National Emergency

by Jobling, James

“Ethan? What are you doing?”

  Ethan quickly waved him quiet. Karris pointed with a trembling finger towards the stairs.

  In the middle of the foyer was a decorative fountain. Two fibreglass dolphins were suspended above, a pivot in the octangular skyline holding them in place and making them sway in mid-air. A timer in the basin was cranked to release a blast of air every thirty minutes, which would shoot a geyser of water into the air for dramatic effect. The weightless dolphins were fitted with solar lights, which made them glow purple-and-yellow come dusk. The fountain, obviously a strategically-placed attraction by a money-hungry landlord, was intended to capture the roving eye of potential buyers, leaving them in no doubt that this little piece of urbanity was as close to wonderland that they were ever going to get. Lincoln had once invested a tiny fortune of Ethan’s money in the watery depths after Dave convinced his nephew that wishes would be granted for every coin tossed in. Ethan wondered if his son would ever wish for anything but peace and calm ever again.

  A black youth around fifteen years old dashed up the dark stairway, stopping dead on the veranda. He was wearing a blue Lacoste tracksuit, box-fresh trainers, and a backward baseball cap was perched on his head. A price tag was still pinned to the collar of the tracksuit.

  Ethan stepped in front of Karris and his son – his world – prepared to protect them by any means necessary. He pushed the front door of Dave’s home open and ordered them both inside.

  Wind roared overhead like a fanatical lion and the unmistakable pitter-patter of rain pelting the glass skyline filled the otherwise silent complex.

  Karris slipped between the two brothers and entered the apartment, stopping in the hallway, refusing to allow the front door to fully close. Ethan stealthily slid the blade of Hassam’s departing donation down the back of his jeans, folding his arms across his wide chest.

  The black youth looked over his shoulder, checking where his companion was, and then paused briefly. His eyes switched from Ethan to Dave, Dave to Ethan, then settled on the door Karris was hiding behind. A smile – wicked, cold, evil – flashed across his face. Ethan assumed this must have been what Lucifer looked like just before he decided to cross the boundary of Good to dabble in Evil. He snatched the baseball cap was off his head, revealing long braided cornrows. “Hey, where’re you going, sweetheart? Party’s just getting started.”

  From the gloom of Dave’s hallway, Karris clearly heard the heavy footsteps announcing the arrival of the youth’s partner in crime.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Dave said. Protectively, he stepped in front of his forty-year-old baby brother. “Feel free to take whatever you want from the homes behind me - mine included - but we don’t want any trouble.”

  “Shut up, old timer!” a strong cockney accent commanded. There was no mistaking the subculture of this white, painfully thin man standing before them. Cigarette dangling between thin lips. Bleached jeans. Boots. Red braces worn in an x-shape over a white vest. The skinhead slapped the business end of a baseball bat into his palm. “You’re boring.”

  “You took your fuckin’ time, didn’t you? These two could’ve wasted me,” the black youth complained.

  The cockney skinhead inhaled hard and flicked the cigarette on the floor. He obliterated it beneath the sole of his boot. “No need to worry about them. These two ain’t got a fight in ‘em.”

  Look, we’re not interested in what you’re—”

  Before Ethan could finish, the skinhead sprang forward, Malcolm McDowell style, driving the handle of the baseball bat into the builder’s stomach. Wood burrowed into flesh, and Ethan fell to his knees, receiving a hefty kick to his curved spine. Ethan could feel the air literally being pulled from his lungs. He rolled onto his back, coughing, curling his knees into his stomach.

  “Think you’re the business, eh? Think you know me? You ain’t shit, you hear? We own the streets tonight.”

  “That’s fine with us!” shouted Dave. His heart was pounding and his tongue constantly slipped from his mouth to moisten dried lips. He watched as Ethan crawled towards his front door, grunting, in pain, determined to defend his family. “Take the streets! Own them for all I bloody care! Just stop the violence! Please!”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Daft, old cunt.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s about time that you people realised what you’re up against.”

  “Trust me, we’re finding out.”

