by Kolin Wood
“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “Shush, my love, you’re safe now.”
Sarah screamed again. It was a horrific sound, deep from the pit of her stomach, and it curdled Juliana’s blood. She wanted to kill somebody, to inflict some pain of her own, but she wouldn’t be doing anybody any good by losing her temper. Now was not the time; Sarah needed her to be calm. She held on, tightly.
It was a few minutes before—perhaps realising the futility of her actions—Sarah began to calm down. Her arms fell limp at her sides and her screams melted into sobs. Juliana carefully and slowly helped her to her feet and guided her over to her bed, where she stroked her forehead and attempted to soothe her.
How many are there now? Juliana thought, as she ran her fingers through her friend’s sweat-matted hair. When she had first arrived, there had only been two others. Now, there were many, many more.
A slump came at her from inside and she leaned back against the wall, every limb suddenly heavy with grief. It was a disengaged feeling, as if all of her energy was being sucked from her body against her will, and she fought against the determination of her own eyelids to close. She knew if she allowed them to, the demons that plagued her soul would come knocking; they always did.
But her mind began to drift.
She too had been snatched in a raid on her house. They had come through the door, at least a dozen of them, smashing and yelling. Her husband had tried to intervene but… She shook her head, trying to remove the visions, but lost the fight. She slumped farther until her chin was resting on her neck.
“Johnny,” she murmured.
***
They watched out of the window as the gang entered the street and began smashing into the houses. There had been no time to prepare or flee.
“The next one is ours, baby,” Michael said, his kind blue eyes clearly betraying the level of fear in them. “Take John and hide in the front upstairs bedroom. Put him in the cupboard and get yourself under the bed.”
Juliana sobbed, breaking out in a hot, uncontrollable sweat as the reality of the situation hit her and genuine life-fearing panic set in. She twitched the curtain as a group of laughing youths, each carrying a weapon, kicked open the gate of the house next door and ran up the path. A frantic banging on the door followed. Juliana looked desperately at her husband. The Martins were in. They were one of the few families who had decided to stay in the street, just like they had, fancying their chances in London rather than with the unknown.
A loud, splintering sound followed by a scream turned Juliana’s blood to ice. Questions raced through her scrambling brain. What did they want? What were they doing to the poor family next door? What would they do to them? What did they have to offer them? Her legs turned to jelly and she began to hyperventilate, clutching her baby boy to her leg. John was only six. He shouldn’t have to witness this.
“Juliana… you have to go… NOW!” Her husband shook her hard by the shoulders, trying to rouse her and wake her from the shock.
Next door, a gunshot rang out, followed by a loud cheer.
“They have guns, Michael! They have guns. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, what are we going to do, Michael? What are we going to do? They are going to kill us; we’re next. Oh fuck, Michael…”She watched in wide-eyed terror as Michael stepped away from the window and ran from the room, returning a second later with two of their largest kitchen knives from the rack. He thrust one towards her.
“Take this.”
Laughter came from outside then Juliana heard the familiar squeaking hinge of the gate at the front of their house.
“TAKE IT.” This time it was an order. She looked up at him.
Michael’s face had taken on a semi-vacant glaze, almost as though he knew that in order to protect his family he would have to turn himself into something savage; a side of him which he had probably never had to use in his semi-sheltered and protected, middle-class life.
Reaching out a shaking hand, she took the smooth wooden handle, awkwardly holding it in front of her.
“W-W-What are you going to do, Michael? Please, baby, let’s just open the door and give them what they want… Maybe they will let us go if we don’t fight them.” She spoke hysterically, unable to control the fear which had consumed her.
Life—or something resembling it—returned to his white-washed eyes. He smiled sadly, shaking his head and placing a hand gently on the back of her neck. She could smell him, his familiar scent, and it calmed her as he stroked her face with gentle fingers.
“I love you, Juliana Rose Braydon.”
His voice sounded detached, but it was soft and loving, much like it was when they made love. He kissed her on the forehead, allowing his lips to linger. The embrace sent tingles up her spine.
“When you get out of here, you need to go and find your father. If he’s still alive, he’ll help you.”
What? Had she just heard that right? Juliana looked at him, confused, not fully understanding what it was he was saying. She hadn’t laid eyes on her father in eight years, and for good reason. Edward ‘Teddy’ Braydon was a monster.
“N-No… NO! Mike… w-what are you saying?” The words tumbled at her, not making any sense. “I need YOU… John needs YOU!” She reached up, grabbing at his arms, but he overpowered her, holding them back down by her sides with ease.
“LISTEN TO ME, JULIANA!” His authority was something new to her, and the power of his direction caused her to stop still and listen to him. His usually placid nature and soft voice had been replaced by something else, a side she had never seen of him before. Pride, whether morbidly misplaced or not, swelled in her aching heart.
“I hate that old bastard as much as you do, but if there’s anybody that can turn a shit storm like this into an opportunity; it’s your fucking dad…”
As he swore, Michael looked down at his boy, aware of his faux pas. A tear rolled swiftly over one cheek as his eyelids drooped and his voice softened once again.
