In The End | Novella | Beginning of the End

by Stevens, GJ

  Beginning of the End

  An ‘In The End’ Novella

  GJ Stevens

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © GJ Stevens 2020

  The moral right of GJ Stevens to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright under the Berne Convention

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2020 by James Norbury

  Cover design by James Norbury

  www.JamesNorbury.com

  ISBN: 9798714322549

  DEDICATION

  For Jayne. You make me.

  For Sarah. My inspiration.

  1

  Wedged in the tight space, I stood shivering; not just because of the cold on my bare arms or piercing through my thin pyjamas. Not because of the darkness; the only light coming from the bottom of the door. Not for the memory of that smell that made me want to gag with every breath.

  My stomach gripped tight, like a hand clenched around my organs, but not only because I hadn’t finished my breakfast. There was plenty of food stacked on the long rows of shelves on the other side of the door, but only if I cared to chance my life with what might be waiting beyond.

  I shook because the once blaring sirens had gone silent, along with the other loud noises that faded to nothing. I shook for what would come next.

  I’d been there so long. Hours at least. Half a day, perhaps. My bladder aching.

  I was in a cupboard; a utility room barely seen in the flash of daylight as I ran in. Pulling the door closed behind me, I panted so hard I thought I would burst. I’d seen the shelves, but not paid attention to their colourful contents. I’d seen the great white porcelain sink I leaned against and the mop and bucket in the corner. I smelt the stale odour.

  Despite knowing I could turn and relieve myself in the sink, I couldn’t bring myself to expose my back to the door and let my guard down to relieve the pain.

  A not-too-distant sound of feet scraping along the pavement beyond the outer door stopped me just as the courage rose enough for the turn.

  The sound died back and I relaxed, but not enough to move from the spot. Not enough to twist around and take those few moments to risk my life for a little discomfort.

  The shivering grew worse, each tremor as if it would force my aching bladder to burst.

  I slowly raised my hands, pausing at what could have been a sound beyond the door, or it could have been my imagination; an imagination I hoped had made this all up. An imagination which had conjured the fear, the pain and the loss.

  I strained to hear, but the sound had gone and I tried not to think of something heavy, a body, being dragged across the floor. I tried not to think of my brother out there. And my mum.

  It had been long enough; the moments sinking into memories. The feelings overtaking the sights. Everything twisted in my mind. They could have been out there searching for me. They could have been waiting to explain the misunderstanding. To tell me I’d been sleepwalking. To tell me I shouldn’t have run off. To say I shouldn’t have followed Mum’s plea to get away.

  Not able to hold back any longer, I eased my hands backwards. Feeling the cold of the sink, I rushed around, pulling my thin trousers down. Breathing away the relief, I clenched at the sound it made gurgling down the plughole. It smelt so strong, so rich. Mum’s voice reminded me I had to drink more.

  Pulling up my trousers, I basked in the comfort and my mind wandered back to her voice ringing in my ears.

  “Run.”

  2

  Steve, my brother, worked long hours; usually leaving before I woke and would be back home just as Mum served dinner.

  Yesterday, staggering through the door and arriving much earlier than he normally would, he surprised me, almost sending me falling into the Christmas tree and spilling my lunch across the floor.

  On seeing his grim expression and grey complexion, I spoke whilst trying not to show my concern over his hunched appearance.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” he replied, squinting as he shuffled over to the fridge before opening the door to glance at the shelves.

  “You don’t look it,” I said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” I added, as I noticed he’d kept it bent at the elbow and tucked in front of his stomach.

  “Nothing,” he replied, turning his back as he pulled out a carton of orange juice and drank.

  “You could get a pay-out,” I said and he turned, scowling my way. “What did your work say about it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, glaring at me before dropping the juice carton back on the shelf. “There’s bigger things going on in the world than money.”

  “You should have told them at least.”

  “What does a sixteen-year-old know?” he said, still with his back to me.

  I turned away, listening as he staggered to the stairs, taking his time with each step until the sound faded to nothing.

  When Mum came home from work, she found him sound asleep when she took in his dinner, calling me in to see if I agreed with her concern. I thought he looked much better as he slept in the double bed, thinking he probably had the cold currently going around.

  It was no surprise he was ill, Mum would always say whenever he got even a sniffle. The lab worked him like a dog, especially in the run up to Christmas. I paid little attention, remembering how he’d spoken to me, and stayed focused on the TV. Mum soon switched to reminding me of the exams waiting for me when I went back to school.

  They were only mocks and I had the whole of the next week to find enough enthusiasm to hit the books hard. At least that’s what I thought.

  I woke early the next morning and sat on the sofa, staring at the decorations we’d put up only the other day; the tired-looking tree standing in the corner of the room barely decorated. Mum never did as much since Dad died, even though he always had the least enthusiasm to cover the rooms in shiny coloured plastic.

