“I won’t…” he shook his head, “…ever…forget!”
With that, she turned and made her way up the steps toward the door, not daring to look back. Malcolm let go a quiet sob as he watched her disappear inside, and then slowly climbed to take his place just outside the doors, praying the angels would be with them. The sky was full of fireworks now, the world around him flashing with light and noise, and the acrid fumes of gunpowder thick in the cold air.
He felt momentarily disoriented as he reached the top and his laboured breath seemed to stick in his chest. The pain was suddenly worse and he felt the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach. A second later he was bent double, retching blood and bile onto the flagstones. There was a piercing ringing in his ears and he felt chill, as though the wintry night was seeping in through his skin. Malcolm blacked out.
He opened his eyes. His vision cleared and he could see the stained step and his outstretched hands pressed into the ugly stain he’d made. The ringing noise and the insidious cold had passed with the nausea, but the pain remained. How long had he been there on his hands and knees? How long had she been gone? Had she called out the signal? Had he missed it? In panic, he pushed himself upright, ignoring the stinging sensations that wrenched his torso from top to bottom as he did so. He stared at the doors, half expecting to see Kathryn come running out, screaming at him for missing the moment…losing the boy. His heart was thumping as his mind raced through the options…stay and wait…go in…what should he do for the best? Either option posed a huge risk for both of them…but which of them held the least risk for her?
He remembered the gun in his coat pocket. Malcolm pulled it out and plunged inside.
It was all a blur…from the instant he entered. He remembered his new hiking boots slipping on the smooth tiled floor, the look on the police officer’s face as he regained his balance and pushed through the inner doors to see Kathryn standing there…pointing at the boy. They all saw the gun…the boy, the police officer, the receptionist and Kathryn. He heard someone shout…a man’s shout: “He’s got a gun!” He saw the plastic ties around the boy’s wrists…he saw Kathryn open-mouthed, as though she was about to cry out. He shouted to them: “Get away from him!” And he didn’t wait. He just grabbed the boy and ran, as fast as he could. Then he was sliding and stumbling down the steps, the boy tumbling after him. The gun slipped from his grasp as he thudded onto his back against the pavement at the bottom, knocking the wind from his lungs. The pain seared through him and he wondered if this was the moment he would breath his last and his mission would die in futility with him. Above him he could see the stars. The clouds had parted and the sky sparkled. An abrupt flash of blinding white light momentarily filled the gap between the sullen clouds and white wings spread in every direction, hissing and crackling with energy.
“Angels!” he cried out.
With all that was left in him he rolled over onto his hands and knees and pushed himself upright, shutting out the excruciating pain that cried out from every bone. He reached down and picked up the gun, then turned around to find the boy already on his feet, staring at him with a half smile.
“Come! Boy!” he urged. “If you want to live…if you want to see Ma and Harry again, come now!” Together they ran.
They ran through the puddled streets, Malcolm deliberately zig-zagging his way through the nearby housing estate in the hope that any officers who had followed would lose sight of them. He paused occasionally to catch his breath and glance over his shoulder but he could see nobody chasing them, no sign of a uniform. The expected roar of the patrol car and the wail of the sirens never came. The only sounds were the clatter of their own feet as they ran, the wheezing of his chest and the pops and bangs of the fireworks all around them. Finally he could run no more and he had no choice but to stop and rest.
They were alongside a shabby wooden fence that gave way to an alleyway a few yards ahead, running alongside the ends of terraces. Malcolm looked around in all directions. Nothing seemed familiar. In his flight he had lost all sense of his bearings and he began to wonder how he would find his way back toward the market place. Then he heard it, a distant siren, and knew that he had to press on…keep moving…or risk being found.
“Come!” he barked and led the boy toward the corner of the fence and into the alley. They were half way down when he realised they were walking into complete darkness. The lamps on the remaining columns gave no light and none came from the windows of the last few terrace blocks. Malcolm began to edge forward more cautiously, gripping the gun firmly in his outstretched hand. As his eyes adjusted he could see why there was no light. The lamps above their heads were jagged and shattered, like the windows of the empty, semi derelict houses alongside them. Panels of the fence were missing in places and those that remained were heavily graffiti-ridden. His heart began to race with excitement…they had reached the wastelands! Although he didn’t recognise this border between his world and the other world, surely it was just a matter of picking his way across the debris-strewn fields until he found somewhere more familiar?
The end of the alleyway was cluttered with rubble, burned tyres and twisted metal, like a makeshift barrier, an unmanned checkpoint between the two worlds. Malcolm carefully picked his way over, squinting into the darkness, checking over his shoulder to make sure the boy followed. On the other side his boots found grass, knotted and overgrown. The ground was uneven, and seemed to be rising. Looking up he could see the flicker of flames and a thin wisp of smoke trailing into the sky. Surely the campfire of some fellow non citizens? He began to climb the hill, the pain gnawing at his insides with every step. Still, he told himself, not too far to go now and his mission would be over…
Closer to the peak of the hill he could hear the crackle of the wood as it blazed, and smelled the smoke. The sirens and the fireworks sounded more distant now, well and truly behind them, as the other world faded. He thought of Kathryn and felt a rush of regret, knowing he would never see her beautiful face again or taste the sweetness of her lips. He wondered if she was home again by now, if the police had just assumed her innocence and let her walk away as they tried to find the madman with the gun who had stolen the boy.
