Crash (2 page)

"What is it?" Michael asked as he stood on tiptoes to peer through a gap in the heavy curtain.

A black and battered Ford F-150 had rolled through the gates. In spite of the superficial damage, it still looked relatively new. Chris assumed the huge truck must have been taken from the forecourt no more than six months ago because the angry and pockmarked paintwork showed no signs of rust. It didn't have license plates, so he couldn't be one hundred percent sure of its age, but he felt like it was a good hunch. He wondered for a moment where in London one would get such a car until he remembered the American car importer a few miles south. He assumed the driver was local.

A huge battering ram protruded from the front that looked like a steel pillar of about six feet long by four feet in diameter. It gave the truck a fierce nose that looked like it had been utilized many times. Its effectiveness was clear to see because the black gate that had once provided the family with such a strong sense of security had been cast aside like it was made out of cardboard. It now lay useless and mangled like a barely identifiable body part of someone who'd stepped on a land mine.

There were seven men in the back of the truck. They were filthy and bulked up with layers of clothes to combat the January chill. The youngest, Chris guessed, was in his mid-twenties, the oldest no older than fifty.

Chris looked at their weapons and saw steel bars with spikes, baseball bats wrapped in razor wire, long knives and swords, and even a tennis racket that looked like the edges had been sharpened to be as keen as the deadliest blade. Each weapon, without exception, looked like they could end a life with great efficiency. From looking at the fierce men with their deep frowns and blood-splattered clothes, Chris had no doubt that they already had.

He finally replied to his son in hushed tones, the fear of these men discovering them clinging to him like frostbite. "They look like looters."

After weaving into the middle of the cul-de-sac, the truck finally came to a halt, and the men on the back vaulted off, weapons raised and ready for action. While grinding his jaw, a habit Chris was only ever aware of when a headache kicked in, he said, "We need to be very careful around these men. They're dangerous. Very fucking dangerous."

The childish innocence in Michael's wide blue eyes showed how he was more shocked by his dad swearing than the fact that looters were outside their house. He then said, "What do we do, Dad?"

After a pause, Chris said, "We wait, son."

The cab door opened and out stepped a slim man with black hair and a red face. He looked like he was in his mid to late thirties. His angry skin appeared to writhe like his body was a prison of rage--a prison where the ratio of guards to inmates was stretched so thin that chaos could erupt at any moment. The blue suit he wore had crusty patches of what Chris could only assume was dried blood. It was as stiff as wood. In his hand was a sawn-off shotgun. It was clear to see that he was the leader. Chris could only see dark shadows where his eyes should be, and the man reminded Chris of a shark.

One of the men from the back of the truck, a short and lithe, red-haired weasel of a man who had the razor sharp tennis racket, called to the leader, "Dean, which house first?"

It seemed that even this question annoyed the tetchy man, who, without saying a word, pointed the barrel of his gun at number one in the close.

Chris only remembered that Michael was watching too when he said, "That's Tommy's house."

Gathering his son in his arms, Chris told his next lie. "Don't worry, Michael, Tommy will be okay." What else could he tell him?

The roar of another diesel engine hailed the arrival of a second Ford F-150. This one was blue and had a cage on the back that was full to bursting with enough food to feed a small army, which is exactly what they were. It was mostly packets of dried food and tins, but there was a live pig tied up and stacked like all of the other objects in the congested cage. It looked exhausted, and even if it wasn't bound as tightly as it was, Chris thought that it would have still been as inactive. It stared ahead with its tongue lolling from its mouth like it was dying of thirst.

When the truck stopped, two more men emerged. One was a slight, dark-skinned man in a trench coat that looked like he should be on the early train to the city rather than with this collection of thieves and murderers. The driver was a huge black man who was at least six feet and four inches and was dressed in blue jeans, thick boots and a heavy sheepskin jacket. He was built like a heavyweight boxer and dressed like he was delivering a skip. He walked around the truck, his breath visible in the cold January air, and shook the cage at random points.

