Collapse
Rachel Martin
Collapse Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Martin. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Betibup33 Studio Design
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Rachel Martin
Printed in the United Kingdom
For Wayne
CONTENTS
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Prologue
“Him blud.”
The gang leader pointed towards one of the junkies.
“Yeah bruv,” the rest of the gang cackled, crowding around, watching, waiting, nudging each other with bony elbows.
Their eyes glinted in anticipation as they stared at the new victim. He was slouching over, slowly falling into the ever-increasing rubbish pile. His greasy hair was hanging down, covering his face. A needle was stuck in his skinny, bruised arm.
“It don’t count if he’s already dead,” one of them said.
They watched the junkie for signs of life.
“Use this.”
One of the girls handed a mirror to the initiate. He took it, waited a moment, walked tentatively toward the junkie, then held the mirror under his nose. The mirror steamed up.
“He’s alive,” he said turning to face the gang.
“Good, drag him over here then.”
The leader pointed to a spot just outside the shop.
“Er, gross, I don’t want to touch him.” The initiate shivered, they all laughed.
“Here.” The gang leader chucked over a pair of gloves.
He put them on, dragged the junkie over and dropped him where he was told. The gang crowded around, glaring down at the passed out form crumpled on the ground. While their backs were turned, another junkie ran over, cowering down close to the ground, hand covering his head, he quickly pulled the needle out of the victim’s arm and ran away. Other junkies followed his lead and ran over, like the vultures they were. They quickly searched the pockets of the victim, they were all cowering, eyes wildly looking about. The gang stood-by open-mouthed, watching in astonishment at their pathetic-ness, until the leader kicked one of them.
“Fuck off,” he yelled.
The gang laughed as the leader poured a bottle of homemade spirits over the junkie. He began to twitch as the alcohol slipped over his numerous gaping sores.
“Go on… do it,” the gang hissed.
The initiate took the matchbox out of his pocket. He inspected it, turning it over in his hands, his face expressionless.
“Go on… go on.”
Their voices echoed through him, and all around him. He stared down at the wretched specimen on the ground. The initiate’s face twisted in repulsion, scum, he thought, scum, scum, scum. He looked around at the Estate, there were a thousand eyes on him, but not one of them that would do anything, not one of them that would stop him, not one of them that cared. He lit the match and watched the flame eat into the matchstick.
“Do it… Do it,” the gang hissed.
He dropped the match. The junkie lit up like napalm. Whoomph. They stepped back as their victim started to scream and writhe about. The sound shot electricity through their veins. There was a moment of nothing, of perfect bliss as the gang’s eyes widened in unison. They held their breath, hypnotised by their victim’s useless cries for help. Until he stopped screaming. The gang laughed and watched him burn with huge grins on their faces. Then bored, they turned their attention to the shop’s window and began throwing rocks at it. Some of them bounced off the iron bars, other’s smashed into the window, and some crashed into the bottles behind. The gang watched the glass shatter, the fire from the cremation reflecting a thousand times in the shards.
“You little fuckers,” came an angry roar from someone hidden within the safety of the shop. “I’ll shoot you.”
The gang laughed and took to their toes, disappearing like rats into the labyrinth. They dodged dirty nappies, broken bricks, oil-barrel fires, rusting car parts, faded tents, running deeper and deeper into the horror that was the Estate. The sunken and bloodshot eyes of the dispossessed showed barely any signs of life as the gang blurred passed them. Who would remember their faces? All crimes committed here dissolved under the guise of an insidious shadow. They laughed as they ran, their voices echoing off the ever-encroaching walls.
Glass was a luxury on the ground floors. Almost all were boarded up and decorated with spray-paint: pissed on Banksy and Dali imitations, pissed on inverted crosses, pissed on tribal signs, swastikas, yellow ribbons. It was all the same. It was war. Chewing gum grew on the walls like a disease, along with bullet holes, semen, blood, puke, everything merged into one grotesque mesmerising mess, and the smell was obnoxious, it was alive. The gang scurried through the narrowing nooks and crannies where tower-block upon tower-block almost touched. They leapt over passed-out junkies. They ignored the decadent sex-scenes, the alcoholics, cardboard city, broken faces. Yet, even the despondent knew to keep out of the direct sunlight. Who would come looking for the little criminals here? Out in the land of the deformed. They laughed.
One
“Those fucking bastards! Fuck. We have to get the fuck out of here.”
Jack glanced up at his girlfriend. She was sitting at the window, watching events unfold on the ground. It was all getting on top of her now. It was all beginning to unravel. He knew it was only a matter of time before they would be doing something drastic, again. Something the innermost part of him was willing into existence. He sighed and pushed down his rising excitement. Day after day she would sit and watch the world below drag by from their window as if it were a TV screen. It gave her something to do, something to look forward to, something absurd to comment on. His mind was etched with her favourite comments:
“Wow, their education must’ve been non-existent… They’re all a bunch of degenerates… It’s getting worse by the minute.”
