"No pets?" Dean asked, and when George shook his head, he looked disappointed.
"His wife and daughter are dead. Hung themselves."
Dean surveyed Chris with a leering grin. "Your company that bad, eh?" He then said, "Kneel," as he loaded up another Molotov cocktail.
Lighting the fabric, he stared at the bottle as he watched the hungry flame grow. He then launched it through the front window of Chris' house. "Look at it," he ordered.
Chris turned to look at the house, shuffling around on his knees, totally unaware of the cuts the sharp concrete was raking across them and the agitated football injury that screamed at his movements. Dean probably thought he was watching the fire. He was actually looking at the upstairs window and the pulled-back curtain that showed him just the slightest amount of his son watching on like a ghost.
"It's a shame, ain't it?" the psychopathic Dean said. "I mean, you worked so hard for all of that stuff, and now it's gone."
Looking at his son's lost face again, Chris shook as he said, "Fuck you!"
Dean lifted his hammer above his head, hatred gripping his angular red face, but before he could bring it down, the looter with John interrupted them.
"Uh, Dean. I thought the missus was hot, so I brought a picture for you to see." In his hand was one of the family portraits from the stairs. In his other hand was the razor-sharp tennis racket.
Dean looked at it for a moment, and Chris watched him intently. He then looked up at the cruelty in his eyes, which was like barbed wire. His voice had a forced calm that crackled, impatience dripping from every word, "Where's the boy?"
Chris' entire body slumped, and his breathing became fast and shallow. A panic attack ran away with him as he looked at Dean and then George, his wide eyes pleading with the big man. "George," he fought for breath. "Help me, please?"
When Dean raised an eyebrow at the large man by his side, George quickly took the hammer from his hand and said to Chris, "How the fuck do you know my name? What the fuck? Why would I help a posh twat like you?"
The last thing Chris saw was the hulking man lift the bloody hammer above his head, his jaw set like he could bite through rock. Chris then closed his eyes and pulled a deep breath into his body. It did little to stop him shivering like he had hypothermia. His last thought as he listened to the grunt of exertion when George brought the hammer crashing down was of his son. He started to whisper his name, "Mi..."
The wet crunch meant he never got a chance to finish. His head hit the floor with a loud crack, an explosion ringing out behind him as the flames found the Ferrari in the garage and masked Michael's shrill scream.
Ends
Epilogue
Every breath burned, filling his lungs with acrid smoke. The pressure in his head felt like his skull was shrinking. His thick pulse crushed his eyeballs. Tears rolled down his face. Taking the final few steps, he used what was left of his lung capacity to expel a high-pitched cry and kicked as hard as his tired leg could manage. The door flew open and he fell into the back garden on all fours.
Hunched over, his concave stomach retracting towards his spine with every gulp, he pulled at the cold air. Smoke sat in his nostrils and all he could see was a watery blur. Barking coughs bucked through him and a surge of heat carried a wave of lumpy bile up into his throat.
The world spun as his stomach tensed. With a wide mouth, he tried to draw air into his body. Another hard pull and his throat finally cleared, flooding his lungs with the oxygen he so craved. He vomited again and this time it splattered on the floor.
Every exhale was delivered with a cough or more acidic bile.
After a few minutes of being locked in the suffocating cycle, he finally leveled out. Sweating, and with his pulse still racing, he was careful to breathe slowly so he could keep the coughing at bay.
Waiting for a few minutes, he finally stood up.
With his lungs still burning and the strong bitter taste of sick in his mouth, he looked around. The fences surrounding his garden were much taller than he could climb. His dad had told him that a spate of robberies had occurred and he wanted to make sure they weren't an easy target. He didn't know what a spate was, but it didn't sound good. For months, he had woken up during the night and pulled his curtain back to peek out into the garden in case anyone was there.
The black metal spikes that ran along the top of the fence had looked cool when they were put up. 'Like a castle,' his dad had said. Staring at them now, he imagined slipping and one of them spearing his stomach. The only escape would be through the front and there was no way he was going out there.
Walking down the side of the house, the fire tearing through the interior, he caught a sight of his own reflection in a downstairs window. His face was blackened, his hair was greasy, his eyes were red.
When he got to the side gate, he looked through the peephole. It wasn't a real peephole, that was just what he liked to call it when he was spying on the neighbors. Some days, he'd spend hours staring through it. As he pressed his face against the wood, he smelled the chemicals used to treat it. The nostalgic reek took him back to the carefree days of less than a year ago.
The men were at number seven. It was the last house in the cul-de-sac. It was a holiday home for a rich Arab family. Whenever they visited, they kept themselves to themselves. Once, his dad said that they thought their shit didn't stink. Michael didn't understand that. Everyone's shit stinks.
Continuing his search, his heart then kicked and the breath left his lungs when he saw his dad more clearly than before. The big black man that had killed him was still stood over him. His world blurred again as warm tears rolled down his cheeks. What was he going to do? Where would he go now? Who would look after him?
One thing his dad had always said to him was, 'be brave,' and 'go and find your auntie if anything happens to me.' It was hard to speak with his lip bending out of shape, but as Michael looked back at the men, who were now taking food from the last house, he whispered, "I will, Dad. I'll be brave."
