Crash (11 page)

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.

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.