National Emergency

by Jobling, James

  News report. A journalist in a city that Ethan didn’t recognise at first. Then he caught the neon-lit name of a nightclub called Fever in the dark background, and he realised it was his city. Behind the journalist, a group of youths were destroying a police car; throwing bricks, glass bottles, bins, chunks of concrete, traffic cones, everything at their disposal at the patrol car, ravaging, denting, humiliating the vehicle. A couple of troublesome teens had climbed onto the roof, cheering, kicking, stomping, booting the flash-bar free, jumping up and down on the spiderwebbed windscreen. Hooded comrades surrounded the car, shouldering it from both sides, bouncing it on its suspension, trying to turn it over. There weren’t any constables in the car or anywhere on the scene.

  The middle-aged announcer was standing in front of a jerky camera, microphone in hand, worried expression etched on his face, jabbering on about something, but Ethan couldn’t hear what because the TV was still on mute. He searched for the remote control, eager to discover what was going on in his city, but he couldn’t find it anywhere. Lincoln had an irritating habit of putting things in the bin. There was a headline in bold white capitals against a bright red banner at the bottom of the screen which read: DENNISON ASARIA DEATH SPARKS RIOTS IN MANCHESTER. There was a rolling caption beneath, galloping across the screen. But it was sliding too fast for his tired eyes to pay it any real attention. He was about to step closer when the door behind him opened and Karris strolled in.

  “Hey, handsome,” she said. Approaching him from behind, she massaged his thick shoulders. Ethan allowed his head to loll as his wife’s thumbs manipulated deep muscles. He closed his eyes and drifted. “What are you doing in here alone, birthday boy?” She nibbled his earlobe.

  “Just grabbing a breather.”

  She kissed the base of his neck, the tip of her tongue slurping a trail to his cheek, where she traded rough stubble for soft lips, kissing him passionately. Tongues broke into each other’s mouth, colliding, clashing, swapping juices. Ethan pushed her roughly against the dining table, his calloused hands grabbing her buttocks. “Honey,” she breathed into the canal of his ear. “Do you want your birthday present now?”

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “Happy… birthday… to… you…” Karris whispered in her best Marilyn Monroe impersonation.

  He tried to push her away but, in truth, only a molecule of strength was used. “We can’t do it here.”

  Her fingers unbuttoned his jeans, releasing his stiff member and, seductively, she abseiled down his length, dropping provocatively to her knees. “Don’t worry, if anybody walks in, I’ll make sure they enjoy the show.”

  He groaned loudly.

  Karris took him in her mouth.

  Behind him, on the screen of the TV, the police car erupted into a soundless ball of fire as a petrol bomb exploded against the bonnet, baked the engine, and detonated the vehicle.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ethan opened the door leading from the dining room and stepped into the hall; red-faced, breathless, perspiration drying on his skin. He looked across to Ben Couch, a life-long friend, frowning when he saw him trying to console his sobbing girlfriend. He was stroking Beth’s hair, kissing her forehead, promising her that they were going to be okay. The door behind Ethan creaked open and Karris crept out, hair chaotic, and she quickly disappeared into the downstairs bathroom to flush her mouth.

  He moved under the archway and stepped into the front room, wondering why his family and friends were standing in a circle around the coffee table watching the TV. Older brother, Lee – the second of three – was leaning against the wall, chewing on a wedge of birthday cake, crumbs piling up on the carpet around his feet. He looked at his younger brother and cocked an eyebrow when he saw Karris close the bathroom door. Ethan nodded towards Ben and Beth, ignoring his brother’s sly smirk. “What’s going on?”

  Lee thumbed the remainder of cake into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, speaking as though he had a mouthful of hot potato. “Something’s kicked off in town. I knew it would… I even said it would. They’re rioting because of that black kid who died this morning in police custody.”

  “You mean Dennison Asaria?”

  “I do?”

  Ethan banished the question with a wave of his hand.