Tonight was clearly no disappointment.
“Those fucking bastards,” Mia repeated slowly, in little more than a whisper, leaning even closer the window. “We’ve got to get the Hell out of here. We’ve got to get out of England. We’ve got to go to Canada.”
Jack pretended not to hear her, but her words were beginning to take root. He needed her persuasion, he lived for it. She shook her head, tutting. He tried to ignore her, but every time she moved or spoke his eyes flicked her way.
“We’ve got to go, we’ve got to go, no matter what,” she repeated in a mantra-like whisper to herself. “We can’t go on living like this. We will go. We will. We have to do something, Jack. We absolutely have to escape this Hell-hole. I know you feel the same, no matter how much you try and deny it.”
He ignored her.
“I know you better than you know yo
urself,” she added staring at him.
He made no reply.
She turned back to the window for a few moments of silence, then:
“Unbelievable,” she cried.
She sipped her cheap rosé and shook her head, knocking it into the window in the process, along with her wine.
“Shit.” She righted her glass and rubbed her head.
“Be careful, clumsy,” Jack laughed, slouching even further into the sofa, and slurping cool beer from a can.
This was what weekends were for, wasn’t it?
“OK, go on then, tell me…” He exhaled. “What’s happened now?”
“They’ve only gone and lit up another junkie,” she cried, “right outside the shop this time,” she said, wide-eyed. “They’ve smashed up all the windows too. Oh… wait a sec…” She was tiptoeing now. “Here comes Mr Patel. He’s got his broom, he’s trying to sweep the body away. It’s still lit up. What the fuck’s going on? Can you believe it?” Her mouth gaped open in a half smile, half astonished look, before she sipped on her wine again.
Unfortunately, Jack could believe it. He picked up his anti-depressant bottle, lifted it to his ear and shook it. He opened it. He looked inside. He put his finger in and touched the pills. No! He squeezed his hand into a fist and closed the lid. No! No! No! No more! They were killing him. They were killing everyone. He didn’t want to be like the others, never feeling fully awake. It was as if he was trapped in some sort of hazy bubble. He wanted to see clearly. He wanted to feel, despite knowing how much easier it would be just to block it all out. He needed to do something different, he needed to save himself. She was going to save them, but he was starting to worry that without them he would go insane. Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe that’s what he needed. Everything was insane, so why should he be any different?
He watched Mia saunter across the living space in front of him. He was momentarily intrigued by the knowing smirk on her face. It was happening again. A wave of delight cascaded through him. He wondered how she survived without the anti-depressants, but he was so glad she did. He refocussed on the tele.
“Heads up,” she called, chucking a can at him over the kitchen counter.
He caught it easily in a huge tanned mitt, barely needing to look up.
“So… Who did it this time?” he asked.
“I don’t know, do I? I can’t see their faces, can I? Stupid,” she joked and winked, stepping back to the window, and wiping off the wine.
He grinned drolly back at her.
“What does that make it this year then? Eight?”
“No, ten.” She stood up straight and glanced over at him, placing the hand holding the dishcloth on her hip and slouching into it. “And it’s only June. There’ll be a lot more bodies by the end of it.”
Jack nodded.
“I don’t see why Mr Patel keeps replacing his windows either, he should have them metal shutters like all the others,” she said.
Mr Patel obviously can’t let go, Jack thought.
“Who gives a shit what the Offie windows look like anyway?” she continued, wiping off the last dregs.
“As long as he’s got booooze!” Jack smirked raising his eyebrows.
“Imagine if that ran out too?” She chucked the dishcloth across the room.
It landed on the edge of the sink and started dripping onto the floor. She lifted her glass to her lips.
“Imagine if they started rationing that too.”
“Oh no, don’t, Jack. What a nightmare.”
Jack shuddered, drank more beer, and relaxed into his groove. As he stared at the images, the tele flickered and turned off. The fan died. They both looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Jack clipped the car battery up to the tele. Mia hooked up the fridge. Swearing and screaming reached through the bug-infested woodchip walls.
“Has anyone taken the body yet?” Jack asked to enrage her, just a little bit more, just another little push.
“What Mr Crispy down there?”
They both laughed.
“No!” she continued, “you’re joking, right?” She leapt up and swung round to face him. “They’re not here. They’re all in the compounds… Where we should be.”