  Without warning, the baseball bat swung again, at Dave this time, who managed to predict and duck, stumbling over his own feet before clashing with the railings. The wooden bat rained down. Dave barely managed to scramble away in time before they caved in his skull. Fingers loosened on the handle as the vibration with the railings bolted pain into the skinhead’s hands.

  Dave reacted quickly, driving an elbow into his enemy’s belly, shoving him back towards the dimly lit stairwell, hoping the little cockney bastard would tumble down and break his neck. No such luck. The little fucker grabbed the handrail at the last second.

  Dave roared in agony as the black youth grabbed a handful of his matted hair, snapping his head back. Dave could hear the follicles tearing from his skull as he was pushed against the railings of the balcony, the youth trading hair for throat, squeezing hard. Dave struggled for breath, lungs straining. The little bastard craned Dave’s neck, making it impossible for him to inhale.

  A blast from the fountain showered both men in frothy water.

  White light exploded in front of Dave’s eyes, consuming, blinding, causing his entire body to tremble spasmodically. A spark of indescribable peace began to warm him from within, embracing him, cloaking him, making breathing no longer laborious. His face was the brightest of reds, his eyes were bulging, but it no longer mattered. He felt no fear. No pain. No desire to unclasp those beast-like claws pressing on his throat. Even with his tongue protruding from swollen lips, he didn’t feel fear. What was there to be frightened of in death?

  Dave closed his eyes and his head lolled to one side. His breathing grew noisy, irregular. The youth squeezed tighter, smelling death in the stale air.

  The sobbing heavens exhibited their disapproval with a crack of thunder.

  Then, the pressure around Dave’s throat lessened and a tidal wave of oxygen streamed into his deflated lungs. The white haze dispersed and he was falling forwards, knees giving way, sending him crashing to the floor. The black youth staggered on wobbly legs in front of him. One hand reached for the banister of the veranda, the other desperately tried to remove the knife lodged between his shoulder blades. His eyes widened in fear, surprise, pain, then he was suddenly gone… snatched from view, arms thrashing, toppling over the railings, gravity claiming its victim. He fell three storeys to a watery grave. The fall was quick, death would have been immediate, like if Peter Parker ever tried scaling the Daily Bugle office without his outfit. A piercing scream echoed throughout the complex long after the youth’s skull had cracked open like a rotten pumpkin.

  Dave felt hands under his arms, dragging, rolling him onto his side, slapping his face, ordering him to wake up. Then the hands disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a slick trail of something on his face. Dave blinked his eyes open and saw Ethan limping towards the skinhead, one arm wrapped around his injured ribs. He was coughing, spluttering, spitting. Then Dave saw that Ethan’s hands were covered in blood. He couldn’t tell exactly what had happened, but it looked like Ethan had stabbed the kid in the back with the steak knife, and the fall had snuffed a fast-fading flame.

  The skinhead leapt forward. Shocked at seeing his companion killed before his very eyes, he swung the baseball bat again. This time Ethan reacted more quickly, ducking the swipe, charging forward and rugby tackling him to the ground, rolling over him, scrambling on top. Fists shattered teeth. And he punched him again, again, again, splattering the skinhead’s nose across his face - much like he had splattered Anthony Render’s all those years ago. The ski
nhead’s face burst like an infected abscess, but Ethan carried on raining blows. The skinhead gagged on the coppery fluid pouring down his throat.

  Then Ethan was up, spinning like an angry scorpion, grabbing the handle of the baseball bat, raising it above his head and bracing himself to bring it crashing down.

  “Ethan! Don’t do it!”

  Ethan paused, baseball bat still above his head. Slowly, he turned towards his wife.

  Karris stepped onto the dark veranda.

  Dave climbed from his knees, rubbing at his throat. Red-faced, sweating, froth drying at the corners of his mouth. But at least he was breathing regularly.

  “Get out of here, Karris! You don’t have to see this!”

  “No! I won’t allow you to do it!”

  “What about what they have done to us? They just tried killing Dave!”

  “You’re better than them!”

  “They kicked the shit out of me!”

  “You’re not like them!”

