Breakdown (2 page)

There are ten or so of them. Big thickset pit bulls, cross-bred Staffs. All of them feral, survivors of the streets, eating whatever they can. They creep towards us.

The lead dog is squat and dirty white. An old warrior. His muzzle scarred, jaw drooling. He snarls. Huge yellow teeth. Flecks of spittle pepper his chest.

‘Stay back.' I step in front of Nan, heart racing, suddenly dizzy. But I know how to fight dogs. Everyone learns that, sooner or later.

I crouch and wait. Nan tries to give me her stick, but I prefer my bare hands. I wedge my foot against a crevice in the pavement. I stare at the dog. And I wait.

This one doesn't care. He's so hungry. He doesn't care about my crouch. He doesn't care about the staring. The smell of blood has made him bold. He doesn't even try to turn his head to meet my gaze, doesn't waver. He just lets out a short series of snaps, cranks his tail round, emits a low, long growl, hackles raised.

I crouch lower and shake my head in that strange sideways warning motion, like a bull before a charge. The dog hesitates, stops. He flicks his eyes away, notes my stance. He barks, edges back. My shaking head worries him. Good. Dear God, let him back off. Behind him the pack jerks to a halt. If he goes down, they'll back off. Maybe.

He draws back his maw. Fangs shine in the gloom: short, stubby upper jaw; long canine incisors.

I grind my teeth, bare them at him, growl softly. I have to get this just right.

He springs towards me, paws reaching, muzzle open.

Then I grab his front legs and rip them apart.

With a cracking sound, he goes down.

Despite his wide-shouldered stance, his ribs are just as narrow as a greyhound's. I hear them break. But he's heavy and I'm weak. I can't hurl him away, back towards the pack, where they might stop to gorge on him instead.

He drops like stone. I slide down. I'm not crouching any more and the pack can't reach him without reaching me. And I can't fight them all. Even before I hit the pavement, I know I've failed. I've survived so many dog fights. But I've failed.

The next dog lunges.

I raise my arm to guard my throat. It's well wrapped. I've taken precautions, but he sinks his teeth in. And I feel them.
Don't pull away. Don't lower your arm. He won't let go. Thrust forward into the jaw. Grab the back of his neck. Push down on his spine. Body slam into the bite.

Jab at his eyes.

Break his neck.

But a third is at my side and as I slam down onto the second, he strikes.

Get up again. Hold your ground. Don't let them wear you down.

But I can't get up. I can't hold my ground.

And then I see Nan.

She's raised herself up. For a second she's poised against the wharf, like the great Goddess Hera: arm raised, lotus-tipped staff in hand, the dark water behind her. Then she brings her stick down. The dog at my side howls.

The stick breaks. Nan falls. The dog jumps back.

I roll free.

I struggle to my feet. Two dogs have hold of Nan. One has sunk his muzzle deep in her ankle. Another is dragging her along the dock. I hear her cry stop suddenly. Two dogs are at her throat.

Like lightning I'm up, screaming, jumping towards her, kicking, punching.

I stamp on the dog at her ankle. I kick and kick at the dogs at her neck. But pit bulls never let go.

And I catch the terror in Nan's eyes. I'm trapped. Smaller dogs are dragging the big, dirty male away; the rest are closing in.

No time to crouch. No time to wait for one to spring and use that trick again. Instead I pick up a rock, a piece of loose concrete. I turn back to the dog at Nan's neck. I raise my arm to strike him dead. Nan lashes out.

I don't know if she meant to.

Her blow catches me by surprise. I spin back. I'm toppling on the edge of the wharf and everything is caught in slow motion. I can't hold my balance. I can't get back to her. I'm falling. I'm falling off the edge, off the quay, into the river. I kick out. I paddle the air. I scream: ‘
NANA.
'

My call hangs on the air. The river beneath.

No answer. No scream. No growl. No crunch of teeth on bone. No sound of dragging.

The impact of water.

A distant howl cut short.

Icy waters closing over me.

I'm going down.

I can't stop.

I don't feel the water, or the air cut off.

I thrash my arms.

I kick.

I flail, force my legs. I'm held under by the drag of water.
I must breathe.
I drive myself back up through the pressure pushing me down.

I kick and kick and hold my chest in tight. I reach up with my arms.
There's only water.
I open my eyes.
Only water.
I breathe.

Only water.

So cold. I can't kick. Can't thrash. Can't swim. I'm going down.

This river has no bottom. So very cold. But I stop. I don't hit anything.

The coat's heavy. It tangles around my waist. Where's the surface? I open my mouth. I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

And I think of my life and how much I loved it even through the fear and the poverty and it flows before me playing out my days and hours and minutes  …  Nan's embrace I can smell her I feel her arms around me holding me I see the empty streets and the ragged people and the gangs and the dogs and the coupons in the ration book all blue and faded and no food in the stores and the rats and the army trucks and hiding and there's no time to wonder how I can remember such things and days spent with Nan trying to pollinate the tomatoes that she'd grown from an old seed packet that she'd traded for a bowl of potatoes and using a feather that I'd found at the bottom of the garden and trying to tickle the pollen dust from stamen to stigma  …  her little honeybee  … 

There was no tomato crop.

Kick again.

 …  and Nan and her stories of before the bombings of holidays in Scotland in the mountains of the big sky and the heather all purple and the bees, and how I am her little Melissa, whose name means honeybee, called after the nymph of the mountains, who cared for the boy Zeus, who fed him on milk and honey and hid him from his murderous father, Cronus, and for her deeds was turned into an earthworm to dwell forever in the underworld  … 

The underworld  … 

Kick.

