The cold gripped George the second he entered his flat. It was the middle of winter, and this was by far the coldest place he'd been all day. The frigid air cut through two t-shirts, a jumper and a jacket.
Lighting a candle, George could suddenly see his breath turning to condensation. The weak light didn't stretch far, but it showed him two of the flat's steel-framed windows. The ice on the inside was thicker than the outside.
As he closed the door behind him, he heard Sarah scream. With drooped shoulders, he sighed at his own impotence and let the door click shut.
There were two cushions by the door that he kicked over the gap beneath it. It was too late to stop his flat reeking of bleach, but at least he could stop it from getting any worse. Swallowing several times did nothing to remove the chemical taste that sat on his tongue like fly spray.
The flickering light from the candle both cast and animated many shadows. Glancing from one to the next, George's heart fluttered. He shook his head at himself. There's no one here, George. Man the fuck up!
As he walked into the living room, the heavy fug of damp overpowered the bleach, and the thick air forced him to breathe through his mouth.
Discarding his jacket, George shivered more than ever. Pulling his jumper off and both of his t-shirts, he stood bare chested in the middle of the room. No matter how damp and cold it was, he couldn't wear his clothes. The reek of smoke and death was a part of their fabric now.
By the time he got to his bedroom, he was naked. With the candle still in his hand, he looked at his own reflection in the full-length mirror. When the scars on his ribs were hidden by clothes, he looked powerful. The contrast when he displayed them in their full glory was stark. It looked like a hard prod would slip through his skin into his lungs. It was the body he deserved. It was a karmic branding for a murderer.
Seeing the burns sparked yet more memories. He imagined his boy screaming, crying and fighting to be free of his bedroom. Huddled in the corner, he saw him wide-eyed as he stared at the inferno that had him pinned like a vicious predator. One word came from his mouth: Mummy. There was no chance it was Dad.
Then the real memories flooded in. The footnote to every hellish vision. It was of the charred corpse of a two-year-old boy.
A two-year-old boy who had George's heart and soul.
A two-year-old boy who was identified using dental records.
A two-year-old boy whose life could have been saved if George had just woken up.
Not only had George lost his son that day, but the fire took almost every trace of his existence as if it were hellbent on wiping the kid from the face of the earth. Birth certificate, first paintings, christening presents ... If it weren't for photos from their extended family, the only things he would have been left with were broken memories.
Pulling on two pairs of tracksuit bottoms, three t-shirts and a thick jumper, George tried to forget about the scar. But hiding it didn't remove the torment; it just moved it further back in his mind. The mental video was now playing through a television in another room. But it was still there. It was always there. Always reminding him of what he was and what he'd lost.
Walking over to his bedroom window, George looked out. Although the glass had ice on it like the others, and it was mostly dark outside, it was still easy to see the women in the truck. The shine from Dean's flat hit them like a spotlight.
Huddled in one corner of the cage like penguins, all of the women shivered against the stark elements. With the cold wind slipping through the gaps in his steel windows, George could only imagine how numb the women must have felt in their minimal clothing. The strong gales would no doubt be tearing straight through them. Some of the women coughed frequently. Some were way beyond that. If he were to prevent more of them from dying, he needed to find Sally soon.
Moving away from the window, George looked at his mirror again. The large-framed man staring back at him was a stranger. The eyes of this beholder didn't see the strength in the powerful shoulders and thick arms. The eyes of this beholder saw only cowardice and frailty.
Next to the mirror was a photo of Zach that Sally had taken and given to him before Dean took her away. Sitting in a huge pan of water, Zach wore a massive hat to protect him from the sun. The picture and the entire wall disappeared into soft focus. The warm tracks on his cheeks quickly turned cold. The strength drained from his legs.
After a couple of seconds, George crumpled. When he hit the floor, the entire flat shook. The burn in his kneecaps felt like they were broken. Snapping into the foetal position, he pulled his knees under his chin and rocked like a demented baby. The chasm already in his chest opened a little further.
* * *
Time had lost all meaning for George as he lay on the floor. Hours had passed, he knew that much. He just didn't know how many. Not that time was important in this new world. Eating, shitting, breathing, and procreating was what mattered.
Getting to his feet, he walked to the kitchen and took a stale cracker from the cupboard. It tasted like Styrofoam. Washing it back with bottled water, he shuddered as it went down.
Then he heard Sarah scream again. Was she still up there? Jesus! He looked at his bloody hands. It wasn't time to clean them. Not yet. To clean them would be to accept he would take no more lives. Looking up at the ceiling in the direction of Dean's flat, he clenched his fists. That wasn't a commitment he could make.
Dinner Date
The darkness of the hallway consumed George. The bleach stung his eyes, and he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. He screwed his nose up against the potent chemical stench and used the cold wall to guide himself. Fortunately, he didn't have to travel far.
Accompanied by Sarah's screams, he carefully placed one foot in front of the other as if he were walking the hallway for the first time. The images of burning flats and heavy smoke flooded his mind. He sniffed the air and stared into the darkness. How would he get out if there was a fire during the night? Staring straight ahead, he tried to let his thoughts pass. Drawing deep breaths did nothing to calm his pulse.
