The Garage
Chris' whole body snapped with each wet cough he directed into his damp and yellowing pillow. The wet explosions slamming through him made him feel like his throat was being shredded, like each cough was barbed. The effort he made to silence himself was more out of habit now than necessity because his family was currently under the influence of a natural sedative--undernourishment and depression. They probably would have slept through an atomic blast if it came at the right point in their sleep pattern.
Chris went through the same routine every morning of lying face down as if trying to smother himself and coughing to the point of heaving. His wet bark flipped him on the mattress like popping corn in hot butter, and on some mornings, he noticed a stamp of dried blood left behind on his pillowcase. With the dampness of the room worming into his body as he slept, he woke up every day feeling like his lungs were full of tar and his head was clogged with snot. He was sure the accumulated damp added at least two stones to his overall weight during the night. To make things worse, when he inhaled the thick air that smelt like moldy clothes, it felt like trying to breathe underwater, and he had to fight the panic attack that grew in his chest as he battled for breath. The only thing that made it bearable was that it passed quickly and he'd feel fine within an hour.
Once he'd finished, he lifted his moist and greasy white hair from his forehead and trembled as he stared at the ceiling, swallowing against the burning pain residing in his oesophagus. In stark contrast to his throat, the rest of his body was freezing. As he lay on his back shivering, it felt like the cold and damp winter had fused to his skeleton, and he was sure an x-ray would reveal frosting.
Finally feeling inspired to move, he looked to his right and saw that Michael was still asleep. Watching the gentle movement of the blankets he was wrapped in, Chris sank into the comfort of listening to his son's shallow breathing. He'd been like that since his children were born, the anxiety that cot death would grab them in the first few months of their lives never really leaving him. Smiling at his little boy, he turned to his wife, the glow of compassion slipping off him like a silk sheet as he rolled over.
When he saw she wasn't there, he lifted his head to see that Matilda had gone too.
Running his hand over Diane's side of the bed, he noticed it was cold to touch. She must have got up some time ago. Moving quietly so as not to wake Michael, he gently opened the door, the creaking handle groaning like a raven in a graveyard. He then stepped out onto the freezing landing.
Because he was still dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, the cold in the big house surrounded him. Within seconds, he was wearing the inescapable freeze like a suit of ice. With arms of gooseflesh, he hugged his own flabby body. It didn't stop him shaking.
Stepping over the discarded hoover in the hallway, he walked downstairs, avoiding the chili powder at the bottom. The flagstone floor was so cold that when he stepped on it, it burned and he wondered if he'd leave the soles of his bare feet behind.
The house was quiet, but he called out anyway, "Diane! Matilda!" There was no response; the only movement in the house was the vapor from his warm breath and the perpetual shiver running through him.
The kitchen seemed cavernous in the near silence, and Chris felt like a spare part in his own home. The breakdown of their old lives was evidenced by a floor littered with smashed crockery and work surfaces covered in food wrappers. Scanning the room, he saw an A5 sheet of paper with blue writing on the table. Diane had written it, and there was a note from Matilda at the bottom. Beside it was the packaging from the last of their chocolate.
'To my dearest Chris.'
The introduction shocked him, and his heart kicked because he knew something was wrong.
'I know that things haven't been easy and that we can't find a way to get along, so I'm sorry to leave, but it's what we need to do for the sake of the kids and for our family.'
Chris felt sick as he continued reading.
'I've told Matilda that this behavior isn't who you are. I don't want her last memory of her daddy to be tainted with what we've become.'
The words 'last memory' drove a sharp sting through his heart.
'I love you and Michael so much, and I truly hope it works out. We just couldn't handle staying here any longer. Sorry. Diane xxxx.'
There was more affection in the letter than he'd experienced from her in the past ten years.
Beneath it, Matilda had written:
'Love you, Daddy. Stay strong, Michael. Tilly.'
