The window shattered inwards. The man stumbled and fell into the shop. He writhed around on the carpeted floor, glass shards tearing through his clothes and slicing into his flesh. Amy and the shop assistant both screamed simultaneously. The man snarled through blood-stained teeth and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Glass sliced through his wrist and red arterial blood gushed from it. He crawled toward Amy and the girl, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.
Amy backed away, brandishing the keys at the man as if they somehow held the power to stop his advance. She sensed, rather than saw, a movement behind her. The shop assistant ran past, heading for the entrance door. She wrenched it open and ran out—
—straight into the grasping hands of another man lurking there.
The shop assistant cried out and beat at the man’s head with her fists, raked her fingernails down his face. The man snarled and lashed out at her, knocking her sideways into the window frame. A jagged shard of glass still clinging to the frame pierced her neck and her screams turned into a choking gurgle as she coughed blood. The man grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down. The glass shard tore up through the shop assistant’s neck toward her ear as it resisted for a few seconds, then came loose from the window frame and fell with her.
The man dropped down to his knees and pulled out the large sliver of glass, slicing through his own fingers as he did so. He threw the glass to one side and lowered his mouth to the gaping wound in the girl’s neck. He slurped and smacked, drinking the life-force pumping from her veins with relish.
Amy watched it all from inside the shop. She trembled in fear, frozen in place, unable to tear her eyes away from the horror outside. Her legs turned to jelly. She reached out for the counter to steady herself. Something warm and wet ran down her legs and soaked into the carpet. Amy didn’t have time to worry what that meant. A snarl came from close behind her, to her right. The man in the suit crawled toward her, a look of determination on his battered and bloody face.
“Help me,” Amy yelled when she saw someone running by outside Mothercare. But the running figure didn’t even look in her direction.
The man in the doorway looked up and hissed. The shop assistant’s blood dripped from his chin as he locked eyes with Amy. He stumbled to his feet and stepped through the broken window, his arms swinging by his sides.
Amy backed away further into the shop, unable to look away. She felt something dig into her back and cried out in alarm. She spun around, fearing the worst, expecting to come face to face with another psycho lurking within the shop. Expecting her life to end at any moment in a savage attack she would be powerless to defend herself from. But it was just a clothes rail, filled with coat-hangers displaying brightly-coloured maternity dresses.
Amy reached out and grabbed the clothes rail to steady herself. She felt it move on tiny wheels as she leaned against it. The man lumbered toward her. As he got closer he reached out with both hands, his fingers grasping. Amy backed away, edging herself around the clothes rail. When she reached its far side she pushed it as hard as she could in the man’s direction. The man hissed in anger when the clothes rail collided with him. His hands flailed at the maternity dresses, pulling them from their hangers. One wrapped around his face and he roared as he thrashed around, trying to free himself from it.
Amy ran to the back of the shop, where she saw a solid wooden door bearing the sign Staff Only. She pressed down on the door’s handle frantically. She cried out in frustration and banged her fist on the door when it refused to open. Angry snarls came from behind her, the sound of coat-hangers clashing together.
Amy remembered the keys she had taken from the shop assistant, and uncurled her fingers from them. Her hands shook as she located the store room key and inserted it into the lock. The key turned impossibly slowly, as if time were coming to a standstill. Amy wrenched down on the handle and stumbled through into the store room, almost losing her footing. She tried to pull the key from the lock but it was stuck.
The man was close. Very close. Amy was sure she could feel his breath on the back of her neck as he hissed and snarled at her. She screamed and tugged at the key. She glanced over her shoulder. The man was even closer than she thought, only a few feet away. Wide-eyed and hysterical, Amy wrenched the key from the lock and slammed the door behind her just as the man lunged at the doorway.
But the door wouldn’t close. The man’s fingers curled around its edge, trapped in the doorway, flexing and unflexing. Amy pulled the door open a few inches and slammed it back. Bones crunched and the fingers stopped moving, but the door still wouldn’t close fully. The man hissed again. Amy heard scratching sounds, as if he were trying to claw his way through the wood. She leaned her shoulder against the door and pushed with all her might, barging it into place. A severed finger slithered down the door and dropped by her feet. The others hung down from flaps of skin holding them in place for a few seconds before they fell to join it. The man pounded on the door, his guttural snarl turning into a wail of anger.
