
“Do you think she is ok?” Malachi asked with concern.
“Oh yes, don’t worry about Gabby. She is…” Chloe wondered what to say to not insult her friend, “A bit promiscuous. I know she got chatting to the new guy at work today, I expect they are back at her place right now.”
“She doesn’t sound like much a friend,” he proposed, then relented. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“There’s a lot of apologising going on today,” she slapped his hand playfully, “And you are right, she isn’t. But she is all I’ve got.”
The shrug she gave and the bleak look in her eyes was familiar to Malachi. It was the same look that greeted him every time he looked in a mirror. Sensing a kinship with the pretty girl, he found himself backing off.
“Will you excuse me for a minute?”
“Of course,” she said and thanked Desmond for the drink as he put them on the table.
Walking into the small, but immaculately clean toilet, Malachi leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Like any red-blooded male he had needs, and the stunner sat in the booth only feet away was only exacerbating the desire. Hell, she was desire personified, but he was in no shape to try and kindle a love life that would end the first time she awoke in a puddle of urine. Deciding the best approach would be to shut it down and make his excuses, he pressed the hand dryer to make it appear he had used the facilities before opening the door.
“He’s a good guy, trust me,” Desmond whispered, but Malachi caught it.
“I thought you weren’t going to come back,” Chloe beamed, offering his drink.
“I have to be going, I’ve got work early in the morning,” Malachi said and felt a twinge of pain at the look of hurt on her face.
“Oh, ok,” she said quietly, looking embarrassed.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked, feeling like a total arse.
“No, that’s fine,” she picked up her purse in a hurry and nearly knocked the drink over, “Thank you for the drink and thank you for standing up for me.”
She hurried through the door and out into the night, throwing one quick glance back over her shoulder.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Desmond asked, shaking his head.
“More than you could imagine, Des,” he said with self-disgust.
“It’s nothing that can’t be overcome,” he pressed. “You don’t see a girl like that every day. She was into you, man. You were her knight in shining armour.”
“It was only gratitude and relief, don’t read too much into it.”
“You pitiful bastard.” Desmond scowled.
“Hey, if I wanted to get called names I would get Kev back,” Malachi protested.
“You think you are alone in having problems? Everyone got problems. In my country you were just as likely to end up dead or in prison by the time you turned eighteen. I lost more friends than I can count on those streets, so don’t give me that self-pitying bullshit.”
“Did you ever wet yourself from horrific nightmares that you thought you wouldn’t wake up from?” Malachi blurted and lowered his head in shame.
“Every day was an unending nightmare, brudda,” Desmond said and reached over to squeeze his arm in sympathy. “For us it was whether we would even make it to bed safely.”
“How could I explain that to her?”
“Are you getting married?” Desmond chuckled, “You have to date her first. Nothing to say you need to spend the night together until you feel ready.”
“I don’t know…” Mala
chi was caught between conflicting emotions.
“You won’t have a choice if you don’t get your ass moving. I haven’t seen her around before and I don’t think she will be coming back.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Malachi’s mouth was dry and his heart was pounding faster than when he had been in danger.
“Go!” boomed Desmond and it was just the trigger he needed.
Bursting into the night air, a mixture of dread and elation seized him in a vice. The streets were largely deserted and Chloe was nowhere to be seen. A pang of fear mixed in with the rollercoaster of feelings.
“Stupid!”
Running to the carpark which served Jim’s Gym as it was the closest, all was quiet. The lights from inside cast shadows on the lot and Jim was talking to a couple of men in the reception, their shadow figures dancing on the tarmac.
“You’ve blown it,” Malachi conceded, sighing with regret.
Only one other car park was in the vicinity, but by now she would likely have driven away. Jogging around the corner, he studied each passing car to try and see if Chloe was behind the wheel. None contained her beautiful face, and the second lot was likewise quiet and motionless. Bizarrely, Malachi started to well up and felt a yearning for the very companionship that he had been fighting for so many years. It was a moot point anyway; she had gone and he had no idea where she worked or even her second name. Her clothing had been non-descript; neither a uniform or an outfit that carried any clues to the profession. Standing on the sidewalk, the loneliness grew until it was all consuming.
Was this the extent of his remaining years? To merely exist, rather than live. Never knowing the loving touch of a wife, the laughter of his children as they grow. Suicide wasn’t in his nature, but at that point he could understand the motives of the lost souls who took that final step into oblivion.
Turning to walk back to Desmond’s, a muffled cry caught his attention. The source was hard to pin down with the disruption of passing cars and Malachi found himself wishing for them all to disappear. Lacking the power to displace matter, a stroke of luck caused the traffic lights to change and stop all of the passing cars. The cry was fainter now, but it came from the alley across the street. Sprinting between the idling vehicles, the darkness was nearly complete down the passageway.
“No! Please…” came a shrill, terrified yell before it was cut off.
A veil of rage descended on Malachi and, instead of calling for help, he ran into the poorly lit alley. The cars started moving again and with each passing headlight, the shadows receded for a split second, like a strobe of the unfolding attack. Chloe was stretched out sideways, pinned beneath the man who had abused her in the bar, with one friend kneeling on her arms. Her skirt and panties had been torn off and the pale buttocks of her rapist were poised between her legs. So caught up in the act, the men didn’t even react to the footfalls as Malachi closed the distance.
“Mother fuckers!” he roared.
Using his weight and the momentum, he swung a kick straight into the soft midriff of the abuser. Lifting the man clear of Chloe, his small erection bounced as he rolled across the dirty ground before coming to a stop against a trash can. Gasping for air and clutching his side in agony, the second man glared and leaped to his feet.
“You’re next!” Malachi pointed and it was the mirthless smile which warned him of the danger.