Chris snapped his fist closed with the paper in it and forced it into a tight ball as he bit down on his lip. Although he knew this day might come, he never really believed it. When he looked up, the coldness of the room found the wet tracks on his cheeks, and he felt like his internal organs had been ripped clean from his body. The fist he made around the note whitened through force until he launched the paper to the other side of the room with as much effort as he could muster.
Then he heard a noise. He was surprised that he hadn't heard it before because he realized it had been there all along. It was coming from the garage, and it was his Ferrari's engine. Because it was in an enclosed space, it sounded like a plane taking off. Looking at the door leading to the garage, he said, "Diane?" He then called out, "Diane, wait. I'm sorry." The cliché of apologizing as a loved one was walking out of the door wasn't lost on him, but he didn't care, he couldn't be without them.
Grabbing the handle, he noticed that it felt colder than he expected. It was like the other side was covered in ice. Snapping it down, he threw the door open.
Desperate Times
Opening the door made a heavy rush of black smoke swarm into the house, and it hit Chris like tear gas. Covering his mouth and nose, he stepped into the freezing garage, ducking to avoid the thick part of the cloud and ignoring the burn in his eyes as best as he could. The discomfort from both the sharp drop in temperature and the restriction of his breathing was nothing compared to the anxiety he felt for leading his son into this place. It was a terrible way for him to find out, but wholly necessary if they were to avoid the fate of their neighbors.
When he turned to Michael, he expected a look of shock, maybe an open mouth, maybe frozen features, maybe tears. What he saw was devastation like nothing his mind could have ever imagined. Michael's blue eyes seemed to split like tiny eggs, his soul pouring down his cheeks like spilled yolk. His fingers bent backwards, and he tapped his palms together in a palsied and unconscious movement. His loose jaw seemed to stretch to his knees, and the only sign of motion was his stuttered breathing.
"Michael," Chris said as he looked at his little boy. When there was no reply, or even recognition that he was being spoken to, Chris rubbed his face as if doing so would somehow remove the smoke that was pushing against it, and cried, "I'm sorry that you have to see this now, but we have to keep moving, son. We can't hang around, and I need your help."
Michael looked at the flame-red Ferrari. He looked at the hosepipe lying on the floor. He looked at the tape securing it to one of the exhausts and its poisonous mouth that had spent the night playing its noxious requiem to his mum and sister. He looked at their still bodies in the car, open-mouthed with their heads back as if their final groan had happened just minutes before. When the haze of shock lifted, his eyes cleared and he opened his mouth to let out the first note of a scream.
Chris was on him in an instant, silencing him with his hand, panic making his actions clumsy and akin to striking his boy a blow. Time was running out, and although he felt terrible for hitting Michael, he wouldn't pull his hand away as he stared directly into his son's scared eyes. Being a citizen of this new world had turned Chris into someone he no longer recognized or liked, but life wasn't all roses and ice cream anymore, and he had to keep going if they wanted to survive this harsh reality. Grimacing against the pain in his right knee from the sudden movement, he held his trembling boy and said, "Michael, look at me."
Michael couldn't, he was too preoccu
pied as he looked between his mum, his sister, and the hosepipe.
Painfully aware of how little time they had, Chris resorted to a tactic that would get his son's attention. Moving his face so close that he could feel his body heat and smell the musty dirt on his skin, Chris squeezed his shoulder to the point where his wide eyes watered. Now that he had his attention, he said, "Michael, you little cunt, fucking man up! We don't have any more time to fuck about. Grow a pair and do what I ask of you."
Something between Chris and his son died at that moment as the petrified and distraught little boy looked at his dad like he didn't recognize him. Chris knew things would never be the same again because the trust had gone. When Michael had needed a parent most, he'd completely let him down. Looking at his dead wife and daughter, he wondered who'd made the correct choice for the sake of their respective child. Snapping out of it, he reminded himself that their lives depended on momentum, mourning could come later.
Looking back at his broken son, he said, "Now grab your sister and follow me." He pulled his hand away from Michael's mouth and wiped it on his trouser leg.
