by David Jester
“But . . . you’re right,” Malcolm said, bringing a smile to Eddie’s face. He turned to Darren, “What do you say Daz, tonight?”
Darren tried to hide his apprehension with a smile. He tried to loosen up. “Sure,” he said. “Why not.”
12
The skies were already darkening when they returned home, but they didn’t intend to hit the clinic until the early hours of the morning. They would take the last bus out there at ten, wait a few hours to make sure the place had locked down for the night, and then get moving. They didn’t expect to find much money lying around, they weren’t naive enough to think that rich people carried their millions with them, but they knew they would find some cash and, more importantly, a lot of jewelry. And this time it wouldn’t be hordes of pewter or piss-poor nickel-plated trinkets.
Darren was rarely happy to be home, he had spent the last few years trying to get away from his house, but he felt relieved when he got home. He was cold and still felt a little creeped out. The rehab facility still had him on edge when he shut the front door and tracked across the hallway, and he felt worse when he peered into the living room and saw Ian and his mother spaced-out in front of the television.
The marks where Ian had hit him that morning were still sore. He felt wary being around him again, but a part of him that rarely surfaced, was comforted by his mother being there. Not because she was the protective sort of mother who would stand by him and stop the world from hurting him, but because he knew Ian wouldn’t try anything when she was there. He wouldn’t want to jeopardize his relationship, even if the house was just a place to empty his balls and fill his veins.
He shifted into the living room, made to sit down on the edge of the sofa and stopped when Ian glared at him.
“Where have you been sneaking off to?” he asked.
Darren frowned. He thought about telling his wannabe stepfather that he had no right to know what he did with his life, but he decided against it.
“You been up to no good again with those friends of yours?” he pushed.
Darren held his stare, he still didn’t reply. His mother looked out of it as usual, she was watching the conversation with a simpleton smile on her face, a smile he could have mistaken for motherly warmth if he didn’t know that the warmth was provided by a vial of tainted smack.
“I seen you, with that black kid and the little rich one,” Ian sneered. He gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Those kids are bad apples, especially the black one, watch out for him.”
Darren’s mouth hung open in shock, he turned his appalled expression to his mother, who didn’t seem to realize what was going on, and then back to Ian who was intent on continuing his lecture.
“They’re all the same these blacks, it’s part of their culture, part of—”
“You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me,” Darren snapped. “How dare you—”
“Hey!” His mother said, suddenly waking up from her temporary coma to snap at her son. “Watch how you talk to your father.”
“My father? My father?” He gave an abrupt laugh, saw the grin on Ian’s face and then shook his head in disgust. “You’re taking the fucking piss, aren’t you?”
Ian was up in a flash, springing from the sofa in an ugly, pale blur before sticking his face in front of Darren’s.
“Watch your fucking language,” he said, thrusting a finger into Darren’s chest. “That is, ’less you want another beating, eh?” he grinned, flashing his yellow and black teeth, the crooked smile of a lifetime addict and waster. Darren felt sick just looking at him, but he also felt angry. He was angry that this horrible, despicable excuse for a man was in his house, in his life. He was angry because of the beating he had given him in the morning, because of the way his finger pressed into his ribs. He was angry because of the way he described his friends, he didn’t know them and he didn’t have the right to talk about them like that.
He moved backwards and watched the smile spread over Ian’s face as, for a moment, he thought he had won, thought that the teenager was backing away, but Darren wasn’t backing away. Darren punched Ian as hard as he could, throwing his weight into the swing and wiping the smile off Ian’s face. The punch connected with his jaw and Ian toppled backwards before Darren kicked him in the shins, a hard toe poke to his bony leg.
Ian fell to his knees and Darren jumped on him, tackling him to the ground and swinging punch after punch. He heard Ian saying something, he didn’t know whether he was shouting abuse or offering submission, but he didn’t care. He released all his pent-up anger—anger at his mother, his life, and himself—into Ian’s face and body. He hit him until his hands hurt, until Ian’s face was unrecognizable beneath the blood.
When he stopped, breathing heavily and grinning madly, he heard his mother’s voice. She was standing above him, her hand in her mouth as she bit down on her own flesh. She was screaming softly, a low droning sound, and he realized that she had been screaming at him all along. He realized that the white noise he had heard in his head, the noise that had tried and failed to break through his rage, had been his mother. Tears rolled down her face as she stared at her lover on the floor.
Darren followed her eyes and looked at Ian, as if seeing him for the first time. He could make out the whites of his eyes through the smear of blood and the inflamed flesh. He was breathing slowly and softly, his mouth was filled with blood and he released small bubbles of crimson with every labored breath.
“Shit,” Darren said, his smile fading. He looked at his fists like they weren’t his own.
“You bastard!” his mother screamed above him, her eyes now flooded with tears as she looked directly at her son. “You devil! Look what you’ve done.”
Darren scrambled to his feet and stood on shaking legs. He looked from Ian to his mother and back again. “I’m . . .” he wanted to say sorry, but he wasn’t sorry. He had taken it too far, but he hadn’t killed him. He had given Ian exactly what he deserved.