The belly laughs of several men snaked down the stairwell from Dean's flat. George ground his jaw, and his taught body wobbled. The only laugh he recognized was Ginge's. Horrible cunt! He'd get his. When the noise died down, he rolled the tension from his shoulders and continued moving forwards.
The cold showed little concern for the two extra sweatshirts that George had slipped on before leaving. It bit through them as if they weren't there.
When George reached his destination, he tapped on the door.
The door opened a few seconds later to reveal Ravi standing there, a baseball bat in his hands.
Laughing, George looked at the boy's weapon. "What are you going to do with that?"
Lowering the bat, Ravi winced. "Oh, nothing. You can never be too careful though." After leaning the bat against the wall, he lifted a lit candle. Its flickering light cast a glow over his sleep-crushed face. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at George. "You do know what time it is, don't you?"
"How the fuck would I know what time it is? Time hardly matters. It's not like I have a meeting in the morning."
"Fair point." Stretching his arms to the ceiling, Ravi let out a groan. "So, what's up, George? Why are you knocking on our door at this time of night?"
Even when he was sleeping, the boy still dressed like a tart. He wore designer tracksuit bottoms and a jumper that was a garish mess of the same symbol repeated all over the fabric. Lifting his hand, George showed Ravi the carrier bag hanging from his grip. "Here."
When the boy didn't take it, George frowned and shoved it further forwards.
Taking it this time, Ravi looked inside. "What's this for?"
"Can't you just say thanks? Fucking hell, Ravi."
"Thanks."
A silhouette moved in the shadows of Ravi's flat. When George looked in, Ravi turned around. "Mum, come here."
Despite spending a lot of time with the boy for these past few weeks, George ha
d yet to meet his parents. Would they be insulted by his gift? Turning away, he looked into the dark hallway.
When he glanced back, he saw the small lady. She looked old beyond her years. The conditions she was living in were clearly taking their toll. Ravi had told him that she was in her sixties. If George were to guess without any prior knowledge, he would have put the fragile lady at about eighty. Time was different in this place. It was locked on fast forward. It sucked people in, chewed them up and spat out their shells. Another scream cut through the building and shook George to his core. It was weaker than those before it. What would be left of Sarah after her spell here?
After looking in the carrier bag that Ravi held open for her, Mrs. Vadher regarded George with her big, brown eyes. "Thank you."
Dropping his gaze to the floor, George could feel his face heating up. "It's fine. You guys need to eat. It's as simple as that." When he looked back up, she still held him with the same penetrative stare. "I ... um, I hope I haven't offended you? I didn't come here to get smoke blown up my ar..." He stopped himself.
Smiling, she nodded and held out her skinny hand.
Shaking it, George suddenly wished he'd washed the blood off his own.
When he tried to pull away she wouldn't let go. A wrinkly smile lit up her entire face and her warm eyes glowed. "Come in, son."
"No. Thanks." Shaking his head, George backed away. "I can't. I have things to do."
"At three in the morning?"
The old woman's grip was surprisingly strong.
Pulling again, George still couldn't get free. "I can't stay tonight, Mrs Vadher, I have things to do."
Squeezing tighter still, she smiled.
Laughing, George shook his head. "You're not going to let me go, are you?"
The smile on her face broadened.
It was only when George stepped forwards that she eased her grip. Taking the bag of food, she stepped aside so he could enter their flat.
* * *
The loud ching of George's knife connecting with the porcelain plate cut through the silence. Wincing, George looked up. The Vadhers remained focused on their meals. The most pronounced parts of their faces were highlighted by the weak candlelight. Everything else was lost to the dark.
There were three candles down the center of the table. Their flickering light animated the surrounding shadows. This was the first time George had been in the Vadhers' flat, and it was impossible to know what was hiding in the darkness surrounding them.
The impromptu cold stew that Mrs. Vadher had whipped up made George's mouth water as he ate it. "This is lovely, Mrs. Vadher. How did you make something so delicious with a can of corned beef, tinned tomatoes, and garlic puree?"
Ravi's mum giggled.
When George looked over at Ravi, he saw him sink in his seat.
"Thank you, George," she said. "It's nice to have company, even at this time in the morning."
A smile lifted one side of his mouth as he looked at the five digital clocks on the mantelpiece. "Why do you have so many clocks?" His breath was visible when he spoke.
"In case one runs out of batteries," Ravi said. "If one or two run out, we have time to replace the batteries before any more go. That way, we always know what time it is."
Taking another mouthful, George was hit with a strong concentration of salt that pulled his neck tight. It was obviously from the cheap meat rather than the recipe. What would this woman do with all the right ingredients and functioning appliances? "But what does it matter what time it is?"
"I like to know." It was the first time Ravi's dad had spoken. He had a deep voice that was quiet yet authoritative. "We've lost so much in this world, so I choose to hold onto time. I can see that it doesn't matter anymore. I'm not stupid. But if I can keep track of time, I can remember birthdays and anniversaries. Those things are important to me." Staring into space for a moment, he cleared his throat. "I like to remember the people we've lost." When he returned his attention back to his plate, silence descended on the room again.
