GodBomb!

by Kit Power

  ...and it’s some endless summer holiday, and Twitch is sitting in the garden and Twitch is sad. He’s sad because no-one wants to play with him. His only friend from school, Bradley, lives outside of town and his mum doesn’t have a car, and no-one in the town likes him, and it’s just a lovely summer day. He can hear other children cycle past in the street, some other kids walking and bouncing a ball and laughing. He hates them all, and their easy happiness, but mostly he hates himself – for his stupidity, his clumsiness, his inability to make anyone like him.

  He sits in his garden and tries not to cry, to hold it all in, and it’s like a big ball of glass in his stomach, expanding, pushing everything else out. When his mother touches his shoulder he just about jumps out of his skin, and she’s smiling a cheer-up-you smile, and holding out an ice lolly. He stares at it, at her, and for a second a wave of unnameable feeling flows over him. He’s too young for the concept of despair to really have any meaning. Nevertheless, this is his first taste.

  The feeling threatens to engulf everything, batter down his self-control. He wants to knock the lolly out of her hand, slap her face, slap her silly, for a second he feels it so clearly it’s like it’s actually happening, and then the feeling breaks, and he takes the lolly and tries a smile. It feels horrible, fake on his face, but mum’s smile widens, reaches her eyes, and oh well, he thinks, at least I cheered her up, and anyway, the lolly is nice, and then..

  (“... God will not be tested! Don’t you get it? We’ll be taken to the kingdom; you will burn, and for what? For proof of something that you’d get in your own time anyway?”

  “I don’t want it in my own time. I want it today. And I’m going to get it.”)

  ...he hears the words, individually, but they slide off the smooth surface of what’s left of his mind, leaving no impression, gone as soon as they are heard, and Andrew Jackson is pointing and laughing, the hard forced laugh that is not a laugh at all, but a fist, a ball of hate that he pummels Twitch with, just like he pummelled him in the street outside the school while they waited for the bus in the rain. Andrew Jackson, the only kid in Year 2 with a moustache and acne, with his torn jean jacket and Damage Inc. back-patch, and the smell of HubbaBubba and cigarette smoke. The smell of hate and anger and meanness and violence. Andrew Jackson is pointing and laughing, and the others are starting to join in as they realise what’s happened, and Twitch stands there with the rain washing the dog shit down his face. He feels a lump of it roll down his cheek, can smell it where the turd was broken open, where the soft centre was exposed and then mashed into his scalp. It itches, maddeningly, but he can’t scratch it. Can’t get that shit under his nails, can’t wash it from his hair, can only stand there, the shame burning and building until he thinks it must surely overwhelm him entirely. Remove him from the land of the living, strike him down, pull him into the earth. But of course it doesn’t, it just burns and smoulders, and sinks, and when the bus arrives he lets them push past him without saying a word, the chant of “Shithead! Shithead!” fading but not eliminated as the doors close and the bus pulls away. Of course it’s Andrew Jackson’s face he sees last, in the rear window, face distorted in that hateful smile indistinguishable from fury, mouthing with exaggerated care “Shithead”, and...

  (“...this all you’ve got, Preacher? I’ve read the book; you know. I’m not an idiot...”

  “...No, no, that’s not what I’m saying, I’m saying God told me...”

  “...yes, why is he talking to you and not me? Given the situation, you’d have thought...”)

  ...and it’s Saturday night, and Twitch is back in his flat, good and drunk. He can feel the welcoming black fingers of oblivion tugging at the corner of his mind, promising the dreamless sleep of the cataclysmically bombed. The void in the eye of the storm, that blessed, perfect release. He can feel it growing, oozing across his mind like some benign tumour, sinking consciousness and all its attendant irritations, pains, misery. It’s coming, and one more tin will do it nicely, and he has one left, so all is right with the world. He doesn’t register the single tear that he sheds as he reaches into the flimsy blue carrier bag and pulls out the last tin, doesn’t hear the single sob he gives as he pops the can, but his sluggish reflexes are good enough that when the foam comes, he gets the can to his lips and does not lose a drop.

