He Runs (Part One) (12 page)

'Universe? Cyclical? You go to a bloody posh school or something?'

'Yes,' says Man. 'You could say that. Then college. Then university. Then, then...'

'Then what?' asks Rose, her eyelids flitting up and down, her mind widening to the mystery of Man's existence. 

'Then I stayed at home. Worked a few jobs here and there. And then I joined the army.'

'The army? I wouldn't put you for an army lad!' 

'Why not?' 

'I dunno, I just wouldn't. How long did you serve?'

'Five years. I found it hard to get in. A friend of mine helped me through it.'

'My husband was in the forces. Royal Marines. He died in Afghanistan. Two thousand and twelve.'

'I'm sorry,' says Man, the cloud of awkwardness descending on their table.

'Why?' she asks. 'You didn't do it!'

‘It’s just what people say, I guess. A futile offering of condolences. Piss and vinegar. How’d he die?’

‘He was caught by the Taliban. They cut his head off with a kitchen knife in front of an audience of millions. I remember seeing some boys in front of me at the bus stop, swearing and laughing at one of their phones. I hadn’t heard from Kieran for days but that wasn’t uncommon. They kept on laughing and swearing, my intrigue spiked, I had to look. So I peered over one of their shoulders, saw the face of a man I’d known all my life. I recognised his eyes, muddy brown, and the creases in his brow. He looked so scared, he looked…’ She stops and stares into space, her eyes verging on waterworks, her lip beginning to quiver.

‘It’s okay,’ says Man, his hand wandering over the table to meet hers. She looks up at him and smiles, pulls her hand back to wipe away the tiny, lone tear that trickles down her cheek. ‘You don’t have to go on. We’ve all lost people. It never gets any easier.’

‘No, no, it’s okay. That was a long time ago.’

‘It’s an awful thing to see. No one should ever see that.’

‘It’s common place, now,’ she says, the vivacity returning to her voice. ‘The ironic thing is that I was kind of glad when the darkness set in; when the terrorists relegated us to the Stone Age. That video doesn’t exist anymore and I’m happy about it. I should never have to see it again and yet every day, if I can be bothered to walk for long enough I do see it again. Somebody else’s husband. A child’s father, mother, sister, brother, friend.’

‘Is that why you joined Mick?’ asks Man as he lights another ciggy. ‘Because of what happened to your husband?’

‘I carried a lot of hate around with me for many years. Even after the American’s retaliated, fried the Middle East with fire and radiation, I still wanted some justice, some revenge for my poor Kieran. Mick saw that in me, fed off it, sucked me dry and put his fucking seed in me.’

‘He seems quite the character,’ says Man, draining his beer so fast that it leaves froth in his beard.

‘One thing about Mick,’ says Rose, ‘he always gets what he wants. Right now, he wants you to be with us. And he’ll get it if you let him. I can only offer you one chance to escape, if that’s what you wish. But it has to be tonight.’

‘I quite like here,’ he boasts while smiling at her. ‘I think I’ll stay a while. Work out my next move with a full belly and drunken mind.’

‘It’s your call.’

Lily’s cries begin to echo down the staircase, a sign her mother will not ignore.

‘This is where I say goodnight,’ offers Rose, standing up and strutting to the staircase. ‘Help yourself to the drink. It’s free, after all.’

Man nods in appreciation, the fag hanging loosely from his lips, the embers singeing mangled beard hairs.

‘But tell me one thing before I leave you,’ she adds. ‘Why did you leave the army?’

‘I was pushed out,’ he says calmly.

‘By who?’

‘Myself.’

                            ************************

He lies on a beaten mattress, springs poking into his wiry back like metal thorns. The night moves in slowly, light fading by the second, shadows dying agonising deaths. 

In the other room he can hear the baby crying. Lily, the bastard child of a crazed tyrant. He does not wish to help. The wound is too raw, the infant's sounds tearing through him like cat claws in a song bird’s throat.