  The loading screen of the console caught my eye as I stuffed in another mouthful of cereal. My attention drew away to the sound of someone stepping down the stairs in a disjointed rhythm.

  It was Steve, the last person I expected to see, and he ignored my stare as he stumbled around the house as if getting ready to go to work, despite the stoop and with his right hand tucked in his shirt like a makeshift sling. He stank as if he’d been to the toilet in his trousers. If it wasn’t for him walking around, his white, drained skin would have told me he’d died in his sleep.

  Despite shrugging at the thought, I couldn’t completely ignore him to concentrate on the screen and the pixelated zombies I needed to shoot before they hit me.

  If Steve killed himself for the government, then who was I to say anything different?

  Okay, I was secretly a little worried, but I’d never tell him that. Anyway, he didn’t look in the mood for anything I might have to say.

  Leaving him to crash around the house, I only looked away from a great headshot as he stumbled out the front door. Guilt rose through me when I thought about him driving in such a state, hoping he’d get himself together before he drove away.

  Mum must have heard the door and her footsteps rushed down the stairs.


  Quickly hiding the white controller and switching the TV to the news, I settled back on to the sofa.

  Whilst fastening the top buttons of her blue work tunic, she stumbled into the room, looking my way.

  “Are you going to get dressed today?” she said, but instead of waiting for my shoulders to shrug, she peered around the room with her brow furrowed and rushed to ask if the sound had been Steve leaving.

  “He’s going to work,” I said, watching her face flash with concern. I shrugged when she asked how he looked.

  Sighing when I didn’t speak, she shook her head.

  We weren’t close, my brother and I. He didn’t get me and I didn’t understand him.

  He was some super-smart scientist living with me and Mum, back from university and sleeping in my bed, forcing me into the old box room.

  His room was the biggest after Mum’s and when Steve left four years ago, I took my rightful space. Why should he get the bigger room when he only came back every few months and should have moved out when he finished his course?

  But no, he went off for training at a place only a few miles down the road and couldn’t afford to rent a house of his own so early in his new scientific career. Mum buckled; she loved us being so close and he got the room back with a quick bat of his eyelids. That old trick.

  But then again, none of that mattered anymore.

  “He’s just left,” I said. “You might catch him if you’re that worried.”

  Mum headed to the door to the sound of an engine revving on the drive.

  I stood, knocking over the cereal bowl full of milk I’d rested on the floor. As I turned down to the mess, I held back from swearing when we heard the crunch of metal from outside.

  Ignoring the spreading white puddle on the carpet, I walked behind Mum with her hand on the door. Trying to stifle my smile, I knew how much trouble the golden boy would be in when I saw his car embedded in the side of a Ford Focus.

  The driver of the Focus was already out and rushing around to inspect the damage. Steve remained motionless, despite the growing tirade the guy whose car he’d hit shouted as he pointed in my brother’s direction with a reddening face.

  As I rushed forward with Mum squealing at the sight, I watched the guy’s eyes bulge, gasping as he arrived at the window.

  “No,” Mum shouted, but I grabbed her hand, holding her back as the driver rushed to pull at Steve’s door.

  The door opened, and with relief I watched Steve sit up. A cry of pain called out, but I couldn’t tell who’d made the noise as the Focus driver staggered back, holding his own arm with Steve pulling himself from the car.

  Letting go of Mum, we stepped forward and watched Steve fall on top of the driver as if he’d tripped. Then came the sound of an animal’s pained call.

  Neighbours rushed out to the source of the noise and I watched as each reared back. A few turned and headed inside their houses. I imagined them running for their phones, others stopping, calling out for whatever was happening the other side of the car to end.

  A guy in a T-shirt, Dave from number forty-eight, was the only one to come forward. He arrived before we came around the car, bending down and straining as if to pull something up.

  Somehow I knew it would be my brother he was trying to pull away from whatever he was doing to the poor man.

  As we circled to come around the car, Dave let out a yelp, stepping back. Blood dripped to the ground as he held his arm up. We saw Steve crouched over the driver of the Focus who lay motionless.

  Mum bounded forward before I could grab her. I stayed put with indecision, my brain not able to compute the sight. I called out as she grabbed Steve by the shoulders, hysterical, screaming, calling as if she was in dire pain.

  Her sound changed in an instant. She stopped her wailing, looking at the blood trickling from a wound on her hand. She staggered backwards, stumbling as she tried to slow, but landed on her bum on the road.

  Everything seemed to stop.

  She went silent, as if the fall had knocked out all her breath. I couldn’t bring myself to look at where Steve still leaned on all fours over the Focus driver.

  Mum stared my way, her eyes wide and bloodshot. She called out with a shrill wail.

  “Run! Just run!”

  I turned to look at Steve and he glared back with blood smeared around his mouth and down his white shirt.

