11:59

by David Williams

  “They know you caused the crash on the coast road. They know it was deliberate. It’s murder they’ll do you for. Get out now, while you can.”

  Still hesitating. He’s got to go. Go on, get out, you bastard, bastard, leave us alone. “Get away!” I scream at the top of my voice. But he doesn’t. He takes a pace away from his car. Another pace towards me. I can’t back off. He’s lifting the knife. My life doesn’t flash in front of me: people do, all coming at me with the knife – Norman Bates, Jack Torrance, James Watson, Emmanuel, Boris, Hassan, Amina, Anji, Sam.

  Something flies past, smacks into a bullet head, and smashes onto the ground. Emmanuel staggers two steps away from me, his free hand up, too late to protect him. I move forward, but he steadies, thrusting out the blade to ward me off. For a second we both stand transfixed, staring at Ollie’s broken camera on the ground between us. Emmanuel dabs at the cut above his eyebrow, and studies the blood on his fingers. I glance quickly over my shoulder. Oliver is standing there, rocking on his heels. “Back off!” I’m shouting to Ollie. He’s squeezing the space behind me. Back off, you stupid fucker.

  Emmanuel gathers himself, then summons up a huge roar like Kong and hurls himself at me. I duck, cowering under my arms as he lunges. A shadow passes, takes the impact of the knife.

  “Oliver! Christ!”

  Oliver stumbles between us, falls sideways as Emmanuel bodily wrenches the knife out. I can see red on the blade as it flashes in front of my eyes again.

  “Bastard!” I yell, and swing with my right as wild and violently as I can, eyes closed, missing completely, my momentum making me trip over the outstretched Oliver. My knees bounce, my cheek scrapes on the road, my shirt rips. Numbness spreads. I’m struggling to get up. My back’s exposed, I’m tensed for the blade.

  There’s a scuffle above, and a black figure drops heavily down to my level. I’m still trying to lift myself when boots and trainers come thudding in from all directions onto Emmanuel as he’s sprawled on the ground– his back, his arms, his groin, his face, his bullet head. A Doc Marten stamps down on the hand with the weapon and I grab the knife quickly. I scramble to my feet, holding it out, expecting more trouble. But the youths from the street are working only on Emmanuel, kicking him viciously, none with more venom than the big lad whose girlfriend is at the back of the group, screaming at me, “Stick the knife in. Go on, you fucking coward. You useless cunt. Some fucking mate you are.”

  But all I can do is try and drag Oliver away from the violence going on around him, from the youths revenging his injury, and the girl sticking up for the harmless retard who lives down her street. My stomach turns at the blood seeping through Ollie’s yellow jacket, but as I’m pulling him up by the shoulders I can hear him murmuring, “I’m all right, Marc. I’m all right, Marc. Just my arm. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, Ollie, man, why didn’t you piss off when I told you? It’s nowt to do with you, you daft, stupid, fucking hero twat. Could you not just run away?”

  The street lads’ ears must be more finely tuned than mine to certain sounds. One second they’re piling into the prostrate figure of Emmanuel, the next they’re off, scattering out of the estate, the girl with them, and they’re all well gone before I hear the siren, never mind get a glimpse of the flashing blue lights. Emmanuel is left lying bloodied and unconscious in the road. Oliver is cradled in my arms, his blood streaming now over my chinos. Sam comes running from the house with towels under her arms, a roll of bandage in her hand. As we’re trying to stem the blood I can see Mrs Dunn, hovering anxiously in her doorway, a hand up over her eyes. Sam shouts back at her. “He’s all right, Mrs Dunn, just go in, he’s sorted.” But of course she keeps on coming, feeling her way down the path, half-blind, in her old dressing gown and slippers.

  “I’ll have to go to her,” says Sam. She puts some of the towels under Ollie’s head and leaves the rest with me. “Press down on the wound.”

  Ollie’s eyes flicker open, watching me as I’m peeling off the sleeve of his soaked waterproof, and I have to disguise my shock at the mess under there. I wrap the towel tightly round his left arm, and start to wrap the bandage over it, but it gets tangled in seconds so I abandon that idea and concentrate on pressing hard on the wound as Sam instructed. I watch Oliver’s face getting paler, but he summons up a wan smile when he sees me looking at him.

  “Never a dull moment eh, Ollie?” He shakes his head, gives me a lopsided grin. Charlie Brown. I turn away to watch Sam helping Vera along slowly, one hand round her back, the other under her elbow. “Here’s your mam coming, pal. Lucky you didn’t get any blood on your new tee-shirt.” His eyes are closed again, but he mumbles something I can’t make out. “What you say, Ollie?”

  He tries again. “N’t tell her about La Frogs whisk...”

  “I won’t. Trust me.”

  The police siren wails as it turns into the close. Ollie opens his eyes wide and looks at me in surprise, as if he’s been woken by an alarm clock and found me unexpectedly in bed with him. He takes a moment to recollect, then says lucidly, “Is me camera all right, Marc?”

  I take a look past his shoulder, counting the bits on the road. “Hard to say. Is it still under guarantee?”

  Ollie seems to consider this, blinking in perplexity, but as I’m waiting for him to answer he loses his spark again, dropping his eyelids and actually yawning loudly. “Me mam’ll know,” is the last thing he says before he slips out of consciousness, his pale face impassive in the on-off illumination of the flashing police light.

  Sam arrives with Mrs Dunn in tow. Despite her age and infirmity, Oliver’s mam hunkers down beside him, takes his head onto her knees and starts stroking his hair, whispering softly in his ear. Sam kneels down too, and picks up the bandage I dropped. She soon clears the tangle and, working rhythmically, wraps it tight round Oliver’s arm.

  Relieved of my responsibilities, my anxiety level rises. “What about the ambulance?”

  “On its way,” she assures me. How could I doubt? I glance over at Emmanuel, lying motionless in the road, and back again at Oliver, still pale in his sleep.

  “Hope they’re bringing two.”

  Before she responds she takes a hard, cold look at the pimp and drug dealer lying in his mess. “Who gives a fuck about him?” she says. She doesn’t swear very often, my Sam.

  A few yards down the street the doors of the patrol car open simultaneously and two police officers emerge. They scan the scene briefly, then start to walk unhurriedly towards us. Another Friday night on the estate, pissheads and villains at each other’s throats. The three of us around Oliver are equally indifferent to their approach. We’re looking beyond them, past their patrol car, following the line of street lamps to the entrance of the close, waiting for an arrival more vital.

  THE END

  Biography

  David Williams grew up as one of seven children in a mining community in the North East of England, a childhood he has written about with humour and affection in his popular collection of short stories We Never Had It So Good, published by Zymurgy.

  While pursuing a varied career in teaching, entertainments, marketing and management development, eventually leading to the formation of his own successful company, David has also been a prolific free-lance writer, with many plays broadcast by the BBC, books and plays published by top education publishers in the UK, Australia, Germany and Scandinavia, and many credits as a writer and format creator for popular TV and radio quiz and game shows. He has written and produced educational and training videos, DVDs and software. He is a member of the Society of Authors and NAWE. He often performs at public readings, workshops and seminars, including a collaboration with ex-Lindisfarne favourite Billy Mitchell in a readings and musical show called Born at the Right Time.

  11.59 is David’s first novel. It was a semi-finalist in the 2010 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, which attracts 10,000 entries worldwide. He is currently working on a novel about the relationship between father and son railway pioneer
s George and Robert Stephenson.

  David Williams has been married to schooldays sweetheart Paula ‘for years and years’. The couple have three grown-up children and two grandchildren. The drama in their life comes from following the fortunes, on and off the field, of their local football team, Newcastle United.