The sheets are itchy, even on thick skin. He's been lying for an hour he guesses, tossing and turning, eyelids slammed tight to keep the world out. He remembers something his mother told him when he was young. 

'Open your eyes,' she would say. 'Try to stay awake and you'll fall asleep.'

It never worked. 

Man sits up, fed up with his unusual sleeping arrangements. He grabs the pillow, rolls onto the floor and settles there. Instantly it feels better, more natural. He imagines how he would look to someone if they were to see him like this. A bald, bearded eunuch, his flesh scarred and pale as milk. Lily's cries are muffled by the thick wooden door he has barricaded with the dresser. He takes no chances. 

Eyes start to close and his body begins to numb, the whirling mess in his mind slowing down to a halt, slow enough for him to drop off into a world where he is free from his existence, free from the nightmare of life and the deadly uncertainties of nature. 

It's been a long day. 

He sleeps.

***********************

A man runs through the forest, his naked form rippling with each bound, the moonlight rays turning him into a work of art. 

Black trees loom over like living omens; their branches are razor sharp claws, grabbing at him, aching for justice. 

He picks up speed, dodging black branches as if his life is choreographed; up until a while ago, it was. 

With each powerful bound his muscles tense like electrified wire, the euphoric sense of freedom coursing through his veins. He looks down as he runs, looks at his cock, rock hard and thick. He admires it, enjoys the masculine prowess of owning such a member. And all the while he is dodging the branches. 

A small hill approaches, surrounded by the vicious trees, and he bounds up it, legs like steam powered pistons. As he nears the summit he's hit by a violent gale, so powerful and pure that he embraces it before being bowled down the hill and into the arms of a malicious tree. 

***********************

The floor is wet, the stench of alcohol tainted sweat lingers in the air. His eyes are open, strained and bloodshot, and in the darkness he fumbles for something hard, something steady to remind him that he is alive. He finds the bed, touches it and sighs with relief. Then he touches between his legs, feels relief to find nothing there. 

He stands up, unsteadily, sits on the side of the bed and leans over, his head cradled by his hands, body shaking, convulsing. It's been a long time since such a vivid dream has haunted him. 

A gut twisting thunder erupts in his abdomen, the rising levels of something evil lurking beneath. He stands, opens the door and rushes to the bathroom. The toilet bowl stands by itself, a bucket of water next to it to flush anything away. He'll need it. 

Man barely makes it, head slumping over the toilet bowl, stomach booming, the movement of warm, acidic liquids rushing from below. He pukes, the acrid stench of stomach juices invading his nose, the chunks of yellowy brown bile falling into the bowl. His brain swells, pulsating like a beating heart, moving so fast, so violently that it feels as though it will burst through his skull and kill him. He looks ahead at stained ceramic, clawing through his beard at sputum remnants, his eyes filling with rapturous flashes of lightning. A cerebral event he remembers it being called. He releases a small laugh at the thought of it, before bowling over onto his side, clutching his head as if to keep it from splitting in two. The convulsions take over, his body rapping against the floor, arms flailing violently against the toilet bowl. And then blackness. 

************************

A blurred silhouette of redness greets him. His mouth tastes of iron, his tongue so swollen that it barely fits in his mouth. He knows that he's bitten it again. 

'Hello', says a voice he recognises. 'Hello, are you okay?' 

His eyesight returns slightly, the form a red-headed woman engulfing his field of vision. Rose. He sees her, her form angelic, her eyes glimmering with worry. He knows in that stare, the split-second connection of two pairs of eyes, that she loves him and he loves her. 

'Are you okay?' she repeats. 

'I, I'm fine,' he says. 'Happens sometimes. I'm okay.' He gets to his knees unsteadily, his body waiting for an aftershock of tremors. He craves water. 

'What happened?' she asks. 

'Cerebral event,' he replies, his tongue throbbing with each word. 'I need medication.'