“Take good care of our boy,” he said, looking at her with water-filled eyes and finality in his voice. Then, leaning down, he took his son’s blonde head in his hands with the same soft manner as he had hers a minute ago. “Daddy loves you, son, so much. Don’t you ever forget that. You be a good boy for Mummy, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”
John nodded, crying freely, totally unaware of what was happening but somehow knowing inside that it was bad.
Michael stood, the same strange vacancy returning to his eyes. “Now please, baby, go… GO!”
With a shove, he pushed her backwards away from the window. Even this small act of violence towards her was alien coming from him.
Sobbing and defeated, Juliana took John’s little hand firmly. Looking up at her, with his soft, blonde hair spilling into his eyes, he looked like his father. She could tell he was petrified and it broke her heart, but there was no time to mother him now. She tugged urgently, pulling him towards the stairs behind her. John squealed, pulling and clawing at the air for his father’s hand.
It was then that a loud and aggressive banging sounded on the door. Juliana clamped a hand over her son’s mouth and crouched down next to him so that she could look him in the eyes and try to console him. Tears fell freely over her white knuckles.
Michael put a finger to his lips and pointed to the top of the stairs; there was no asking this time. Juliana obeyed, pulling John up the stairs as quickly as she could manage, yanking on his little arm and drawing yelps of distress she had to ignore. The wardrobe in John’s room was on the far left wall, and she frantically emptied a sleeping bag and some random toys onto the pale blue carpet to make room as Michael had instructed.
The banging came again.
“Get in, Johnny.”
The boy sobbed louder, his mouth half open and down-turned in misery and confusion. His nose ran and he wiped it on the sleeve of his jumper.
John’s eyes were the same deep blue as his father’s and they searched hers for answers she could not give. Tenderly, she wiped his
fringe away, revealing a dark brown birthmark on the left side of his forehead. Her heart broke again as more banging sounded from below.
“I need you to stay in here. LOOK AT ME, JOHNNY. No matter WHAT happens, you stay here. Okay, baby?” Her voice cracked and she coughed in an attempt to inject some calm and instruction into her words. If the boy saw her panicking, he would be more likely to disobey her orders, and that was simply not an option. “WHATEVER you hear, you must stay put. Do you understand me, Johnny?’”
Still crying, John nodded, looking behind her in fright as yet more banging rang out, followed by some muffled shouting.
They were out of time. Without hesitation, Juliana picked the small boy up under the arms and moved him into the cupboard. “I love you, son,” she said, dropping his dressing gown over his head and shutting the door the door gently.
Frantically, she scanned the room. It was only small; the ‘box’ room of their modestly sized house. A problem that was accentuated by the fact that it was laden with stuffed animals and various other children’s bric-a-brac; hiding a child in this room was hard enough, but a fully grown adult? Momentarily, she thought about making the dash across the landing to her own bedroom. But what if John heard her and came out from hiding? How would she tell him to get back in the cupboard? No; leaving him was not an option. To the left of the door sat a large wooden chest, stuffed so full of toys that the lid would not fully close. There would never be time to empty it. In the right hand corner was the small children’s bed, aptly dressed with a Star Wars bedspread. It was her only option. She dropped to her stomach and slid under, having to pull her legs up to her chest to stop them sticking out from the end. Then, once she was as far under as she could be, she waited, holding back the urge to vomit.
Downstairs, the front door opened. She heard her husband speaking, and then strange voices. Shouting ensued before a loud crash rang out, followed by chanting. It was a raucous and base chorus, much like the chant of a group of football supporters. Her heart pounded in her ears. Glass smashed and cupboards slammed as the group moved around downstairs, ransacking the house.
“Maybe they’ll find what they want and leave,” she thought, her heart pounding. There had not been any gunshots after all.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs, more than one set.
More voices, loud and animated.
The door to the room opened and from where she was hiding, Juliana could see a pair of dirty trainers. She took in a breath and held it, closing her eyes. In her mind, she began to pray.
“Please, God, please let my family live… at least my boy. Please… he’s so young… he doesn’t need to see this.”
She opened her eyes once more.
The trainers remained stock-still in the doorway, as if the owner were sniffing the room like a predator hunting for its prey. After a few seconds, they began to move, taking slow, purposeful steps towards the cupboard.
No. Please, God, please. No.
Her mind raced. She had to do something.
“Please… leave us alone,” she said in a meek-sounding voice.
Perhaps she could talk to them, make them see that her family meant no harm and were not a threat to any of them. Once they saw that they were not a threat…
Shaking, she set the large kitchen knife down on the carpet in front of her. If they saw her with it, they would more than likely just kill her. Hearing the voice, the shoes stopped and turned. She clenched her eyes shut and held her breath. A strong hand gripped her ankle. It pulled hard, dragging her out from her hiding place.
Juliana did not fight. She lay on her back, shielding her face as a pair of gloved hands reached down and yanked her arms to her sides.
“Hey, boys… I got one! Get in here!” the voice above her yelled. It was cracked and pitchy, like that of a teenager who had only recently embraced manhood.
More feet pounded up the stairs. Juliana heard others enter the room and watched in terror as more faces joined the boy standing around her. She thought perhaps there were five of them, but she could not be sure.