“Get out of my house!” his mother screamed at the top of her lungs. “I never want to see you again!”
He could see the anger flaring in her eyes through the worry that she still expressed for Ian, but he also saw fear in the way she seemed to edge further away from him.
“Look, mum—”
“Get out!”
He stared at her, listened as her heavy and rapid exhalations produced a whining sound which seemed to emit from the pit of her lungs.
“Now!”
“I have nowhere to go.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Just fuck off. I never want to see you again.”
He saw the last morsel of maternal love leave her eyes, felt the last sorrow he would ever feel for her. He nodded and hung his head. “I’ll go get my stuff,” he said, before leaving his grieving mother to cry over her beaten lover.
13
On the way back to his house, Malcolm saw the perpetrators of the noise, the reasons for his sleepless nights. He had seen them before and had been forced to walk past them, ignoring them and pretending that he didn’t despise them. They were outside the block of flats, drinking cans of lager, laughing and joking. Their voices echoed off the enclosed surroundings and seemed to filter directly into Malcolm’s ears as he approached. He felt himself getting annoyed and losing his patience as he approached his front door and tried to block them out.
They can’t do anything quietly, he thought bitterly to himself. They think they own the neighborhood, they think—
They shouted at him, interrupting his thoughts. He turned around, tried and failed to hide the resentment on his face.
“You, kid!”
Kid? He thought. He raised his eyebrows at their choice of words. Who the fuck do they think they’re talking to?
“Get over here.”
Malcolm stood still for a moment, pondering what they wanted. There were three of them. They were just a few years older than him but he didn’t really know them, who they hung around with, what school they
had gone to. All he knew was that they were loud, annoying, and—
“Are you deaf?”
That was all it took for Malcolm to move towards them. He instinctively clenched his fists, felt his blood boil. They were all waiting for him, one of them had been sitting on a wall drinking but as Malcolm approached he put his can down and jumped off. They must have seen the anger on Malcolm’s face because as he drew nearer he saw their expressions change, saw the defensive postures they took as they felt the threat of violence in the air.
He stopped in front of them and looked at each of them in turn. He didn’t say anything; no one said anything for a few moments.
“What’s your name?” one of them asked.
Malcolm turned to him and stared at him, but he didn’t reply.
“You live in that house all by yourself?” another asked.
“What’s it to you?”
He had avoided conflict; he had avoided even getting to know his neighbors. He needed to stay on the down-low, but something inside him refused, something inside him was begging to tear these three idiots apart. He remembered all the nights he had stayed awake, remembered how frustrated and angry he had felt as he listened to their screeching, yelling, bitching—
“I’m just—”
“What?” Malcolm snapped before the guy could finish his sentence, firing spittle at them. “You’re just what, eh? Just asking? Well, fuck you; it’s none of your fucking business.” He was yelling so hard he could feel his throat being stripped raw. They had backed off, they tried to maintain an air of bravado, but they had seen the anger in his eyes, they had felt the rage in his voice, and they were all worried.
Malcolm was breathing heavily. He bit his bottom lip, eyed each of them up and then, softly, said to the one in the middle: “Take your beer and your friends, and fuck off.”
Malcolm watched as they returned his stare and then he turned to leave, staying aware just in case they tried to pounce on him. He looked back when he was at his door, they were all feigning confidence, but an awkward trepidation hovered over them.
Malcolm’s hand shook as he stuck the key in the lock. He paused and tried to gather his thoughts. He had no idea what had come over him, he wasn’t an angry guy, but everyone could be pushed to their limits and with the situation with the house and the noise and—
He shook it off. It wasn’t worth thinking about. He was stressed, he let it get to him, that was all, there was no point in finding excuses. He had been an idiot, had blown his low profile and now the neighbors would want to restore some of their credibility. After a few beers and some more bravado, there was no telling what they would do but he was sure that things were going to get a lot worse for him.
14
Malcolm turned off the living room light and stuck his head out of the window. It was pitch black outside, the nearby streetlights were a constant source of amusement to the local kids who liked to smash them with stones and pellet guns. The council did their job and repaired them often, but they were losing patience and they hadn’t fixed the latest batch for a couple of weeks.
The small cul-de-sac that separated Malcolm’s house from the flat block was lit by a thin stream of silver light, projected from a small kitchen window on one of the ground floor flats. The light was enough to illuminate the three figures that loitered at the edge of the building.
One of them was smoking a cigarette, Malcolm could see his face light up with a sickly pallor when he toked on the small white stick. He was too far away and it was too dark to recognize him or his friends, but Malcolm knew they were the same three idiots he had encountered earlier in the day.
They seemed to be looking right at him, plotting their revenge, but he knew they couldn’t see him, knew he was just letting his imagination run away with him. He let the curtain close, stood up straight, and stared at the blackened fabric.