Hiding in the shadows of a recessed doorway, the third thug had been on lookout duty. Sneaking up behind Malachi, the blade glinted with another passing motor as he thrust it towards his back. Twisting at the last moment, the knife cut deeply into Malachi’s flesh instead of burying itself into the liver which would have been fatal.
“You’re a dead man,” said the knife wielding thug, closing the distance with his companion.
Malachi looked for a way out, but there wasn’t one. High brick walls rose on each side of the alley and the nearest window was located on the first floor to reduce the chances of burglary.
“Nowhere to go, pretty boy,” laughed the one who had been holding Chloe down.
She was beyond terrified, looking around like a small girl trapped in the middle of a forest with monsters. The rapist was trying to stand up, desperate for revenge on Malachi. It looked like he would die in this dingy passageway, and Chloe would still be violated as he bled out only feet away.
“Who’s first?” Malachi sneered and raised his fists, all fear disappearing. The pain from the deep gouge in his side dulled as adrenaline coursed through his body.
“I have a present for you,” grinned the knifeman, the red blade dripping.
“Happy to oblige!” Malachi shouted and threw all his weight behind the punch.
Knuckles met nose and crushed it flat at the same time as the thug lunged, burying the knife into Malachi’s stomach.
“Mal!” Desmond shouted from the entrance, seeing him drop to his knees.
“Let’s get out of here!” called out the uninjured man, helping his friends to their feet.
“Fucking cowards!”
Desmond came charging, bat raised to take heads off. The darkness swallowed the trio of beasts, seeming to aid them in their nefarious endeavours.
“Stay with me, man,” Desmond begged, holding Malachi’s head. “No, don’t pull it out.”
The blood loss was making his head swim, but Malachi wanted to get the knife out of his body. Batting the flailing arms away so he couldn’t inflict more damage to himself, Desmond was screaming at the onlookers.
“Call an ambulance, now!”
Phones were pulled out and the call was made.
“I found her,” Malachi smiled, lips covered in blood.
“I know you did, brudda. You saved her from those animals,” Desmond said, stroking his cold, sweaty forehead.
“Is she ok?”
Desmond could only surmise that physically she was unharmed, but mentally? That was another matter.
“She’s good. You rest now, help is on the way.”
“I wish I could have taken her out to dinner,” Malachi whispered.
“Hey! Don’t talk that way.” Desmond slapped his cheeks in desperation as Malachi’s eyes rolled.
“I won’t miss the dreams.”
Desmond’s voice was dwindling, his worried face getting further and further away. As Malachi faded from the world, he felt the soft caress of other hands on his temples. Long forgotten memories of his mother and how she would soothe him with the same gentle stroking motion accompanied him into nothingness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pin pricks of cold tickled the consciousness of Malachi and he opened his eyes briefly to the night. The drizzle was coating his face and Desmond was doing his best to shield him from getting wet as the paramedics went to work. The face of his friend was fraught and he shouted orders at the trained medical professionals. Used to high stress situations, the female paramedic kept her cool and gently eased Desmond away.
“Sir, you have done an amazing job, but we need to help your friend now.”
“He’s been stabbed in the side and stomach. I made sure he didn’t pull the blade out,” Desmond was babbling.
“Sir, he is in good hands.”
Reluctantly he ceded control of the compressive bandage which comprised a crumpled t-shirt. Seeing that Malachi had regained partial consciousness, she shouted for Desmond to come back and talk to him. The sopping red clothing was removed and in its place proper sterile pads were secured with bandage until the surgeons could treat the wound.
“Hey, buddy, we still need to visit my family in Jamaica. Do you remember how we always talk about sitting on the beach sipping Planter’s Punch?” Desmond said, wiping the moisture from Malachi’s face.
He wanted to reply, but being weakened by blood loss no sound would come, only a brief twitch of the lips.
Desmond’s deep tones were morphing into happier, female ones. “Sweetheart, it’s time to get up!” called out a voice from distant memory and Malachi closed his weary eyes.
The chill of the wet ground metamorphosed into the soft, warm cocoon of a child’s bed. Opening eyes and pulling back the Thomas the Tank Engine duvet, Malachi surveyed the room of his infancy. A small television and DVD combination unit sat on a worn cabinet. Set on shelves were a collection of children’s films bought for pennies from the local charity shops. A wooden toy chest that was scored and marked from years of use spoke of poverty, its lid open and the meagre toys only filling a quarter of the space.
“Breakfast’s ready, champ,” shouted his father.
“Coming!” replied Malachi groggily.
Throwing off the covers, he jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom to empty his swollen bladder. Before he could reach the bowl, the reflection stopped him dead and his eight-year-old face stared back. The freckles had faded with age and the scrawny, bony frame had been replaced by layers of muscle. Young eyes gazed back from the mirror and seemed to look at the older Malachi within. Questioningly? Or was it accusatory? The dual personality wanted to scream and warn its younger manifestation of the coming pain, but with a rub of knuckles in eye sockets and a yawn the connection was gone. After flushing the toilet, he slouched down the stairs in the way young boys do and found his parents dancing in the kitchen to Lionel Ritchie.
“We’re gonna have a party, all night long!” crooned his father, waltzing the giggling figure of his mother around the cramped kitchen.
“You wish, Romeo,” she answered and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Morning, honey, how did you sleep?” asked his mother while pouring a glass of orange juice.
“I had a bad dream,” answered past and future Malachi in unison, meaning wholly different nightmares from more than a decade apart. Being an unwilling stowaway through a memory, his mother only acknowledged the younger version with a sorrowful kiss.
“Oh dear, buddy. Are you ok? What happened?” asked his father, lifting him as if he weighed nothing and planting him firmly on his lap.
“I can’t remember, but you and mummy were in it,” Malachi answered, snuggling closer to banish the forgotten terrors.
