Nightingale Point

by Luan Goldie

  He climbs another set of stairs and registers faces everywhere, as familiar as the stairwell itself. His throat hurts as the smoke enters it. But worse than that, there’s a vibration in his chest, the familiar shortness of breath that has plagued him since childhood. The crowds become thin enough for him to push through with less opposition as he reaches the third floor. But he trips over a plastic plant pot and smacks his shins across the top step. A panic of footsteps builds and people step over him.

  The smoke becomes thicker, denser, harder to tolerate. He can’t deny the wheeze he feels. Then a voice comes, high and loud, above the storm. It’s Beryl. Her words fall out in an endless tumble, punctuated with screams before they die back down below the soundtrack of the block. The door that separates the stairwell and corridor to the third floor is propped by a wooden dining room chair, knocked over in someone’s haste to escape.

  ‘Beryl?’

  She stands outside her front door, a shoebox in her hands. It falls to the ground as something crashes close by, photographs scattering everywhere.

  ‘What are you doing? Get out.’ Malachi kicks the chair out of the way as he heads towards her. He now understands the fury the dreadlocked man felt when faced with someone who seemed to be opting out of survival. Beryl continues to talk, she stops and tuts, her eyes darting about unfocused as if she does not even register his presence. There is another sharp crack and Malachi offers his hand, but she ducks down to collect the photos instead. He grabs her by the arm, his aggression fuelled by anger and the feeling that time is running out. She shrieks, as if on a rollercoaster, like someone who enjoys their fear too much. With each breath Malachi can hear the clock as it ticks in his head. Where is Tristan?

  ‘Come,’ he orders her.

  ‘My photos,’ she cries as he pulls her into the stairwell.

  The ninth floor seems so far away, an impossible journey. Maybe Tristan is not in Nightingale Point at all. He was last seen outside, with the wall boys. Where was he going?

  Beryl grips Malachi’s arm tightly as they move down the stairs, her ringed fingers digging into his flesh and the few photos she managed to save becoming scrunched in her clutched hands.

  His chest tightens; his heart begins to wind like an old clock. He glances up into the blackness and realises, to his horror, that no one else is likely to emerge from above them. Of course Tristan’s not in here; no one is.

  As they pass down onto the first floor the twist in his chest threatens to keel him over. He slows his breath, as his doctor taught him, picturing his lungs as a pair of brown paper bags, slowly expanding. Out of habit, he pats his trouser pocket, one puff, just one puff. But of course it’s not there. He wasn’t expecting to be out of the flat for so long.

  The ground floor is deserted, and they both stumble out to the car park, where people run in different directions. Malachi feels himself being grabbed by a group of hands and pulled away from the source of heat against his back.

  He allows them to take him, his head flopping back, and he stares up in awe at the fire.

  Something pops from within the building and the crowd gasp, as if at a fireworks display. They are pushed again and again until Malachi finds himself on Sandford Road, barely on his own two feet, each breath a struggle. Beryl’s still by his side and the two of them rest their weight against an abandoned car, its blue roof smashed in by something machine-like.

  A voice, loud and authoritative, bellows, ‘Move. Everyone get back.’

  There’s more crashing, more popping and banging, a hiss, a roar. Malachi’s head spins with the noises. Then the voices, so many of them, all calling out.

  ‘… another explosion …’

  ‘… army use them. Jets …’

  ‘… they’d do anything. IRA …’

  Beryl pulls him along, into the throng, as they are swept further onto the field. A lone ambulance draws his eye. Two people begin to chase it and knock desperately on the back doors. With the road blocked it is forced to ride onto the field, where it bumps along the uneven grass.

  The air feels too fresh and after each deep inhale Malachi coughs. His legs buckle and he hits the gravelly border of green. The grass is cool against his face. He opens his mouth and has an urge to taste it. There are more voices now, talk of smoke inhalation, shock, treatment, standing back. Hands and bodies he does not know pull him to sitting, strangers stare, their faces etched with concern. A bottle of water appears. He doesn’t want it. He tries to shake off Beryl’s hand, which still grips his own tightly. She refuses to let go. How can he find Tristan with all these people crowding him? The water comes again and he allows someone to tip it into his mouth. It hurts as it gushes down his throat and he coughs some up.

