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Authors: Michael Robertson

Crash (7 page)

BOOK: Crash
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"I don't know. Sometimes stress does strange things to people."

"Is that why she's gone away?"

The lump in his throat was painful and choked him, so Chris simply nodded.

Putting his arm around the shoulders of his little boy, who was staring at the floor and shivering, Chris said, "Come on, mate, we need to keep going."

Stopping at the window halfway down the stairs, Michael, who was too short to see out of it, asked, "What's happening now?"

"It looks like they've taken everything they want from the house; they're now siphoning fuel from the cars into jerry cans."

"Jerry cans?"

Chris was losing patience with the questions. "They're big metal cans for fuel. Come on, Michael, we've got to get moving; we're running out of time." With that, Chris descended the stairs two at a time, flying down the huge staircase that had family portraits lined down one wall. The pictures marked the stages of the children's lives, each showing the same pose one year on from the previous. Diane always stood on one side with Matilda next to her. Michael was in the middle and Chris was on the opposite end to his wife and daughter. It was clear to see that Michael, who was doing his best to keep up with his dad's long strides, was the tenuous link holding the family together. He was the only common ground.

Avoiding the last stair with the huge red stain on the white carpet, Chris opened the cupboard that was built into the staircase and was hit with the combined smell of several different and noxious cleaning products. The thick chemical pungency both choked him and made his eyes water. He'd never questioned where these products were kept in the house because he never used them, but now he'd made this discovery, he could see it was a sensible place for them.

Upon seeing a box on a shelf at the back, curiosity got the better of him and he pulled it down. It was wooden, heavier than he expected, and about the size of a shoebox.

Having just caught up with him, Michael watched his dad open it.

When he lifted the lid, Chris simply stared at the contents with his mouth hung loose and his unfit heart beating like it would burst. Frowning, he tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

"We had a party planned for you every year," Michael said. "Mum always had banners and presents, and we all waited for you to get home. But you always worked late, or had an important meeting." His small features creased as he said, "You didn't even come home when your birthday was on a weekend."

With trembling hands, Chris picked one of the cards at random and opened it. It was for his thirty-fifth birthday, seven years ago, and his wife's beautiful writing said,
'This will be our year, honey. I love you, and I know we will find our way.'

Opening another one, this one was for his fortieth. He read the inscription,
'I love you. I really appreciate how hard you work for us all. We are so so grateful.'

He shivered as he opened his next card, this one from eight years ago.
'We're so lucky to have two beautiful children. We have such a wonderful life ahead. Let's make it happen this year.'

Feeling a small and cold hand on his back, Chris couldn't stop shaking as his view of the world turned blurry again. It seemed that now he was staring death in the eyes, he was discovering the heart that he should have found years ago. Opening the card from his birthday this year, it said,
'I know things are tough, but I'll be here whenever you need me, and I'll do whatever I need to do.'

This one broke him. Falling to his knees and not even registering the pain of them smashing into the cold stone floor, Chris started to sob as he thought back to his birthday just a few months before.

Celebrate

"What the fuck are you doing?" Chris asked his wife as he glared at her with narrowed eyes. His waxy face glowed red as his fury writhed beneath his skin like crawling bugs.

Diane flinched at his aggression before meeting his attack with silence. She watched him with her usual look of tight-lipped, mild surprise. Her eyes were the only part of her plastic face that gave away her real feelings, so he studied them, looking to see if she felt anything.

She offered her retort as a sigh, "Don't start, Chris."

Taking a sip of coffee, the bitter liquid making his guts churn because it was his seventh cup today, his words exploded from his mouth like vomit, the caffeine adding rocket propulsion. "Don't start? How can I not? All you've done is breathe down my neck and walk around with a face like a smacked arse all day." He looked down and said, "Not that I've smacked that arse in a long fucking time."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Every time I leave the kitchen and come back again, you've tidied something up or put something away. I feel like you're hovering around with nothing to do but clean up after me. It's doing my fucking head in!"

She shrugged. "I'm not used to you being in the house."

