Crash

by Michael Robertson

  Turning the charm back on, Dean said, "Come on, Charlie boy. It's okay. You have nothing to fear from Uncle Dean." His smile was crooked and forced. It was more a clenching of his teeth than anything. Charlie had everything to fear from 'Uncle Dean'. They all did.

  Feeling his little boy pressing into his legs again, Chris looked down to see Michael's bloodshot and smoke-sore eyes. "What are they doing to Charlie?"

  "I'm not sure, mate, but I don't want you to watch this okay?"

  Nodding, Michael sat on the stairs and waited, his face an ant farm of worry lines.

  When he was only a few meters away, Charlie's steps slowed down.

  "That's a good boy," Chris muttered. "Now turn around and run."

  Dean bounced on the spot like a boxer before a big fight. He took another gulp of the champagne, swallowing aggressively as he waited for Charlie to carry on walking towards him. "Come on, boy, that's it, mate. Good boy."

  Chris' heart was sinking fast, and like most of Dean's activities, he couldn't stand to watch, but he found that he couldn't take his eyes away either.

  Daisy then screamed from the truck, "Leave him alone, you fucking psycho! You horrible piece of shit! He's just a fucking dog!"

  Sincerity returned to Dean's beaming smile as he looked at the pleading girl. It seemed that causing absolute suffering was where he found his joy. Lifting his bottle as if to toast her, he winked and looked back at Charlie, who was now less than a meter away. "Good boy," Dean said. "Now sit."

  Charlie obediently did what was asked of him and then glanced at Mel's fallen form in the road.

  Although Dean wore what was once a very expensive suit, on his feet were steel-toe-capped boots. It was the right one of these that he delivered into Charlie's jaw with all of his might, his face contorted with rage and effort. The dog's head snapped upwards as if there were no muscles holding it in place and his high-pitched yelp bounced around the close.

  Daisy and Sarah both screamed, and Chris' stomach lurched.

  George, who had returned to his pick-up, shook his head and stared at their suited leader.

  Dropping down on one knee, Dean said, "I'm sorry, boy, my foot slipped. Come here, boy, there's a good boy."

  Dean's behavior showed Chris a new level of sadism that was beyond the violence. He could imagine him doing this to other people in his life, flicking between monstrous cruelty and sickly sweet charm as he systematically destroyed them. From the way he treated women, Chris wondered if he'd had a wife, and if so, what had happened to her when the rules of the world had changed. He then wondered what had happened to her before that, imagining that this level of instability was there before everything went to hell. Looking down at Michael, he also wondered if Dean had any children.

  Both Sarah and Daisy screamed at their beloved pet, "No, Charlie, don't do it, run away! Go away, Charlie!"

  Charlie shook and urinated on the driveway. Looking at his caged owners and then at Dean, his face was slack with confusion, and he was crying.

  "Come on, boy," Dean said. His murderous grin lighting his face up like a slot machine. "It's okay."

  Walking back towards him, Charlie then got another boot to the face that lifted him clean off the ground and sent his limp body into a backwards somersault. He hit the floor like wet mud. When he got up, the bottom half of his jaw hung loose like the limb of a broken puppet, and he was whimpering and dribbling blood.

  Chris' guts burned, and he thought he'd vomit where he stood. Unable to look away, he leant down and touched Michael's head. He felt his boy's cold hand reach up and grab his wrist as if hanging onto his dad would provide all the protection he needed. Chris feared that his son's expectation would fall woefully short of the mark.

  Letting out a gentle and constant whine of pain, the black dog cowered, but he still didn't run away.

  Daisy and Sarah screamed louder than before, their wails ringing out over the fearful city.

  Taking a moment to look away from the dog, Dean addressed them in an even tone, his twitching body contradicting his calm voice. "You seem more concerned about what happens to the stupid fucking dog than you did your mum and dad. What's fucking wrong with you?"

  Chris then noticed that George had got out of the cab again and was watching his leader very closely.