  There are shouts. Cries. Then sirens. Lots of them.

  From the corner of his eye he makes out two paramedics in high-visibility jumpsuits. Then they are close. One kneels in front of him and says, ‘Calm down, mate. Take it easy.’

  ‘He was trapped in the building; he’s asphyxiating,’ someone says above him.

  Malachi hears his own breath, shallow and slow, but can’t manage to get his words out.

  The paramedics talk between themselves. One pulls him fully upright and he squints at the sunlight, suddenly overwhelmingly bright.

  ‘You escaped.’ She smiles. ‘You’re safe.’

  An elastic band stretches around his head and a ring of rubber is pulled tightly against the lower part of his face. He makes the gesture of an asthma pump.

  ‘You use an inhaler?’ she confirms, and the white diamond glued to her front tooth glints in the sun.

  There’s a familiar humiliation in his nod, the confession of being a grown man still weak enough to be brought down by a childhood ailment. Beryl pushes her fingers through the holes in her tights and inspects her bloodied knees. She pats his arm before turning back to the block, as if they are a couple sitting on the beach, her looking out at the sea while he lies in the sun.

  ‘We’re waiting on our vehicles getting through,’ the paramedic explains. ‘We’ll get you in, you’ll be fine.’

  A shirtless man covered in abrasions staggers over. He holds his arm across his chest and looks around, bewildered. The paramedic jumps to his aid and Beryl screams and pulls herself in tighter towards Malachi.

  The mask comes off easily. ‘I need to go.’ His voice is hoarse.

  The paramedic clocks him and calls, ‘No, wait.’ But the shirtless man shivers and blood streams faster from several points on his body. Beryl cries and tries to grab hold of Malachi, but he shoves her away and runs.

  The density of the crowd inspires faith in him, and he calls for Tristan between slow, careful breaths. Someone else yells another name louder than him and at one point they come face to face like mirror images of each other. They hold eye contact for a few seconds to share their distress before they move on to continue with their mission.

  Malachi walks and walks, looking everywhere, at every face. His shoes are soaked through and he feels his feet begin to blister, but he carries on. Some people try to stop him and talk, but he can’t, he needs to find his brother. His breath grows shallow again, the air slowly thickens and he stops for a moment to sit on the grass with his head between his knees. Occasionally he looks up at the blaze, which denies going out despite the continuous streams of water. He’s glad Pamela isn’t here to see this; she left weeks ago. He had watched from his window, her sitting with her dad at the bus stop, a bag at her feet. The threat of being sent back to the coastal town she hated finally realised.

  Tristan had joined him at the window. ‘So that’s that then. It’s done?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Malachi shrugged. That was it, his relationship with Pamela was over.

  What a shitty ending, though he swears there was something about the way she looked up from the bus stop, directing her face to his window, which told him she was still thinking about him too. He had dropped his elbows to the window ledge and pushed the balls of his hands against hi
s closed eyes.

  Tristan put a hand on his back. ‘You all right, man?’

  ‘I’m always all right.’

  It was the worst day, the very worst day he could have imagined, until now.

  ‘Mate,’ a police officer says. ‘Sorry, but you’re going to have to move.’ He waves a roll of yellow tape as explanation. Malachi feels himself begin to unravel and falls to the ground. The officer crouches down to his level. ‘You all right?’ The radio crackles on his belt.

  ‘I’m always all right,’ Malachi tries, but his breathing grows ragged.

  ‘I’m going to get you some help. Hang on in there. Where’s your family, mate?’

  Malachi lifts his head and takes a breath. ‘I’ve lost them.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chapter Fifteen ,Elvis

  Elvis is hurt. His whole body hurts, from the neat line of hair Alan at the Waterside Centre shaved so straight for him last Thursday, down to the soles of his soft pale feet. The skin on his face is hot and he touches every part of it to try and find out why. He feels a big gash on his forehead, running downwards above his right eye like the crack in the wall of his old bedroom, a space so large you could slot 2p coins in.