Michael still stared, unmoving, so Chris shouted, the inhalation flooding his throat with plastic smoke and making it painful to force his words out. "Now, you fucking idiot!" It killed him to do it, but he needed his son to be compliant.
When he opened the driver's side door, he was hit in the face with the rotten stench of excrement. It made his old world sensibilities momentarily flash up, and he wondered how he'd get the stains out of the upholstery. Shaking the thought away, he dragged Diane from the driver's seat by grabbing under her arms, not appreciating before now just how heavy a cold and dead body was. At least she was stick thin.
Once he'd moved her to the door leading into the house, her heels scraping along the floor, he saw that Michael still hadn't shifted. Instead, he watched the limp form of his mother being unceremoniously moved from the car. His eyebrows were lifted in horror.
Spit flew from Chris' mouth as he said, "Fucking hell, Michael! Get your fucking sister!" He then started to cough, his head spinning from the lack of oxygen.
Finally doing what was asked of him, Michael grunted as he heaved Matilda from the car, sobbing as his skinny arms strained under her weight.
As they left the garage, Chris noticed that his boy's eyes had turned grey. His son, the once brave and open child, was now buried deep inside. At eight, he'd developed a coping strategy for trauma. He was too young for this.
Once Chris was in the kitchen, he heard a crash from the driveway. Battling against a bad knee, bruised shoulder blades, and the inability to draw a lungful of air, he decided not to concern himself with the reasons for it and slid his limp wife across the room.
Chris heard one of the men say, "Why is it that all these posh cunts have Land Rovers?" Another light then smashed as the men fulfilled what Chris assumed was their burning desires for wanton destruction. Speeding up, he dragged Diane's dead body into the hall, ignoring the searing pain in his kneecap as best as he could. The strength he found to hoist her over his shoulder, stand on the chair, wobbling for a second and fearful that he'd fall off, and draw the noose in, shocked him. He then looped it over her neck and gently lowered her, the banister letting out a groan of protest as it bore her weight. He prayed it wouldn't snap.
By the time Michael came in from the garage, his mother was hanging, her tongue protruding from her mouth and her eyes bulging. The skin on her neck had dragged up to make her look like she had several chins. Leaping at him, Chris managed to cover his mouth in time again to silence his next scream. He stood on one leg to rest his knee as he muted his son. Michael looked scared, and had Chris had the use of a mirror, he'd have understood why. His skin was streaked with dirt and he was sweating profusely. His jaw was locked tight because of the pain he felt, making it look like he was trying to push his teeth back into his gums, and his eyes were so bloodshot from smoke and tears that his retinas were almost exclusively red.
In spite of his crazed appearance, he was kinder to his son now that Matilda was with them. He spoke in a whisper as he threw glances at the front door. "Michael, there's nothing we can do for these two now, but hopefully we can save ourselves." He wasn't sure if Michael took in anything he was saying.
When he heard the voices outside, he lifted his head, but he couldn't see the door, and the looters couldn't see them from their current position. Making sure to get eye contact with his son, he said, "Go and pull the hosepipe from my car's exhaust and throw it in the back of the car, I'll sort things out in here."
Moving on quickly, he picked his daughter up, fighting the pain and wheezing because a never-ending rush of thick smoke was funneling in through the open garage door and seemed to be heading straight for his lungs.
Stars swam in front of his vision as Chris repeated the process, his lips bending and buckling as tears streamed down his cheeks. He felt sick as he stared into the innocent and eternally peaceful face of his beautiful daughter. He then slipped her small head through the noose. She felt heavier than his wife, which Chris attributed to the burden he felt because of his actions. As he lowered her gently, he looked away, listening to the banister creak again and hopeful it would continue to hold.
After dismounting the chair, he looked at the grotesque gargoyle's masks his wife and daughter wore from having their entire bodyweight pressing down on their throats. He then stilled both the swinging bodies and tipped the chair over quietly to make it look like it had been kicked.
