Crash III: There's No Place Like Home (20 page)

George loomed over him, his tense shoulders raised to his neck as he stared down at the man. “It would be easy to bury this axe in your head, you sick fuck. You don’t deserve that kind of luck though.”

The metal head of the axe clanged against the floor when George dropped it. He then leaned over and gripped a handful of Julius’ vest. Like a mother puppy moving her young, he lifted him and dragged him across the room.
 

When they were closer to the fire drum, Julius came to life, twisting and turning in an attempt to be free of George's grip. He shook his head and kicked his legs. “No. Not that… no… please…”

Without breaking stride, George lifted Julius and pressed his face into the side of the scalding barrel.
 

Julius screamed, but it did nothing to mask the hiss of his melting flesh.

George grimaced as he pushed the man harder into it.
 

The charred stink, both sweet and smoked like burned honey-roasted ham, left an acrid taste in the back of Michael’s throat.

“This is what happens to perverts,” George said, shaking as he delivered his words. “You’re a sick fuck and deserve to pay the fucking price for it.”

Julius screamed as he fought to get away.

Surrounded by the strong and sweet reek of burning flesh, Michael watched with relief. The panic that had balled in his chest over the past few days eased. George was here. He was safe.
 

***

The next ten minutes or so would stay with Michael forever, but he didn’t turn away. Someone like Julius deserved to leave the world minus his fingernails, toenails, then fingers and toes.

When George finally lifted the thickset man and placed him over the oil drum, he was still breathing, but was delirious. The flames feasted on his clothes and stretched up toward the ceiling.

As the smell of burned hair joined the reek of melting skin, George stood back and wiped his glistening brow. The big man then walked over to Michael and undid his restraints. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. Are you okay?”

Michael nodded, grief swelling as a painful lump in his throat.
 

When Michael’s first hand was free, he scratched his nose and groaned. “Oh my god, that feels so good.”
 

George paused and stared at him, his dark gaze heavy with concern.
 

“My nose has been itching since they strapped me into this bloody seat,” Michael said.

George nodded and continued freeing Michael from the rest of the straps.
 

Michael jumped out of the chair and George dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay, mate?”

A hot wave of grief rushed forward. Michael’s eyes burned, and his lip buckled as he nodded. “Yes, you got to me before anything happened.”

George straightened a little and his scowl eased. “Really?”

Michael nodded again and looked over at Julius' body as it popped and crackled on the fire. “Thanks for saving me, George.”

“I owe you this a million times over. I promise you, son, I’ll do everything within my power to keep you safe in this world.”

Silence hung between the pair before Michael finally broke it. “There’s something we need to do before we leave.”

***

The lock snapped free, the hinges groaned, and Michael stepped into the warehouse with George behind him.
 

The familiar lethargy of the room hit him as he looked at all of the dozing boys.
 

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not hanging around this time, and you boys can do whatever the fuck you like, but Julius is dead, as are most of his guards. If you want to leave this place, I would suggest you do it now.”

No one responded.

When he turned to George, the big man shrugged. “You ready to leave?”

Of the fifty or so boys in the warehouse, every one of them remained where they were. Michael looked up at George. “What are they doing? Why aren’t they moving?”

“They’ve been here too long.”

“Surely that would make them want to move more?”

The sides of George’s eyes pinched as he winced. “Sometimes, people become so accustomed to a certain way of life, especially one as brutal as the one they’ve been living, that they’re too broken to leave it.”

As he looked at the boys, Michael opened and closed his mouth several times but couldn’t find the words. He eventually sighed and turned to George again. “Let’s get out of here.”

Breakfast

In the time Michael had been away, George had found a new house to live in. It was a good thing because the old place reminded him too much of Lola. Just thinking about her made him tense. As he walked down the stairs, he stretched the tiredness from his body and winced against the shrill peep of the fire alarm.
 

"What time is it?" he said to George as he watched him dance around the kitchen, waving a tea towel through the air as if it would banish the smoke.

After looking out of the window at the spreading daylight, George shrugged and said, "Morning," then continued wafting the air beneath the alarm.

It had been a week since George had rescued him from the warehouse, and the aches and pains from his time there still tugged at various parts of his body. They’d diminished for sure but not completely vanished. A few more days and they should be gone for good.

Before he stepped off the bottom stair, Michael held onto the banister and rolled his hips from side to side. One of the boys in the warehouse had hit him so hard in the back, he had a deeper pain there than anywhere else. As he rocked, lightning rods of pain ran both up his back and down his thigh.

George gave up on the fire alarm and stared at Michael. "You okay, son?"

Michael nodded. He didn’t have it in him to shout over the annoying noise.

The house used to belong to a family of four; a mum, dad, son, and daughter. George had called it a nuclear family—whatever that was supposed to mean—and whenever Michael looked at the family photos on the walls, he expected them all to glow green. When he told George that, the big man said he’d watched too much
Scooby Doo
. He missed
Scooby Doo
.
 

The boy of the family was named Connor; or so it said on the schoolbooks that he’d left behind in his room. Although he was an academic year older than Michael, they were of a similar size. His clothes weren’t a perfect fit, but they were good enough and a damn sight better than a pink tracksuit. Whenever Michael looked out into the back garden, he saw the dark stain on the small patio from where he and George had burned the horrible clothes.

The family must have left in a rush because Conner left a lot of things behind. In a week, Michael had been able to wear a new outfit each day. It would be at least a month before he had to even consider washing anything. The soft brush of clean clothes against his skin felt good as he continued trying to work the aches from his body. Today he'd chosen blue jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and a red hoodie. Beneath that, he had some Calvin Klein boxer shorts and thick hiking socks on his feet. It felt almost as good as having a warm shower.