  There’s the smell of smoke too, strong like the time he left the rice boiling on the hob while he was watching an Arsenal versus Chelsea match. It went into overtime and he did not want to miss the penalties, so sat there with the fingers on one hand crossed for Arsenal to win and the fingers on the other hand crossed that the rice would wait for him. It did not and there was a fire that time, small and smelly, and George, his care worker, was cross. So cross.

  There is a fire somewhere in Nightingale Point now, and it is far bigger than the rice fire and much smellier. But Elvis cannot remember how it started or if it is his fault.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He pushes his hands against his ears tightly. He does not want to hear that horrible whooshing noise again or the boys on the wall laughing at him or Lina calling him a dumb giant.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no.’

  Elvis wants to stand up and run away. He can run fast – not as fast as the pretty blonde girl from the eleventh floor, who runs across the green in the sun and rain, her red sweatshirt a swishing blur – but fast.

  Kaboom.

  Something hard and flat hurts his head. The shock of the impact makes his eyes pop open. A group of tiny pale yellow flames skate across a shiny pool of liquid. The flames look so pretty but he knows that fire is extremely dangerous and resists the urge to touch. Someone or something brushes against his back and he shuffles into a ball, scared and confused. If only George was here, or even Lina. They would know what to do. Elvis does not know what to do. He never does.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He coughs out a mouthful of smoke, then remembers. 999. The easiest phone number in the world. If he can get to a phone, he can call the fire brigade. They will definitely know what to do.

  Some people run. They look bloody and scary and Elvis does not want to be near them, so he skirts his bottom closer towards the exit that leads to the tenth floor corridor. If he can get back into his flat he can use his new special phone to telephone 999. He pushes hard on the door but it does not open. The little yellow flames begin to grow into big orange ones and pale grey smoke swirls around everywhere like a thunder cloud. Something watery trickles into his eyes and he uses his fingers to wipe it away.

  The wide gash on his head feels horrible, like the slices of orange Lina is always forcing him to eat, even though they make his fingers sticky and smelly.

  ‘No, no, no.’

  Lina will be furious. The pie will be cold. He does not think he would mind eating a cold pie but Lina never lets him. Instead she will show it to him, tell him he is wasteful and that he should think of all the starving kids in Africa. Then she will let the food slide off the plate and into the rubbish bin to sit alongside banana peels and toast crusts. Waste makes Lina angry.

  Three men run past, their clothes raggedy and bloody. One stops and tries to pick Elvis up. He screams. At least he thinks he does, he cannot hear it, as it feels like his ears have been switched off. It is dark now and very scary. His hands are covered in blood. What a mess. He takes a deep breath, like he has been taught to do in Monday drama class at the Waterside Centre. Relax and breathe: one, two, three. Then a burst of his favourite colour, macaroni cheese yellow, runs past. It’s a lady’s headscarf, and over her shoulder is the face of a crying child. Elvis does not like it when children are crying as it makes him feel like crying too. He pushes on the door that leads to where the flats are, where a phone will be, but it feels heavy and stuck. He pushes again. He wants to reach the phone and save the day. The door slides open a little wider. There’s a hand behind it. An arm. A whole person. The person grabs Elvis and starts to pull too, like tug of war but not as fun. Elvis rises to his knees to make his pull stronger, then finally manages to drag the person onto his side of the stairwell. The person looks like a zombie and Elvis is frightened at first, but it is a boy, one who has been hurt very badly. Elvis sits against the wall and pulls the boy’s head onto his lap, like he does with the nice Labrador dog George sometimes brings to the Waterside Centre. Elvis knows if he was hurt very badly he would like someone to put his head onto their lap and stroke his hair too. The hurt person does not have a top on, only a pair of white shorts and one white sock and one white trainer. The other sock is only on a little bit as the foot is all red and broken apart; a flap of brown flesh hangs off the ankle and Elvis has to look away because it looks so horrible.