  “Anyway,” Lee continued, “they’re looting shops, smashing windows, fighting with the police. Looks like the bloody Rodney King riots all over again.”

  Following his brother’s pointing finger towards the TV, Ethan frowned when he saw another journalist standing in front of a supermarket. A horde of hooded youths forced open the doors to the Tesco and were streaming inside, causing chaos, taking whatever they wanted.

  Ethan swallowed hard as he witnessed hooded louts ransacking the store, shoving through the crowd, disappearing into the night. Ethan glanced nervously at his brother, his brain refusing to absorb what his eyes were projecting back to it. The reporter continued jabbering into his microphone, a strong breeze whipping through his hair, jostling the sound of his voice. Behind him, the hooded, balaclava-clad Neanderthals poured out, carrying boxed TVs, stereos, and computers. Ethan’s ears picked up phrases such as “copycat behaviour” and “gang culture.”

  “This is insane,” Ethan breathed. He left Lee’s side and walked into the front room, manoeuvring through the crowd. He found his mother and Harold sitting on the leather sofa, watching the news like a couple of Meerkats who had just spotted a line of juicy caterpillars.

  “Mum,” Ethan said, crouching beside the sofa. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, there you are, sweetheart. We couldn’t find you. Harold looked all over. Have you seen what’s happening in the city, darling?”

  “Yeah,” Ethan answered. “I have.”

  “They are vultures - absolute vultures!”

  Ethan grabbed his mother’s hand, stroked it, and smiled at her reassuringly. “There’s nothing to fear, Mum. They are just a couple of idiots taking advantage of a situation.”

  The on-screen reporter was advised by the studio panel to move away and find a more secure location to broadcast from. Ethan looked at the TV just in time to see a gloved hand clasp over the lens and snatch the camera away.

  “My God in heaven!” his mother gasped, clutching the sides of her jowly face. Her mouth hung open. “They just stole that camera!”

  “Mindless morons, the lot of ‘em,” Harold grunted, swigging from a can of Guinness. “They’re tearing their own bloody city apart. Arseholes.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Mum. I’m sure the police will regain control soon,” Ethan comforted.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Harold said, smiling wickedly. “According to the news, the police have retreated completely out of Manchester.”

  “I’m sure they know what they’re doing, Harry.”

  “What? The old bill? Jesus Christ, don’t make me laugh, son.”

  Two bullets of raging anger were fired from Ethan’s brown eyes, shooting Harold Singleton down dead. “I’m sure they’ll get the situation under control soon enough, right, Harry?”

  “Oh yeah, sure,” Harold replied, surprising Ethan by holding the builder’s stare. “They’ve just got to dodge all of those bricks and petrol bombs first.”

  Ethan rose to his feet, fingers curling into meaty fists. He opened his mouth to say something when Ben stepped forward. He was still consoling an obviously distraught Beth.

  “Hey,” Ben said, grabbing Ethan by the elbow and spinning him slowly. “I’m really sorry, mate, but we’re going to have to leave. Beth wants to check on her mum. Her house is right in the middle of town and she began her chemo last week.”

  “You’re going into town?” Harold asked, shaking his head, tsking loudly. “Not a wise move, amigo.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, we don’t have a choice,” Ben replied, staring down the drunken fossil as he wiped tears from Beth’s flushed cheeks.

  Ethan moved forward and draped an arm around Ben’s shoulders, leading him t
owards the front door. He had just opened it when Harold bellowed from the other room, “They’re in the bloody Trafford Centre! The arseholes have only gone and broken into the Trafford Centre!”

  Ethan looked back and cocked an eyebrow. He couldn’t believe some of his inebriated family and friends would cheer and applaud this.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t stay any longer, mate,” Ben apologised. He stepped into the porch, erecting the lapels of his coat.

  Ethan shook his head and held up both hands, politely cutting his friend off. “Don’t be silly, Ben. I’m just sorry we didn’t get more of a chance to catch up. Give me a ring when you get home so I know you’re both okay. I hope your mum recovers soon, too, Beth.”