Amy inserted the key into the lock and twisted it. She leaned back against the door and slumped down to her knees, sobbing with her head in her hands while the man’s pounding vibrated through her back. Her stomach tightened, like the worst menstrual cramps she had ever felt. She cried out and clutched her stomach. Tears ran down her face as she panted through the pain, knowing there was a lot worse to come.
3
Kylie had seen 18 rated movies on TV, but none of them had been as intense as the one showing in Meadowside’s cinema. She didn’t understand why Tom was more interested in playing on his phone than watching the movie. He’d been tapping away on it all the way through, giving a running commentary on what he found people saying about the movie on Twitter.
Bare Knuckle Bitch, the movie was called. The poster outside the cinema described it as a romantic comedy with lashings of ultra-violence, the perfect date movie for feral underclass. Kylie found that an accurate description. Abby, the movie’s main character, was certainly one tough bitch who took no shit from anyone, but she had her gentle side too. Abby’s best mate, Shaz, reminded Kylie a bit of Britney the way she acted around boys sometimes, and Abby’s skinhead boyfriend had a little bit of Tom’s loveable goofiness about him.
Britney seemed to be enjoying the movie too, and cheered Abby on as she stuck the boot into some toffee-nosed students who had been giving her some lip earlier on. Mike laughed and sneered, saying three blokes, even wimpy ones like those, would be more than a match for such a skinny looking bird as Abby. But Kylie knew better. It wasn’t strength that mattered in a street fight, it was what you did with your fists. Kylie’s arms and legs twitched as she imagined herself in the movie, punching and kicking someone unconscious just like the girl on the cinema screen.
Then Tom nudged Kylie in the ribs and broke her concentration. “Check it out,” he said.
“What?” Kylie whispered. She didn’t want to look away from the screen. The posh students were covered in blood, lying groaning in the street while Abby rifled through their pockets and stole their wallets.
“There’s some sort of riot going down in Shefferham,” Tom said, holding up his phone. “Check it out.”
Kylie glanced at Tom’s phone and shrugged. “Yeah, so?” She turned her attention back to the movie.
“Let’s get down there,” Tom said.
“What for?”
“For the looting, what do you think what for? Shit’s just there for the taking when there’s a riot going on, I’ve seen it on the telly.”
“Yeah?” Britney said, leaning forward to look past Kylie at Tom. “I could do with a new phone, my old one sucks.”
“I don’t know if we should,” Kylie said, shaking her head. “There’ll be coppers everywhere, and people fighting, we wouldn’t want to get caught up in all that.”
“Nah,” Tom said, “the coppers aren’t doing fuck all, Twitter says so. People are just smashing stuff up and getting what they can. Come on, let’s get
down there before all the good stuff’s gone.”
Britney picked up her Spongebob Squarepants backpack and shuffled to the exit, closely followed by Mike.
Kylie frowned. “But I want to watch the rest of the movie,” she said to Tom. “Don’t you want to see how it finishes?”
“Nah, it’s boring. I’ll download it for you later, you can watch it on my laptop.”
Kylie sighed. She didn’t really want to go, but it seemed like everyone else had already made their mind up. And she had always wanted a laptop of her own, so maybe she could get one from the riot?
“Well okay, if you’re sure it’ll be safe?”
Tom smiled. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. We’ll just go down there, get some stuff, then get fucked off out of there before the coppers change their mind and start laying into everyone.” He stood up and looked down at Kylie. “Come on then, let’s get going.”
Kylie took a final look at the cinema screen and made her way to the exit door, where Mike and Britney were waiting. They pushed through into the lobby and headed for the main exit. Tom stepped through first, and collided with a man running past outside. He was knocked off his feet and sprawled to the ground. The man continued running without looking back.
“Are you okay?” Kylie asked. She reached down to help Tom up.