Michael was back by his side, still in shocked silence, still limp-jawed. Chris grabbed his hand and refused to look back, leading them upstairs at a gentle jog, his knee making their progress slower than he'd have liked.
The cupboard they squeezed into was tiny, but because all of the linen and blankets were in the bedroom, there was enough room for them. It used to be the airing cupboard, and there was a very slight leak in there, as a result, it smelt of wet cement. Once inside, Chris closed the door. It threw them into complete darkness, and he shivered from a mixture of fear and cold.
Reaching out, Chris grabbed his son, who flinched at his touch. "Michael," he whispered, "I'm sorry you had to see that." He coughed, stifling it as best as he could. As a result, he gained zero satisfaction from the action and the desire to repeat it burned stronger than before. "But it had to be done; I'm hoping it will deter the looters."
Michael didn't reply, and were it not for the sound of his breathing, Chris would have felt alone in the inky darkness. He put his arm around his boy.
An almighty ripping sound and the clatter of the heavy chair he'd placed by the door told Chris that their front door had been kicked in. Michael flinched again as the cockney voices of several men filled the house.
"Fucking hell, John," one of them said. "Have you seen this? Fuck me!"
John replied. "What a waste. I wouldn't have minded fucking that one."
"Which one?" the first man countered with a cruel laugh that made Chris sick to his stomach. He squeezed his tense boy. He then heard the banister creaking and knew that they were swinging the bodies as the same man said, "To you."
John replied, "To me," and they both laughed.
The next thing Chris heard was a series of soft, wet thuds that he assumed were punches to the dead bodies. Michael started to have another panic attack, so Chris stroked his hair to try and calm him down.
A third, deeper voice cut in. "You two are fucking sickos. Just get the food and get the fuck out."
Chris only understood why the two men were instantly compliant when John said, "Sorry, George." George had an authority not even Dean could compete with.
Although he felt like a Jew in Nazi Germany listening to the SS ransacking the house, he felt blessed that George was with them. Taking deep and slow breaths to calm his furious pulse, he coughed quietly, swallowed against the taste in his throat that was like he'd eaten coal, and then told himself that everything would be okay. But then he heard something that stoppe
d his heart.
The tinkle of an identification tag swinging on a collar called out through the house, and the sound of two dogs running up the stairs quickly followed. Within seconds, two sniffing noses were at the bottom of the cupboard door, sucking the scent in from the two dirty bodies. Squeezing Michael had the desired effect of quietening him, and Chris had to swallow against the tickle in his throat inviting him to cough again.
Light flooded into their world seconds later, and the huge frame of George filled the doorway. Chris, although petrified to be staring at the large man, knew everything would be all right when he saw his face.
As he frowned down on the two of them, George scratched his head. He then closed the cupboard, throwing the pair back into total darkness.
Chris started to cry, the withheld emotion pouring out as he held his son in his arms. He whispered, "I love you, Michael. So much. I love you--"
The door was flung open again, and the light stung Chris' eyes. George then leant into the tiny space and lifted Chris from the ground. When he dumped him on the landing, Chris' bad knee gave way and he fell to the floor. George looked at the little boy cowering in the dark and frowned like he was trying to ward off a headache. His dilemma played out across his dark face before he closed the cupboard on him.
The last thing Chris saw before the door was closed was Michael mouthing the word 'Dad'.
While dragging Chris down the stairs, George shouted to the other men, "Right, boys, let's move on. There's nothing upstairs worth taking other than soiled sheets."
It was the first time Chris had gotten to see the two men up close, and they looked as despicable as they sounded. They were modern-day pirates--dirty, smelly, unshaven, and unkempt. They stared back at him, their ruthless eyes silently sentencing him to his fate.
Once outside, Chris inhaled the thin and cool air. It was about the only thing that had felt good over the last twenty minutes. As George led him up the driveway towards Dean, he said, "He was the only person in there."
Crash Page 9