  Waste not.

  He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, shutting out the sight of the filthy bedroom, dimly lit by the sickly yellow glow of the outside streetlight (no power – Twitch’s habit has long won the fight between putting a fiver on the ‘leccy key or buying another few cans). Closing off the epic grime of the kitchen, with the racks of empty tins of food slowly mouldering. He closes his eyes to it all as he drinks, as he feels the darkness getting closer and the tears cut tracks through the dirt of his face, and all at once he’s aware of a simple, basic truth: he doesn’t want to wake up. He doesn’t. He’s spent, he’s done, he doesn’t want to do this anymore. He opens his eyes and regards the tin carefully, and right there, he decides. He’s going to finish the can, and pass out. If he wakes up, he’s done drinking; otherwise, he’s just done. It’s a comforting thought, a warming one. He hopes he doesn’t wake up, but he knows, either way, this is his last tin of Brew. He’s finished.

  He drinks off a toast to his new understanding, and as he does so, the paper flyer that someone had chucked into his hat along with some change, that he’d transferred without thinking into the bag with the tins as he left the shop, floats into his field of vision, wrapped around the can, stuck there by the condensation. His eyes can make out the image of the cross imposed over a cartoon bomb, but not the words. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing...

  (“...the Father...”

  “No-one comes to the Father but through me? Right?”

  “...Yes. But...”

  “So fine, I’ll take Jesus, that works fine for me. JESUS! I need to talk to you!”

  “Son, it’s not..”)

  And he’s little, and his father is putting him to bed, crawling up the stairs, and he’s laughing and laughing, so hard it’s like he can’t breathe, like he can’t catch his breath, like he’s drowning. His skin is crawling, like he’s been dipped in dog shit, dog shit filled with worms and maggots that are crawling across his flesh, and as he opens his eyes he sees his hands caked in shit. He can smell it, and he sees the thin white worms crawling in it, on his flesh, and he springs to his feet, frantically rubbing his hands together, scratching, and he does not notice the pressure on his right arm, does not hear the sharp panicked whisper of the young man next to him, hears nothing beyond the noise of the raised voices on the stage and the pounding of his pulse, and he scratches, hard, and he bleeds, and he watches with horror as the worms start to crawl into the open wounds and burrow under his skin, and he screams now, tries to, but he is drowning, suffocating, and all that comes from his mouth is a high reedy sound, like a tap when the water’s been cut off, and on the stage the young man and the preacher, locked in verbal combat, notice not a thing, and Twitch screams his silent scream again and again, each breath more shallow than the last, ragged now, desperate, and he sees the edges of his vision growing dim, and as consciousness retreats the last words he hears come from his side, as the young man next to him says loudly, “Um, Boss?”

  Chrisis scared, terrified even, as the guy next to him deteriorates. He’s terrified because he has no idea how the bomber will react, and he’s suddenly acutely aware that these could be his last seconds on earth, and he’s just not ready for it. But it’s clear the guy is about to flake out big time, and that can’t possibly be good, so he clears his throat and says,

  “Um, Boss?”

  It’s apologetic, but it’s also loud, and it carries all the way to the stage with ease. The bomber and preacher both pivot, in perfect unison, and even in this hyper-tense moment, Chris can’t help but be amused on some level, synchronised surprise! The bomber meets his eyes, and Chris is pretty well paralys
ed by the intensity he sees there, thrown badly enough that he can’t even remember for a second why he spoke up in the first place. There’s a frozen moment of perfect agony where Chris wonders if he just killed everyone in the room and desperately tries to remember why the fuck he’s standing up and talking.

  Then Twitch comes to the rescue by just collapsing like a badly constructed tent.

  Chris pulls back as Twitch slumps towards him, still terrified and jumpy from adrenaline, so Twitch’s head rolls off his knee before hitting the ground. He lies there, like a broken doll thrown by an angry child, and Chris stares until a sense of sound and movement pulls his eyes back to the stage.

