National Emergency

by Jobling, James

  “Okay,” Ethan soothed, hoping his calm tone would reassure his blatantly distraught wife. “I’ll go and check it out. You keep an eye on Mum. Harold, you too, okay? Bryan and I have got this covered.” He glanced at his friend with pleading eyes.

  “Sure,” Bryan said. He moved away from the window and stepped into the kitchen, slipping a finger between the blinds and looking out. All he could see was blackness. He swallowed hard; his tongue swollen and a strange taste like he had a mouthful of coins making him want to spew up. Ethan stepped up beside him and patted him on the shoulder. Lee slumped against the wall, slurping from a bottle of beer.

  “Ethan, you’re not going out there!” Karris commanded. Her hands grabbed her husband’s top, her breathing tight, face flushed bright pink. “It’s not safe out there; not with all the rioting going on. Please don’t go outside.” Her words were still blending together as though she was emceeing.

  “I’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Ethan said. He pecked her on the lips and rubbed the pad of his thumb over her hot cheek. “Besides, I’m not going out there alone, am I? Bryan’s coming with me.”

  “That’s right,” Bryan growled, flexing his bony arms and posing like a wrestler from the 80’s. “Everybody knows not to mess with me!”

  “See? I’ll be fine.” Ethan smiled. “It’s probably nothing, anyway.”

  “But you don’t know that for sure.”

  “No,” Ethan sighed, “but I do know for sure that our son is sleeping across the hall. I need to make sure that everything’s okay for him.”

  Karris nodded slowly. The mention of Lincoln seemed to correct her priorities, allowing her to think more clearly. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. Take the flashlight with you, though.”

  Ethan turned and yanked a kitchen drawer open, almost pulling it off the runner in his eagerness to find the torch. Slick fingers shoved aside mobile phone chargers, brochures, takeaway menus, batteries, dog-eared magazines, then he finally found the rubber-swathed torch. He grabbed it as though it was eternal youth and thumbed it on, aiming the beam of light toward the kitchen floor. His head was beginning to throb like a rotten tooth in an infected gum.

  Ethan opened the kitchen door and stepped into the night. Roaring wind snatched the PVC partition from his grasp, slamming it against the wall, wrenching hinges. The wind howled into the kitchen, knocking over empty beer cans. Ethan stepped into the darkness and aimed the torch around. The garden was empty. Bright light bounced over the patio table and chairs, exposed the framework of the shed, the wire fence separating his property from the flowing moorlands before sweeping over the blue, brown, and black recycling bins standing beneath the kitchen window. Nobody was here. And, more importantly, it didn’t look like anybody had been, either.

  The yapping beagle stopped barking as soon as she saw her master. She ran speedily towards Ethan, pink collar jangling, and he bent and stroked her brown and white fur, petting her. “Hey, you’re okay, you’re okay, girl.” He rubbed behind her floppy ears, then glanced up at Bryan, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

  “I guess he was wrong,” Bryan said.

  Ethan held up a hand to hush his friend, torchlight dancing senselessly. Bryan frowned at first, but then his ears must have picked up the same noise that Ethan’s had, as his expression changed. From far away - but probably no further than three miles - came the distant scream of jumbled sirens. Police. Ambulance. Fire-engines. All gelled together to serenade the smoky night. Their muffled wails were particularly distressing; the distant medley making Ethan want to run inside and lock the door until this crazy night was over.

  “Have you heard that?” Bryan whispered.

  Ethan nodded slowly. “Sounds like a thousand sirens going off at the same time.”

  “More like thousands.”

  Ethan turned and saw Lee stagger drunkenly into the garden. He had spilled some beer on his Foo Fighters vest. “I heard something, Eth, I’m telling you.” He swigged from the bottle, but missed his mouth again.

  “There’s nothing here now,” Bryan said, stating the obvious. “Was probably just the wind.”

  “It wasn’t the wind.” Lee replied, balancing awkwardly on his heels.

  Ethan knew his older brother could pack a fiery temper after draining one-too-many. In fact, he’d lost count of the number of pointless fights Lee had started over the years on stag nights and birthday celebrations and whatnot. And he recognised that throaty growl now. His shoulders were up, fists clenched, the posture of an angry man with an itch to scratch.