Heaving himself up to where the ground levelled out he could see the fire now. It was huge and fierce…and he knew at once it was not a campfire! “Remember, remember…” he said aloud…and it dawned on him that no non citizen would ever set a blaze like this so close to the other world. He froze. He became aware of voices nearby, laughing and the clink of bottles. There were shapes moving in the darkness, silhouettes edging around the intense heat of the giant bonfire, the red embers of their cigarettes dancing as they moved. He remembered the gang who had set upon him in the street the night before, when Kathryn rescued him, and started backing slowly and quietly away, terror rising in his chest.
That was when he saw the boy…walking toward the bonfire like a moth drawn to the light…
“Boy!” he hissed, as loudly as he dared.
The boy continued walking toward them. Malcolm’s heart sank. They hadn’t seen him yet, weren’t aware of his approach, but it was only a matter of seconds… He wanted to continue backing away, shrink into the darkness and disappear, leave the boy to his own fate, but Malcolm knew…he knew that could never be allowed to happen. Summoning all his strength and resolve, he began to follow, his hand shaking beneath the weight of the gun and his fear.
“What the fuck…?” They’d seen the boy. Now they would see him too.
They were breaking out of the shadows into the glow of the fire, hooded faces snarling and sneering, their voices cackling with cold amusement. There were many of them…maybe a dozen or more…Malcolm couldn’t be sure if they were the same faces he’d seen the previous night but he’d be hard pressed to tell the difference.
“Jesus, Fuck! Here’s another!” he heard one say, and knew they’d seen him. “We’re being fucking invaded! What the fuck is this…? An old man and a boy…what are you o
ld man, a fucking paedo? What do you think we fucking are?”
“Shit! The mad fucker’s got a gun!” Someone screamed and someone laughed.
“Paedo’s got a fucking gun! It’s pointed at me!”
“Get his gun!”
“Get the fucking gun off him! Get his gun!”
“Break his fucking fingers if you have to!”
There was movement all around him, a frenzy of noise and shouting. Malcolm felt giddy again, and the nausea rising through his chest with the agony of his wounds. The icy claws of the night seemed impervious to the heat of the blaze. His vision was darkening and he could no longer distinguish the light from the shadows. This was it…he knew…the end. There was one last chance to save the boy…one…final…
Malcolm pulled the trigger.
There was click. No bang.
Someone close by laughed.
“Fucker’s got no bullets!”
And Malcolm knew.
He knew that someone like Kathryn would never carry a real gun…for all her bravado. This was nothing more than a toy, a convincing replica to scare away the crows. She was an angel…and angels didn’t carry guns.
Before he fell to the ground he could smell their hot stale breath, the pungent reek of alcohol and sharp hit of glue. He was their crazed eyes swimming around him, nostrils and mouths caked white and drooling. He didn’t even feel the first blow when it came, or the cushion of the soft wet earth as it enveloped him.
It felt like flying, soaring high above with the thunderclaps and starbursts, the angels shining over him. And down below he could see a familiar rag doll body; new coat, new boots, new jumper and trousers. They were dancing around it, kicking and beating it with sticks, whooping and cheering joyously. And then they picked it up from the bloodied ground and carried it to the bonfire. With an almighty swing, it sailed through the smoke-filled air and crashed in an explosion of embers.
“Father, forgive them…” he said, remembering the words from a distant life. And Malcolm was gone.
*
The cold grey sky was clouded and drizzling. A chilling wind whipped across the wasteland. Harry watched the boy as he rummaged through a nearby pile of debris, concentration written across his face as he searched for something…perhaps a toy to amuse himself with. Harry wondered what was going through his head, his silent world that he could share with no-one. Ma was stirring the last of the rotten vegetables in the old charred cooking pot, her face ruddy with the heat of her fire. Harry looked back at the boy, now carefully sifting through the rubbish he’d found. What had he seen in the days since Malcolm had lost him and Rachel in the market place? How had he found his way back? And where was Malcolm who had gone to rescue him?
The boy suddenly stopped what he was doing and looked up.
Harry followed his line of sight. There was a figure in the distance, walking toward them. Could it be Malcolm, returning home at last? Perhaps he’ll have fresh supplies with him? Harry narrowed his eyes, struggling to see. The boy had dropped everything and stood staring at the approaching figure. As it neared, Harry knew it could not be Malcolm. The walk was too measured, even, the build too slight, and those were not rags but proper, clean clothes. It was a woman! A citizen!
The boy was running toward her, arms outstretched, as if in recognition.
Harry watched as she put down her bags and wrapped herself around the boy when he reached her. Then she put the boy down, picked up her bags and walked toward them, holding tight to the boy’s hand. Ma stopped stirring and looked up from the pot as she approached them. Harry could see she was smiling beneath her autumnal scarf.
