by RR Haywood
She edges over to the far side and creeps on past while flicking the light back to the rat on the bags with a belief the thing will charge and run up her legs any second.
The men behind huff and puff, wheezing with fear and fright. Feet scuffing the ground that kick cans into bottles that roll noisily over the concrete ground. It stinks of piss and rotten food with used orange-coloured capped hypodermic syringes dropped from the junkies’ hands to lie amongst the shit. Barefooted she goes and each step is checked and watched for fear of being pricked by a dirty needle.
She looks up at the windows and behind to the men, back at the wheelie bins then down at the ground. The light shines bright to illuminate the immediate area but only serves to make the shadows ahead look deeper and seemingly loaded with predators that will tear the flesh from their bones.
A door on the right and another huge pile of rat-infested bin bags stacked high. Rodent squeaks sound clear with tiny nails that scrape and teeth that chew noisily into the scraps left behind. The stench of piss is joined by damp mould, foul air and stale body odour.
A grumbling noise brings her to a sudden stop with the breath held in her throat. A rumbling growl followed by a hiss of air. It comes again, rhythmic and flowing with an organic, natural sound. Her eyes go wide, expecting the worse and ready to flee back down the alley.
‘Sounds like my nan,’ Bennie says too loud and too close, and the rest jump from the sudden verbalisation.
‘Shut up,’ Dolan whispers, angered, fearful and terror-stricken.
‘What? My nan snores like that,’ Bennie says, followed by the sound of liquid being sloshed and his throat working to down the whiskey.
Snoring. That’s all it is. Someone snoring. She works to bring her heart rate down and focus on the sound and now Bennie has put a name to it she recognises it for what it is.
Another step and hold. The light shines ahead. Another step and the light picks out a pair of feet attached to a pair of legs that stretch across the alley floor.
The grumble comes deep and full of bass from lungs exposed to mould, cold air and god only knows what else. She takes another step, watching as the tramp comes into view.
Big boots unlaced and wedged on the skinny bare legs full of cuts, bruises and scars. Varicose veins show clear like a road map down the backs of his calves. The shorts are baggy and several sizes too big. A tied-off piece of filthy string holds them round his thin waist and a filthy old Arsenal top hanging in strips that barely cover his emaciated frame. Thin, rangy arms scarred by track marks where the needles have plunged into veins that have sunk and broke until he’s been forced to work up and down to find a way to inject the heroin. Hands matted black with grime, fingernails long and brown. His right hand clutching a can of Special Brew and on his left hand sits a fat rat once again twitching his whiskers at the shining orb of light hovering in the air.
Grumble and hiss. Grumble and hiss. She stares down, taking in every sordid and awful detail of the man that walks the streets of London unseen, unnoticed and uncared for. The myth that beggars make more money than bankers is broken instantly. The man could be anywhere from thirty to fifty and is almost ageless in the squalor of his life.
A wet rasping sound comes clear and long. It goes on for seconds and the sleeping tramp smiles at the relief of the gases passed from his arse. The air fills with the foul smell of warm faecal matter and she watches as the rat turns its head and creeps from the tramp’s hand and over his bare leg to sniff the source of the wonderful new smell. Henrietta gags and quickly covers her mouth, unable to summon the courage to step over the tramp and continue their escape.
The rat leans down like a dog sniffing something he is unsure about. The tiny muscles bunch under the black, glistening fur ready to give flight should the need be called for. The head twitches as the nose works to determine the scent as a food source and a decision is made that further investigation is needed. The rat drops from the leg onto the ground inches from the hemline of the tramp’s shorts. It stares up into the darkness of the tramp’s groin, stepping one tiny leg after the other with the neck stretching to sniff.
Another wet rasping noise, longer and fouler than before. The rat flinches but holds his ground and this time the lure is too great. It goes into the opening, crawling against the flesh of the tramp’s thigh with only the thick twitching segmented tail flailing about.