  “I know what I heard and it wasn’t the fucking wind.”

  “Okay, Lee,” Bryan said softly. “You heard it. I didn’t.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “He’s not calling you a liar, okay?” Ethan said, purposefully standing between the two men. The flashlight pointed up, revealing twinkling stars. “Everybody just needs to take a deep breath and relax here, okay?”

  “Ethan!” Karris’s voice sailed through the open back door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is just fine!” Ethan roared back. He had to strain his voice to make the words audible over the madman cackle of the wind. “Nothing out here! We’re coming back in!”

  Lee mumbled something low and unintelligible under his breath before turning on his heel and staggering back inside the bungalow. Bryan smiled at Ethan who cocked an eyebrow in response.

  “Come on, mate,” Ethan said, shaking his head and stepping back into the bright kitchen. He turned off the torch as Bryan closed the door behind them.

  “There’s nothing out there,” Ethan confirmed.

  “I heard something,” Lee quickly added.

  “But they’ve gone now. And that’s the most important thing.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  Karris gasped loudly, spinning nervously towards the front door. Ethan paused and looked up, eyes wide, heart beating like a jackhammer, blood tingling in his arteries. For the first time that evening, Harold Singleton looked away from the TV. Bryan and Lee, apparently no longer bitter enemies, wandered out of the kitchen and looked at Ethan.

  “What’s this about?” Lee slurred.

  “Calm down,” Ethan said. “I’ll get it.”

  “Who is it, Ethan?” Karris asked.

  “I kind of need to open the door first, honey,” Ethan answered, flashing that fake smile again. “Just calm down.”

  He walked purposefully down the hallway, furious that somebody should have the gall to ring his doorbell at such a late hour when his son was sleeping.

  It’s probably one of the guests from earlier, too pissed to remember their phone or keys or something. Bloody morons!

  Fingers encircled the latch and pulled the front door open. Ethan was about to unleash one hell of a tongue-thrashing to the arsehole on the other side, but the breath lodged in his throat when nothing but yowling wind greeted him. He stepped into the porch, arms folded, face moody, eyes searching the shadows like a sniper choosing his next victim. There was nobody there. The sirens were a fraction louder now he was at the front of the house and, as he stepped into his work boots, not bothering to lace them up, he sighed wearily as he crunched his way across the driveway.

  The Pickup was still parked in the same position as earlier, untouched, the stack of timber still waiting to be stored in the garage. He ran curious eyes over his brother’s and Harold’s cars. They, too, were fine. Ethan stepped back inside, shaking his head, muttering about “pesky kids” when a noise—

  dum-dum-dum

  —came from the front room, quickly followed by the screams of his wife and mother.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Eggs.”

  Bryan aimed the torchlight over the window, revealing the smeared pane. It looked as though somebody with a bad chest-infection had vomited phlegm all over it. He glanced at Ethan who was standing behind him, searching for those responsible. Bella was running erratically at his heels.

  “Why would somebody egg y
our house?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ethan. He disappeared beneath the thick shrubbery at the bottom of his garden, cursing loudly when he tripped over the yapping dog. “Somebody must want to play bloody silly buggers.”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

  Karris stepped into the doorway, arms folded across her heaving chest, a blanket shielding her from the callous wind. She looked tired, frightened, and she’d scraped her hair back into a ponytail, her cheeks flushed. “You see anything, baby?” The need for the pet name at that moment was as necessary as her next breath. It reassured her, banished her fears. Then the wind gobbled up the words and made a mockery of her safety.

  “No,” Ethan said. Ambling through ankle-length grass at the bottom of the garden, he rubbed his grubby hands on his jeans. “Whoever it was, they’ve gone now.”

  “Do you think it was the same person who rang the doorbell?” Karris asked. She spoke in a jittery tone, as though she was expecting it to ring again at any moment. The air reeked of oily smoke. The sirens seemed a little quieter.

  “Probably just kids messing about,” said Ethan. He placed the torch on the glass surface of the patio table. “They’ve gone now.” He turned and gave the moors a lingering glance.

