Crash

by Michael Robertson

  "The way you speak to women isn't okay. It's cringe-worthy. You hide behind the façade of being fat as if that makes you a non-threat, but you clearly have the libido of a rapist. The only thing I've seen you slobber over more is food!"

  Looking like he wanted to lash out but not feeling brave enough, Dick remained still, his mouth hanging slightly open, a lump of pork sitting on his thick tongue.

  "You call the unfortunate countries PIGS--"

  "Portugal, Ireland, Greece, and Spain--"

  "I know why you call them that, you fucking idiot, but take a long hard look in the mirror. You're trotters away from being porcine yourself."

  "Hang on, Chris, they're destroying Europe's economy."

  "A select few have. That's my point. You condemn a whole country because of some bad decisions made in government or in the banks. The only thing stopping us being like them is that we have a more robust economy."

  Looking at the chair on the opposite side of the desk to Dick, the chair that was never offered to him when he went into the fat man's room, Chris kicked it as hard as he could. It scooted across the room before toppling and crashing to the floor.

  Opening and closing his mouth, Dick then sputtered, "Y... you'll pay, pay for th... that. It'll come out of your wages."

  Running his arm along the desk, hurling everything from computer, to phone, to the tray of ribs to the floor, Chris moved his face so close to Dick's that he could feel his body heat and taste his lunch. With malice seething through him and his face on fire, Chris saw fear in Dick's recoiling body. It felt good to see. He then growled, "Fuck you. Get a fucking life. I hope you end up out on your ear, you fat fucking waste of space!"

  Lingering for a moment and enjoying the fact that the huge man was flinching from his wrath, despite the smell of meat he had to endure, Chris then turned and walked out of his room.

  The fear of the future would come, but Chris chose to enjoy the moment. With a smile on his face, he listened to Dick shout after him, "Don't ask me for a reference!"

  Flipping the fat man the bird without even turning around to look at him, he walked away with a bounce in his step. For the first time in years, he felt like he was the master of his life. For the first time in years, his permanent headache lifted.

  Action

  "I should have seen it coming, Michael." Chris dragged a heavy hand through his hair that left a residue of grease on his palm like he'd just stroked a dirty dog. His breathing ran away from him and his frantic blue eyes looked at the floor as if searching for bugs. He blurted out random statements. "I'm such an idiot. We shouldn't have stayed here. I'm so sorry. I should have acted on my fears." He froze and his eyes glazed, filling with water that sent a solitary tear down each cheek when he blinked. The small amount of light in their dingy room glistened off the trails left behind.

  The wide eyes of his little boy stared back at his manic father like he didn't recognize him. His small mouth hung half-open and he stood still, a confused snapshot of himself.

  "I've condemned this family with my actions." His heart felt like it would pop, and his mind spiraled. "What have I done? Why was I such an idiot?" His thoughts were a runaway train. "I could have acted. I could have got us away at any point. We could have taken to the road. Why did I just sit around and wait?"

  It took Michael speaking to break through the chaos in Chris' mind. "I'm scared, Dad."

  Parental responsibility took over and shone a light through his mental fog. When he bent down and held his little boy's cold face, he could feel him trembling. Looking around their perpetually twilit room, Chris' eyes settled on one of his jumpers, and he picked it up from the floor. Handing it to Michael, he then stared into his eyes.

  "I'm scared too." The silence consumed the pair, and Chris spoke, more because he had to rather than because he believed in what he was saying. "But don't worry, we'll make something happen, I promise. Now put this on, you're freezing."

  Turning his back on the messy room, Chris looked out of the window again and Michael asked, "What's happening? Where are the men?"

  "They're scavenging. They've all rushed into the house."

  "Tommy's house?"

  "Yep. They're stealing everything they can." The curtain moved next to him, changing the direction of the cold breeze. "Be careful not to move the curtain too much, mate. We can't afford for them to notice you."