The man in the suit shouted and Michael pulled away from the peephole, dropping to the floor and gathering his knees into his chest. "Right boys, let's get the fuck out of here."
After waiting for a few minutes, Michael stood back up and looked through the hole again. He watched all of the horrible men return to their trucks.
The clanging gates rattled Michael's nerves as the first truck drove over them. Sarah and Daisy stared out of the back of it. They were crying.
The man in the suit revved his engine and laughed out of his open window. On his way past, he swerved at Michael's dad and ran over his head. The wet crunch tore through Michael's guts and his knees gave way.
The heat from the house ran prickles up and down the left side of Michael's body. How long before he was on fire too? Standing on shaky legs, he wiggled the cold bolt on the gate. It squeaked before finally snapping open. He pulled the gate wide and stared outside. The coast was clear.
As he passed his dad's corpse, Michael remained focused on the mangled gates to prevent himself from looking down. When he was only a meter or so away, he lost the battle against himself. Small flecks of white and chunks of brown sat in the soupy red mess. His dad's face was crushed beyond recognition. Crying harder than ever, his already weak legs turning bandy, he stumbled away.
The buckled iron gate lay across the exit to their cul-de-sac. He picked his way through it, placing his feet in the gaps made by the warped metal. Once he was out in the street, he nearly turned around and went back in. He wasn't supposed to play out here. But he thought his parents would understand. How else would he get to his auntie's house?
Looking back at the home he'd lived in since he was born, the thick tail of smoke reaching up into the grey sky, Michael sighed and walked into the abandoned city.
Crash II: Highrise Hell - Chapter One
You Spin Me Round
George looked at his bloody hands. They were evidence of what he'd become. He'd made an orphan of an innocent
boy, and for what? He'd left him in a burning house to–
"Look out!"
"Fuck!" George gasped. He squeezed the wheel. The people were too close. The truck wasn't stopping.
Head for the gap.
It looked too tight.
Fuck it!
He hit the horn. He winced.
Fuck!
Bang!
The wing mirror flipped in. Arms and hair flailed. Children screamed.
When George hit the brakes, the shudder of the ABS ran up his tense leg. Rapid breaths racked his large body, each one providing less oxygen than the last.
Stars swam in front of his eyes. The corners of his vision closed in. His world was being crushed. His galloping pulse throbbed in his temples.
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
With his mouth stretched wide, George fought to get air into his body. Slowly, each breath pulled him back down from the panic attack, suffocation seeming less likely with the passing seconds.
Sitting back, he unpeeled his grip on the wheel one finger at a time. While staring ahead, he stretched his aching digits. Some of the dried blood came away in flakes.
The stench of Ravi's aftershave was bad. When it was mixed with the reek of burning rubber, it sent sharp needles of pain stretching through George's sinuses. Pinching the bridge of his nose did nothing to stop the headache that was rapidly spreading behind his eyeballs.
Looking across, he saw Ravi dipping his head to look into the wing mirror. The boy was wide-eyed and several shades paler than his usual hue. He looked as bad as George felt. Looking into his own mirror, George couldn't see much. "What the fuck just happened?"
Without removing his glare, Ravi shrugged. "You just hit her."
"I know I fucking hit her."
The boy still didn't look across. When George focused on Ravi's wing mirror, he saw a spider's web of cracks running through the glass. Light and color shot off in all directions, and it was still bent in from the impact. "It's only a mirror, Ravi. We can replace it. Hell, we can get a whole new truck if we need to."
"N... n... n..." Shaking his head, Ravi pointed instead.
Hot saliva filled George's mouth, and his palms started to sweat when he saw what the boy was talking about. Hanging from the black plastic was a lump of flesh the size of a fifty-pence piece. It had tendrils of blonde hair flipping in the breeze.
Looking behind again, George saw that a crowd had surrounded the woman. "Do you think she's okay?"
Ravi didn't reply.
"What shall I do?"
"What can you do?"
Stars swam in his vision again. The collar on his t-shirt suddenly felt too tight as it pressed against his neck. Pulling at it, he opened the window to get some fresh air. Panic rode the cold currents as many of the group behind screamed and cried.
Thunk!
Glancing across, George saw that Ravi had also wound his window down and had pushed the mirror back in place.
Holding his chest, his heart kicking against his palm, George frowned at the boy. "Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" Although Ravi was twenty-six, George still considered him to be a boy.
"I just wanted a better view, man. There's what, forty of them? Why aren't they retaliating?"
"Because they're mostly kids. Two-thirds of them at least." In the chaos, George could only understand one word.
"Help!"
Watching a man run to the downed woman, George looked across at Ravi, who was watching it too. "He must be the one in charge."
The crowd parted to reveal the fallen woman, and a cold chill ran through George. She looked like a broken doll, lying on the floor, unmoving, limbs splayed. "Where's that blood coming from?"
There was no reply from Ravi.
Staring at the ever-increasing pool, his guts churning, George burped a flat taste of cornflakes. After three weeks of eating nothing else for breakfast, the stale cereal was getting tedious, especially since milk went bad weeks ago. He'd now resorted to eating them with water.