  “Thank you,” she sobbed into Ben’s chest. “And happy Birthday.”

  “Cheers,” Ethan said. He shook Ben’s hand and watched as the night devoured his friends as they walked up the driveway. Politely, he waited until Ben and Beth had disappeared completely into the inky blackness before he closed, locked, and bolted the front door.

  CHAPTER 4

  Around nine o’clock that night, the birthday party croaked death’s lonely rattle and drifted into abysmal insignificance. Forty years just wiped off the clock; forgotten about with barbaric regularity. Isaac Newton described time best by saying it was like a “flowing river moving at a constant speed from past to future, never deviating, never looking back, never changing.” Ethan didn’t know what the next four decades had in store for him (and he didn’t want to know), but if there was one fact of life he’d learnt from today it was this – time waits for nobody.

  The disturbances in town had continued over the past couple of hours, increasing in violence. He had managed to encourage most his guests to return to their homes. Bulletins were broadcast more frequently; shaky, spinning footage recorded on mobile phones, the new camcorder, depicting crowded streets, looted stores, burning vehicles, and uncontainable rage.

  The bungalow was still haunted with a few stragglers; the hardcore minority who refused to allow a little civil unrest to interfere with their drinking. His mother and Harold were still there. They’d called for a taxi – Harold being too pissed to drive – but all they’d received was a busy signal. Ethan’s best friend, Bryan Sweeney, was there, too, stripping the buffet clean. Lee seemed happy enough to drink beer and watch the world descend into chaos for the rest of the night. It had been a different story an hour ago though, as he had frantically paced back and forth, burning a hole in the carpet, panicking because his wife - an auxiliary nurse working nights - had not replied to his tsunami of text messages. Since she had called back an hour ago and assured him that she was fine, he had kicked back and joined Harold on the sofa to watch the insanity unfold.

  Dave Hardcastle – eldest of the three brothers – had been at his apartment when the rioting had begun. He called, apologised, told Ethan that there was no way he could risk going out in such turmoil. Ethan had agreed and, after wishing his youngest sibling happy birthday, Dave had hung up and had not been heard from since.

  Ethan slowly opened the bedroom door and crept inside. He winced as floorboards creaked under his weight. Walking slowly across the room, like a man wading through an invisible stream, Ethan crouched down beside the bed and kissed his son on the nose. Five-years-old and owner of an award-winning smile, the bundle of exquisiteness rolled onto his side, groaning a tired little gurgle. Ethan smiled as he watched Lincoln bury his head deeper into his Scooby-Doo pillowcase. He pulled the duvet up under his son’s chin and gently ruffled his sleep-knotted blonde hair. Stepping over an assortment of stuffed animals, Lego blocks, and plastic replicas of Chris Jericho and the green Power Ranger, he stopped in front of the blinded window. The wind howled like a rabid banshee and tested the glass in its frame.

  It seemed that the nightlight in the corner of the room had declared war on the creeping darkness, pumping shades of gentle light into the bedroom and keeping the overbearing blackness at bay. A tremor tumbled down his spine when he realised just how dark his son’s room was. Lincoln’s bedroom was at the back of the bungalow, facing the driveway, low, and because he had constructed the house in such an isolated location by his very own hands many moons ago, there were barely any street lamps. They were only half-an-hour away from the trouble in the city, but right then and there, it seemed a universe away.

  There was a gurgling creek at the back of the house, shrouded in wild shrubbery, and then the huge fields opened onto the moors. Ethan usually loved the remoteness of it all; cut off from society by freewill, miles from the crime-and-grime of city life. But tonight, he didn’t like it. Not now it was dark; not now he was quarantined by acres of nothing; not now a rioting legion was tearing his city apart. Right now, he would happily trade the lot to be close to a police station.

  What the hell has got into you? They’re hardly going to start rioting outside of your house, are they?