  The bomber is sprinting down the aisle, right hand held high over his head, and Chris watches the tidal pull, the magnetic repulsion, as the people sat on aisle seats shrink back instinctively.

  All except for Alex. She feels the pull, but stands her ground. This is new, and she wants to see the fuckhead as close as she can.

  Especially because he’s likely to have to make his way back to the stage, and when he does, the trigger will be on her side.

  She makes ready.

  Chris feels unable to move, that same paralysis effect rooting him to the spot like a fucking statue. When the bomber reaches him and slams past to get to the fallen man, Chris staggers backwards into the aisle, almost landing on his bum.

  The benches are low, so Chris can see what follows very clearly. The bomber, right fist still in the air, is running his free hand over the head and face of the fallen man, then down to his hands, tracing the scratches. He looks up, out over the faces craned to look at him, anxious.

  “Is anyone here a doctor?”

  Silence.

  “Nurse, First Aider? Anyone with any medical training at all?”

  More silence, rolling, thick, oppressive. And Chris knows this has to be bullshit, there are what, seventy, eighty people in here and no first aider? Yeah, sure. Someone in here could do something, knows something, for damn sure. They’re just sitting on their fucking thumbs. Chris feels a wave of disgust at that moment, palpable enough that he can taste it, and he actually thinks you might as well blow this place. We’re not worth it.

  The bomber has his back to Chris, so he can’t read his face, but Chris guesses by the slump he sees in the bomber’s shoulders that he’s probably come to similar conclusions. The bomber half stands, turning towards Chris, then places a foot on the bench, and pushes it back violently, hard and fast enough to knock it over, as the other occupants leap to their feet to avoid getting in the way.

  Having cleared some space, the bomber turns his attention back to the unconscious man, squatting to one side and looking at the grubby, pallid face with a fierce concern. He takes in the whole body, hesitant, then grabs the ankle of Twitch’s left leg and starts to tug it, trying to straighten it out from the awkward angle it’s fallen at, make him more comfortable.

  That’s the moment Twitch starts his fit.

  His entire body heaves up, spasming, and his legs fly straight, pistoning down and out, sweeping the squatting bomber as efficiently as a martial artist. He goes flying backwards, hopelessly off balance, and for Chris that tumble seems to take about a million years. He sees the bomber falling back and away, still accelerating as he heads for the ground, and Chris has time to think if he bangs his head hard enough, we all die right now, has time to think please God, I’m so sorry, and then the bomber is on his back. His head does bounce off the floor, but the bulk of the device strapped to him means his neck has further to travel than it might have otherwise. He’s already moving against the direction of travel, trying to sit up, so it’s a pretty light smack, and his right arm remains perfectly straight and upright and his thumb does not slip and they are not all consumed in a ball of fire. There are gasps and shouts, and even a few screams, and Chris has managed to take a further two steps back without even thinking about it, but the bomber is already regaining his feet, moving back to the poor sod flopping like a fish on the floor. Chris’s eyes are drawn back to this sight, and it’s pretty horrible. The guy’s heels are drumming on the ground, his head smacking against the hard wood floor again and again, arms flailing.

  The bomber moves towards that banging head, hand out, as if to hold it down.

  “No!”

  The voice is frail sounding but remarkably deep. It comes from the old man who was sat in front of Chris. His wheezing is as bad as ever, maybe worse, but his watery blue eyes are alive and alert.

  “Could hurt his neck. Here...”

  The old man shrugs out of his heavy tweed jacket, slowly.

  “...put this under his head.”

  The old man folds the cloth over twice and hands the makeshift pillow to the bomber. He takes it, making eye contact and nodding his thanks. The old man nods back, calm as you like.

  Getting something under the head of someone having a seizure is no picnic, especially one handed, but the bomber manages it on the second attempt, and the dreadful smacking sound of skull on floor is replaced by a softer thudding. Chris realises the entire row in front of his has turned to look.

