Hater

by David Moody

  The nearest of the chasing pack reaches out and manages to grab hold of the man’s sleeve. With a single strong yank he pulls the desperate figure backward. He trips over his own feet and falls in a crumpled heap on the dotted white line in the middle of the road.

  “Fucking scum,” I hear one of the other men shout. “You fucking Hater scum.”

  They encircle the lone runner and batter him. They kick and hit him relentlessly. I look at Lizzie and she stares back at me, her eyes wide with shock and fear. Does she expect me to do something? There’s no way I’m getting involved. I look around and see that no one else is doing anything either. The traffic has ground to a halt and many of the pedestrians on either side of the road have stopped walking.

  The beating lasts for less than a minute. They surround him and batter him from every side and every angle kicking his face, his kidneys, his chest and his balls, and stamping on his head, his kneecaps, and his outstretched hands. Once the frenzied attack is over the man’s breathless assailants step back, leaving the twitching body on the ground in full view. The wail of approaching sirens shatters the heavy and ominous silence. I look back down the road and see that a police motorbike is weaving through the stationary traffic. By the time the police officer reaches the body all but one of the attackers have disappeared into the crowds. The one who remains stands his ground and shouts and screams at the officer and points accusingly at the helpless, broken man on the road before turning and running after the others. With a bizarre lack of urgency, interest, and care the police officer drags the body away from the middle of the road and leaves it in the gutter before signaling to the traffic to start moving again.

  The world slowly starts to crank itself back into action.

  Lizzie is holding on to my arm, gripping me so tight that it hurts. I can’t take my eyes off the dark mound at the side of the road. Who was it? What had he done? If he really was a Hater then he deserved everything he got.

  It seems like every time we go out now something happens.

  I think back to the television program we watched last night, and then I think about the other attacks I’ve seen and those I’ve heard about. All that bullshit I came out with last night suddenly seems to count for nothing. There is something more to this. This isn’t just paranoia or people exploiting the situation.

  I feel sick with nerves and fear.

  Who is it going to happen to next? Me? Lizzie? Harry or one of the kids? Someone at work? It could be anyone.

  13

  IT’S LATE BY THE time we finally get home. We’d expected to be back by five. There were more traffic delays on the way out of town. It’s now almost eight.

  “Someone’s in a hurry,” one of the men from the flat upstairs says as we pass him on his way out of the building. I think this is Gary. He has another man with him who I’ve never seen before.

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I struggle to get through the entrance door with Josh’s stroller.

  “You all right?” he asks, appearing genuinely concerned.

  “We’re fine, thanks,” I answer quickly, not interested in talking. I gently push Lizzie toward the flat. The two men leave.

  “Everything okay?” Harry asks as I open our front door. He’s halfway down the hall as soon as he hears the key in the lock. “I’ve been worried sick about you. You could have phoned me again.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” Lizzie says.

  “There was some trouble,” I explain.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Liz takes off her coat and shakes her head. She wipes her eyes.

  “I don’t know what’s going on out there,” she sighs, her voice quiet and emotional. “It feels like the whole world’s going mad.”

  “So what happened?” he asks, looking from Lizzie to me and then back again for an answer. “Are you both all right? Did you . . . ?”

  “We’re okay,” she says wearily as she gently pushes him back down the corridor toward the living room. Josh is still asleep. I carefully unbuckle his straps, take off his coat, and pick him up out of the stroller.

  “What happened?” Harry asks again as I follow him and Liz into the living room. I stop and quickly look into the children’s bedrooms. Ed’s lying on his bed reading. Ellis’s room is empty.

  “We walked down to Pedmore Row to catch the bus,” I tell him. “Group of guys came out of nowhere and started kicking the hell out of this guy. He was a Hater. Where’s Ellis?”

  Harry nods toward the living room. I peer over the back of the sofa and I’m relieved to see her curled up in a ball asleep with her grandad’s sweater draped over her shoulders. She looks peaceful and relaxed. The room is quiet and dark and the only light comes from the flickering TV in the corner.

  “She wouldn’t go to bed,” he explains, standing and watching her with me. “Kept asking where you two were. I let her stay with me for a while. I knew she’d fall asleep eventually.”

  Liz crouches down in front of Ellis and brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

  “I’ll take her back to bed,” she whispers as she carefully slides her arms underneath her and lifts her up. Ellis mumbles and shuffles but she doesn’t wake up. Harry and I watch as she carries her away. Harry then walks around and sits down in the middle of the sofa where he’s probably been sitting all evening. I lay Josh down on my lap.

  “So tell me again,” he says quietly, “what exactly did happen?”

  I sit down next to him and kick off my shoes.

  “I don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you. A group of guys lynched a Hater, that’s all. Evil bastard probably deserved everything he got. Then the bus was late and a road was closed and . . .”

  Harry nods his head, sighs, and rubs his eyes. He looks tired.

