by Hall, Thomas
“Hello,” the boy says. His voice sounds wrong in a way that I don’t understand until he is closer. When I see the closely shaved stubble on his face I know instantly that this is a dangerous situation.
I am disappointed to find out that my fight or flight reflex seems to be broken. Instead of doing either, I stand there and feel my legs go numb.
“Can you help me please?” he says.
“No,” I say. I don’t dare say more because then he will hear my voice shake and know that he has found someone he can take advantage of.
“I need food,” he says. The false high pitched voice sends shivers down my spine.
“I don’t have anything,” I say. The numbness in my legs starts to ease, I will be able to start walking again soon.
“Anything,” he says. “I’m so hungry.”
I push through the last of the numbness and manage to take a step. He turns with me. Will he attack me? Does he have a weapon?
The knife is still on my leg but I know I won’t be able to use it. Years of reading the news has taught me that, if I try, I will more than likely make things worse.
I start to walk and, as I feared, he walks with me. He is at least a foot shorter than me and I begin to wonder whether he is alone. Could he be part of a gang, the youngest looking member sent to convince people he is a child?
“I don’t have any food,” I tell him, growing in confidence now that I can actually move.
“I haven’t eaten for days,” he says. “Please, you have to help me.”
I shake my head. If I ignore him he might go away. It used to work for beggars and drug addicts. But that was when the city had been teeming with people and there was always another victim for them to try it on with.
My flat is close, but I don’t dare go towards it. The last thing I want is to lead him to Harriet.
I try to speed up. If he hasn’t eaten for days then I hope he will tire sooner than me and I can lose him in one of the side streets.
The man-boy follows me along the high street and I try to ignore him. He pleads for my help and I begin to wish that I did have something to give him. Even though I know it is unlikely to stop him coming for more.
It isn’t until the pleading turns into threatening, that I take notice of him again.
My legs stiffen and will them to keep working.
His hand is on my arm, turning me around to face him. My legs pick that moment to freeze up. I stumble and half fall until I am facing him.
The expression on his face has changed and he now looks his age.
“Give me your food,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I don’t have anything,” I say, no longer able to stop myself shaking as I speak.
He looks me up and down.
“I don’t have any,” I say.
He pushes me in the chest so hard that I the breath squeezes out of my lungs. I stumble backwards and hit the wall of the building behind me.
I open and close my mouth, trying to speak, but I am breathless and only a hollow gasping sound comes out. Is he going to kill me?
“You must have something,” he says. “Give it to me and you won’t get hurt.”
I am not at all sure that is true, but even if I was, it doesn’t change the fact that I have nothing to give him.
“Give me your fucking food!” he says, his voice echoes for minutes afterwards. But my judgement of time is not to trust worthy at the moment. Everything seems slower and out of sync.
“I don’t… I don’t…” I don’t know what I am trying to say to him, only that I want this situation to stop. I will give him everything I have, which is not much at all, if he will leave me alone.
I want to cry, and not only from the pain in my chest and the fear of what he will do to me. There is humiliation mixed in with my other emotions.
“Please,” I say. “I don’t have anything. I promise.”
He spits on the ground and I cringe. “That’s a shame for you,” he says.
I watch him ball up his fist.
The last time someone punched me I was twelve years old.
I tell myself that the first time will be the worst. The shock of the thing is greater than the pain.
His punch lands on my cheekbone and the pain explodes like a blooming flower across my face. I seem to feel every bone in his hand, and he has plenty.
I start to slide down the wall but he reaches out and grabs my coat, holding me up.
“Where’s the food?” he says.
I shake my head and try to feel whether he has broken any of my teeth.
He punches me again, in the same place, and I realise that I was wrong. The second punch hurts more than the first.
After the third punch he stops asking me questions.
The next thing I know I am sliding down the wall and it seems to be over. Then his boot is in my stomach and I cry out. Blood flies from my mouth along with the sound. I double over, trying to protect myself as best I can.
How long can he keep this up?
How much punishment I can take?
Have I already given up?
He kicks me in the stomach again. I am not sure whether to protect my face or my gut. I don’t think it will matter either way. I am weak compared to the heavy boots that he is wearing. All I can do is lay there and take it for as long as he continues.
At some point I black out.
CHAPTER 15
I OPEN MY STICKY EYES AND EVERYTHING IS streaked in blood.
My face feels swollen and bruised. I wait to see what else is coming but I can’t hear a thing.
Minutes pass before I dare to try and sit up. When I do the pain is overwhelming and I stop. Wait for it to pass. Try again in stages.
Straighten legs.
Turn on side.
Lift head.
It takes more than a minute for me to get into a sitting position against the shop wall.
I sit there until the day starts to become night and I begin to shiver.
He doesn’t come back.
No one else comes.
I do not die.
Which leaves me with the problem of where to go next.