  “Kids?” Karris raised an eyebrow. “All the way up here?”

  Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know, Karris; what else could it be?”

  “Good lord!” Ethan’s mother’s voice peppered the night. “I don’t believe it!”

  Ethan went back inside the bungalow, overhead fluorescents assaulting his eyes, rendering him sightless. He blinked rapidly to regain composure before walking into the front room. Harold and Lee were standing in front of the TV, both talking loudly, both nursing beers. His mother was quietly sobbing into a crumpled handkerchief. Harold looked over and frowned before taking another gulp of Guinness and turning back to the TV. Ethan’s blood boiled. Right then, he could have happily ripped Harold Singleton’s head from his scrawny shoulders. Right then, he could have happily killed the man!

  Ethan crossed to his mother and crouched beside her, taking her hand in his, kissing the back of it. “Hey,” he comforted, “it’s alright, Mum, it’s going to be just fine.” He pulled her towards him, cradling her the same way she used to cradle him as a child, usually after suffering a particularly horrible nightmare. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m here. It’s just kids. They’ve gone now. I’m sure they won’t come back.”

  His mother shook her head and tried to control her sobbing. “No, honey, you don’t understand.” When she spoke, the words were muffled by the handkerchief pressed to her mouth. “The news,” she sobbed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, leaving trails of mascara. “They’ve… they’ve just found the body of a poor policeman. He’d been stabbed thirty-three times in the chest.” She paused to swallow rising bile.

  Ethan glanced across to the TV and saw a reporter standing in front of yellowPOLICE: DO NOT CROSS tape. Forensic officers wearing full-body coveralls moved slowly about the cordoned area. Ethan frowned and stood up, not wanting to believe what his eyes and ears were faxing over. The young reporter spoke hurriedly, as though he could not wait to get the job done and dash back to the safety of the studio.

  “The body of PC Ellison was discovered by riot police; he had been attacked and stabbed many times,” the reporter said, looking fretfully into the camera. “Immediately, the area behind me was cleared of free-roaming looters who eyewitnesses described as acting like “savages”. The Prime Minister is due to make a statement at any moment condemning the needless death of Officer Ellison as well as the barbarous rioting here in Birmingham.”

  Ethan sprung up like a fully cranked Jack-in-the-box. His eyes narrowed. “Birmingham? What the hell does he mean, Birmingham?” He directed the question towards his brother.

  Lee leered drunkenly.

  Does he find some perverted humour in all this?

  Ethan swallowed and heard something click in his throat.

  “The rioting has spread,” Lee said, shrugging. “They’re not only rioting here in Manchester. There have been reports of disturbances in Derby, Nottingham, London, Sheffield, Durham, Liverpool-"

  “They’ve really torn up Liverpool,” Harold interjected. “Apparently, there’s been about twelve quid worth of damage.”

  Both men laughed hysterically.

  Ethan opened his mouth to say something when a noise stopped him. Bella was barking overexcitedly again. There was a brief commotion in the garden. Pottery smashed. Something fell over. Footsteps scampered across the patio. Then Karris and Bryan were calling his name frantically. He bounced through the kitchen like a human pinball and ran into the cold night, searching for what had scared his wife and friend so badly.

  The youth, standing cockily at the bottom of the garden, on the moors behind the wire fence, was hard to see at first. In fact, if he hadn’t been smoking a cigarette, then he would have probably gone unnoticed altogether. He was a black blip on a blank radar… but he was there.

  Ethan glanced at his wife, who was shrieking unintelligibly into her cupped hands. He shoved past her and focused on the small orange spot piercing the shrouding darkness. The unmistakable aroma of burning marijuana flitted past his nostrils, and Ethan finally saw the youth clearly, standing amongst the stinging nettles and brambles. His hood was up and, unless Ethan was mistaken, he had one hand stuffed down the front of his ridiculously baggy jogging trousers.

  “Karris,” Ethan whispered, “go inside.”

  The youth took another drag from the joint and lolled his head backwards, looking as though he was growing impatient.

  “What does he want?”

  “Go and check on Lincoln.”

  “But what does he want?”