“You must be Harry,” she said, “And you are Ma?” They stared at her dumbfounded, a glowing alien in their grubby derelict world. “These are for you…” she held out the bags, the aroma of fresh fruit, vegetables and other foods overwhelming, “…from Malcolm.”
*
Part 7
It’s a Rainy Day, Sunshine Baby
XIX
SUSAN Woods watched the rain trickle like tears down the outside of her window. She was leaving the metropolis. After pushing her way to the very rear of the coach she had chosen a seat next to the window. She wanted to watch the ugly city visibly diminish as the bus wove its laboured route through the pumping chaos of the centre, through the sprawling arteries of suburbia and toward the rural promise of a calmer life beyond the hills and mountains that encircled the Welsh capital. She secretly hoped that, as she watched the built-up skyline shrink away behind her, a feeling of renewal would spark within her. So as she began her journey, in the crawl of the Saturday morning traffic, she gazed out…but the cold grey sky, it seemed, was nestled too firmly in her soul and smothered all stirrings of hope.
It was almost noon. The roads had begun to gridlock with the buses that ferried hordes of eager shoppers from the great suburban sprawl into the beating heart of commerce. It would, she guessed, take almost an hour for the coach to negotiate the congestion and out onto the orbital expressway. At least, from there, it would only be minutes until they joined the M4 and more rapid progress. Susan resigned herself to the long wait for her first taste of freedom.
“Stupid bastard!” The voice in her right ear pulled her attention away from the drizzle and the traffic.
“Pardon?”
Scott Blackwell shifted in his seat beside her, clearly agitated. He scowled at her and pulled the headphones away from his ears, fidgeting with his portable digi-player. “I said he was a stupid bastard.”
“Who? The bus driver?”
“No! That prat back there…the one who just barged into us. You know, the creepy weirdo at the bus station who kicked over our suitcase? Remember?”
Susan rubbed her shoulder, vaguely recalling the man who had been so eager to make progress he’d sent her flying. She could remember his eyes, filled with fear and the wildness of urgency. His eyes had unsettled her. But that was typical of the city…everyone desperately rushing to get somewhere that there was no time for life.
“The one you called a fuckwit…that one?” Scott sneered. It was a side of him she’d never liked.
“Yeah…him!”
“Forget about him, we’re leaving now…leaving all that behind us.”
“Thank fuck!” He shoved the earphones back in place. “Sooner, the better!”
“I felt sorry for him,” she added wistfully.
“Wha…?”
“I felt sorry for him…that crazed look in his eyes…terrified of life. It’s what this place does for you in the end.” But Scott wasn’t listening. She heard the hiss of drums and guitars as he started to nod his head and twitch his leg in time to the music. Susan returned to her silent thoughts and her patient waiting.
Her window was starting to steam up. She wiped it clear with her hand, enjoying the cold. Beyond, the crowded streets of the metropolis edged by, an endless sea of strangers’ faces, streets brimmed with the push and pull of human life. Those streets had become far too intense for her these past few months…too full of loathing, fear, even paranoia. Now, at last, she was leaving them behind.
Years had elapsed since Susan was home…home where she’d been born and raised before being dragged away – kicking and screaming on the very edge of her independence – to the big city. Cardiff could never be her home. She belonged in the country. She belonged in a calmer, quieter pace of life. At first she’d tried, she’d even begun to enjoy something of the buzz of excitement and adventure that came with city life…but on every street corner she turned she could also see the threatening shadows of its dark, seething underbelly. And day-by-day, those shadows had grown longer. She’d finally conceded that she could never fully make the transition, never completely adjust. Once she realised, her heart began to really yearn for her home…and the pull of her rural roots on the outskirts of her county town became irresistible and pervasive. Herefordshire was calling her back to its bosom.
She had tried to immerse herself in her studies, to try a
nd drown out the call with facts and figures to be remembered and regurgitated, blocking out all else. But she’d failed and gradually her coursework and attendance began to suffer as she lost motivation and the memories of her idyllic childhood seeped surreptitiously into every corner of her waking thoughts. Her father had dismissed it as a ‘rebellious phase’, nothing more than ‘teenage angst’ and that, given time and a little more application, she would adjust to their new life in the city. And he’d warned her against keeping bad company, as every father does. But then she’d met Scott and it was unclear who led whom astray.
Her bedroom slowly filled with the sound of rebel songs, the disparate symbols of a bewildering array of causes as she sought a focus for her anger, and the overpowering aroma of incense to mask the sweet staleness of cannabis smoke. From then on, it was inevitable that her life with them, in their home in the city, would come to an abrupt end. And so it did, soon after she’d started her third and final year. She didn’t even tell them she was going – not her parents, her lecturers and not even her friends, save for Scott who had given her the strength and encouragement to make that decision. Together, he’d said, they would find utopia on the very fringes of a society they now despised.
Yet beneath that noble presumption of a quest, she sensed there was another motive lurking – her unspoken fear that she was slowly but surely losing her grip. Susan wondered if she was no better than the scared and lonely man who had crashed into them in the bus station just now. What was he running from? Where was he running to? What was she running from, and running to? And what would she find when she got there…
Experiment With Destiny Page 28