The night is cold and there are no street lights. There is only thin cloud between me and the sky but it is enough to obscure the stars and the moon. Soon enough I can’t even see to the other side of the street, but I will still be able to find my way home.
It occurs to me that I look a terrible state, and I don’t want to scare Harriet. I consider finding another building to sleep in but that would be a waste of time. The real reason I don’t want to go home is because I am scared.
When I try to stand the pain is immense. My ribs hurt as if broken and blood rushes to my head. I can taste it in my mouth and it almost makes me sick. I push through it. The thought of seeing my daughter again gives me strength that I didn’t know I have.
No one is following me. At least I hope they aren’t. I move slowly and there is a ringing sound in my right ear, but I try to look around and make sure there is no one else there. Whoever the man who attacked me was, is gone, but to be safe I keep my hand on the knife.
It takes me almost an hour to walk from the high street to the flat. I used to do the same walk in less than twenty-minutes but it is not easy to move now. I hope that there is nothing seriously wrong with me, I don’t expect there are any doctors left in London.
When we left to join the evacuation, I thought I would never see home again. As I round the corner I am filled with something that might be nostalgia, might be joy, might be loss of blood. I am light headed and stumbling dizzily.
I almost knock on the door and then laugh at myself for being so stupid. I reach into my pocket, even my fingers hurt as if someone stood on them, and take out the key.
She might not be in there, I think. I know it is true, but my hope is rising. I have travelled all this way. She has to be here.
I open the door and step inside.
I can hear her in the living room. I wonde
r what time it is, and why she’s still awake.
I let the door swing closed behind me and it locks with a click. The noise in the living room stops and it occurs to me that she might be frightened.
“It’s me Harriet,” I say. I intend it to be reassuring, but it’s the first time I’ve spoken since the man attacked me. My voice sounds like a monster’s. “Daddy’s home.”
I walk up the step, past the coats hanging in the hall. There is a light in the living room but it has distorted her shadow so she seems too big and round.
There are plenty of clues which I would have picked up on if I hadn’t been coping with the pain from the attack. I don’t even notice the coat hanging in the hall. It is not until I step into the living room that I realise it isn’t Harriet at all.
A man stands on the other side of the sofa, in front of the television. He looks a few years older than me, in his forties. Even in the dim light cast by his electric lantern, I can see that he is bald and round. He hasn’t been struggling for food.
We stand there looking at each other. He doesn’t say anything.
“Where’s Harriet?” I say.
He shakes his head.
The pain which has been threatening to overwhelm me makes the room seem to swim. I don’t want to accept that she isn’t here. “Where is she?” I say again. “What have you done with her?”
“I don’t…” the man trails off. He sounds unsure of himself but that is an easy act to put on. “I thought… there was no one here…”
I take a step towards him, not sure what I’m planning to do. There is nowhere else for him to go so he stands there, watching me stumble.
“My daughter,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“My daughter,” I say again and wonder if I’m capable of saying anything else. If this man intends to hurt me then I won’t be able to stop him. Someone else has already started the job, it would be easy for him to finish it off.
“There was no one here,” he says. “I swear. I only wanted somewhere to sleep.”
There are blankets and a sleeping bag on the sofa bed. Why did he chose to sleep there rather than in one of the bedrooms?
“I’m sorry,” he says.
He is looking at something and it takes me a moment to realise that it is the knife on my leg.
“Are you okay?” he says. There is concern in his voice but I am so far gone that I have no idea whether it is genuine or not. “You look terrible.”
“My daughter…” I say.
“Sit down,” he says, stepping towards me and putting out his hands to guide me.
I flinch away from him.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m not infected.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me.
I let the man guide me to the sofa and sit down.
Everything seems distant and I’m not sure whether the world is fading or only my grip upon it. I should get checked out by a doctor.
“Lay down,” the man says.
I do as he tells me because it’s easier than thinking for myself. This might all be a dream. When I wake up I will still be on the street and Harriet will be waiting for me when I arrive at my flat.
“Drink this,” he says.
I open my mouth and taste cool water. I sip and then he takes the bottle away.
“Not too fast,” he says.
I don’t know how much I drink, but I can't keep my eyes open. I am exhausted and I don’t want to think about what this means. It can wait. Now I need to rest.
CHAPTER 16
THE SMELL OF FRYING MEAT FILLS THE AIR. I try to enjoy it for as long as possible, keeping the troubling thoughts at bay by not opening my eyes.
There is still pain but it is becoming more like an ache. I am content to believe that it will dull further as the days pass.
“There’s no bread I’m afraid,” Douglas says.
He won’t let me get up to help him. I sit on the sofa, wrapped in blankets. When we woke this morning we talked for long enough to exchange names but little else. I had hoped he was a doctor, but he told me he was a manager for a small vehicle rental business.