  “I’m the same as them!”

  Tears welled up in his eyes. A droplet dribbled free, trickling sorrowfully down his cheek. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. When he spoke again, it felt as though somebody had replaced his Adam’s apple with a lump of coal.

  “I… killed him. I just… I just… killed a man!”

  Dave staggered forwards. He stared down at the crumpled skinhead who was spitting blood and broken teeth onto the floor. “You did what you had to do, Ethan. You did what Karris and I expected of you. You saved your family. But it has to end here.” Pale blue eyes locked onto the raised baseball bat. “Put it down, Ethan. It’s over.”

  Ethan brought the baseball bat crashing down, roaring with rage and frustration, splitting the bat in two halves. One half sailed over the veranda, the other spun off into the bloody fountain. Ethan tottered unsteadily over to Karris, cradling bruised ribs, and allowed her loving arms to enfold him. He wanted to wail and howl into her bosom.

  Dave pulled the skinhead to his feet by the scruff of his vest. “I suggest you leave before I release his muzzle.”

  The skinhead offered no resistance, which didn’t surprise Dave, seeing as the youth could barely speak. He merely nodded, glanced down at his dead companion, and then limped towards the stairwell.

  “Daddy, are you okay?”

  Ethan pulled away from Karris, gently pushing her aside and crouching in front of his son, who was standing in the doorway. “Hey champ.” Ethan rubbed at his eyes, smiling with artificial jolliness. “I’m okay, mate. It’s just been a long night, that’s all. Nothing a cuddle from you can’t fix.”

  At the sound of the little boy’s voice, the bleeding skinhead stopped and turned. He saw Ethan crouched in front of the toddler and stumbled forwards. Dave stepped in front of him, placing a hand on the punk’s chest. The skinhead swatted it aside.

  “Don’t be afraid, little soldier!” Blood spewed from the skinhead’s ruptured lips. It stained his chin deep red, making him look like a feasting vampire. “Nothing to fear anymore!”

  Ethan sprang to his feet, pushing his son behind him. Fingers curled into deadly weapons. The skinhead swayed unsteadily.

  “Don’t talk to him!” Ethan snarled. “Don’t dare talk to my son!”

  Ignoring the builder, the skinhead reeled forward. It looked like he was on the verge of fainting.

  “Who is that man, Daddy?” Lincoln asked.

  “He’s nobody, honey-bear. That man is nobody. Why don’t you and Mummy go inside?”

  “He’s bleeding, Daddy. I think he might be hurt.”

  The skinhead stumbled forward again. Ethan blocked his path.

  “Time to rise up, little soldier,” the skinhead hawked. “It’s time to rise as one. Rise against the system!”

  Ethan grabbed a handful of grubby vest and pulled the skinhead towards the balcony, pressing him up against the railings. “You listen to me, you filthy fucker. Unless you want to join your friend down there, I suggest you stop speaking to my boy!”

  Karris picked Lincoln up and disappeared inside the apartment. Dave placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder and stared across to the skinhead. “Leave now.”

  The skinhead took two wary steps backwards, turned, then galloped down the staircase, dissolving into the gloominess. The slam of the door confirmed his departure.

  Ethan waited for a second, making sure the skinhead had indeed left, then slid down the wall, collapsing onto his backside, knees raised, head buried in bloody hands. Dave kept his distance, burnishing his tender throat. After a few long seconds, he finally spoke.

  “Why did you come here tonight, Ethan?”

  “Harold’s dead,” Ethan blurted. There was no “I’ve got some bad news” or “maybe you should take a seat.” Nothing like that. Ethan didn’t have time for such bullshit. What he needed was good old-fashioned honesty.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They…” he derailed momentarily. “My house, tonight, it was attacked by a bunch of fucking kids. They beat Harold to death. Mum and Lee are still up there. I can’t—”

  “Hey,” Dave said. “Calm down, calm down, Ethan. Now what do you mean, Harold’s dead?”

  “I told you. They killed him.”