“Yeah. Some people have just got no fucking manners.” Tom glared after the running man and shook his head. “Fucking wanker.”
They set off in the same direction as the running man, past the food hall where delicatessens and salad bars competed with burger joints and tea rooms, and back into the main shopping centre. More people ran by. Someone screamed in the distance. Kylie cast a worried glance at Tom, but he just shrugged and led the way to Meadowside’s train station exit.
A young woman, her hair and clothes drenched from the rain, staggered toward them swinging her arms. A small baby strapped to her chest in a harness made an odd rasping sound and raised its tiny arms. Its eyes were wide and staring, its face screwed up in hate. Its mouth opened and closed, making the gurgling, hissing sound undulate. As the woman stumbled closer she bared her teeth and hissed too. She raised both hands and reached out, her fingers grasping like claws.
Kylie stepped back out of the way just as the woman lunged for her. The woman spun around with a snarl, and made a grab for Britney’s tracksuit top. Britney cried out and swung a fist at the woman’s mouth. The woman’s bottom lip burst and blood dripped down her chin, spattering onto the baby’s head. The baby thrashed wildly against its restraining harness, seemingly desperate to get at Britney itself, but its arms weren’t long enough to reach her. It hissed in frustration.
Mike tried to wrestle Britney from the woman’s grip, but she clung on tight, her fist clenched around Britney’s tracksuit top. He struck the woman’s arm with the blade of his hand, but all that did was drag Britney closer to the woman’s gnashing teeth. Britney yelled and pushed out with both hands, kicked out at the woman’s legs. The woman snarled and jerked her head forward, clamped her teeth over Britney’s arm. Britney screamed. Blood gushed from between the woman’s jaws.
Tom rushed forward and grabbed a handful of the woman’s hair, then yanked her head back. She came away with a lump of Britney’s flesh in her mouth and thrashed her head from side to side trying to free herself. Britney fell to her knees, clutching her arm, blood pumping between her fingers from a gaping wound. Her face was deathly white as she stared at the struggling woman wide-eyed in shock and fear.
Tom dragged the woman away by her hair while Mike knelt down and reached into Britney’s backpack. He pulled out one of the designer shirts she had stolen from Sportswear Direct and tied it around her arm, wrapping it around several times in a makeshift bandage.
Tom dragged the woman up to a shop window and smacked her forehead into it a few times, then spun her around and shoved her in the back. She stumbled a few steps, then toppled forward with a sickening crunch. Almost immediately the woman rolled over and sat up. The baby hung limp from its harness, its head flopped to one side, blood dripping from its ears. The woman bared her teeth and hissed. Tom stared down at her and backed away, horrified at what had happened to the baby. The woman leaned forward and dropped onto her hands and knees, then started to crawl toward him with the baby’s limbs dangling lifelessly beneath her.
Tom looked at Mike, his eyes wide and staring. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he shouted, and ran.
4
Smiffy lounged against Meadowside’s bronze war memorial statue with his mate Stonker, both of them posing with cans of Special Brew while Johnno took a photo with his phone. Stonker gurned at the camera, displaying his missing front teeth with pride. Smiffy held up the red and yellow football scarf tied around his wrist and clenched his fist.
“Skumfuckers!” he yelled, just as the phone’s camera flashed.
Several passers by glanced in his direction, then looked away quickly and walked on. Smiffy didn’t care what they thought of him. They were nothing. Worse than nothing. Just mindless sheep going about their mundane lives in pointless obscurity, destined to be forgotten the minute they died. Smiffy was a someone. He’d built his Skumfuckers firm up from nothing, organised disjointed football yobs and louts into a force to be reckoned with. One to strike fear into the hearts of rival firms. Smiffy had no doubt the Skumfuckers would go down in history one day.
Shefferham United had done them proud that day, winning three-nil against arch-enemies Chelterton FC. The Chelterton Boot Boys, despite all their threats on the Skumfuckers’ Facebook page, had been a no-show inside the stadium. Even outside on the streets they hid behind the skirts of an army of coppers like a bunch of frightened schoolgirls as they skipped off back to the train station and went on their way back to their rat-infested home town.