"Is that what this is?" Looking around at their lavish kitchen that, in itself, was bigger than the footprint of an average house, he continued, "You're happy for me to provide this wonderful fucking life for you, but when I want to be in my own house, you have a problem with it? I've been looking day and night for a job, and there's nothing out there, so where else am I supposed to be?"

She sighed again, and it made him want to punch her. She then said, "You think I don't care about the lack of work?"

Chris' jaw hurt from grinding it, and a headache had settled into his temples. Rubbing the sides of his head with each hand, pressing harder than was necessary because of his pent-up aggression, he said, "I think all you care about is money in the bank, food on the table, and the kids in a private school. Not for their education mind, more so you can keep up with those posh twats that you have lunch dates with."

Lifting an open bottle of red wine from the worktop and filling her glass, Diane shook her head.

The huge clock on the kitchen wall showed it was just after one in the afternoon. Making an obvious point to look at it, Chris lifted his eyebrows and asked, "You're staring already?"

Taking a sip of the wine, Diane's cold eyes regarded him with utter contempt.

He held her stare as his frantic pulse flipped into hyperdrive. Pulling in a deep breath, he then released it slowly, hoping it would remove his anger. It barely touched it. Shaking his head, he said, "Anyway, it's what I know. You're a heartless bitch that only cares about the things money can buy and what your poxy mates think about you."

She leant on the black worktop and stared at him.

Having decided a long time ago that she was dead inside, he was surprised to see her eyes well up. It had been a long time since he'd seen her upset. He lifted his lip in a snarl and added, "Don't start with your crocodile tears. Fucking hell, Diane, I know you better than that." After a moment's pause, his eyes narrowed, his crow's feet wrinkling. "Actually, you know what, now you're upset, I may as well keep going. We have to take the kids out of private school. I can't afford to pay the fees with no fucking money and no chances of a job."

"What about our savings?"

"My savings you mean? You spend, you don't save."

A pout forced her skinny lips away from her face and she said, "You don't think I contribute? How about I go out to work and you keep the house immaculate and raise two children?"

Looking around at the kitchen, Chris said, "You think you could find a job that would pay for all of this?" He looked her up and down. "You could lie on your back with your ankles around your ears all day, and you wouldn't even cover the milkman's bill. You could suck half of the country dry and they'd probably all ask for a refund."

Silence.

"Anyway, if we use the savings now, what will we do when the money runs out? There isn't any work out there, and there may not be for a few years. You really need to open your eyes to what's going on in the world. It's not all coffee and yoga you know."

Stepping back a few paces, Diane pulled a letter from the side and hid it as she walked out of the room.

Wondering if she was holding what he thought she was, Chris told himself not to be so ridiculous. He listened to her open and close the cupboard beneath the stairs. He then returned his attention to the situations vacant section in the local paper. The only job available was for a traffic warden. Pushing it away, he muttered, "I'd rather be a rent boy. What a fucking waste of time."

He looked up to see his wife return to the kitchen. He shivered because the temperature seemed to lower with her reappearance, as if a ghost had just entered the room. It was probably the ghost of their relationship. Before she had a chance to speak, he said, "What now?"

Pulling a huge breath into her skinny body, she shook her head and left the room again. On her way out, a gust of wind caught her strong and sweet perfume, flinging it at Chris. He used to like the smell, but now it made him think of fly spray.

With the dry aftertaste of coffee bedded down on his tongue like moss, and his caffeine-driven pulse pounding in his head, Chris launched his mug at the wall. The crash rang through his sterile home. A moment of calm followed, during which he watched the muddy liquid make its way down the cream wall to the white floor. He was pleased about the mess it was making for his obsessive wife. He then got to his feet and walked out of the front door, the chilly outside breeze hitting him in the face as his whole body snapped tight around the rock in his stomach. He didn't notice Michael and Matilda holding a cake at the bottom of the stairs with Diane behind them.

