Crash III: There's No Place Like Home

by Michael Robertson

  The door to the en suite bathroom was open, so Michael went in and switched the taps on. Nothing. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth as he opened the cupboard above the bathroom sink. His heart lifted. Two small bottles of water sat in the middle of the shelf. They were both sealed.

  When he returned to the bedroom with them held aloft, Lola’s jaw dropped. “Where were they?”

  “In the bathroom cupboard above the sink.” He passed one to Lola.

  Lola’s hands shook as she rushed to open it. After she’d twisted the cap, she put the bottle to her lips and upended it. Three loud gulps and she’d emptied it.

  Michael sipped his, finishing off his chocolate bar before he drained the bottle and burped. “Pardon me.”

  “You’re so posh.”

  “What?”

  Putting on a fake private school accent, she straightened her back and covered her mouth. “Oh, pardon me.”

  “Fuck off.”

  She laughed and pointed at him. “Even that sounds posh.”

  Michael didn’t reply.

  ***

  When Michael lay back down, his lethargy pinned him to the bed and he looked over at the still drawn curtains. Damn it!

  For the next twenty minutes or so, Michael and Lola lay there in silence. Michael stared at the ceiling and Lola smoked.

  “This room reminds me of being in the spare room at home,” Michael said. “Four of us would lie in bed all day. We’d go hours without talking to one another.”

  A glaze covered Lola’s eyes as she continued to stare up. “Sounds grim.”

  “It was. I can see why Mum and Matilda killed themselves.” Stabbing pains ran through his heart and tears stung his eyes. “Things were bad at home about six months before, when Dad lost his job. We were taken out of school and sent to the local comprehensive.”

  Lola turned to face him; her eyes dead, her tone flat. “I’d imagine it was hard having to slum it with the other kids.”

  “It may be difficult for you to understand, but it was. Matilda and I were targeted by bullies because we’d been privately educated. When the teachers stopped turning up, things got even worse.”

  The smoke hung so heavy in the air Michael had to get up and away from it. His ankle ached as he paced the room. “If we weren’t being bullied at school, we’d come home and listen to Mum and Dad arguing all night about money and how Dad couldn’t provide for the family. I’d watch Dad try to get a job every day even though there weren’t any.”

  Lola looked like she didn’t give a shit. Michael continued anyway. “Then Mum and Matilda disappeared. The men in the trucks arrived soon after.”

  No response.

  She really didn’t care. When he pulled one of the curtains aside and peered out, he froze.

  The panic surging through him must have been clear on his face because when he looked at Lola, she sat up straight and leaned toward him. “What? What is it?”

  As he stared at her, he shook his head. The words wouldn’t come.

  When Lola rushed over to his side, she looked out of the window.

  Silence sat between them before she finally said, “Oh shit.”

  Supply Run

  “Will you come away from that bloody window? You’ve been standing there for hours.”

  Although he’d heard her and even turned to look at her, Michael returned his attention to outside the window. He couldn’t look away. Not now he knew who their neighbor was.

  The daylight was fading outside. “I can’t believe he hasn’t left the house all day. Do you think he’s even in there?”

  Lola lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “Of course he is. There’s no way he’d leave that truck unguarded. He’s there for sure.”

  Michael looked up the road again. The grand house George stayed in looked out of place amongst all the semi-detached houses. Not only did it exist on its own plot of land, but it also had a wall surrounding it.

  Black gates provided the only access to the property. They stood strong and imposing, much like the ones Michael’s cul-de-sac had. Except George had been cleverer than they had been; he’d parked his truck sideways across them to prevent anyone from getting in.

  It didn’t look like the food on the back of the truck had diminished either.

  The heat in the room had dropped with the oncoming night, but the chill that ran through Michael had nothing to do with temperature. “It feels weird to know the man that killed my dad is staying only a few houses down.”

  Lola continued to stare up at the ceiling and didn’t respond.

  Rubbing his sore eyes, he kept his focus on the girl. “It’s getting dark out. What shall we do? Shall we move on tonight?”

  Still not looking at him, Lola shook her head. “No.”

  “What shall we do then?”

  “I think we should rob him. He has enough food in there to feed a small army. He won’t notice if a few bits go missing.”

  The memory of his dad’s final moments came back. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Instead of replying, Lola lit another cigarette.

  ***

  The night had settled in to the point where Michael couldn’t see George’s truck anymore, but he still watched out the window. Something may happen, and he didn’t want to miss it.

  When Lola walked over to his side, Michael shifted out of the way. He screwed his nose up at the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

  Lola pulled back from the window and said, “Alright, I think it’s dark enough now. I’m going to make my move. Wish me luck.”

  “You’re really going to rob him?”

  Lola rolled her eyes. “I said I was, didn’t I? Now wait here; I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  She glared at Michael as if daring him to answer. He didn’t.

  They held each other’s stare for a moment before Lola left the room.

  Michael listened to her footsteps as she walked down the stairs and across the laminated hallway. Then the latch on the front door clicked. Lola had gone. Now he had to wait.

  Returning to the window, he watched Lola’s dark silhouette disappear up the road. Before long, the shadows had swallowed her whole.