  The boy’s face is covered in blood, one eye purple and swollen, like when you leave plums in the fruit bowl for too long because you do not like them, and only want to eat kiwis that week. The lights in the stairwell begin to flash and Elvis sees that the boy’s head has thick lines of zigzags shaved into the hair, not like a Labrador dog at all.

  Elvis looks closer. It is the bad black boy who spat on him and called him the horrible R word.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chapter Sixteen ,Mary

  She took down the crystal angel that hung in front of her living room window. She was conscious of unplugging the deep fat fryer each night. She reported, to the hopeless caretaker, that the old woman on the third floor was blocking the building’s only stairwell again with her plastic plants and flower pots. But still, the dreams continued. Night after night. Dreams of sofas going up in flames, glass popping onto balconies and water pouring down the concrete stairwell. Dreams from which Mary would wake in a bed empty of sheets, alone in her flat on the ninth floor. Something was going to happen. The dreams were trying to warn her. But what could she do? They were just dreams.

  Mary steadies herself against the hot roof of the car and looks up at the tower of flames in the distance. Her fingers crush against the metal of her fob watch as she slides her hands into the closely stitched pockets of her dress. She fights the urge to pull out the watch and check the time. Maybe out of habit, or maybe so she will be able to, when asked, relay information about this event. People were always doing that on the news, discussing factually where they were, at what time the war started, the train came off the rails, the plane crashed into the building.

  ‘Harris?’ She can only see the back of his head, that comforting patch of fuzzy grey hair.

  The sun’s glare bounces off the car and makes his eyes water, and then, instinctively, they both get back in. The doors slam and Mary feels herself shake as they fight their way through traffic and edge towards Nightingale Point. The street that runs in front of the estate is blocked with people in varying states of undress, exhibiting different levels of suffering. They run, gather, hug and direct their stunned faces to the sky. The dense crowd spills across the usually empty green opposite the estate. How will she find them in this? Her boys, she needs to find them.

  An image from a dream crystallises slowly in her mind, of Tristan aged six or seven, asleep in bed, wearing worn-out Spiderman pyjamas. His nose is crusty from the cold
he never seemed to shake. His little feet stick out, his toenails unclipped and dirty. She wants to take care of him, she wants to give him a bath and put him in something clean. But she can’t reach him.

  There’s a familiar flash of red bandana in the crowd.

  ‘Stop the car.’

  Harris makes to pull in but she can’t wait and throws the door open. She slows only to push at those who stagger distractedly into her path. The boy in the red bandana stands astride his bike, alone under one of the beech trees. He looks like he wants more than anything to flee but has forgotten how to cycle.

  ‘Where is Tristan?’

  He breaks from his trance and looks at her like a child caught and about to be scolded for some misdemeanour he has forgotten. As he shakes his head Mary sees, for the first time, how young he is and she feels stupid for all the times she gripped her handbag as she walked past him.

  ‘Where is Tristan? Please.’ His arms tremble as she holds him.

  ‘Tristan?’ He looks vacant as he tries to place the name.

  ‘Yes. He was with you earlier, and the other boys. Is he with them now? Did he go to the fair?’

  ‘They ran. But Tristan, I dunno.’ The boy pulls his arms away and puts them behind his head. His face softens, his voice barely audible. ‘My auntie lives there.’

  She follows his eyeline to the tower of flame-filled windows. Half of its fourteen storeys are lost. Small flares escape from various balconies high and low, as if the fire whirs around inside in search of an escape route. Then she runs. The nearer she gets to the block, the more agitated and less stagnant the crowd. There is energy, a buzz, like her early days on the accident and emergency wards, those draining twelve-hour shifts where one lost life would roll into another.

  A figure on a low balcony of Nightingale Point waves down sombrely. A pushchair is knocked on its side and a tea-filled bottle rolls out. The three small trees closest to the building, planted a few years ago as part of some mismanaged attempt to spruce up the estate, are burnt naked of their leaves. Her thirty-two years of experience on hospital wards allows her to easily block out the screams of pain and the cries of shock, but she knows some of these sights will haunt her forever.