  Any hint of fake charm left Dean's voice when he addressed the dog again, ordering, "Charlie. Here. Now!"

  The confused Charlie obeyed and received another heavy boot to the face for his troubles. This time he didn't make a sound because when he landed, he was out cold. He lay panting lightly in his master's pool of blood.

  As Dean walked down the driveway towards the downed dog, his face was lit up with a huge grin and wide, excited eyes. He was mania personified.

  George ran at Dean, and Chris wondered whether this would be it.

  However, before George could get to their leader, he'd lifted his right leg and brought the heel of his boot down on the dog's head with a thick crunch. The black body fell limp. When Dean lifted his boot, the dog's crushed head looked like Picasso had reinterpreted it.

  Chris threw up, his heaves hidden by the screaming girls in the truck. Spitting the acidic and thick bile from his mouth, he looked up again in time to see George push Dean so hard that he fell forwards onto all fours.

  Looming over the insane man, George shouted, "What's fucking wrong with you?"

  Chris clenched his fists and pulled in lungfuls of smoke as he silently encouraged George to start laying into the scrawny man.

  Dean got to his feet and stared at George. Both men looked poised to fight.

  Trying again, George said, "Why the fuck would you kill a fucking dog? What has it done to you? What fucking threat does it pose?"

  Pointing at the truck with the girls in, the bottle of champagne, which he'd managed to hold onto for the entire time, hanging from his hand, he said, "It takes hope away from those cunts. Their existence robbed the poor of any wealth, so I'm robbing their lives of everything else."

  Staring at Dean like he wanted to kill him, George watched him tip the rest of his champagne over the fallen Charlie. Red fizz ran down the driveway. He then walked past the big man to his truck, filled the bottle with petrol from a small can, stuffed his skinny black tie into it, lit his cigarette, and then lit the tie. Watching the fire eat away at the thirsty fabric, droplets of flames falling to the floor like wax, he launched the bottle at the Gerrards' house. It crashed through their living room window and landed on the sofa, consuming it instantly.

  Looking back at George, who was still staring at him, Dean grinned. He then looked over at Chris, who was too well hidden behind his net curtain to be seen, and said, "House number three."

  Glancing at his wide-eyed son, Chris said, "Oh fuck." His only thought, other than absolute fear and an urgent need to shit, was that he was grateful his wife and daughter didn't have to be subjected to this.

  Unemployable

  "You're unemployable, Chris."

  Looking at his skinny wife, who was now even skinnier from their self-imposed rationing over the last few months, Chris said, "We're all fucking unemployable. That's what tends to happen if there are no jobs."

  Running her eyes up and down his body while pursing her thin lips, she said, "Surely you can do something? The problem is, you've been a fat white man in a suit for so long that you don't know how to do anything practical. Can't you grow vegetables or something?"

  She was right; this wasn't a world for fat white men in suits anymore. That didn't mean he wanted to hear it from her. "And what have you done? How have you contributed?"

  From behind dead and sunken eyes, she said, "I've looked after the children. While you've been working, or playing golf, or entertaining clients." She looked him up and down in accusation. "Or whatever else you've been doing."

  He frowned, ground his jaw and asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Ignoring his question, she continued, "I've been here making sure that our children are h
appy and well looked after. I've been interested in their education and the issues in their lives. You've been absent."

  Rubbing his waxy face, Chris said, "You haven't exactly done a great job of looking after the house and kids lately though, have you? For the entire time I've been unemployed in fact."

  "There's been no electricity, you idiot. I've still dusted, swept and mopped the floors, made the beds and cleaned the bathrooms."

  "The carpets are filthy though."

  Her eyes pinched at the side. "I've read to the kids, helped them continue working from their text books and even tested them."

  "Wow! So the blind have been leading the blind, is that what you're saying?"

  When she didn't reply, he took chili powder from the spice rack in the kitchen, walked over to their large staircase and emptied the entire contents of the jar onto the white carpet. It felt good to watch her stupid face contort like it was being sucked inwards. He then rubbed it in with his foot and smiled at her.

