Falling Over

by James Everington

  ~

  (And somewhere, I hear a girl cry out.)

  ~

  I was knocked unconscious when I fell over, but Michelle got me to help – not far, since we were already at the hospital! We laugh. I have the same number of stitches in my head as her, although my bandage stretches the other way. She and Christophe came to see me every day at hospital – my fall was the worst so far, and so I am kept in for observation for awhile. I am not bothered that they always come together, for Michelle wears my ring, the one we shall say I won at the fair for her. And Christophe does not seem angry to have lost either, at least not as far as I can tell, for he has offered to put me in touch with some friends of his father, who work in the city.

  Only Grace gives me funny looks.

  She only comes to visit occasionally, and our conversations are briefer and more stilted each time. I have outgrown her, I suppose, for I have been thinking a lot alone in this hospital bed. She is so idealistic; so naive!

  But she is right to be wary.

  For there are so many of us now. I close my eyes, and hear the rush hour.

  Right too to be afraid.

  So many!

  Fate, Destiny, and a Fat Man

  from Arkansas

  In his dreams, he saw the car from outside.

  It was a white car, climbing up the exit from a flyover, going the wrong way. It was doing well over the speed limit but the oncoming traffic managed to avoid it. The car’s white paintwork was speckled with both grime and the blood from the two pedestrians it had hit thirty seconds earlier. It reached the highest point of the flyover; below it other roads writhed in thick tangles. The road was clear of traffic ahead. But, as if not to be denied its chance for the spectacular, the car swerved violently and deliberately to the left, into the crash barrier. Which failed to hold. The car shot over the edge of the flyover, for a few seconds following the same trajectory in mid-air as it had held on the road. In those final seconds the driver turned and looked, not at his friend in the back, but at the smiling face and blank glasses of the fat man from Arkansas in the passenger seat... Then the car hit the ground bonnet first, with such force that the deaths inside should have been mercifully quick.

  In his dreams he saw the car from outside, and himself, clamped and terrified in the driver’s seat.

  ~

  Tom awoke from his uncomfortable sleep, stretching and yawning. Normally, his dreams faded quickly when he woke, as if recognising the daylight; but this one refused to fade. He sat up on the back seat where he had slept, and looked for a while at the scenery blurring past his window with a worried frown on his otherwise baby-smooth features. Then he leaned forward and tapped the driver of the car on the shoulder.

  Sean flinched at the contact, although he tried to pretend that he hadn’t. He turned round and glared at his companion. They were both young men, in their mid-twenties, although Sean was two years older. Tom wished Sean would look at the road, rather than back at him.

  “I had that dream again.”

  “What dream?” Sean said irritably.

  “You know, the one I told you about. The one I had before. The one about the car crash and... and the fat guy.”

  “Oh that dream,” Sean said, as if they always talked of dreams and he’d grown confused about which one. “It’s only a dream.” They entered a small village where a sign politely asked them to drive carefully. “Besides, you just imagined the fat guy,” Sean said. Outside he saw a church, a bowling green, a family owned butcher – the village they were passing through was like some Tory wet-dream of England, and the two inner-city lads felt taunted and threatened by its presence, its smug air of permanence and durability. They could break into the large homes, but the insurance would pay; they could swear at the residents, and just reinforce their prejudices. Sean accelerated, felt some satisfaction as the white car sped past the bus stop. But there was no one standing there to tut disapprovingly – everyone was probably too rich to need the bus here, Sean thought angrily. The service had probably been stopped years ago. Leaving the small village, a sign thanked them for driving carefully, and although he hadn’t this made Sean angrier still. He tried to calm himself – after all, he did want to drive carefully so as to not attract unwelcome attention, given that the boot was full of stolen goods... Yet his nervous irritation remained, like the fumes of a fuel that should’ve long since run dry.

  Tom was also wondering why Sean was so worked up. He had known Sean for years, since he’d been twelve and Sean fourteen. Tom didn’t tend to think about things too much, but he had semi-conscious and nagging doubts about why Sean had ever wanted to be his friend. He knew the fact that he was younger could no longer be used as an excuse for his deference, for the fact that Sean thought up the ideas, whereas he just tagged along, like hired help. Knew too that he reverted back to earlier childishness and excitability when he was alongside Sean, despite the fact that Sean professed to be angered by this. But he was glad Sean had stuck by him; without Sean he’d never have dared attempt anything as audacious as the robbery last night; even with Sean they’d almost blown it... But there was no point in thinking about that, for it was okay now, and they were on their way down to London. There weren’t many fences where they came from who could give them a fair deal on the loot in the back of the car: the ornaments of precious metal, the grotty books and other religious paraphernalia. The designs on them were... unique. So Tom hoped, anyway. If it was worth as much as they thought then neither of them would ever need to return to the sink estate on which they’d both grown up.

  The pair drove in silence for a while, neither able to think of anything to say. Occasionally they saw a police car and the silence grew tense and rigid, but the law didn’t seem interested in them. It seemed too easy. When Sean did eventually speak he sounded uncomfortable, as though the two had only just met.

  “It feels like winning the lottery, huh?”