  He cranked the dial on the mobile hanging above his son’s bed and a lullaby smoothly and softly coaxed Lincoln further into sleep. He leaned over the bed and kissed him on the forehead.

  A car alarm went off.

  At first, Ethan thought it might have been the Pickup in the driveway and his throat constricted to the size of a pinhead, making it hard to swallow. He felt as though a greasy slug was feeding from his oesophagus. Realising it was coming from the back of the house, far away, he pulled the curtains apart and slipped a finger between the blinds, finding himself looking into a pair of wide eyes which belonged to his own ghostly reflection. His heart pounded and, for one terrifying moment, he thought it was going to break free of his rib cage and flop, steaming, onto the bedroom floor.

  Bloody hell, what the fuck has got into you? Car alarms go off all the time and you never get spooked. Get a sodding grip, man!

  He didn’t know what had rattled him so badly. Ever since the violence had increased, an edgy tension had been buzzing around in his bowels. His senses were straining to pick up every little noise, every little flutter of movement. What did he have to fear? They were just teenagers breaking into shops to steal trainers. He knew this. But there was no denying it – he was petrified! It felt as though there was an invisible anvil pressing down on his chest, flattening his lungs. The nice little bungalow in the countryside didn’t feel so safe tonight. It felt as though Ethan and his family were in the middle of a crumbling society where a nuke was due to explode.

  Ethan shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. These rioters – and that’s what they were – weren’t protesting. They weren’t demonstrating. They weren’t rallying because Dennison Asaria had died in police custody and they demanded answers. They were doing whatever the hell they wanted to because they knew they could do it. They were using the youth’s death as an excuse, sure, but they were lobbing bricks at police and torching cars and looting stores because they knew – as Ethan did – that the British justice system was laughable.

  The disorder wasn’t race motivated (no matter what the media wanted everybody to believe), and there wasn’t any domineering number of white, black or Asian people involved. There was just one massive crowd of stampeding fuckwits who were hell-bent on causing as much disruption as possible. And what would happen when the police finally regained control? What punishment would the participants receive? An ASBO?

  Ethan crossed the bedroom and quietly opened the door, stepping into the hallway. A barking dog made him pause again. Ethan swallowed hard, feeling as though somebody had dusted his tongue with chalk. This time, the dog wasn’t in the distance. This time, the dog wasn’t far away. It was close. It was in his garden. It was his dog!

  “Bella,” Ethan hissed to himself.

  He galloped down the corridor and barged into the front room just as Karris bellowed, “Ethan, there’s somebody in the garden!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Ethan exploded into the front room, his heart beating like a drum, almost running straight into Bryan in the process. Both men barely avoided a c
ollision. He held up his hands in apology and gently shoved his best mate aside.

  “What’s going on?” Ethan breathlessly asked. “Is somebody in the garden?”

  “I think so, yeah,” Bryan answered, leading the other man into the front room. “Lee heard a commotion in your garden. Then your dog started barking.”

  Ethan glanced over to his mother who was sitting on the sofa, enthralled by the ruckus. She was chewing her fingernails and he frowned as he crossed the room, silently hoping things weren’t becoming too strenuous for her. Her health had deteriorated rapidly since approaching her late sixties. He smiled, but the gesture felt tight, fake. “Are you okay, Mum?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine, darling,” his mother replied, feigning a smile. “Lee thought he heard something in your garden, that’s all. I told him it was probably just a fox or something. It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

  Ethan nodded and hoped she was right. “You stay here, Mum, okay? I’m going to check it out.”

  “Okay, honey. Do be careful.”

  Ethan stepped in front of the bay window, Bryan standing beside him like a loyal disciple. Ethan slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. “Hey, babe, what’s wrong?”

  “My god, Ethan, Lee thinks he heard somebody out back,” she said, her hands clutching the sides of her face, reminding Ethan of Kevin McAllister from the Home Alone movie. “Then Bella started barking; really barking; barking her head off. You know she only barks at people she doesn’t know.” When she spoke, the words crashed into one another like cars in a pileup.