She jolted.
"Fuck!"
She jolted again.
"Maybe she'll be okay, George?"
"Don't try to humour me. She's fucked. Unless that man's Doctor Frankenstein, she ain't getting up and walking away." Running a hand through his thick, greasy hair, George looked at his lap. "Why did I drive so fucking fast?"
"We have to move fast. Remember when Si was jumped on Penge High Street? If he'd been driving faster, they would have left him alone. If you drive too slow, the gangs see you as an easy target. We lost four men that day."
"The men we lost were a waste of oxygen. She's a woman looking after kids. Her death means something." The leather creaked as he twisted around in his seat for the first time. "Where are the others? I hope they're moving slower."
When the two pick-ups rounded the corner, George relaxed. "Thank God, they're driving slowly."
"I wouldn't count your chickens yet."
"They've slowed down! Fucking hell, what's wrong with you, boy? A bit of positivity, yeah?"
Ravi shrugged.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You should know. You've been in the gang longer than I have. Dean's an unpredictable mother fucker. I wouldn't assume this crowd was safe until they're at least three post codes away from that lunatic." Scratching his silly little beard that ran along his jawline, he added, "and I'd still be hesitant then."
"Okay, they're hardly the cavalry, but this group doesn't pose us any kind of threat. They don't look like they have anything worth stealing."
It didn't take the silence that met George's comment to make him realize he was being hopeful. He knew Dean well enough. Better than most in fact. Looking behind again, he saw many of the group stood slack-jawed and silent. While grinding his teeth and with his stomach locked tight, George tapped the steering wheel. "Why aren't they moving out of the way?"
When there was still no reply, he looked at Ravi to see him adjusting his slick side-parting and straightening his suit.
"Fucking hell, boy, you're worried about what you look like at a time like this?"
"Huh." Looking at himself as if he was seeing his actions for the first time, Ravi stopped what he was doing. "I was actually wondering who all of those kids belong to. Where are their parents?"
The ratio of children to adults was disproportionate. Flinching, George saw a flashback of the boy that he'd left in the burning house, staring out of an upstairs window, wide-eyed and with flames growing around him. How many of this group had been orphaned by men like him?
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, George looked back again. The man tending to the injured lady stood up in front of Dean's truck and showed him his palm. Frowning, George scratched his face as he watched on. "What the fuck's he doing?"
"Dunno. He's acting like five-o the way he's trying to control traffic though. That ain't the brightest thing to do around Dean. Didn't he get the memo? The police don't run the streets no more."
"What an idiot." Rubbing his temples did nothing to stop the pounding headache stretching through George's brain. The smell of blood and dirt was thick on his hands, so he lowered them. "All I know is this ain't going to turn out well."
"You'd think the huge battering ram welded to the front of the truck would be a big enough hint to get the fuck out of the way. That and the bloodthirsty mob on the back."
Looking at the children again, George drew a deep sigh. "Look at those poor little bastards. They think he can protect them."
When Dean continued moving forwards, the man in the road screamed at him. "Stop!"
Dean didn't.
The man pointed at George. "That prick just ran my friend over. Stop! Please?"
The sun on Dean's windscreen made it impossible to see the man inside. Then he leant forwards and George saw the deep frown on his face. A rich shot of bitter bile lifted into his throat and he shuddered. "They're fucked." Swallowing did nothing
to dilute the taste.
"Proper fucked," Ravi agreed.
A huge cloud passed across the sun, and the bare chill of winter blew into the car. Folding his arms for warmth did nothing to counter it.
The two diesel trucks continued forward. Their loud engines were thunder rolling up the high street. Hairs lifted on the back of George's neck. The storm was inevitable. "Can't that man sense what's about to happen?"
Rubbing his face, Ravi shook his head. "I don't wanna watch this."
"No. I don't either."
Neither of them looked away.
The truck got closer, and the children continued to scream.
Tutting, Ravi threw a hand up in the air. "Even the kids can see what's happening. Why doesn't that idiot get the fuck out of the way?"
Despite the chaos increasing outside, a new word rose above the insanity. "Mummy!"
Poking his head out of the window, Dean stared at the man. Dead eyes behind a mask of dried blood.
Remaining rooted to the spot, the man still held his hand up.
The trucks didn't stop.
When the man stepped aside, George puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled hard. "About fucking time."
The man continued to stare at Dean.
Because he'd focused on the man, George hadn't looked at the crossing. When he did, his testicles pulled tight. The injured woman was still in the middle of the road. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about her. When he grabbed the door handle, Ravi clamped a tight grip onto his forearm.
"What the fuck are you doing, boy?" George demanded.
"Don't go out there, George."
"Don't tell me what to do." Looking at the grip that the boy still had on him, George clenched his right fist. Then he let it ease. The boy was right. What could he do? Other than get himself killed. Who would save Sally then?
"The guy thinks Dean will stop." When Dean blew a kiss out of the window, the man's mouth fell loose, and Ravi added, "Maybe he's just realized that he won't."
Crash Page 10