  Then it hit him. Maybe she wasn’t planning on coming back. Maybe she just wanted rid of him. Maybe she wasn’t going to George’s at all.

  With all of his anxieties forced to the back of his mind, Michael looked around the quiet and unlit room. Not only was he in a strange house in a strange part of London, but he was all on his own in the cold and silent darkness.

  When a scuttling sound came from downstairs, Michael drew an involuntary breath and stared at the door. His tired eyes burned worse than ever.

  A slow and rhythmic knocking ran through the house, calling to him from somewhere on the ground floor. Swallowing hard against his dry throat, Michael’s heartbeat ran rampant.

  Maybe it’s the wind. Yeah right, like the wind has suddenly taken to rummaging around in the downstairs of abandoned houses.

  When he looked outside again, it was pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing.

  The cold had got under his skin again and Michael shook, closed his eyes, and thought of home. It was a home where his mum and sister were still alive, his dad was still working, and where all they had to think about was which channel to watch on the TV and how high to turn the heating up.

  His pulse started to settle. Maybe he’d imagined the sound.

  A loud crash sounded out downstairs.

  His pulse skyrocketed again.

  Visitors

  Michael stood in the bedroom and stared at the closed door. If he waited there, maybe the people downstairs would take what they wanted and leave. Maybe they wouldn’t check upstairs at all. Although basing a decision on 'maybe' needed a lot of luck and there wasn’t much of that in London at the moment. He needed to do something to get out! He had the element of surprise and maybe he should use it while he still had the advantage—Batman would!

  As
he left the room, he pulled a golfing umbrella from a terracotta pot by the door. The door handle made no noise when he pushed it down, and the hinges glided open with little protest. Thank god.

  When Michael stepped out onto the quiet landing, he held his breath and listened for the sounds downstairs. Nothing—maybe they’d already left.

  The carpet that lined the stairs was soft and soundless beneath Michael’s feet. With every passing hour, his ankle got better and walking became much easier. He probably still couldn’t run, but it wouldn’t be long.

  Michael stopped halfway down the stairs when he heard more sounds in the kitchen. He peered into the darkness in the direction of the kitchen. The intruder could be twice his size and was probably armed with a better weapon than a fucking umbrella. But he had to do something. He couldn’t just leave them there for Lola to come back to.

  Michael pushed on and fought to keep his breath even.

  As he walked over the laminate flooring, his running shoes made a gentle tick against the hard surface. He took a step and then paused. He then took another step. It felt like playing 'What’s the Time, Mister Wolf?' and he was seeing how close he could get before it was dinnertime.

  As he got closer to the kitchen, Michael turned and looked at the front door. He could go out and meet Lola in the street on her way back from George’s. As long as she didn’t come back a different way… which he had no way of predicting.

  After walking the length of the hallway, his heart thumping, he pressed his back to the wall next to the kitchen door and took several deep breaths. It stilled his galloping heart enough for him to hear better.

  It sounded like there was just one of them in the house.

  With a final breath, Michael gripped the umbrella handle so tightly it hurt his palm. He exhaled hard and kicked the kitchen door open, yelling as he swung the umbrella through the air.

  A cat stood frozen with fear in the middle of the kitchen and stared at him.

  Michael laughed. “You’re just a cat.”

  The creature’s yellow eyes stared back at him, wide as two full moons reflecting off a lake.

  “Go on, get.” Flicking his head, Michael repeated, “Get.”

  But the cat didn’t move.

  The end of the umbrella shook when he pointed it at it, his limbs shaking as adrenalin rushed through him. “I said get!” He moved to his left to give the creature an escape route.

  When it still didn’t move, he stepped to the left again and showed it a way through with his arm. “Get.”

  All the while, the cat stared at him as if it were weighing its options.

  Grabbing a white mug from the kitchen surface, Michael launched it at the mangy animal.

  The mug shattered on the floor next to it—much louder than he'd anticipated—but it did the trick.

  As he watched the cat run across the room and hop up onto the window ledge, he shook his head. Why did he just make such a racket? Besides, the shattering mug had made a terrible mess.

  When he turned around, his heart leapt from his chest.

  With all the noise he’d made, he hadn’t heard the person enter the room.

  The Wanderer

  “Lola?” He could see it was Lola, so why didn’t his damn heart stop pounding? He exhaled so hard his cheeks puffed out, and he continued to stare at her.

  “What are you doing down here?” she asked.

  With his breath leveling out, Michael gave himself a couple more seconds to calm down. “I heard something," he croaked; his throat was dry from fear. "So I came to see what it was.”

  After looking past him into the kitchen, Lola's eyes fell to the umbrella still clutched in Michael’s hand. “Expecting rain?”

  “Very funny.”

  “So did you find anything?”

  “It was a cat. It must have come in through the window. It was rummaging through the cupboards. It’s gone now.” To stop the snarky remark before she made it, he added, “Anyway, never mind that. Did you get anything from George’s truck?”

  The moonlight that shone through the downstairs window caught both Lola’s beaming grin and the two cans of fruit salad she held aloft.