Henrietta pukes. It cannot be helped. A big, dirty rat going up a tramp’s shorts and the bile spews from her mouth to splatter across the beggar’s bare legs. She freezes at the action, once again covering her mouth. The vomit slides thick down his skin to drip on the ground and the tramp murmurs in his sleep.
Just keep going. Step high and get over. Just keep going.
‘HAHAHAHA,’ the tramp’s laugh roars out with a voluminous voice booming to roll and echo down the high walls. A hand goes to his groin to scratch at the tickle he can feel in his sleep. Henrietta steps high and tries to look at the puke on his legs, the rat in his shorts, his hands firking about and his bearded, sunken-eyed face grinning to show broken teeth as he laughs and mutters dreamily.
She brings her last foot over his leg and goes to step high again as Bennie starts giggling with sudden mirth.
‘Shush,’ Dolan says urgently.
‘That tramp’s got Henrietta Swallow between his legs.’ Bennie snorts the laughter out as Brian chuckles. The tension is too high. The fear too great. The sustained focus has been on for too long and Henrietta snorts a laugh at the incredible surrealness and noticing that she is indeed between a tramp’s legs.
Her hand clamps harder but not to stop the vomit or stifle a scream but to hold in the hysteria. She steps high again, going clear over the legs and waiting while Dolan, Brian and Bennie get over with Bennie grinning from ear to ear and Brian still chuckling.
‘FUCKARSE,’ the tramp roars in his sleep. ‘BIG WILLIES.’
The laughter breaks through her fingers, deep and braying as Bennie bursts out with unrestrained giggles.
‘WANKPUSS…I AM…I AM…WANKPUSS…’
A hand on her back and Dolan propelling her forward while she tries to keep the laughter in. Dolan would just go in front and run but she has the torch so he stays behind waving his hands while hushing and shushing the other laughing three to be quiet.
‘Wankpuss the tramp,’ Bennie snorts. ‘Should we take him with us?’
‘No!’ Dolan almost shouts, causing the tramp to twitch as he giggles and scratches at the rat delving in his shorts.
‘Hey, Wankpuss,’ Bennie calls out soft and drunk. ‘Wanna come with us?’
‘Move.’ Dolan pushes Henrietta hard, snapping the laughter off and forcing her to stumble against the wall. ‘Get me the fuck out of here.’ He gets in close behind, propelling her forward with his heavier body weight. His breath snatching in terror at the confined space and being surrounded by idiots, tramps and rats. His shiny black shoes now dirty and scuffed and the white shirt under his black jacket smeared with grey and brown streaks. His hand grips her upper arm, squeezing tight while marching on.
‘Dolan.’ She tries to yank free but his hands are big and clamped hard. ‘Take it easy.’
‘Just keep fucking moving.’
‘We are…Dolan, slow down. I can’t see properly.’
‘Move.’
‘I’ve got no shoes on.’
‘I don’t fucking care.’
‘Hey,’ Bennie calls, trying to keep up with the new frantic pace. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘Shut your fucking mouth, you little prick.’ Dolan simmers with terror-fuelled anger coursing through his body. He has to be out of here. He must be out of here.
The alley twists and turns down straight lines that reach hard right angles as they snake through the deep building lines of a city built larger over many hundreds of years. Barbed-wire fencing protects low walls. Security lights blaze in their eyes. A dog barking furiously from somewhere close. Henrietta tries to watch the ground ahead
but her arm hurts from being gripped so hard and pushed forward.
Dolan wheezes noisily through his nose from the exertion. The sweat pours down his face into his beard. Mutterings sound under his breath, but although his mind longs to be out of here his body cannot sustain the fast pace.
She tugs her arm free as he slackens off to try and snatch air into his starved lungs. Silent now. She doesn’t speak but keeps on leading them through a maze of brick hedges and doors covered with thick iron bars and cameras glowing red lights to record and track their progress that will be saved onto hard drives that will never be seen.