  With a reddening face, Diane struggled to get her words out. Taking a breath, she said, "You fucking arsehole! Why would you do something like that, you piece of shit?"

  As Chris passed her on his way back into the kitchen, the smell of decay coming from her was like rotting fabric, and no amount of perfume could hide it. If anything, the chemical odor highlighted the smell by contrast, and while they all stank the same, he noticed it more on her. Taking a stack of plates that had been cleaned with a dry cloth because they no longer had running water, Chris tipped them onto the floor. The whole stack, at least twenty, hit the white stone tiles with a crash that exploded throughout the house. The acoustics of the cavernous rooms made it sound like a hand grenade going off. Fragments of white porcelain splayed out in every direction, several shards biting into his shins. He didn't look down because he didn't want her to know that he'd been hurt.

  "So, Diane," he said, "it would seem that you're just as fucking useless as I am."

  The commotion had brought the children downstairs, and they stood in the doorway, looking at their parents with utter horror on their faces.

  Chris felt beyond caring, and after running a hand through his white hair, he left the room.

  Time's Up

  Chris jumped the final step at the bottom of the stairs as if not touching it would banish the guilt he felt for creating it. It didn't. As he landed on the flagstone floor in the hallway, his thin shoes did little to prevent the shock from hurting his feet and jarring his body. The hard landing stimulated an old football injury in his right knee, jabbing pain through it that felt like a hot spoon wedged beneath his patella. He wanted to pull up and stop moving, sit down and let it lock up as he rested an ice pack on it. He almost laughed at the absurdity of that notion. Almost.

  Looking up at the banister, which had one noose already hanging from it, he turned to his waiting son and whispered, "Michael, get me another chair please." He then coughed into his sleeve, the black smoke restricting each inhalation more than the last. It felt like he was choking on his own sick, and stars floated before his eyes. With his constricting throat fighting against him like it was being held in a strong grip, he had to force himself to relax. His breath slowly returned. Once he'd recovered, he wheezed, "And make sure you do it quietly."

  Michael looked at the chair already there and didn't move.

  Chris wanted to scream, especially as the sound of the pick-up's engines roared outside. He guessed they were moving closer so they could transport their stolen goods to the trucks more easily. He wouldn't allow himself to entertain the idea that they'd had their fill and were driving away. He didn't have that kind of luck. Looking at his immobile son, he threw his arms wide and said, "What are you waiting for? Do it now! We'll die if you don't!"

  His words made Michael's eyes open wide, and it forced action into the small blonde boy, who ran into the large kitchen. Taking the chair that was already there, Chris hobbled with it to the front door, his knee weak with pain, his throat sore with toxins, his head pounding like a bass speaker. He wedged it beneath the handle, hoping that it would stop the looters temporarily, giving them a few precious seconds when they needed it most.

  As Michael waddled back into the hallway, keeping the heavy chair from the ground, Chris drummed on his thighs, impatience making him restless. Had his knee felt better, he'd have helped his son, but he needed to use it as little as possible now because there was still more to do. Feeling useless, he watched his grimacing boy struggle with the weight of it, the second noose hanging from his clenched fist like a bullwhip.

  Michael placed it clumsily next to his father. The loud scrape it made against the flagstone floor screeched through the house. Chris' shoulders pulled tight to his neck, and he had to refrain from lashing out. Was the boy trying to get them killed? Scowling at Michael and then looking out of the window to see if any of the looters were in their driveway yet, he was relieved to find that they weren't.

  With his mouth hanging in an apologetic 'O', Michael froze again.

  Chris couldn't look at him and stay focused on what he needed to do, so he lifted his good leg, using the one that was in pain to support himself momentarily. His bad knee burned and felt as fragile as a matchstick as it threatened to snap beneath him. However, despite shaking like a newborn foal discovering its legs, he managed to hold it for long enough to lift his left foot onto the chair and push up against it with a grunt of effort.