  As more people streamed from their houses, rushing to encircle the scene, I ran away to the sound of Mum’s weakening voice.

  “Run!”

  3

  I kept on running, knowing help would take a long time to get to our sleepy backwater, which had a visit from the police maybe once a year. Crime had always passed us by; like life, I used to think. Somewhere in the back of my mind I seemed to remember the charity box going missing from the bar at the Old Crow Inn. It was the talk of the village for weeks.

  In my early teens I’d wanted to move to somewhere with more excitement, somewhere where the most interesting event wasn’t the roof blowing off the church two years ago, almost killing half the parish council.

  Now I’d give anything to go back to that quiet place and hold the Xbox controller in my hand.

  With my breath pumping hard, it was as if I could still hear Mum calling in the distance. Her words weren’t to draw me close, but to make sure I still ran away as fast as I could.

  I followed the long line of houses sweeping around the village before turning down a side street by the Mabel family’s house to stop and wait, listening to the screams joining Mum’s call.

  The sound grew too much for me to listen to and I picked up the pace again, crossing between the houses to the road bisecting the village. I slowed, staring at the flow of more people rushing to the sounds, their eyes wide with concern and mobile phones to their ears.

  I watched Dan Spence leave Cowithick’s only shop, a newsagent with a tiny post office, and I stopped, my mum’s distant call holding me from rushing with what looked like the rest of the village as they headed toward the terrifying sounds.

  It wasn’t long before I was on my own, the noise still so loud I couldn’t pick out her voice amongst the others anymore. Holding my hands to my ears as if the drums were about to burst, the calls just went, silencing as if someone had flicked a switch.

  I waited for the stream of people to return. I waited for what seemed like an age for everyone to head back to their houses and for someone to give me an explanation; to tell me it was all going to be okay.

  But no one returned. People didn’t file back. The owner of the shop, Dan Spence, didn’t head through the newsagent’s door he’d left wide-open in his hurry.

  I couldn’t help thinking perhaps everything was okay. Perhaps they were each standing around drinking coffee whilst they sorted out the mess. Perhaps comforting Steve, the driver of the Focus too, and hugging Mum.

  With the terrible shouts falling silent, I convinced myself normality had returned. The panic, the nightmare, was over.

  Taking slow steps, I retraced the route to peer around the corner of the Mabel family’s place to the empty street, the only unusual features of which were the open front doors of a few houses. If it wasn’t for the early hour, the last time I’d checked it was just gone eight, even that wouldn’t have been so unusual.

  I looked down at my sweat-soaked pyjamas and couldn’t help wondering if I’d just woken from a terrible dream.

  After walking along the street shivering for a few moments, I picked up the pace. Our house was around the sweeping bend and I half expected to see it had all been a trick of my mind. I’d walk back and knock on the door, but there’d be no one to answer because they’d both be at work.

  With growing annoyance at my mind playing such tricks, I imagined a day of hanging around the village in my pyjamas, freezing cold.

  I turned the corner, jumping close to the front wall of a house as I saw Steve stumbling along in the middle of the road. Then I spotted his untucked white shirt covered i
n splashes of blood.

  I turned away, running back down the side of the Mabels’ house and across the road, through the newsagent’s open door, dashing between the aisles to the tiny room at the end and shutting myself away as I checked with a last glimpse that no one followed.

  As my breathing slowed, the sound of police sirens rose in the background, building my excitement with every moment. About to leave the dark confines and rush to the arriving cars, calling out all that had happened before submitting myself to their protection, I stopped, pulling back from the handle as the screams rose in the air once more.

  The sirens silenced moments later.

  They stayed quiet for such a long while, the stillness of the air only broken by the occasional disorderly footstep, which lacked the normal rhythm of one foot in front of the other.

  New sirens came, but they were different this time. Their high tones were soon dashed with gunfire, the sound of each shot rattling through my chest and sending my body into a shiver I thought would never stop.

  Pushing myself deeper into the tight space, I tried not to think of the police with their guns, powerless to stop themselves being overwhelmed. But overwhelmed by what?

  I tried not to replay the earlier scenes, but couldn’t stop the vision of my mother calling me to run as her blood dripped to the road. There had to be a rational cause.

  Contaminated water. A chemical leak upstream of the river had somehow entered the taps. Mum would always say I didn’t drink enough. Perhaps it’s what saved my life. But what chemical could send someone, everyone, into a violent craze? It hadn’t been covered in the study for my exams.

  A cloud of toxic dust, perhaps? I hadn’t been out in the open for a week, happy to play on the Xbox with the house empty of those at work.

  Could either of those have sent my brother mad, filling him with such rage to become a psycho? But that wasn’t the Steve I knew coming around the corner with the same intent, the same hunger for violence clear in his narrowed eyes.