  “I don’t know what’s going on out there,” he says quietly. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. I had a feeling you might have some trouble tonight.” I’m about to ask him what he means when he grabs the remote control and turns up the volume on the TV. “Been watching the news since the children’s programs finished,” he explained. “Things are getting out of control.”

  I turn my attention from Harry to the TV. There’s been no letup in the level of trouble across the country. On the news they’re talking about an “exponential increase in incidents.” Mathematics was never my strongest subject at school but I know what they mean. One incident becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes eight and it goes on and on until . . . Jesus, where’s this going to end?

  There’s a definite change in the way the reporters on TV are talking about what’s happening tonight. They’re concentrating on the people—the so-called Haters—who seem to be at the root of all the trouble. They’re stressing that it’s only a very small minority who have been affected but they’re warning the public to stay away from anyone who appears to be behaving erratically. Bloody hell, that’s half the population of this town on a good day.

  “It’s like a disease,” Harry says. “Crazy, isn’t it? It’s spreading just like a disease.”

  “Someone better hurry up and find a cure then,” I mutter under my breath, still staring at the screen.

  “They keep saying that all of this is because of just a few people, you know,” he continues, repeating what I’ve already heard. “When it gets them, whatever it is, it drives them mad. They had some doctor on talking about it earlier. It’s the first few minutes you have to watch out for.”

  “What?” I mumble, only half listening.

  “When it gets them they lose control, like that guy you saw tonight I expect. They just lash out at whoever or whatever’s around them. Then they say they start to calm down. They’re still capable of doing these things, but they’re not quite so volatile.”

  What is he talking about?

  “What do you mean, not quite so volatile?” I ask him. “Are you saying they’ll only do enough to hospitalize you and not kill you?”

  “I’m only telling you what I’ve heard,” he sighs. “I w
on’t bother if you’re going to be like that.”

  I shake my head and look back at the TV. The screen is filled with images of convoys of troops driving into a city center somewhere. Not sure where it is but it’s nowhere I recognize. The reporters are talking about the police and armed forces being used to full capacity and I think back to the TV debate we watched last night. Have we reached the saturation point they were talking about yet? The voices on the TV are taking great pains to stress that, although stretched, the authorities are still coping. Just. Christ, imagine what will happen if this thing gets any bigger and they can’t cope. Bloody hell, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  The screen shows a stream of government statistics and I lose interest. I don’t believe statistics. They’re all made up. They can make statistics say whatever they want.

  “Problem is,” Harry says, “they’ve let it get out of control. This is too little, too late.”

  “It?” I say. “What’s ‘it’ supposed to be?”

  He points at the screen.

  “The trouble,” he answers, “the violence . . . the people.”

  The statistics have gone and we’re left watching footage of a row of burning houses. Desperate, screaming people are being held back by a police blockade. All they can do is watch as their lives go up in flames.

  “What’s happening,” he whispers secretively, “is people are panicking and overreacting to the slightest thing because of what they’re seeing and what they’re being told. The whole situation has been allowed to get out of proportion. People are seeing the death and the destruction on the television and it’s making them want to become a part of it too. It’s like those bloody awful horror films that you and Lizzie watch. They make you want to do things. They put ideas in your head and they make you think it’s all right to do things. They’re even giving these people a label now. Calling them ‘Haters’ for God’s sake. They’re glamorizing it. Almost makes it sound like a club you’d want to join, doesn’t it?”

  He’s saying the same kind of things I was saying just yesterday. But I’ve already begun to accept that I was wrong, and when I look at the TV screen tonight I’m even more sure that I’d misjudged the situation badly when I was rambling last night. The sheer scale of what’s happening is really beginning to scare me now. They keep talking about small minorities but thousands, possibly even tens of thousands of people are involved in this violence. Hundreds of lives are affected by every incident in some way. Young, old, male, female . . . people from every section of society are involved. This is far more than just paranoia. This is more than the media stirring things up.

  “I don’t want to join any club,” I tell him, “and no one’s put any ideas in my head. I haven’t started any fights. I’m no more going to go out and attack anyone than you or Lizzie are.”

  “I know that. We’ve got maturity and common sense on our side though, haven’t we? We know the difference between right and wrong. We know what’s acceptable and what isn’t.”

  “Are you trying to say that everyone who’s been affected by this is just immature? Come on, Harry, do you really think . . .”

  “There are plenty of people out there who couldn’t give a damn about right or wrong,” he continues, ignoring me. “There are people who get a kick out of causing trouble, and putting it on the television like this has just made things worse. By showing it they’re saying it’s all right, that it’s acceptable.”

  “Bullshit! They’re not saying that at all . . .”

  “They’re implying that because so many people are involved now, anyone left might as well join in.”

  “Bullshit!” I say again.

  “There’s no need to swear at me,” he snaps.

  “You’re so wrong,” I try to explain. “It’s got nothing to do with . . .”