The leader, who seemed to respect this man more than the last one he'd spoken to, asked, "Everything okay, George?"

Chris thought he saw disdain in the hulking man's eyes when he looked over, but it was hard to tell from this distance. He didn't seem to share the other's excitement for what they were about to do. His large face had soft features that suggested he had a compassion that was contrary to the hive mind.

"Everything's fine," he called back. "I just wanted to check that nothing's worked its way free on the journey." His kind eyes gazed at the pig while he stroked it, and his mouth moved as he spoke to the animal. Chris couldn't hear what he was saying. Raising his voice, he then said, "We hit a few potholes on the way in. You know what these fucking roads are like now." He then pulled his coat tight against himself and shivered.

Michael looked up and whispered, "They have a lot of food."

Chris nodded. "They do, son."

"Do you think they'll leave us some if they come into our house?"

He put his hand on Michael's little head and said, "I hope so."

Wishing he'd made his son come away from the window before the third truck pulled in, Chris nearly vomited from what he saw.

Staring at a blue truck, identical to the second, Michael's innocent face fell slack. Pulling his blonde fringe from his eyes as if un-obscuring his view would show him a different reality to the one unfolding outside, he said, "What's that truck for, Dad?"

Like the second truck, this one also had a cage welded to the back. The cage was about the same size as the other one, but instead of being loaded with food, it was full to bursting with women. They were pressed against the bars like battery hens, and they shuffled in the cramped space like veal in crates. Deciding it was time to be more honest with his son because their survival would likely hinge on his cooperation, Chris said, "It's for keeping women."

"Their women?"

Finding the scene outside too upsetting, Chris looked at his son and brushed his fine hair from his wide eyes. "I don't think so; I think they've stolen them and taken them as slaves. It would appear that they're looting for women and girls as well as food."

Although Michael only said, "Oh," his little face looked like he was trying to comprehend the fact. "Why would they steal women?"

"Because they're bad men."

Sounding hopeful, Michael said, "Do you think Mum and Matilda are in there? Maybe we could steal them back?"

Another truth that Chris had chosen to withhold from his son was the whereabouts of his mother and sister, but now wasn't the time to reveal it. Looking out of the window again, pretending to scan the dirty and broken faces in the cage on the back of the third truck, Chris said, "I can't see them."

"Hmmm," Michael said thoughtfully, and then added, "Do you think they'll leave my chocolate? I've been careful to make that last as long as possible. I've sucked just one square every night."

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Chris pulled his son's ration-emaciated body tightly to him. Like everything else in the house, Michael smelt of mold. Chris shivered as he said, "Maybe." Clearing his throat quietly, he repeated, "Maybe. What we need to accept is that they will take whatever they want, and there are too many of them for us to argue."

Michael said another, "Hmmm."

Chris scanned the room again. With no television, no electricity, no gas and no physical energy because of their poor diet, the life they'd chosen beneath the bedclothes had seemed to be the most sensible option at the time. Chris didn't see what moving would achieve, especially as the open road stank of human waste because of overflowing sewers. The life he'd chosen for them had seemed sustainable. Or rather, it had until now.

Looking again at the truck with the women, Michael said, "What do you think they do with the little boys? Will they take Tommy prisoner? Will they take me prisoner?"

Looking at the leader and his blood-encrusted suit, Chris swallowed back the bilious burn rising in his throat and tried to speak, but his face buckled out of control.

Michael, who was staring at what was happening outside with his jaw hanging limp, didn't notice.

Drawing a thick and stuttered breath, Chris said. "I don't think they will. I don't think they make little boys prisoners."

"Thank God," Michael said with relief.

Looking away again, Chris blinked as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. He felt like a fool for not seeing this coming from a mile off because the signs had been there months before. He thought about the conversation he'd had with his boss just over a year ago.