“Well we’re not, are we? We’re out here, in this dump, cause we’re poor…”
The accusation sat on the tip of his tongue. He grimaced only faintly, but it was too late, Mia had spotted it. She stared at him for a moment, her mouth slightly ajar. She scowled. He winced and lifted his hand up in anticipation. But, her impatience dissipated almost as quickly as it arose. Her face misted into a dry sweet smile; he reciprocated her gesture, breathing a sigh of happiness. The glint in her eyes was growing stronger and more intense. He could see something bubbling up to the surface. It was her nature, it’s what drew him in, and intoxicated him. He felt he could read her mind through her eyes. He saw a darkness inside that he couldn’t quite cross, not yet. He wanted to sail through it. He wanted to be on the other side. She blinked, to his frustration, and lifted her glass to her pink stained lips. She indulged. He watched. She was wearing that same expression. What was coming this time? She turned towards the window and leaned against the pillar. She was reminding him more and more of his Father.
There was a sudden loud explosion outside. The building shook. The windows rattled. Mia jumped backwards, then turned and looked at Jack, eyebrows raised.
“See!” she said.
He patted the sofa. She sat down casually. They both stared at the tele in silence and drunk.
It was getting worse. They seemed to be coming out of the no-go zones all the time now to plant bombs or blow themselves up. She was right, there was no denying it. They were the hated minority in their own country. It was a perverse joke. Jack remembered when this zone was a park. There were trees, lakes, and animals other than rats and cockroaches. He remembered walking on the grass with his Father on a cold but sunny autumn day. Leaves fell like snow. He remembered reading the inscription on one of the statues. That was when people still cared. That was before. That was another world. The statue now sat, unceremoniously in the entrance to one of the tower-blocks. The plaque was gone, recycled, stolen? Who knew? Just another unknown dead-man. Like his Father. Forgotten.
Mia was staring at him ready to say something. He turned to look at her. But the words she wanted to say were not ready to come out. Not yet. No, not yet. Wait, he told himself. Wait. He looked back at the tele.
“I wish I wasn’t fucking poor,” she shouted, slamming her wine-glass down on the coffee table.
Jack jumped. He should be used to this by now. It’s what he wanted after all, wasn’t it?
“It sucks Jack. I can’t, we can’t, get anything we want. We can’t even live where we want. Where we should live. Honest, hard-working, working-class people like us. We can do better. We can all do better! Who are we? I mean really who are we? Not bad enough for them, not good enough for the others. We’re in limbo.”
Jack leaned forward and rubbed his eyes with his finger-tips. He swigged more beer.
“I know. Life isn’t fair, is it,” he returned tonelessly, slouching back.
“No, it fucking isn’t. Makes you think though doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
“You know… What’s the point for people like us?” she replied, fixing him with her unblinking gaze.
The look she gave him fell outside their usual games. But he was familiar with it. He had seen it many times before. It was a look she shared with his Father. Towards the end, he wore it as though it were a medal of honour. But with Mia it was different. All Jack knew was that it signified that something was about to change… again. It could be anything. Absolutely anything… It all depended on the opportunities that might arise around them. He smiled inside at the thought. Warm honey seemed to trickle over his organs, sweet and serene. He watched as Mia breathed in bubbles of fury. He could almost see them pop and fizz inside of her, forcing her to forge a new future out of the ashes of
the present. Her expression changed ever so subtly at every thought, he imagined that he was the only one able to observe it. It was almost time. He sighed and tore his eyes from her.
“This world is not for us!” she spat. “It’s for the rich and those people down there. The ones with everything, and the ones with nothing. How do those people down there give up? Why can’t I? They’d be scared if I did. But, no! I feel some false sense of honour. What am I trying for? Where has it gotten me? Here, that’s where. I’m one of them.” She laughed a loud, bitter, staccato laugh. “We’re going backwards... Maybe they do know better than us,” she trailed off into silence.
Jack sucked in a chest-full of humid air and held it. He felt her burning desires as if they were his own, he lurched forward as if being struck by a knife, bleeding in visions. He contemplated for a moment. Their eyes unified, seeing only a path of annihilation.
In that moment, nothing existed but that room. In that moment, nothing mattered except that room. The world had shrunk to their two beings, lost and suspended in hopeless nothingness. He shook his head trying to free his mind of desolate images. He blinked and re-blinked, sighed again, swigged some beer, and turned the volume up. It was time to relax. He was all too conscious that in just over 48 hours he would be up and at it again. Bored out of his brain, boiling hot, tired as fuck, wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else, sipping cocktails on some beach, visiting new cities, before it all completely went to shit. What could he do? He was trapped in a nightmare everywhere he looked; afraid of everything and everyone, panic rising, it was the new norm. Life was pointless. It was always pointless. A walking shadow. He needed her to think of something else, something to pull them out. He desired nothing more. Another little push. He ripped his gaze away from her and stared at the tele. He felt her frowning but ignored it. This was supposed to be happy hour! He drank.
“We need money, Jack!” she yelled suddenly.
Jack jumped straight out of his seat, and fell back down again, squeezing his can. Beer spilt all over his top and shorts, while her words filled the room, bounced off the walls, into his ears, and nested. Mia laughed her head off and playfully slapped her thigh.
Collapse Page 1