  “Uh huh,” Tom agreed. “Yep.” He wished Sean wouldn’t look over his shoulder to speak to him; he wished it was his turn to drive. Although they were only going thirty miles an hour, if he closed his eyes and focussed Tom sensed how unnaturally fast that actually was, as if the surrounding car didn’t exist, and he was travelling at that speed unprotected, the air whipping past his face... He felt doubly out of control, not driving and also confined to the back seat, like a child. But then where else was he supposed to sleep? They’d both been tired after the robbery, after their midnight dash.

  “It’s like something out of a movie, huh? All this stuff? I mean we normally steal phones and you know... TVs and stuff. Not these, these chalices and things. Not old Bibles.”

  “They’re not Bibles,” Tom said.

  “Well, you know... religious books. I mean, not a real religion but ... Well it is to them I guess. The people who go there.”

  “Doesn’t make it a religion” Tom said, and Sean didn’t argue. Neither of them knew what they were talking about, after all. Tom never did, but Sean guessed he was right on this occasion – it wasn’t a real religion, just a load of sad, sick fuckers, and stealing from them wasn’t like stealing from a church, but in its way almost a good deed... – Sean wasn’t trying to reason himself out of a sense of guilt, but one of fear.

  They pulled into a service station, to fill up with petrol and take a hurried look around the mini-mart. Sean bought The Mirror, a scotch egg, forty Bensons, and a copy of Razzle which he slid inside his newspaper as he walked back to the car. Tom bought Playboy, some Smarties, and a Ren & Stimpy comic, which he slipped inside his magazine on his way back to the car. Outside on the forecourt he could hear the speed of the traffic rushing past; if I just ran out into the road... he thought; then shook his head as if his thoughts were physical distractions like flies. He’d had such feelings since he’d woken, not serious ideas but almost dream-like, creeping across his consciousness before he realised how silly they were. They must have been caused by his troubled sleep on the back-seat of a speeding car, by
his nerves.

  Tom got into the front seat; it was his turn to drive. The idea that some of the nervousness he was feeling would fade when he was in the driving seat proved false, for he still felt the same lack of control as he pulled out into the road, the speeding traffic swerving to one side of him. Just because he was driving, what control did he have? He could be the most careful driver on the road, but his fate could still be sealed by the mental calculations of the person coming up behind him who was talking on his mobile phone... Slow down, Tom said in his head; slow down! The car didn’t decelerate, but moved into the other lane at the last moment, the driver still oblivious on his mobile as he passed. Tom’s eyes flicked to the mirror, saw the other cars racing to catch him up.

  Sean stretched out on the back seat, and idly flicked through the dull and clichéd pornography before tossing it aside, not feeling in the least bit aroused. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep – despite the pretence he had made last time Tom had driven, Sean hadn’t slept at all since the robbery. This time though, his eyes felt heavy and he thought if he could just relax then he might be able to drop off. He felt the car jerk violently; heard Tom press the horn and swear, his voice stressed – Sean smiled: Tom was always a nervous driver. For a long time Sean lay with his eyes closed, worrying about the police, the reliability of their fence, and an American voice promising revenge in a just so tone: this is how things will be. And then he slept. And dreamt.

  ~

  Neither of them wanted the grotesquely fat man to get into the car, but they both invited him to sit in the passenger seat. Which he did, cramming his buttocks into the tight space, barely managing to pull the seat-belt across his massive belly. Yet he neither grunted nor sweated nor struggled. Once he was in and the door was shut he told them, in an American accent, where to go. It was a little out of the way for them, and they were already late – but they did what he said. They drove south for a while, speeding up all the time. They were going roughly seventy miles an hour when they hit the teenage couple walking hand in hand across a pedestrian crossing. She turned and her face struggled with the split second comprehension of her death; he had been whispering into her ear and didn’t even look round. The white car shook and jolted as it went across the bodies; a few drops splattered as high as the windscreen. The car didn’t slow down, but accelerated towards the flyover. They both wished to act, even just to plead, but they just sat silent and immobile (the disconnected way his arms turned the wheel and his feet pressed the pedal didn’t seem like any movement of his own). The fat man sat silent too, relaxed in the confinement of the seatbelt. The car climbed up the exit from the flyover, going the wrong way...

  ~

  Sean awoke with a barely controlled noise of fear. Within seconds he was angry with Tom – the stupid little prick had got him all worked up with his talk of dreams: now he was having them too! Except that wasn’t quite true. Sean hadn’t managed to sleep the first time Tom had taken over the driving, but he had... dozed. His thoughts had wandered, with as little coherence and control as if he had been dreaming after all. And while he could remember no details, Tom’s talk of car crashes and... and that fat guy had chimed perfectly with the vague feeling of dread he remembered, and which persisted.

  “How long was I asleep?” he asked Tom. “This time?”

  “About ten minutes. No, maybe fifteen.”