  While the other men were in the house, Dean walked over to the pick-up with the women in. The way he walked, his slow and measured steps, showed just how drunk he was on the power of his new existence. Every pair of eyes in the back of the truck watched him like animals scared of their tyrannical master. The fear in their faces seemed to be based on memory rather than fabrication, their glazed eyes showing they'd been to places they were desperately trying not to think about. A cold chill ran through Chris.

  Michael said, "I hope they don't find Mum and Matilda while they're out looting."

  Every time Michael spoke about his mum and sister, Chris' heart twisted with guilt. He should have done more. He should have seen it coming. After closing his eyes and drawing a heavy sigh, he placed his hand on his son's head and said, "I'm sure they won't."

  Stood next to the truck, Dean shouted at the men in the house, "Don't forget candles, can openers, and anything that can start a fire!" He then turned his attention back to the women and licked his lips as a leering grin opened up on his bloodstained face. He continued to stare at them as he added, "Sex toys would be good too!"

  Some of the women balked at his comment, but most of them didn't seem to hear it through the chaos of their own distress. Some of them looked like you could put an active grenade in their hand and they wouldn't notice.

  Looking at the suited lunatic's face, his matted beard and blood-covered cheeks, Chris saw dead eyes loaded with a sociopathic detachment. This man was beyond reason and could not be appealed to. Seeing George, who was the only other man still outside, and the way he was looking at Dean, the mistrust emanating from him reinforced Chris' hope that this man's empathy would provide their salvation. That was if Chris couldn't get them away before they needed to rely on assistance.

  The curtain shimmered again from Michael's movement, and Chris was about to tell him off until he realized he was doing it to get closer to him. The pressure of his boy leaning into his legs nearly threw him off balance, and he was now shivering more than before. Michael then said, "What will he do?"

  With a rapidly drying throat, Chris looked at the hammer in Dean's hand, which was sticky with blood, and said, "I really don't know." He then added, "But you should look away."

  Dropping to the floor, Michael leant against the cold radiator and pulled his knees into his chest as Chris watched.

  Waving the hammer at the women didn't seem to get much of a reaction, and the only one showing any sign of lucidity was Marie, who was sobbing heavily.

  When Dean ran the hammer along the cage, throwing an angry rattle around the quiet cul-de-sac, some of the women recoiled, but their blank stares didn't register where the noise was coming from. The smile fell from Dean's face because he clearly wasn't getting the reaction he desired. "Come on!" he shouted and smashed his hammer against the cage, denting some of the sturdy bars. "Wake up for fuck's sake!"

  Taking it further, Dean poked the handle through the bars, jabbing some of the women with it. He used enough force to break ribs if the connection was right, which on a couple of pokes it looked like it was. Each one jumped, but only one or two of them made a sound, as most of them were beyond that. It was like they shared one broken mind.

  Feeling a tug on his trouser leg, Chris looked down again to see his son's wide blue eyes staring up at him, and his little voice asked, "What are we going to do? I don't want to die."

  Dropping away from the window, Chris slid down next to his son and hugged him. He wanted to tell him that he wouldn't die. He wanted to tell him that everything would be okay. He wanted to... A plan then came to mind and he asked, "Whe
re does Mummy keep rope?"

  "Rope?"

  "Yep."

  "Why do we need rope?"

  "I have a plan. It will stop them doing anything horrible to either of us."

  Looking from one of his dad's eyes to the other, searching for the meaning of his unspoken plan, Michael raised an eyebrow and offered, "Maybe under the stairs?"

  "Right, let's go." Standing up, Chris took his son's hand and led him out of the room. On the way out, one of the duvets on the floor wrapped around Michael's feet and he fell over. Lifting him up again, Chris said, "Let's go, mate, we haven't got much time."

  It was so cold in the rest of the house that they could see their own breath. When Chris turned to check that his son had put the jumper on, he nearly tripped over the discarded vacuum cleaner directly outside the room. To Chris and Michael, this was the clearest sign of chaos.