Sat at the bar of his local pub, Chris looked at the people around him. Everyone wore heavy frowns, had hunched shoulders, and drank slowly. It was depressing to look at, but at least they had company, someone to share their anxiety with. All he had left in his life was a wife he hated. He had two wonderful children, but he was sure it wouldn't be long before they despised him. He couldn't blame them either, as he wasn't a likable person. Raising his hand, he said, "Another please, John."

The barman took a drag on his cigarette and looked at him over his glasses, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he assessed his level of intoxication like he would in times before the crisis. He then shrugged, clearly reaching the conclusion that a paying customer was worth more now than ever. He filled the pint and placed it in front of Chris as he asked, "Is everything okay?"

Chris' bloodshot eyes looked at the man and his words were slurred when he said, "Fine. Everything's fucking great."

He put the cool liquid to his mouth and drank. The bubbles burst on his tongue, and the head of the pint painted a mustache on his top lip. He let it sit there and stared at the barman.

John took the hint, and after he'd walked away, Chris felt his eyelids getting heavy, the heat of the soporific open fire next to him combining with the alcohol in his bloodstream. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, he raised his glass at his squiffy reflection and said, "Happy fucking birthday, Chris."

London's Burning

The explosion shook the walls of their house, making Chris' heart explode with panic and flinging the shelf that had previously held the box to the floor. Chris instinctively dropped into a crouch as dust filled his lungs and tickled his throat.

After everything had settled, he swallowed, and it felt like he'd eaten sand. Grit sat on his gag reflex, and he didn't know whether he'd vomit or cough. He did his best to stifle a cough with his sleeve, hoping it would sate his need. All it did was fill his mouth with the crunchy debris that was not only in the air because of the foundation-rocking explosion but on his clothes as well. Spitting on the floor, he then turned around to see Michael kneeling down, cowering from the ceiling like he expected the world to fall in on him. He only looked up when Chris grabbed him, flinching at first and then focusing on his dad's eyes.

Because of the dust, Chris sounded particularly gruff when he ordered, "Stay here." He waited for a nod of recognition before adding, "I'll call you up when it's safe."

Michael responded to his order by cowering away farther and shaking like a scared mouse.

Before moving off, Chris looked out of the window. From where he was, he could see the pick-up with the food in the back. He could also see George, although, if he kept low, he was confident George couldn't see him.

"We need to be careful now that we're downstairs." Nodding in the direction of the large man and his truck, he added, "We need to make sure no one sees us."

Regarding his father through glazed eyes, it seemed like Michael had lost the power of speech. However, he did nod after every instruction, so Chris had to assume that he'd taken everything in. Patting his fragile shoulder, Chris then climbed halfway up the stairs in two strides. Upon reaching the window, he carefully pulled the heavy curtain aside, felt the chill emanating from the cold pane of glass, and looked out at the looters.

The front of Frank and Marie's house had a huge hole in it and fire was hungrily consuming everything it touched. Thick black smoke spread outwards, filling the cool air with poisonous fumes. Some of the men coughed and stepped back. Dean, however, stood in the cloud, breathing it in as if it were pure oxygen.

Material possessions were now meaningless in this world, but to see the destruction of a friend's home made it hard to ignore just how wild this new existence was. On closer inspection, he saw that Frank's Maserati was the cause of the chaos. They'd obviously set it on fire and rolled it into the house. The red paint was blistering and already peeling away, while the car itself was covered in an ever-increasing barrage of plaster and falling masonry.

Remaining at the top of the driveway and shrouded in smoke, Dean howled at the sky. In the near silence of their surroundings, his howl was thrown back at him as if there were a hundred other Deans currently causing similar chaos throughout London. For all Chris knew, that's exactly what was happening beyond his gated community.

A gust of wind cleared the smoke at a point that coincided with Dean taking in his surroundings. It allowed Chris to see the sociopath's total detachment. A chill then flicked through Chris' body, and every muscle locked tight. He was scared because it was clear that there wasn't a rational thought in Dean's head. He seemed devoid of empathy. If he got hold of Chris, or, God forbid, Michael, there would be no mercy.

BOOK: Crash
8.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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