  He barely stopped himself from hugging her. Instead, he took one of the cans and hugged that. “Amazing. Thank you, Lola.”

  When she handed him a small bottle of water, Michael spread his arms wide and leapt on her. “Thank you, Lola. Thank you.”

  Lola’s entire body stiffened and she didn’t reply.

  ***

  Instead of eating in the kitchen, the pair returned to the bedroom.

  Before he sat down on the bed, Michael walked over to the curtain.

  "What are you doing?" Lola asked.

  "Letting some light in."

  "It's nighttime. There isn't any light."

  When Michael pulled the curtain open, it made the room slightly lighter. He pointed at the window. "See. It's not much, but it's something."

  He opened his can of fruit salad and drank the syrup. The sweet liquid soothed his dry throat. Bending the lid so it was a scoop, he shoveled pieces of cherry and peach into his mouth.

  The fruit, pregnant with juice, sat on his tongue before he bit down. The saccharine explosion spread through his mouth. As he chewed, he said, “So did you see him? Did he see you?”

  Lola swallowed before she replied. “No and no.”

  “How did you manage to get the food?”

  Again, Lola made him wait while she ate. She took her time with it too. “I put my hand through the gap in the gate and took it.”

  “You’d think he would keep a tighter eye on the food.”

  “I know, right?”

  What did he say to that? She clearly didn’t want to talk while eating, but he hated silence. “Where did you go to school?”

  Lola upended her can as she drank its contents before she tossed it on the floor. Michael still had over half of his left. She then leaned back and removed a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. Once she'd put it in her mouth, lit it up, and taken a deep drag, she said, “I’d left school by the time everything had gone to shit. I was at art college by then.”

  “Did you have a boyfriend?”

  “What’s with all the fucking questions, Nearly Eleven? You trying to chat me up or something?”

  Thank god it was still dark. Lola constantly made him blush. “No! N… no, I was just making conversation. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Lola turned away from him and continued smoking. After several drags, she faced him again. “I did have a boyfriend. His name was Danny, and he was twenty-one.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died. He ran into one of the gangs soon after London fell. He didn’t stand a chance.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? Did you do it?”

  Michael dropped his attention to the bed sheets. “And your mum and sister were killed by a gang too?”

  The end of Lola’s cigarette glowed brighter in the dark room. “Yeah.” She exhaled. “Mum was run over, and Louisa was killed by a psychopath with a hammer.”

  “My dad was killed by a man with a hammer. Do you think it was the same people?”

  Lola didn’t respond.

  “Lola?”

  Michael heard a wet sniff. “I’m sorry," he said. "I’ve been asking too many questions, haven’t I? I didn't mean to upset you.”

  Lola’s cigarette glowed. “It’s okay,” she said and sniffed again. “The man that ran my mum over was George.”

  “What the fuck? Why didn’t you say before?”

  “I dunno. I didn’t want to. I’m sure it was an accident.” Her cigarette glowed again. “But the others that ran her over afterwards meant to do it for sure. They got off their trucks and killed my sister just for fun.”

  “So it really was the same people?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit.”

  She dragged on her cigarette agai
n.

  The Note

  Despite the flashlight in his hand, Michael sat in the darkness of the bedroom and waited for Lola to return. They’d found the flashlight in a cupboard beneath the stairs, and although his finger hovered over the power button, he resisted the urge to press it. If he turned it on, people would be able to see him from a mile away. He'd promised Lola he'd only use it in an emergency.

  It had been two days since they’d smashed the window and broken into the house. Because George hadn’t moved, they hadn’t either. Each night, Lola had gone out and taken a can or two from the back of his truck. It was sure to end at some point. George would move on and take their steady supply of food with him, but until then, they agreed to make the most it.

  Michael listened to the front door open and close. They had keys now because Michael had found them in the cutlery drawer in the kitchen. His family hid their keys there too. Why did everyone use such obvious hiding places? It can’t have made it hard for burglars.

  While listening to Lola walk up the stairs, Michael's stomach rumbled. The regular nightly feed seemed to make him hungrier, like his body expected it. There was also the fact that they couldn’t take much so he was never quite satisfied. If George noticed… well, it wasn’t worth thinking about.

  Reliving the memory of his dad falling limp beneath George’s hammer, Michael envisioned Lola falling to a similar deadly blow as she pushed her luck with the food stash.

  When Lola walked into the room, she had something white in her hand and Michael flicked the flashlight on. “What’s that?”

  Lola gave it to him.

  It was a note. Michael read the scratchy writing aloud. “‘I know you’ve been taking food from me and watching me for the past few days.’” His blood ran cold. “‘I know you’re staying in number 362. You may want to keep the curtains open during the day; it makes it less obvious that there’s someone in there. If you want food and protection, you should come over and knock. Boy, I know you saw me kill your dad, but I had to do it. It doesn’t change what I did and it won’t bring your dad back. Dean knew there were people in the house because the dogs sniffed you out. By taking your dad and leaving you, I managed to save one of you. I couldn’t have saved you both.’” A lump rose in Michael’s throat and choked him. After clearing it, he continued, “‘Even after your dad had fallen, I had to persuade Dean that the house was empty.’”