That he is terrified is obvious and she swallows down the irritation of his manner. He is Dolan the head of factual programming for Channel Four. He is an important person and the key to her gaining a future in broadcasting. Keep him safe, keep him alive, but more than that don’t piss him off. Do what he wants and reap the rewards.
She holds an image clear in her mind. Of the theatre given over to a production film crew as she talks into the camera retelling the tale of the night they survived. What exactly they are surviving is beyond her. Something bad, that’s for sure, and a nagging voice in the back of her mind that she supresses. Bennie will say how great she was and no doubt Brian will sell his story to the press, too. She doesn’t blame him. He will need the money for a new van. Dolan, though. He’s the important one. Keep Dolan on side.
Round another tight corner and the bright lights of the main road shine like a beacon at the end. Shadows and darkness giving way to the lure of light and the perception of safety. For Dolan, the lure is too great to withstand and with the end in sight he pushes roughly past Henrietta to take the lead down the last section. That nagging voice screams louder and she darts forward to grab his arm.
‘Slow down…’
‘Get off me.’ Petulantly he tries to tug her off but she clings hard, digging her heels into the ground.
‘We don’t know what’s down there.’ She gasps the words out, staring over his shoulder at the restricted view of the street. Dolan stops but doesn’t turn back. Instead he stares ahead, listening and watching.
‘I’m fucked,’ Bennie says from somewhere behind. ‘Like…totally fucked.’
‘What we doing now?’ Brian asks quietly.
‘Trying to bloody listen, you stupid man.’ Dolan spits the words out but still doesn’t look round. The suggestion of danger has been cemented in his mind, which conflicts heavily with the desire to be out of the alleys but now deeply worried at what is out there. Henrietta is behind him. Damn it. She should go first. He is too important to be risked.
‘Let me go ahead,’ Henrietta whispers behind him. He steps aside instantly and without hesitation as she creeps past, walking silent on naked feet.
The street is well lit. Neons and strip lights flash and strobe to mix with newly installed white LED street lights overhead. She can see only two stores opposite the mouth of the alley. Both clothes shops and closed up. She goes further, letting the view open up. Another shop, also closed. Something on the ground. She stops and stares hard, trying to recognise the huddled, formless shape.
When the sight translates into her brain she shows no reaction but pauses and stares at the body. Slumped, unmoving, inert. On the balls of her feet she presses on to reach the line of the alley as it gives way to the street proper.
She looks left first, seeing cars abandoned in the middle of the road. Doors open. Bodies lying dead across bonnets and on the ground. Blood smears everywhere. Nothing moving. No sounds, either. A restaurant with doors open and the outside tables and chairs upturned and strewn everywhere. Further down a welcome sign flashes outside a bar to a full but lifeless street.
Henrietta moves over to look down to the right. More shops closed but shining lights that blaze upon the wares inside the sparkling plate-glass windows. A kebab house with the distinct sign hanging over the door. More cafés, bars, restaurants. More cars abandoned and more bodies lying dead. Nothing to be heard. She scans the view both sides and without realising it she opens her mouth to widen the ear canal and so increase the depth of her hearing. Naturally observant and the eyes are motion detectors. In a deserted street her gaze is drawn to the strobing neons and flashing lights but nothing else.
‘HENRIETTA…HENRIETTA SWALLOW…’
Fuck. Simon.
She spins round to stare back down the alley to the others all turning to face the direction of the roaring voice heading towards them.
‘HENRIETTA SWALLOW…’
‘Fuck it,’ she mouths the curse and looks round the street, sensing that to create noise here is a bad thing. A very bad thing.
‘WHO ARE YOU? WHERE’S HENRIETTA?’
‘WANKPUSS…’
‘WHERE IS HENRIETTA? WHAT DID YOU DO TO HENRIETTA SWALLOW?’
‘FACK OFF.’
‘DID YOU TOUCH HER VAGINA?’
Christ. Not now. We’ve got to go before he catches us up.
A scream from the tramp and Simon’s voice roaring in violence. Sickening thumps and the scream is cut off abrupt and sudden.