Under the waterworld  … 

And Nan reaches out her arms towards me  … 

And holds me and she's smiling and it's warm and green and it's home  … 

A wave of light and noise. Something says, ‘
Mon dieu.
'

Searing pain. Something is punching me. It hurts. I open my mouth. I spew out. Choking. Spitting. Something yanks me from that dim green hollow where I'm settling. My stomach hurts. I'm being punched. My stomach. My chest. Something is punching my chest.

Hot lips are pressed on mine.

Hard lips.

They hurt me.

They punch me.

A hand drags me upright.

‘
Is she going to be OK?
'

A blow lands on my back.

Hot hard lips pump into me.

‘
Quinny? Is she?
'

A child's voice. I try to see, but the pale green bower has turned black.

I splutter. Jerk forward. Gasp. My whole front heaves. I'm choking. I'm gasping and it hurts. It hurts so much. I can't breathe. I swallow air. I swallow water. I can't breathe. I start to slip back down again towards that green haven.
Nan is there, waiting  … 

‘I don't know.'

I hear another voice.

‘Please let her be OK,' says the child.

I don't know who he's asking. He's asking me. There's such an ache in his voice. It holds me. I see Nan's face fading.

I feel a small hand in mine. ‘
Be OK, girl, please be OK.
'

He won't let me go. Against everything, I open my mouth and cough and retch and let the darkness in.

‘Please.'

He's calling me.

It's so painful, I cry out.

‘She's alive.'

I hear the ring in his voice. It holds me there.

‘Don't let Careem get her, Quinny.'

I cough and gasp.

‘Breathe,' says the voice. Another thump lands on my back.

And I breathe. I open my chest and despite the cold and the pain I breathe and cough and breathe.

‘Good. Now, listen.' A hand drags me into a sitting position. ‘You don't have long.'

I sit there coughing water and spitting it out. My throat raw. I open my eyes and try to focus.

It's a boy – tall, broad shouldered, kind eyes, handsome. I stare at him. He's from the east. I can tell by his matted look and the weapons. I can tell by the tattoo across his forearm. Hastily he rolls his sleeves back down. But I've seen it. Bone Cross Bone. I must have been swept sheer past the Tower. I've fallen into the hands of a ganger.

‘Do as he says,' urges the kid.

In between sucking in air and retching, I turn my head and look at him. The kid's thin, scraggy; about six. He's squatting right beside me. He peers into my face.

‘You gonna be OK, girl?' he says.

He's got pinched cheeks and huge eyes. His hair might once have been blonde but it's uncombed and unwashed and falls in locks.

‘They bit you, didn't they?' he says. He touches my arm. I start to shiver. My teeth chatter. I can't control the rattling.

‘Lenny, we gotta go now,' says the ganger.

‘We can't leave her, Quinny.'

‘Yes, we can.'

‘But if we leave her, she'll die.'

‘She'll know how to take care of herself.'

‘Do you?' says Lenny, peering into my face.

‘We can't take her.'

‘But the dogs will find her. Careem will find her. She's bleeding.'

‘I told you it'd be better if we left her in the river.'

‘But you didn't.'

‘I know.'

‘So now she's ours,' says Lenny. His bottom lip creases up.

Quinny sighs. I lean forward to stop myself from falling back. ‘Come on, Lenny, we can't.'

‘Why d'you save her then?' His face screws up, hands in fists.

Quinny sighs again.

‘Then you go. I won't.' The kid folds his arms across his skinny chest.

‘Then she'll be your responsibility,' warns Quinny.

‘OK.'

‘And we gotta get Careem to agree.'

‘You get him to agree.'

The older boy squats down in front of me. He peers into my face too. His eyes large and dark. ‘Girl,' he says.

‘Melissa,' I splutter.

‘Well, Melissa, if you can stand up and walk, you best get the hell out. My little bro wants to keep you. I can't promise nothing. If your legs work, get up and get going.'

‘We live in Games City,' pipes up the kid, as if that explains everything.

Games City. I've heard of it. The old Olympic stadium from the glorious years when Nan was a girl, when kids had phones and homes were warm and there was food. That golden time when everything grew and the sun shone. And people filled up their leisure hours with eating and shopping and sporting in stadiums like Greek Gods.

Games City, the games ghetto, home to the gangers, the outcasts, the people even the army don't deal with.

Oh yes, I've heard of Games City.

I look up at Quinny. Don't say anything. Just shiver. He offers me his arm. I don't take it. How am I going to get west, back home again?

I push back my shoulders, try to inhale without coughing.
Don't think about Nan.
Think what to do. Can I get away? Can I fight off dogs? How will I get back? I think of home, the potatoes still in their dish on the kitchen table, the empty cupboards. The bed where Nan and me used to sleep.

I catch my breath.

Think.

I try to get up. My legs are too weak.

‘I'll help you,' says Lenny.

He grabs hold of my arm and pulls. I stagger to my feet.

‘Steady,' says Quinny, and I can't stop him from catching me and holding me upright against him.

‘You heard what I said.' His lips are close. His voice urgent. His breath hot and strange against my face. ‘Get going, Melissa. Don't mind Lenny. I can't keep you unless Careem says.' Reluctantly he lets me go. ‘Just get the hell out.'

So I try to. But I don't know where. I'm miles away from the west side. I stagger away from the dock. It's dark. I could find a bin, a container, a broken building? I could barricade myself in?

I did that once with Nan when we were caught out after dark. She showed me how. I look up the wharf, looking for a container of any kind, an outhouse, an old lock-up garage, an arch – a doorway, even. I squint into the night.

And I see them.

Carrying firebrands and chanting. Banging steel. Faces glittering in the torchlight, savage and dark. More than twenty strong.

And they're coming this way.