  Michael stared at it for a moment, and when he looked up, his cheeks were damp with tears. "Why did she try and hoover yesterday? We haven't had electricity for months."

  Diane had spent all of the previous day pushing the vacuum cleaner up and down the house while sobbing. She even tried to replicate the sound it made. It had scared the children, especially when they found her outside the bedroom covering the same square foot of carpet for over an hour.

  "I don't know. Sometimes stress does strange things to people."

  "Is that why she's gone away?"

  The lump in his throat was painful and choked him, so Chris simply nodded.

  Putting his arm around the shoulders of his little boy, who was staring at the floor and shivering, Chris said, "Come on, mate, we need to keep going."

  Stopping at the window halfway down the stairs, Michael, who was too short to see out of it, asked, "What's happening now?"

  "It looks like they've taken everything they want from the house; they're now siphoning fuel from the cars into jerry cans."

  "Jerry cans?"

  Chris was losing patience with the questions. "They're big metal cans for fuel. Come on, Michael, we've got to get moving; we're running out of time." With that, Chris descended the stairs two at a time, flying down the huge staircase that had family portraits lined down one wall. The pictures marked the stages of the children's lives, each showing the same pose one year on from the previous. Diane always stood on one side with Matilda next to her. Michael was in the middle and Chris was on the opposite end to his wife and daughter. It was clear to see that Michael, who was doing his best to keep up with his dad's long strides, was the tenuous link holding the family together. He was the only common ground.

  Avoiding the last stair with the huge red stain on the white carpet, Chris opened the cupboard that was built into the staircase and was hit with the combined smell of several different and noxious cleaning products. The thick chemical pungency both choked him and made his eyes water. He'd never questioned where these products were kept in the house because he never used them, but now he'd made this discovery, he could see it was a sensible place for them.

  Upon seeing a box on a shelf at the back, curiosity got the better of him and he pulled it down. It was wooden, heavier than he expected, and about the size of a shoebox.

  Having just caught up with him, Michael watched his dad open it.

  When he lifted the lid, Chris simply stared at the contents with his mouth hung loose and his unfit heart beating like it would burst. Frowning, he tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

  "We had a party planned for you every year," Michael said. "Mum always had banners and presents, and we all waited for you to get home. But you always worked late, or had an important meeting." His small features creased as he said, "You didn't even come home when your birthday was on a weekend."

  With trembling hands, Chris picked one of the cards at random and opened it. It was for his thirty-fifth birthday, seven years ago, and his wife's beautiful writing said, 'This will be our year, honey. I love you, and I know we will find our way.'

  Opening another one, this one was for his fortieth. He read the inscription, 'I love you. I really appreciate how hard you work for us all. We are so so grateful.'

  He shivered as he opened his next card, this one from eight years ago. 'We're so lucky to have two beautiful children. We have such a wonderful life ahead. Let's make it happen this year.'

  Feeling a small and cold hand on his back, Chris couldn't stop shaking as his view of the world turned blurry again. It seemed that now he was staring death in the eyes, he was discovering the heart that he should have found years ago. Opening the card from his birthday this year, it said, 'I know things are tough, but I'll be here whenever you need me, and I'll do whatever I need to do.'

  This one broke him. Falling to his knees and not even registering the pain of them smashing into the cold stone floor, Chris started to sob as he thought back to his birthday just a few months before.

  Celebrate

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Chris asked his wife as he glared at her with narrowed eyes. His waxy face glowed red as his fury writhed beneath his skin like crawling bugs.

  Diane flinched at his aggression before meeting his attack with silence. She watched him with her usual look of tight-lipped, mild surprise. Her eyes were the only part of her plastic face that gave away her real feelings, so he studied them, looking to see if she felt anything.

  She offered her retort as a sigh, "Don't start, Chris."