They were certainly facing his house and they were certainly the types who would want to seek revenge. He had bruised their egos and they wanted to return the favor. He was outnumbered and, as they had time to stew and plot, there was a good chance they were carrying weapons. He didn’t stand a chance.
They were probably waiting for the lights to go out, until they thought he was in bed, then they would break in and attack him while he slept like the cowardly pigs they were. He peeked back through the curtains and grimaced at the ghostly figures.
He wanted to unleash his anger on them, to go out there and give them what they deserved. But he managed to restrain himself, he didn’t need the hassle, not tonight; not ever.
He checked the clock on his phone, dropped it back into his pocket and took a moment to breathe, closing his eyes despite the blackness around him. He nodded to himself, glanced one more time at the curtains, at the cowardly figures beyond, and then exited through the back door.
Eddie looked uneasy. He was standing outside his front door when his friends approached, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, his eyes darting around, up and down the street. His parents didn’t object to Malcolm and Darren, his parents rarely objected to anything, but Eddie liked to keep his friends and his parents apart, they had never asked why and didn’t care either way. They rarely went into his house and rarely encountered his parents.
“You okay?” Malcolm asked, noting the unease in his friend, the same unease he was feeling.
He nodded quickly and unconvincingly. “Yeah, just feel a bit . . . you know. Excited, I guess.”
Darren gave his friend a quick glance, his eyebrows raised. Malcolm nodded.
The day was winding down. There were few cars on the roads, fewer people on the streets. They were the only ones at the bus stop and the only ones on the bus when a disconsolate and half-asleep driver picked them up.
They rode in silence, barely saying more than a few words to each other. They all had their own inner turmoil to deal with, their own thoughts to process. Eddie looked more excited about the impending robbery than the other two, he sat with an eager twitch in his hands, his foot tapping incessantly on the floor of the bus as the vehicle bounced and rocked over uneven roads.
“Where are you boys going this time of night?” the bus driver asked as they climbed off, an air of suspicion in his voice and his eyes.
Malcolm began to respond politely, not wanting to arouse suspicion. Eddie had insisted that the robbery wouldn’t be on the news, that the clientele at the rehab center wouldn’t want the world knowing what went on behind those doors, but Malcolm had his doubts and didn’t want to test his luck with a potential witness.
“We’re just—”
“None of your fucking business,” Eddie jumped in, sticking his face in front of the driver. “You’ve done your job, now shut the fuck up and piss off.”
He left the bus driver glowering at the back of Eddie’s head as the doors staggered shut behind them.
“Really?” Darren asked when the bus pulled away, his attention on Eddie who still had an aura of excitation about him.
“What?” Eddie asked, shrugging his shoulders.
Darren merely shook his head.
“Come on,” Malcolm said, moving into the wind which had remained fierce throughout the day.
The sparse littering of streetlights stopped providing them with any light by the time they entered the fields, and with nothing but the moonlight to aid them they struggled to see where they were going. The tall grass, blown chaotically in the wind, whipped at them as they clawed their way through.
As they neared the end of the field, the dense grass thinned out and they could see the lights from the top floor of the building beckoning them. They picked up their pace, Eddie nearly tripped over his own feet in his excitement.
The building looked different in the nighttime. It looked just as empty, just as desolate, and it felt just as odd, but now it didn’t just loom from the horizon, it dominated it. It stood in front of them like a mighty wall, drawing their attentions away from the bland and black landscape that wrapped around it.
/>
A scattering of lights were visible through the ground floor windows, rooms tucked away in the back or the corner of the building. They couldn’t see much through the thick veils that covered the windows and allowed only for a glow of orange to emanate outwards; they didn’t see any shadows of movement or any flickering curtains.
They all stopped in front of the building. Darren was the first to speak. “Now what?”
He turned, sensing Eddie’s excitement. “Now,” Eddie declared, his eyes almost glowing in the darkness. “We rob these fuckers blind.”
15
They crept past the window that Eddie had pressed his face up against earlier in the day. There weren’t any curtains up, but not a hint of light broke through the glass. The three boys watched their gray reflections in the window as they passed: Eddie looking eager and excited, Darren wary, Malcolm focused.
Darren felt like he was being watched, as if something threatening lurked behind the pale and worried image of his own reflection. He tried to shake it off, to shrug away the chill that crept through his body and cut deep into his bones—as strong as the wind that ruffled his clothes—but he struggled to find his composure.
He had never experienced this feeling before. He rarely thought twice before the burglaries in the past. If anything, Eddie had always been the nervous and fidgety one. When they were fourteen and they committed their first burglary, Eddie had been shaking like a leaf, they thought he was going to pass out or throw up and leave a trail of bile and undigested Pop Tarts behind him. But Eddie had hardened, it had been gradual at first, he stopped being nervous, stopped shying away from others when they insulted him. He had always retaliated when Darren mocked him, but never with strangers. Then something changed in him.
“He’s lost his mind,” Darren had joked at the time, the first time they watched Eddie throw himself at a kid in school who called him a ginger dickhead. But then, as the craziness continued, he believed it.