The chant had gone out – CBeebies, who the fuck are you? – but none of the Chelterton Boot Boys took the bait. No doubt they would come up with some lame excuse, but Smiffy knew the truth. The CBeebies had bottled it. And as soon as Smiffy got home he would update the Skumfuckers’ Facebook page to let the whole world know about it. But for now he was content to just drink a toast to Shefferham United and celebrate the sound thrashing Chelterton FC had received. The other Skumfuckers had gone home to their wives and kids, but for Smiffy, Stonker and Johnno it was the start of a twelve hour drinking session that wouldn’t end until the early hours of the following morning.
Johnno swaggered over, holding his phone out so Smiffy and Stonker could see the photo he had taken of them. Smiffy grunted his approval. Both his and Stonker’s huge, bright red pupils made them look like demonic warriors. Stonker drained his Special Brew and crushed the can in one hand. He lobbed it at the war memorial statue and cheered when it bounced off a soldier’s head and clattered to the ground. An old woman glared and tutted as she passed.
“Fuck off, you old bag,” Stonker shouted.
He took a step toward her with his fist raised. The woman hobbled away muttering something about damn hooligans with no respect for anything.
“Respect is fucking earned,” Stonker shouted after her. He cracked open another can of Special Brew and took a long swig.
Smiffy smiled and shook his head. He knew Stonker was only teasing the old woman, but it had certainly put a spring in her step. He took another gulp of his own Special Brew and watched her lose herself in the crowd of shoppers.
Something caught Smiffy’s eye, a quick flash of movement in the distance. Someone screamed. Shoppers plodded to a halt and grew silent, looked at each other. Another scream. People craned their necks to see what was happening, then scattered in all directions.
Smiffy climbed onto the war memorial and stretched himself up to see what the fuss was about. People ran by on both sides, wide-eyed and terrified. One woman dragged a young child behind her, the child stumbling as it tried to keep up with her fast pace.
There was some sort of commotion outside the off-license, a lot of pushing and shoving going on.
Smiffy saw someone pinned up against the shop window by three men. A woman, judging by her hysterical screams. A young man went to her aid and got dragged to the ground for his troubles. They pounced on him, no doubt for a quick bit of facial reconstruction for interfering with their fun with the woman.
“It’s the fucking CBeebies,” Smiffy said, pointing. “They must have sneaked off the fucking train at Meadowside.”
“The fucking cunts,” Johnno said, shaking his head. “That’s bang out of fucking order.”
Smiffy nodded. Attacking innocent civvies brought hooliganism into disrepute, gave everyone a bad name once the TV news got hold of the story. The Skumfuckers would never do anything like that. The Skumfuckers had honour. They had class. They didn’t fight women and kids.
There were five of them as far as Smiffy could tell, and they showed no colours. Not one single football scarf or replica kit amongst them, as if they were ashamed to be associated with Chelterton FC. Unlike Smiffy and his mates, who wore their Shefferham United colours with pride. Yellow replica football shirts, yellow and red Shefferham United scarves around their wrists, and the regulation Skumfuckers camouflage shorts with the secret pockets that were perfect for hiding weapons in.
Two of the Chelterton Boot Boys had a young woman between them. One at the back yanked at her hair and she stumbled back, her arms flailing as she cried out. He pulled her down to her knees, then onto her back, and ripped a handful of hair from her scalp. The one at the front dropped down and copped a feel of her tits while she screamed in agony.
Smiffy’s blood boiled. He wasn’t having that. Not on his fucking manor.
“Oi, Chelterton!” Smiffy shouted. He held his arms before his chest in a Celtic cross, his fists clenched, knuckles facing the enemy. “Let’s fucking have it then, you cunts!”
“Let’s just fucking do the bastards,” Johnno snarled. He raised his arms and held the same Celtic cross pose as Smiffy. “Oi, you fucking Chelterton cunts!” he yelled. “Skumfuckers are going to fuck you up!”
Meadowside Page 2