  Taking a sip of coffee, the bitter liquid making his guts churn because it was his seventh cup today, his words exploded from his mouth like vomit, the caffeine adding rocket propulsion. "Don't start? How can I not? All you've done is breathe down my neck and walk around with a face like a smacked arse all day." He looked down and said, "Not that I've smacked that arse in a long fucking time."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "Every time I leave the kitchen and come back again, you've tidied something up or put something away. I feel like you're hovering around with nothing to do but clean up after me. It's doing my fucking head in!"

  She shrugged. "I'm not used to you being in the house."

  "Is that what this is?" Looking around at their lavish kitchen that, in itself, was bigger than the footprint of an average house, he continued, "You're happy for me to provide this wonderful fucking life for you, but when I want to be in my own house, you have a problem with it? I've been looking day and night for a job, and there's nothing out there, so where else am I supposed to be?"

  She sighed again, and it made him want to punch her. She then said, "You think I don't care about the lack of work?"

  Chris' jaw hurt from grinding it, and a headache had settled into his temples. Rubbing the sides of his head with each hand, pressing harder than was necessary because of his pent-up aggression, he said, "I think all you care about is money in the bank, food on the table, and the kids in a private school. Not for their education mind, more so you can keep up with those posh twats that you have lunch dates with."

  Lifting an open bottle of red wine from the worktop and filling her glass, Diane shook her head.

  The huge clock on the kitchen wall showed it was just after one in the afternoon. Making an obvious point to look at it, Chris lifted his eyebrows and asked, "You're staring already?"

  Taking a sip of the wine, Diane's cold eyes regarded him with utter contempt.

  He held her stare as his frantic pulse flipped into hyperdrive. Pulling in a deep breath, he then released it slowly, hoping it would remove his anger. It barely touched it. Shaking his head, he said, "Anyway, it's what I know. You're a heartless bitch that only cares about the things money can buy and what your poxy mates think about you."

  She leant on the black worktop and stared at him.

  Having decided a long time ago that she was dead inside, he was surprised to see her eyes well up. It had been a long time since he'd seen her upset. He lifted his lip in a snarl and added, "Don't start with your crocodile tears. Fucking hell, Diane, I know you better than that." After a moment's
pause, his eyes narrowed, his crow's feet wrinkling. "Actually, you know what, now you're upset, I may as well keep going. We have to take the kids out of private school. I can't afford to pay the fees with no fucking money and no chances of a job."

  "What about our savings?"

  "My savings you mean? You spend, you don't save."

  A pout forced her skinny lips away from her face and she said, "You don't think I contribute? How about I go out to work and you keep the house immaculate and raise two children?"

  Looking around at the kitchen, Chris said, "You think you could find a job that would pay for all of this?" He looked her up and down. "You could lie on your back with your ankles around your ears all day, and you wouldn't even cover the milkman's bill. You could suck half of the country dry and they'd probably all ask for a refund."

  Silence.

  "Anyway, if we use the savings now, what will we do when the money runs out? There isn't any work out there, and there may not be for a few years. You really need to open your eyes to what's going on in the world. It's not all coffee and yoga you know."

  Stepping back a few paces, Diane pulled a letter from the side and hid it as she walked out of the room.

  Wondering if she was holding what he thought she was, Chris told himself not to be so ridiculous. He listened to her open and close the cupboard beneath the stairs. He then returned his attention to the situations vacant section in the local paper. The only job available was for a traffic warden. Pushing it away, he muttered, "I'd rather be a rent boy. What a fucking waste of time."

  He looked up to see his wife return to the kitchen. He shivered because the temperature seemed to lower with her reappearance, as if a ghost had just entered the room. It was probably the ghost of their relationship. Before she had a chance to speak, he said, "What now?"

  Pulling a huge breath into her skinny body, she shook her head and left the room again. On her way out, a gust of wind caught her strong and sweet perfume, flinging it at Chris. He used to like the smell, but now it made him think of fly spray.