  “And that’s just the kind of thing I’m talking about,” he continues, raising his voice and still not listening to any of what I’m trying to say. “Thirty years ago you’d never have used that kind of language in everyday conversation. Now every other word you hear is a curse. Standards have slipped and that is what’s happening out there on the streets.”

  For a moment I can’t answer. The old man has suddenly become very agitated. His face is flushed red with anger and a terrifying thought flashes into my mind. Is he a Hater? Is he about to change? Is he going to become like those people we’ve seen on TV? Is he about to attack me? Should I attack him first before he has a chance to get me? Is this how it begins . . . ?

  “No one has any respect for anything or anyone else anymore,” he continues. “It’s a bloody disgrace. It’s been coming for years. Before you know it we’ll have total anarchy and you’ll see . . .”

  “I know what you’re trying to say, Dad,” Lizzie interrupts, returning to the room, “but I don’t agree. Danny and I had this conversation last night, didn’t we? I’ve never seen anything like the things I’ve seen over the last few days. I’ve seen plenty of trouble before, but never anything like this.”

  I relax. Liz’s sudden arrival seems to have calmed the situation. The anger in Harry’s face has gone.

  “What do you mean? What’s different?” he asks. Liz stands in the doorway and thinks for a few seconds.

  “Out there tonight, after they’d beaten that man, you could almost taste it in the air.”

  “Taste what?” I wonder.

  “The fear,” she replies. “People are scared. People are already starting to expect trouble and they’re tensing up ready for it. And when it happens they react, most of the time completely out of character from what I’ve seen. I don’t know what’s causing any of this, Dad, but I do know there has to be a definite, physical reason for it. People are bloody frightened and the situation’s getting worse by the day.”

  “Things will start to calm down . . .” Harry starts to say instinctively. Lizzie’s shaking her head.

  “No they won’t,” she says, her voice trembling and unsteady. “We watched a group of men lynch a Hater tonight. I don’t know what he’d done, but it couldn’t have been any worse than the way they retaliated. There was as much hate and anger coming from them as anyone else.”

  WEDNESDAY

  vii

  DARYL EVANS SAT AT the back of the top floor of the bus as it wound its way through the streets toward the city center. He leaned against the window and looked down as he headed toward the council offices where he worked and yet another day of grind and grief. He didn’t feel like working today. Maybe he’d try and leave after a couple of hours, he thought. Maybe he’d tell Tina, his supervisor, that he didn’t feel well and that he needed to go home. With everything that was happening right now he didn’t think she’d try stopping him.

  Evans wasn’t particularly interested in the rest of the world. He didn’t pay much attention to anything that happened outside his immediate circle of family and friends. He’d had a good night last night and that made it harder to motivate himself this morning. He’d spent some time with a friend he hadn’t seen for a while. They’d spent the evening drinking beer and eating junk food. He still felt bloated and a little hungover this morning. He’d slept through his alarm and then turned the apartment upside down looking for his watch. He’d eventually found it under his bed but by then he was already late leaving for work. He just knew it was going to be one of those days where everything takes more effort than it should and nothing goes right.

  Evans didn’t have any time for news and current affairs. He didn’t know why the streets were quiet this morning or why he’d had to wait twice as long as usual for a bus which was half empty. He did notice that things felt different today, but he really couldn’t be bothered to try and work out why.

  There were seven other people on the top floor of the bus. Five of them sat alone, quiet and thoughtful, watching the gray and damp morning outside. A couple sat together toward the front, laughing and joking with each other and making more noise than the rest of the passengers combined. Evans sat right at t
he back and watched them all. The inside of the bus was steaming up with condensation. He wiped the window clean so that he could see how far he’d got left to travel. His sudden movement caught the attention of a pencil-thin, wiry-haired man sitting two rows of seats ahead who nervously turned around to see what was happening behind him.

  Evans made eye contact with the other passenger and froze.

  The man—quiet, unassuming, and not wanting any trouble—quickly turned back and faced the front of the bus again, praying that nothing was going to happen. It was too late. Evans, filled with a sudden uncontrollable fear and compulsion, jumped up and pulled the other passenger out of his chair. He shoved him down into the aisle between the two rows of seats and he landed with a heavy thump which was loud enough to be heard by everyone on the lower floor. He looked down at the man who stared back up at him petrified, his shoulders wedged between the seats on either side. Evans raised his foot and stamped on his face, breaking his nose and splitting the skin under his right eye. Then he stamped again, then again and again, feeling any resistance almost immediately fade and then feeling the man’s bones beginning to crack beneath the force of his relentless attack.

  The driver looked up in her monitor but the rush of top floor passengers getting up from their seats and running down the steep staircase blocked her view. She brought her bus to a sudden halt in the middle of a usually busy dual-carriageway road. A week ago many people would have tried to do something to help, but not today. Terrified and fearing for their own safety they ran as quickly as they could, spilling out onto the street and looking up at the occasional flashes of movement they could see from the bloody and violent attack which continued on the top floor.