  Sean looked out the window, trying to keep a frown from his face. He was sure he’d heard that you had to sleep for at least an hour to go deep enough to dream. But then, he had been so tired... Sean felt even worse after his nap than before. He pulled out a cigarette, and rolled down the car window. There was nothing to look at in the scenery scrolling past, and his eyes defocused so that the sight became nothing but a rushed blur. He got bored, irritable, and flicked through his newspaper, saw the same usual load of shite: scandals, gossip, the low down on a boy-band apparently ‘Destined For No 1!’, and a surprisingly accurate weather forecast.

  “Hey, you wanna know your horoscope?” he asked Tom, more for something to say than through wanting to say it. Besides, he knew his friend liked hearing them, for Tom listened with childlike glee when they predicted great things.

  “No, don’t read them out,” Tom said quietly. The car braked suddenly and Tom held down the horn; Sean was sprawled on the back seat and so didn’t see what had happened.

  “Aw come on, Taurus right?” Sean said. He started to read the bullshit about financial luck and a broadening of personal horizons due to travel, but Tom interrupted him:

  “Just shut up will you! You’re putting me off!”

  Sean looked up from the paper – he couldn’t see Tom’s face, only his arm and hand on the gear stick. It was trembling.

  “Well, fuck you too,” he muttered, flinging the paper away in disgust that was half feigned to hide his confusion.

  Tom stared out the window, aware of his friend’s anger but unable to find anything to say to explain himself. Thought seemed hard, he was concentrating so much on driving – like he was a learner again, like it was a matter of life and death. Which he supposed it was. But the road didn’t normally seem so wild, with traffic veering and swerving with no predictability, with invisible bumps in the road making the car judder and bolt, with unsignposted junctions, unexpected side-winds. He wanted to explain to Sean why he was so afraid, but he didn’t know himself. He just knew that he was very scared and that the feeling had been getting stronger ever since the robbery. Of course he had been scared during the break-in as well, but that had been different, an adrenaline fuelled fear, alive with possibilities and so close to excitement it had made him feel high. Until he had seen the fat man: tall, but slumped under his own immense weight, leaning forward like a dinosaur, his head high and hairless, his spectacles glaring with reflected light, his teeth grinning horribly. He had introduced himself with an American accent, but Tom couldn’t remember the odd sounding name. Then as Tom had stood there paralysed, caught red handed with the temple’s goods in his pilferer’s grip, the fat man had said he came from Arkansas but “long before it was called that.” He had licked his fat round lips and then, smiling as if hungry, he had started saying the most horrible things... which Tom couldn’t quite remember. He didn’t want to. But now he felt like a rat in a maze, being prodded and electrocuted into going down certain routes...

  It hadn’t been a real temple. Just an old rented house, where people gathered. No one admitted to going, or to having friends who went; maybe friends of friends, maybe, but no one you personally knew... Nevertheless, people went – neighbours saw people entering at strange hours, and began to claim they heard chanting through adjoining walls. And of course, because no one knew anyone who went, the stories about what went on inside became spuriously specific and hysterical: animal sacrifice, child abuse. There were, apparently, strange relics and old, old books inside the house, books that told of old beliefs that should’ve been long since buried... No one knew who owned the house, it had been empty for years. Overnight it became daubed with lurid anti-immigrant graffiti – but still people came and went at odd hours, and any slight noise on the wind was claimed to chanting from its interior.

  Some local kids disappeared, and while there was no actual connection that could be made to the ‘temple’, the locals found it hard not to make a connection in their minds. But still, it had been just a house, with no alarm and with no one in it after nightfall. Best of all, due to the resentment it had caused in the community the local police weren’t going to care if it was broken into. They weren’t going to investigate too hard. It had almost seemed too easy. Even the question of where to sell ‘religious’ artefacts in an almost godless (and penniless) estate had been answered within a couple of days: bizarrely, unrealistically, someone’s brother worked in a museum in London and was known to pilfer things from the backrooms when they weren’t on public display. So he had the contacts; he gave them the name of a fence. In the pub that night, Sean and Tom had agreed to give it a g
o – they would break in, steal what they could, and head straight down to London to meet the fence. It would be a long, long drive and they would have to take shifts; but an easy drive at that, for the route was basically a straight line south, and the navigation needed was minimal.

  They were coming into the outskirts of the outskirts of London now, and the traffic had slowed due to the rain that had come lashing in sideways, allowing Tom to relax somewhat at the slower pace, despite the reduced visibility. His memory of the inside of the temple was fading, and he could forget somewhat that it was a real life place, which he had entered. Into which he had trespassed. He glanced around and saw Sean was asleep again, although his friend’s sleep didn’t look peaceful. Tom wondered if Sean was having the same kind of dreams he was, and what that would mean if it was true...

  Tom cursed – he had just driven past the turning that they wanted, because he’d been so wrapped up in his paranoid daydreams. He considered waking Sean, but he decided that it wasn’t anything to be worried by – there was bound to be another chance to make a right turn soon.

  ~

  “Any chance of a lift?” the fat man said, and despite the raised last syllable (along with a thick eyebrow) it wasn’t a question, not really. He tried to frame a negative reply, but his head was already nodding, dog-like and obedient. He felt his lips part and his mouth draw breath – his lungs swelled and he knew he was about to speak; he had one last chance to refuse this but instead he heard himself say,