  In his elevated position, he wobbled some more and his arms windmilled as he fought to keep his balance. The panic of falling and landing on his gammy knee forced another sharp intake of breath that burnt his throat, and he held the banister for support. He couldn't resist the coughing fit from the smoke, which was thicker ten feet from the ground, so he directed it into his sleeve. His cotton jumper had absorbed so much of their surroundings that the fabric was almost as smoky as their environment. He rubbed his temples as the crushing pain of an impending migraine squeezed his eyeballs, threatening to pop them like bath pearls.

  It was hard trying to tie the other noose around the banister whilst fighting a headache and with his eyes streaming, but he persevered. Michael wasn't going to suffer the same fate as Tommy.

  From his elevated position, he could see what was going on outside. The smoke would provide some cover, but if they looked hard enough, he was certain they'd be able to see him too. His numb hands shook, making it hard to tie anything, so he took a deep breath to try and still his pounding heart, stifled a cough and muttered to himself, "Come on, Chris, you can do it. It will be fine."

  He looked out of the window again, and when he saw all three trucks at the top of his driveway, his hands shook worse than before. Fighting against his clumsy and numb digits, he pawed at the noose and dropped it on the floor. It lay on the flagstone tiles like a dead snake.

  It felt like an age had passed, and he'd held his breath for most of it to prevent any more of the noxious smoke from entering his lungs, but after Michael had retrieved the dropped cord, he achieved his goal.

  Covering his hand with his sleeve, he then tugged on the flex and pulled with his entire body weight, testing to see that it would hold him. The thin cable dug in, even through the thick material of his jumper. He wondered if it would be like cheese wire around a neck and couldn't shake the images of decapitation.

  Michael shook as he looked at the two nooses and asked, "What are they for? Why are you putting them up?"

  His pale face had turned translucent, and Chris guessed he was imagining one of them cutting off his airwaves. He didn't reply. He couldn't. He couldn't even bear to look at his son as he stood there watching, accepting that his father knew best.

  When he rubbed his eyes again, it felt like he was pushing the smoke in rather than removing its footprint.

  Although his vision was blurred, he could still see Dean getting out of his truck. He jumped down, bearing most of the jolt on his good leg. When he hugged his son, the smell of his dirty clothes mixed with the choking smoke
.

  Michael tensed and didn't return the gesture.

  Swallowing the taste of burnt plastic, he whispered into his ear, "I'm sorry for what we're about to do, but just remember that everything will be fine. It will make everything better." He hoped he was right. When he lifted his son from the ground, he forgot how heavy he was, and his right knee nearly gave way again. It made him take another breath and sent more coughs barking from his damaged lungs. Wobbling under the child's mass, he prayed that the second noose would hold.

  "What are you doing, Dad?" He breathed quicker and squirmed against Chris' tight grip, panic accelerating his words. "What's happening? What are you doing to me?"

  Chris didn't reply, he simply held on tighter, feeling the warmth of his son's trembling body and experiencing a self-loathing worse than any he'd ever felt in his entire life. He kissed him and said, "I love you, son, remember that." But instead of lifting him up to the noose, he hobbled into the kitchen.

  When he stood on a shard of porcelain from his plate-smashing episode, he lost his footing and hit the floor hard. It felt like it shook the foundations of the house, and he wanted to vomit with the pain in his shoulder blades. As he lay on the floor, winded and barking like a seal, he watched Michael get up and back away from him as if he were a monster. Chris felt helpless and remained horizontal as he chased his breath.

  He got to his feet after thirty seconds. He'd have liked longer. He then shuffled over to the door that led to the garage, his body rocking with his ragged breaths. The smoke was thicker here, snaking through the cracks beneath the door, rendering him near blind.

  Michael stared at his dad as they listened to the men shouting to each other outside. Chris gulped another lungful. It was like drinking molten plastic. He then grabbed the handle. It felt like ice to touch, and his heart sank as he looked at his son's frightened face. Before he opened it, his mind flashed back to that morning.