The Seed Was Sewn

Having been summoned to his boss's office, Chris stood in the lavish room and looked around at the fine art adorning the walls. It was chosen in good taste, so he assumed that Dick had had nothing to do with its acquisition. A heavy walnut desk dominated the room, and the green leather chair that was reserved for guests was yet to be offered to Chris. The carpet he stood on was so thick that he wondered if a mower would be more effective on it than a vacuum cleaner. It felt like standing on a mattress. Looking everywhere but at his fat boss, who was currently devouring a whole roast chicken, the animal fat glistening off his ample chin and cheeks, Chris tried to keep his own lunch down as the thick greasy smell slithered up his nostrils.

"PIGS!" Dick scoffed as a slippery lump of meat slid from his fat mouth and hit the desk like a slug.

Hot saliva ran down the back of Chris' throat, and he pulled a huge breath into his lungs to try and stop himself from vomiting. As he gasped for breath in the hot room, he pretended that the air entering his body was cool and fresh. Looking at the rotund man with his mousy-brown short and spiky hair, his round head, his piggy little eyes, and his suit that always looked a size too big, Chris nodded at the chicken and said, "Still on the Atkins then?"

Unable to get the food in fast enough, Dick loosened his tie and belched. The smell that hit Chris seconds later was like rotting offal. Chris suddenly had too much saliva in his mouth and gently heaved, but too engrossed in his feeding frenzy, Dick didn't notice. Shuffling over to the large window overlooking the city and rubbing his watering eyes, Chris divided his time between admiring the view and watching the glutton speaking with his mouthful.

"Obviously." His fat face stretched into a childlike grin, his blue eyes turning into slits that threw wrinkles to his greying temples. "Anyway, PIGS, have you heard that's what they're calling them?" He seemed excited by the news.

The sensationalist headlines dominating the tabloid media were hard to ignore, but because he couldn't say anything positive, Chris didn't reply.

Lifting the paper he was reading, Dick said, "Portugal, Ireland, Greece, Spain--PIGS. I've also heard that Italy is rocking too. Those countries will be the death of us. And I bet we'll end up with more illegal immigrants stealing our benefits."

The ignorance of the man was bad enough. The fact that Chris was beneath him on the company ladder made him feel positively suicidal. In spite of his internal resentment, Chris' face remained passive as he reminded himself that Dick got the job because of
who
rather than
what
he knew. Daddy was on the board. Having been sold the pretense that he was responsible for a group of hedge fund managers, the reality was that Dick did whatever he was told to do. Chris was sure he spent most of his day idle, his huge computer monitor seeing more porn than spreadsheets. Reminding himself that whatever he thought of this man, he pulled rank over him, Chris took a deep breath and said, "Anyway, Dick, how's Lucy?"

"The old ball and chain?"

Another thing about Dick was that he spoke in clichés. Chris offered a polite laugh and hoped his face didn't show what he really thought, or at least that his thick boss wouldn't notice.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, Dick was permanently oblivious. "She's good... I'm afraid to say." Finding his own joke hilarious, Dick actually grunted while serving up a full-bellied laugh, his gaping chasm of a mouth flinging wide to reveal hippo-like teeth.

Chris smiled again, wondering who the acronym was more suited to--Power, Ignorance, Greed, Stupidity. Smiling at his own thought, he then quickly dropped it when he realized what he was doing.

Standing up to practice his golf swing, reminding Chris that at about five feet and nine inches, a good two inches shorter than Chris, this man was almost as wide as he was tall, Dick then said, "And how's Daisy?"

Because Dick had a big voice and a poor awareness of personal space, Chris had to step back to stop himself feeling overwhelmed by the man. He then said, "It's Diane, Dick, and she's very well, thank you. She's still talking about your last barbecue." He left out the fact that it was for all of the wrong reasons.

Tipping his plate to allow the chicken carcass to slide into the bin, Dick then shifted Sun Tzu's
The Art of War
on his desk so Chris' eyes would fall on it, which they did. Chris noticed that the adopted business manual looked like it had never been read. Dick then said, "Well, that's the one thing that can be said for Lucy--she knows how to throw a party."

"That she does." Although Chris thought that if he had that much time and disposable income, he'd know how to throw a party too; he'd also do it a darned sight better than Lucy, and with much more class.