* * *
Watching another minute tick away on the five clocks, George saw they weren't so accurate that the time changed simultaneously, although they were close. The silence had lasted seven minutes now. It felt much longer.
Before it could hit eight, Ravi's mum lifted her head. "I know it's horrible here, but we're surviving. We were on the streets before this." Regarding George, she pointed at herself. "Look at us. We were lucky we lasted as long as we did."
Finishing his mouthful with a hard gulp that stung on the way down, George swallowed again to try and ease the burn. "How long was it before you decided to leave your home?"
"When the shops ran out of supplies. Before then, Ravi was risking his life to go out and get us food. But things turned dark pretty fast. I'm amazed that everything ran out so quickly." A watery glaze spread over her eyes. "We saw the Johnsons down the street hung from a lamp post for a jar of peanut butter." Her voice cracked. "A family of four murdered over the smallest amount of food."
Leaning over, Mr. Vadher stroked the back of his wife's hand.
Chewing her bottom lip, she then took a deep breath. "That was when we knew we needed to get off our estate. If they were prepared to do that to a six-month-old ..."
The second mouthful stuck in George's throat. "A six-month-old?"
Sobbing, Mrs. Vadher nodded.
"Wow! Things went to hell fast, eh?"
Blowing her nose, Mrs. Vadher nodded again. "They did. We made slow progress across London, hiding out when we needed a rest." A heavy frown dominated her brow. "We really slowed Ravi down."
When Ravi looked at his dad, Mr. Vadher dropped his head and kept it bowed. It was an acceptance of his loss of role in the family.
"That's why we're grateful for being here. We're safe here. We also have faith. That faith has delivered us a guardian angel." Smiling through her grief, she leant over and held George's hand. "Thank you, George. You've come to us when we've needed you most."
Staring at his dinner plate, George sat with his face on fire. Although she still held his hand, it was the blood that he looked at. The boy and the father in the big house had probably thought he was their guardian angel too.
Pulling her hand away, Mrs. Vadher put an arm over Ravi's shoulders. "We used to worry about this boy so much."
"Mum," Ravi said from the corner of his mouth.
"Not when he was a little dit. He was fine then. Really sweet. He was into everything and loved to build. Lego, toilet rolls, blocks, he'd build something from anything." Pulling him close to her, she then winked at George. "He was our little engineer."
The table seemed to be the most interesting place for Ravi as he cleared his throat and scratched his head.
"It was when he got older that we worried for him. He would go out on the estate, and we wouldn't see him for hours. We didn't know what he was doing, and all of his friends were druggies or muggers."
The wrinkles on her face vanished when she smiled. "But he turned it around. He got a job and got his head down. The boys on the estate were still there, but Ravi was getting socially mobile. He was getting paid and getting out. That was the dream on the estates. To get out one day." Staring into the darkness surrounding them, she shook her head, her eyes glazed. "It's strange that someone like Dean would choose to live here when he has the opportunity to live anywhere in London."
"It's safe," George said. "Both emotionally and practically. You put a fence around this place, and you have a fort. Also, when things are as chaotic as they are, I suppose it's nice to have something you know. He's lived here for so long ..."
After nodding her agreement, Mrs. Vadher said, "It was one of the boys we didn't like that saved us. Judgment is a wicked thing, George. Judgment polarized this society. Judgment turned someone like Dean into a lunatic. Judgment from the upper classes that his life was a waste, a drain on the state. I bet they're regretting ever making him feel like that now. I'm ashamed to say we judged Ravi's fr
iends. But we've learned now that we were wrong. We thought they were no good for our boy, but our boy was on the right path while still being friends with them."
"You must have done something right then."
Looking at one another, Ravi's parents smiled and his mum said, "We've been blessed with our little engineer."
Reverting to the little boy that he clearly used to be, Ravi whined, "Stop it, Mum."
"We plan to get out of here though. We want to head to the seaside. Bournemouth. It's where a lot of our family are, and we want to be with them. We just need the opportunity to leave. We need to wait for London to calm down."
Scoffing, Ravi shook his head. "That ain't happening anytime soon."
"You'll find a way. You're our shining light."
"I need to be more than that, Mum. I need to be a battle axe. I need to be a landslide. I need to learn how to fight with force, not intelligence. We live in a basic world now where the winners are those with the fiercest will and strongest might. I need to man the fuck up if we're to survive."
Heavy breaths raised and dropped the boy's tense frame. Resting clenched fists on the table, he ground his jaw. It was the first time George had seen him like this. It was hard not to laugh.
"Now come on, Ravi," his mum said as she leant over and rubbed his shoulder. "We've spoken about this. Anger doesn't serve you. It won't help you rebuild a positive future."
Throwing his reply back, Ravi's voice cracked like a whip. "It'll help me fight my way out of here though, Mum. It will help us survive. The nice guy doesn't win in this life anymore."
* * *
Another long spell of silence was broken by Ravi's mum. "Tell me about your life before all of this, George." When she winked at him, her eyes glowed. "You're a good-looking man. Where's your wife? Your family?"
Crash II: Highrise Hell Page 5