“You gotta be kidding me!”
“She’s a bit old, Dom!”
“You got me up here for THAT?”
“Fuck, look at the tits on it though!”
Juliana wept aloud as the group appraised her like a cow at a cattle market. She was manhandled onto her front and her arms were pulled roughly behind her back. Her shoulder blades burned as if hot stones had been placed on her collar bones. They tied her wrists and ankles tight as one or two stray hands took advantage of her incapacitation, painfully pulling at her breasts through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt. Juliana did not move, only occasionally taking the risk and flicking her eyes in the direction of the wardrobe. None of them noticed.
“Please, just take me… please, just take me,” she prayed, repeating the mantra over and over in her head.
Her mouth was forced open and something soft tied inside it, gagging her and slightly restricting her breathing.
“Please just take me.”
She was lifted up, and one of the lads—the first she thought—slung her over a shoulder with a groan and a slight wobble to the legs. She heard laughing and somebody else slapped her hard on her buttocks.
“Come on, lads, let’s go; there ain’t nuttin’ else here for us,” said the boy carrying her, making his way to the door.
Juliana held her breath in prayer as the group began to stream from the room behind them. She craned her neck up, checking as each of them followed behind, fairly confident that none had checked the wardrobe as she was carried down the stairs. Each step caused the skinny shoulder to dig painfully into her side but she remained still, counting in her head until they made it to the bottom. Once there, they walked straight through the hall, stopping to step over something by the front door.
Juliana moaned through the gag as feet—then legs—came into view; blood pooled around them, thick and shiny like the glaze of a rich sauce. Tears streamed down her forehead as she realised that they belonged to Michael. Beside them, another pair of legs lay equally still. These were skinnier and wearing a dirty pair of crimson-splattered trainers.
He got one.
Juliana sucked a deep breath in, snorting the mucus clear from her nose and making a half-squeal, half-moaning noise. Michael had died trying to protect them both and taken one of them with him in the process. Her Michael.
She cried freely and closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face. There was no way that she wanted it to be the last memory of him that she had.
The front door opened and she was outside, the distant sound of alarms and shouting in the air, the faint smell of smoke, oddly refreshing, replacing the sickly smell of the blood. She craned her neck again and looked back towards her house one last time, her vision turning blurry as her own blood pooled in her head, forcing pressure on her eyes. She heard a vehicle door open.
Unceremoniously, she was bundled inside. The door slammed shut, plunging her into darkness. Outside, there was the sound of more crashing and shouting, and then somebody climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The un-boarded base of the van did little to dampen the noise, but as they pulled away, over the rattle and din, she could have sworn she heard her husband’s voice calling out to her from the house.
“I love you, Juliana Rose Braydon… take good care of our boy.”
CHAPTER TWO
Teddy Braydon thumbed through the roughly scribbled pile of notes, assessing the true extent of the debt owed to him. Below, the roar of the crowd shook the dirty panelled floor, causing the single, bare lamp above to swing slightly. Shadows danced over the collection of dusty trinkets set out on the old, teak desk. The crowd was hungry tonight, a lust for blood and violent death, mixed with the pleasant aroma of flame-grilled meats and the funk of drunken camaraderie, hung heavy in the air. Teddy had handpicked these two fighters himself, confident that they were going to give the spectators a good show. Well, he hoped they would; you
could never be too sure how things would turn out.
The roar of the crowd came again, possibly spelling the end of the match. The door to his office opened without a knock and in walked his head of security, a gnarled, older man known simply as Sal. Following him, tethered to a thick and rusted piece of chain, a mean-looking shepherd dog called Maxine.
“Fight’s over, Boss,” Sal said, letting the door swing closed with a bang.
“Krane?” Teddy asked, carelessly looking up from his tickets. He knew the answer to the question anyway.
“He made it look good; toyed with him a bit… then killed him rough.”
Sal made a nasty grabbing motion at his throat as he collapsed into the soft and worn leather chair on the right side of the desk. Krane was a well-seasoned fighter who was ex-military with a cruel streak, perfectly suiting him to the conditions of the pit. The result was not unexpected news.
With a weathered cackle, Sal pulled a battered flask from his pocket and took a long hard slug. “Went on for three fuckin' chimes!” he said, wincing from an obvious burn. “They’ll be talking about this one for a while, that’s for sure.” He laughed and took another swig, yanking hard on the chain so that Maxine was forced to lie awkwardly at his feet.
“Geddown here, ya bitch!”
Teddy looked down at the dog. It stared up at Sal with a look which could easily be confused with hatred as much as it could with any kind of loyal devotion. With a sigh he pushed the book aside, sat back and interlocked his fingers in front of him. “And the family?”
“The son is dead,” Sal replied nonchalantly. “He tried to intervene at first. The crowd got him. The wife…”—He snorted, a twinkle clear in his eyes—“is downstairs.” He reached into his pocket and pulled a heavily-stained handkerchief, coughing deeply into it before folding it up and stuffing it back.
“See to it she’s taken care of. With the loss of her son and husband—” Teddy paused. “I don’t need some psycho bitch trying to fuck things up for me.”