Beneath the blankets it isn’t cold, but I shiver all the same. It is probably delayed shock, but there’s nothing I can do other than wait for it to pass.
“Here,” Douglas says. He serves me bacon and sausages with a side of beans and crackers. I recognise the plates from my cupboard, but I don’t begrudge him using them to serve me a hot meal.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods and goes back to the kitchen, returning moments later with his own plate. He sits down in the easy chair to my right.
We eat in silence. The food tastes as good as it smells. They fed us in the evacuation centre, but it was nothing like this. I decide not to ask him where he got it.
When we have eaten he clears the plates away and returns with two cups of coffee. There is no milk left now, so everyone takes it black. He sits back down and looks at me, his meaning clear, now that the food is over, it’s time for us to talk.
“You’re looking for your daughter?” he says.
I nod. Not sure what I want to say to him.
“Her name’s Harriet?” he says.
This is all information that we’ve been through.
“You got separated during the evacuation?”
“That’s right.”
He nods to himself and sips his coffee. “I got here four nights ago. She wasn’t here.”
I believe him, but I wish that he was lying.
“It didn’t look like anyone had been here since you left.”
“She’s got to be somewhere,” I say.
“I’m sure,” he says.
There is a long pause while he drinks his coffee. I can almost see him thinking, the cogs turning in his mind as he considers what he is going to say next. I don’t know what I expect him to say, but it isn’t what comes out.
“I want to help you,” he says.
I nod, assuming that he’s saying it to make himself feel better. It doesn’t sound like an offer.
“If we’re both looking for her we’ll find her quicker.”
“Probably” I say. I’m still not sure what he’s saying.
“But you need to rest first. You need to recover.”
“My daughter—“
“Will still be there when you’re better.”
We both know this is a lie, but neither of us says anything.
“But I can start looking,” he says.
“I… why would you help me?” I say.
He shrugs. It is a gesture that looks comfortable on him and it would be easy to imagine that the world hadn’t ended outside. We could be two old friends having a catch up.
“Why weren’t you evacuated?” I say. It is the only thing I can think to say, but I can tell at once that I’ve broken the spell that had fallen over us. I already know why they didn’t evacuate some people and I start to wonder what he was guilty of.
“I’m not proud of it,” he says.
I try to fit a crime to the man who is sitting in front of me. He doesn’t look guilty.
“It was years ago now.”
I nod and I can tell that he wants me to let him off the hook. But if this man is going to help me look for my daughter, I need to know that he isn’t a murderer, rapist or child molester.
“Fraud,” he says, spitting the word out as if he’s afraid it will stick to him.
“Fraud?” I say. “They were only stopping people with convictions for violence.”
He nods. “I punched a police officer.”
I try to imagine him punching anyone but I can’t.
Douglas sighs. Even though we are sitting in my flat, drinking my coffee, it feels like I am the one who has stepped out of line. I want to take it back but it’s too late for that.
“I was drinking,” he says. “My wife had left me and I was in serious debt. It’s no excuse, I know, but I suppose it was too much for me to handle. When
they came to arrest me I resisted and I ended up punching the man.”
He could be lying to me. There is no way to check his story.
I sip my black coffee and feel the restorative effects of the caffeine. I don’t ask anymore.
Douglas watches me.
When I am done I lean forward and put the cup on the coffee table, the pain in my ribs is almost enough to make me pass out again.
“Have you got a photo of her?” he says.
I look around the room and realise that there are no photos of my daughter on the wall. It seems like a mistake I should have corrected long ago. “There’s a school photo in my room,” I say.
“Do you mind if I go and get it?” he says.
I nod, he stands up, and I wait for him to return.
He comes back a few moments later clutching a picture of Harriet in her grey school uniform.
“Is this her?” he says.
“That’s her.”
He asks me more questions about her and I answer them as well as I can. When the night falls her makes us dinner. Once he has eaten he leaves the flat.
I sit and thumb through the paperback book he left behind.
He has been gone for an hour already. Although he has left his bags and blankets, I’m not sure whether he will come back. Those things would be easy to replace, I’m sure.
I rest.
I sleep.
I get up to use the bathroom and when I look at myself in the mirror I see what a mess I am. There is no water to clean with, instead I take an old packet of baby wipes from under the sink and do the best I can.
I limp into my bedroom for a change of clothes. It feels better once I’m dressed. By the time I get back to the living room I am tired again and drift off halfway through the first paragraph I try to read.
When I wake up it is still dark.
I am not sure whether it is the sound of him returning that wakes me, or whether it is a coincidence.
The light from his lantern fills the flat and I hear him close the door. His heavy footsteps follow the light and I turn around.
“I brought dinner,” he says.
“Any sign of her?” I say.
He shakes his head and puts the bag in the kitchen next to the microwave. He comes through to the living room, sits down and tells me all about his uneventful night.