'Do you have it on you?' 

Man laughs, his hoarse throat croaking loudly. 

'No,' he says. 'There's been no medication for years. And besides, I can't remember what it is called.' 

'Bloody hell!' She laughs. They both laugh. 'Are these events dangerous?' 

He opens his mouth, tongue falling out like it's ten feet long, bloodied and bubbling. He hacks an irony glob on to the floor. 

'That's about as bad as it gets,' he says. 'Depends on where I am, though. I can feel it coming on.' 

'Do you need anything?' Her hands move to him, over his shoulder and up to his bumpy scalp. He looks down and sees that he is naked. He forgot about that. At least there's nothing for her to see. 

'Just some water,' he says. 'And maybe some dignity.' 

She laughs again, then stands up and leaves the room. 

Man struggles to his feet and sits on the side of the bath tub. Rose comes in with a large glass of water, hands it to him and drinks. The cold liquid instantly soothes his throat and he can feel the essence of life coming back to him. 

'I'll get you some salt,' she says. 'To rinse your tongue with.' 

'Thank you,' he says. 

She turns to leave, her curly hair whirling elegantly.

'Where're you going?' he asks, his voice showing hints of panic. 

'To find you some dignity,' she says.

************************

The spindly figures in the nearby field waver as heatwaves blur upwards from the earth. The day is hot, the hottest for three summers, and the animals have little water to keep them alive.

‘Picked a good day for it,’ says Mick, his moustache twitching with pleasure. He wears a large, straw hat to protect his head from the colossal fireball in the sky and at a glimpse Man thinks he looks like an obese cricket umpire.

Man has the pleasure of sitting by Mick’s side, another shining, red dome to add to Mick’s vanguard. Twenty one days have past like years and Man finds himself in Mick’s favour, a powerful force, a relentless tide, pulling him out to sea where the all the sharks and monsters of the unknown wait patiently. Man has always been able to read people, a great gift for anyone to be born with. And Mick is just another person, meat and bone and skin, brimming with nauseating ambition and psychopathic tendencies.

Man feels uneasy sitting among the vanguard, the battle scarred Neo-Nazi barbarians. They loiter in a rectangle of mismatched plastic chairs, fluid almost in the scorching heat. They sit as VIPs, nature’s elite, away from the rest of the villagers. For today is a special day, a day that Mick hosts every year, filled with music and games and beer and food. But most importantly, it is filled with blood. Mick calls it Blood Sports Day, a twisted take on the traditional summer event.

In front of the spectators is a section of the field behind the village hall, taped off and guarded by men with guns and axes. It is no longer a field but an area; a battle ground filled with lacklustre melees of malnourished, desperate people. The prize for the winner of each clash is acceptance into this village of horrors. The losers become a part of the feast.

When Mick informed Man of the event, Man asked him why he felt the need to provide such a barbaric spectacle for the people. Mick said one thing in return: control. 

So Man sits, a carrot and nettle ale in hand, watching the day's events unfold before his eyes, analysing each fight with a particularly fierce scrutiny, his mind whirring like a broken clock as it works out what could've been done better. He has always been like this. Ever since he was a child, especially with his natural gift of violence. 

The figures in the arena come into view, Man's eyes struggling in the brightness of the sun, and they start to brawl in feeble bursts. One of them is particularly thin, with long, rangy arms. He clumsily wields a large garden fork, thrusting and slashing with as much intensity as his dying body can muster. His opponent is slightly larger but moves slowly, the heat effecting his mass. His weapon is a shovel, the black tip soiled with the blood of previous contests. 

'Why the garden tools?' asks Man, leaning over to lend Mick's ear. As he does he sees Kevin, the man-dog he saw on his first day, the beast who he has seen following Rose, scowling in envy, his murderous intentions seeping out of his eyes like dark tentacles. Man smiles at him, throws him a wink.