  “Who? Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know.” Ethan rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Some kids targeted my house. I don’t know who they were and I don’t know why they chose my place. They killed Harold, petrol bombed his and Lee’s cars and—”

  “You say Mum’s still up there?”

  “Yes, with Lee and Bryan.”

  “We need to get back there then, Eth. We need to go and get them.”

  “That’s why I came here.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I thought we stood more of a chance of contacting the police if we were in the city.”

  “Have you not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  Before he could reply, a noise – whirring, wailing, high-pitched – roared into the complex. It deafened the two Hardcastle brothers with its mournful screeching; the hair rose on the back of Ethan’s neck. Thunder belched overhead, two ear-splitting planks of noise slamming together, but even that was little competition to the droning scream of the air-raid siren.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ethan closed the front door and locked it before sprinting down the narrow hall and exploding into his brother’s front room. Dave was standing at the window, peeping around the lace curtain into the communal gardens of the complex. It seemed quiet down there for the time being.

  “Mummy, I feel sick,” Lincoln groaned. He tugged irritably at the sleeve of Ethan’s coat. Karris crouched in front of her boy and placed the back of her hand against his flushed forehead. He did feel a little clammy but, with everything that was going on, that was only to be expected.

  Ethan manoeuvred around the La-Z-Boy recliner and the 60” LCD TV with its cinema surround-sound system, running envious eyes over the laptop sitting on the desk in the corner. A copious heap of DVD’s and Blu-Rays were stacked up like Lego bricks beside it.

  Shit, those arseholes would have had a field day if they’d gotten in here!

  He stepped up beside Dave.

  “How are the ribs, Ethan?”

  “Okay,” Ethan replied. Truth be told, they stung like a bitch. “A little bruised, but I’ll live. How’s it looking out there?”

  “It seems quiet.”

  “Good. We should probably think about moving on.”

  Dave nodded, but didn’t turn away from the window.

  The persistent whine of the air raid siren was slightly quieter now that every door and window in the flat was sealed shut. But, make no mistake about it, it was there; like an irritating song that’s stuck in your head on loop, one you are not quite able to put a name to, leaving you wishing that the fucking tune would just disappear.

  “Hey, honey-bear, you’re a little hot, but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” Karris took Lincoln b
y the hand and led the boy towards his father.

  “Hey, champ,” Ethan said, feigning happiness. “Why don’t we see if we can find some cartoons on Uncle Dave’s TV?”

  “I’m sorry, little man,” Dave said, “but you’ll have to watch it in the bedroom. There’s a DVD player in there.” He moved from the window and nodded towards a door opposite. “Marcel sometimes stays at weekends. He’s got all kinds of cartoons in there. I think there’s even a few Scooby Doo.”

  “Marcel?” Ethan asked.

  “Stefan’s little boy.”

  Ethan ran a hand through his hair and sighed loudly through his nostrils.

  “Why can’t he watch TV in here?” Karris asked, pointing towards the gargantuan entertainment system behind her.

  From the lobby, the fountain blasted an explosion of frothy pink spittle three-storeys high.

  “Because there’s something on TV that you, Ethan, need to see, but he doesn’t.”

  “If you mean the death of Prince Jasper, then you’re too late. We already know. It’s awful.”

  “I know. I don’t even know how they managed to break into the Palace.”

  “I guess tonight’s the night for strange occurrences.”

  “Don’t keep beating yourself up over what happened. You had no choice.”

  Ethan was desperate to put the carriage of guilt onto another track, divert it from its current destination – his aching heart – and derail the fucker if he had no other choice. He resorted to drastic tactics.

  “Thought you and Stefan were over.”

  “We were. It’s complicated. We are just taking things slowly.”

  “Slowly?”

  “We just want to see where things take us.”

  “I see. Take it his wife knows about you this time?”

  Dave shrugged; looking more than a little embarrassed. Ethan laughed humourlessly, mockingly.

  “It is what it is, Ethan,” Dave said quietly, eyes glittery.

  “Is he still hitting you?”

  “No, of course he isn’t. And I told you before, I was partly to blame.”

  “Come on, Dave; you’re better than that.”