  Every eye that can see is watching this scene.

  Without looking around, he knows the same thing is happening in the other aisle as well. All minds bent to this spectacle. Even the priest is here, having followed the bomber at some point, his pale face a mask of concern.

  All eyes are on the bomber, and the bomber is all about the poor guy on the ground, and the number of people looking at Chris is zero, and for the first time, Chris is aware of how close he’s now standing to the entrance.

  Or, you know, the exit.

  He feels his heart rate kick up a little at the thought. Shit. Really close. How close? Six foot? Less? If he’s going to leave, this is the moment. He doesn’t want to die here today, he has realised, quite powerfully does not want to, despite the awful appeal of the bombers experiment. Could he do it? Would it work? The bomber is so much closer. Would the closed door, the walls, offer enough protection at that range? Could he get the door shut? Could he live with killing everyone else?

  Would God forgive him?

  “What are you thinking about? Son, what are you trying?”

  It’s the priest, and Chris feels like he’s jumped about six feet in the air before his eyes and mind catch up with his freaking out central nervous system that just screams caught! Caught! Caught!

  The priest is looking at the bomber, and there’s uncertainty and a little anger in his voice, as well as the expected fear. Chris looks back at the bomber. He’s on his knees, one leg on either side of Twitch’s head, right arm still straight up in the air as if in some deranged salute. His left hand is nestled in the dirty hair of the still jerking head, and his eyes are closed. His brow is furrowed, but his face is otherwise flat. Chris feels a complicated wave of emotions as he watches, feelings he can’t fully understand, but his overriding thought is that something is happening, something... powerful.

  Without opening his eyes, the bomber says “A healing. I’m trying for a healing. I’m attempting to save this man’s life, preacher. Pray for me to succeed, if you like, and if you can’t or won’t, just shut up.”

  There’s another ripple through the crowd at this, felt as much as seen, part shuffle, part murmur, part intake of breath. Chris looks at the bomber, watches him as he gently rubs the scalp of the fallen man, eyes closed, clearly and completely focussed, and all thoughts of escape evaporate like a drop of water on a hot stove. He’s drawn in completely, mesmerised by the drama in front of him.

  The bomber inhales, slowly and deeply, once, twice. Then he draws in a fast, deep breath, and holds it, pushing against it, straining. His fingers splayed in the hair appear to press down, and his face gradually reddens as he increases the internal pressure. The moment builds. Then he lets the breath fly out, jerking his hand back at the same time in a tugging motion, as though pulling an invisible rope or wire. Immediately, the trembling becomes less acute, the drumming of a
rms and legs on the ground less insistent. A sigh comes from the crowd. Chris hears a click, realises it came from his dry attempt to swallow.

  The bomber does not open his eyes, but returns his hand to Twitch’s head, and begins the breathing again. The drumming of feet and hands against the floor has become an irregular tapping. This time when the bomber pulls, the reduction is less, but still, it seems clear to Chris that the bomber is having some effect.

  Is this a miracle? Lord, is this a sign? THE sign?

  Another round of breath, and it seems to Chris like he can feel the collective will of the congregation, all pulling for the bomber to succeed, for his patient to be well. When he makes that pulling gesture for the third time, the seizure fades almost entirely, only a mild tremor remaining in the hands, like a palsy.

  The bomber opens his eyes, looking down into the face of the man he has tried to save. To Chris the concern and tenderness is unmistakable, and he lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding. For the first time since the bomber made his move, Chris feels like they’re going to be okay – that somehow, they’re all going to make it out of here okay.

  Maybe the plan isn’t so crazy. Maybe God is with them after all.

  Chris looks around, taking in the reactions of others. There’s a lot of relief, even a few smiles, some mopped brows. Other faces are harder to read, still tight with tension and fear. The priest, now, he’s a picture, and not a pretty one. To Chris’ eyes, he looks appalled, disgusted. Upper lip curled in an unconscious snarl.