  “Will you just do as I ask?” Ethan snarled, spittle flying

  Karris nodded and obediently went inside.

  Ethan took a step forward.

  Bryan reliably followed.

  “Hey there,” Ethan hollered, voice teeming with friendliness, sounding very much like a rep conversing with a tourist. “Are you lost or something, mate? You don’t want to be out on the moors on a night like this.”

  No response.

  Ethan took another step forward.

  Lacy fingers reeled the full moon out of a wedge of thick clouds and, in the revealing glow, Ethan could see the youngster more clearly. The kid wore a scarf around his nose and mouth and the hood of his jacket was up, concealing the top of his features. A jungle of knotted jewellery hung around his neck. Ethan could only estimate his age (there was that little to work with), but he judged him by his blue tracksuit and mansion-sized trainers, guessing he was no more than eighteen or nineteen-years-old—certainly no older.

  Ethan nodded and took one final step forward. He was now standing in front of the wire fence.

  “How old’s your dog?” the hooded youth asked.

  Ethan looked down at the growling beagle. His heart was pounding so hard that he could hear it throbbing in his ears. Passively, he raised his hands, palms outwards. “She’s only seven months old, mate. She’s just a puppy, really.”

  The youth laughed loudly, gloved hands clutching his stomach like he had just learned he had won the lottery. “Nah, bro, you’re not gettin’ me.” He sucked from the joint once more. Flicked ash deliberately through the fence, into Ethan’s face. “I mean your bitch.”

  “What?”

  “Your bitch,” the youth repeated, pointing towards the house where Karris had just gone. “How old’s your bitch?”

  Ethan gripped the wire fence with talons of hatred. “Say that again, dickhead! Come on! I dare you! I fucking dare you!” Fingers rolled into fists. His arm drew back into a slingshot position.

  The youth laughed again, a plume of wet-earth reeking smoke billowing into Ethan’s face. “Chill, chill; you’re goin’ to flat-line a blood vessel or some shit.” Despite the white flesh around the
youth’s eyes, Ethan could have been forgiven for thinking he was speaking to a hoodlum straight out of LA or Detroit. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, big poppa. Don’t go havin’ no heart attack or anythin’.”

  “Are you the little bastard who egged my house?” Ethan demanded to know. He squared up to the fence, chest puffed like a proud pigeon. “Been playing silly beggars, eh? Think you’re a big man? I’ve got a little boy in there and you’d better not have woken him or—”

  “Or what? What are you goin’ to do about it?” The youth’s voice cranked with bass, losing most of its gangster twang. Arms flailed into the air, making him look like the Christ the Redeemer statue on a dark and riotous night in Brazil.

  Instinctively, Ethan flinched… and regretted it.

  “Yeah, so what? We threw eggs at your house. Big fuckin’ deal. You ain’t goin’ to do shit about it. Drivin’ about tonight, we hear the news. It’s bedlam out there. No police anywhere. You can do whatever you want. Y’all could rob Fort Knox and get away with it!”

  He said we! He said we threw eggs! He said driving about tonight we heard the news! We! There’s more than just him!

  Time to inject a note of rile into his voice. “Well, listen to me.” Ethan wagged his finger, but icicles were playing volleyball with his heart. “You went and chose the wrong house—”

  “Nah, mate, you chose the wrong house!” The words tumbled from the youth’s mouth like rockery on a precarious ledge. “All the way out here; away from the city; away from the police. No neighbours. On a night like tonight, too, when there’s riotin’ in the city, all police removed from the street, nobody allowed in the city, nobody allowed out.” He shook his head as though he had genuine sympathy for Ethan’s predicament. “What the hell were you thinkin’ movin’ your family all the way out here?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Lincoln was awake.

  Something – be it the fanatical wind or his father’s raised voice – had disturbed him. Now he was bawling blue murder.

  Karris raced down the corridor and barged into his bedroom, her burdensome heart still throbbing from the confrontation with the stranger in the garden. Lincoln was out of bed, red-faced, standing in the centre of the room, disorientated, sobbing, screaming out his tiny lungs and stomping his bare feet. Karris picked up her crying son and pressed his head against her shoulder before crossing the bedroom.