‘Come on,’ Henrietta whispers to the others, beckoning them to follow after her. Dolan comes first, not needing any further prompting. Drunk Bennie and half-drunk Brian follow suit passing the bottle of whiskey between them.
Into the street and she looks both directions, not knowing where they are. It looks central, upmarket and refined. The restaurants are classy-looking places. The bars and outlets the same. Only the kebab house looks out of place, but even that looks posher than most normal late-night fast-food joints.
Which way? Which fucking way? Quickly…make a decision. Go left. Less dead bodies.
Decision made and once again she takes the lead, running down the road with the other three huffing behind her and Dolan’s dress shoes slapping the tarmac noisily. Brian and Bennie stagger more than run but they keep pace, desperate to be away from the alley.
‘HENRIETTA SWALLOW…’
‘Shit.’ She casts a look round, grimacing at the closeness of the voice that now sounds full of anger.
Movement ahead. A rumbling of noise and the street fills with figures running into view. Hundreds of people staggering stiff-legged with arms hanging limp that charge towards the shouting voice.
‘HENRIETTA SWALLOW…’
‘Oh god,’ Dolan whimpers. The other end of the street full of figures running towards them. Both sides now filled with low growls and grumbling noises that sound clear in the air while an angry Simon bellows Henrietta’s name over and again, drawing attention from every direction.
They can’t go ahead and they can’t go back. Left and right are blocked. The alley is no good if Simon is there as that means the ones from the theatre will be out, too. She comes to a stop with a concertina effect of the other three running into the backs of one another. Her mind whirls frantic and working overdrive. Scanning the street looking for an escape. Searching for something, anything.
The kebab house.
A calm voice within her mind and no sooner has the idea presented itself that she’s running towards the open door and bright lights. Dolan and the others follow her up the road, jumping and weaving over and round the bodies as they splash through thick pools of blood pooling from the corpses bitten too deep.
Adrenaline surges through her body. She gains the door grabbing the frame to stop her momentum. Over the tiled floor and another dead body lying amongst a set of overturned tables.
‘Get in.’ She stops suddenly and heads back to the door, pulling the others through into the customer eating area. She wrenches the door closed, slamming it home, and her hands fumble to ram the thick bolts at the top and bottom home.
‘Oh god…oh god…’ Dolan whimpers in the middle of the room with his hands once again clamped to his head. Bennie glugs from the bottle while Brian stares terrified and rooted to the spot.
They’ll be here any second. She backs away from the door towards the high counter covered with pamphlet men
us and old newspapers smeared in chilli sauce. Hinges set in the high-gloss MDF surface.
‘In here.’ She grabs Bennie first and shoves him into the kitchen. Brian next, then the panicked Dolan who misses the gap and whacks his kneecaps on the counter front and cries out in pain and shock. She gets him through and slams the swing top down then the stable door closed. This is London and drunks are dangerous. Every door has a bolt and the stable door is no different with a thick galvanised steel rod that she slides into the coupling as the first of the horde comes into view outside.
They don’t slow. They don’t pause or worry about the glass forming a barrier between them and the people inside and they pay no heed or show no reaction as they run into the glass with faces, foreheads and shoulders smashing into the window that splinters and forms spiderweb cracks. They come harder with greater numbers from both sides, adding to the weight that presses against the window and door. The glass breaks, cutting through flesh to open wounds that bleed freely but still no reaction is shown.
She stares in abject horror at the sight of so many frenzied people ramped up with bloodshot eyes and lips pulled back to reveal bloodied teeth and mouths that drip hanging strands of saliva. Nearly every single one of them has injuries that would otherwise have them screaming in agony on the ground.
Men and women. Children, too. Old people grey-haired with wrinkled skin. Hands clawed with fingers like talons. The young act as demented and vicious as the old. Big men and young ladies in evening wear. Cabbies, bouncers, waiters, police officers. All of them cramming to get through and into the kebab house.