The fire alarm stopped as Michael walked to the kitchen table. When he sat down it went off again, the loud noise hurting his ears and causing him to cringe.

George flapped a tea towel beneath it again until it stopped. When he saw Michael looking at him, he half smiled.
 

“I know, I know. It’s bloody annoying and it wakes you up every morning." He turned to the fire pit in the sink, wafting the smoke away from the alarm as best as he could. "Although getting you out of bed in the morning isn’t the worst thing. I know what you kids are like. You’ll sleep until it’s dark if we let you.”

When Michael pulled a face, George added, “Anyway, it’s staying. It's too fucking cold to cook outside and there’s no way I’m sleeping in a house without a fire alarm. If only I was more fucking cautious years ago.”

Michael couldn’t argue with that; not with knowing that’s how George had lost his boy.

George turned back to the grill spread across the sink and jabbed a fork into the meat sizzling on it before lifting it off and plunking it on a white plate on the kitchen worktop. After draining a steaming pot of sweet corn, he tipped that next to the meat and slid the food across the table to Michael.

George then handed him a half-full bottle of water. “We’re running a bit low, but the rainwater’s building up. I’ll boil some of it tonight so we have more for tomorrow.”

The plastic bottle crackled as Michael undid the lid and took a sip. It tasted like dust. Like it had been in the bottle too long and had spent the past year on the back seat of a car. But it quenched his thirst and there was no room for fussiness in this new life.

The house had a very similar set up to the one they'd stayed in with Lola. Open plan downstairs with a great view of both the front and back of the house. The back garden had walls surrounding it and it was large for a London property. Like the last property, it had gates across the front and, as before, George had blocked them with the battered truck.

Michael returned his attention to his meal. When he cut through the meat, his knife chinked against the porcelain plate. In the aftermath of the alarm, the silence hung heavy.
 

“You still having nightmares, kid?”

Michael looked up at George; heat flushed his cheeks, and his tongue suddenly felt too big for his mouth. He nodded and dropped his eyes back to his breakfast.
 

“Figured as much. I hear you screaming at night. I can’t believe Lola sold you out. What a bitch.”

They’d already had this conversation several times. What did George hope to achieve by going over it again? Although Michael didn’t reply, he stared at George and raised his eyebrows.
 

George lifted his hands as if it were a stick up. “All right, I get it. Drop it, right?”

The nightmares had been with Michael long before Lola sold him out. Every time he closed his eyes, the first thing he saw before reliving the darkness of the warehouse, was his dad’s death. He saw his skull caving beneath the heavy blow of a hammer long before he heard the boys’ screams. But how could he tell George that?

As Michael chewed another mouthful of the salty meat, he said, “What is this?”

“Vegetarian bacon. It’s the only stuff that’s still edible.”

“It tastes all right, you know?"

George shrugged, taking the compliment as if he'd created the faux meat.

"What happened to the pig that was on the back of your truck?”

George sighed. “It died. It was in a bad way. We should have eaten it when we caught it. It would have been fairer to the pig, and we wouldn’t have had to waste the meat. But Dean didn’t like doing anything that wasn’t his idea. I think he enjoyed watching it die, to be honest.”

Just the mention of Dean made Michael shudder. After spooning the last of his corn into his mouth, Michael chugged it back with another guzzle of stale water. Michael had stopped being hungry quite a few mouthfuls ago but knew that food shouldn’t be wasted. After sliding his plate away from him, he covered his mouth and burped. “Thank you, George. That was a nice meal.”

While rocking back in his seat, George released a booming laugh at the ceiling. It dropped so low it seemed to shake the building's foundations.
 

Michael couldn't help but smile.
 

“No, it wasn’t,” George said. “It tasted like arse, but you’re a polite boy, so thank you.”
 

George pulled a small, clear bag from his top pocket and tossed it across the table at Michael. “Potato seeds. We need to plant them in the ground we dug up yesterday. Do you want to go and make a start while I clean up in here?”

Michael looked at the clear packet lying on the table. It had about thirty brown seeds inside of it. Planting seeds beat washing dishes any day of the week, so Michael picked the bag up and headed for the back door.

Sowing

An electric sting ran through Michael's right palm when he gripped the trowel. The week of hard work in the garden had given him blisters on top of blisters, but he couldn’t stop. Not that George expected him to work; if he told him how he felt, George would let him stop immediately. But the physical exercise gave him something to do and stopped his mind from spiraling into the well of dark memories.

It also gave him the opportunity to be around George without having to talk to him. It allowed him to live under the big man's protection but not have to engage with him in any real way. Every time they were alone with nothing to do, the same questions presented themselves. Should he be living with this man? Would he do to Michael what he'd done to his dad?

With his hands on his hips, Michael surveyed the freshly turned lawn. They had a space of earth about the same size as an American pool table. At least that's what George had said. Michael hadn't ever seen an American pool table. All that mattered was it was big enough to grow food for them in.
 

When Michael dropped to his knees, the soft mud cushioned his fall. His palm burned as he started to dig a small trench for the seeds.
 

As he worked his way along the small mud patch, digging the trench like George had shown him, he heard something but didn’t stop.

It took him straining his ears to keep track of the sound on the other side of the wall. He listened to the gentle crunch of dirt. It sounded like someone walking on tiptoes—maybe two people, but no more than that.
 

Michael stopped digging to pour the seeds into the trench. His hand quivered as he shook the packet over the earth. The people or person on the other side continued moving.

At the end of the first row, Michael swiped his hair from his forehead and looked back up the line of brown seeds lying on the dark earth. He’d planted all of them. From the corner of his eye he caught the slightest movement of black hair. It looked like a man; either that or a woman with very short hair and a bald patch.

Although his breath caught in his throat, Michael focused on keeping the pretense up. If he didn’t give anything away, he had the advantage.