He Runs (Part One) (14 page)

And Man hits him. 

And hits him. 

And hits him. 

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The figure's head is an unrecognisable stump after the brass knuckles crash down one last time. The skull has given up, the precious tissue and fluids inside bursting from it like a trodden grape. An eyeball hangs loose, the other is destroyed, pulverised into a red, sloppy mess. 

Man turns, lungs burning, veins pulsing with rage, impressed with his work. He sees a rotund shape nearing him, makes it out as Mick. 

'DANNY! DANNY!' screams the fat man, as Man falls onto his back, sucking in air like a hoover. 'Ah, shit!' continues Mick, his breathing heavy from the light jog. 'He didn't have to do that!'

'Who...who was that?' asks Man through deep breathes. 

'It was Kevin's brother,' replies Mick, his voice solemn and verging on upset. 

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He didn't fight them. It wasn't worth it. Seven against one are odds too great for Man to cope with. And it wasn't the time to fight back. He was tired, battle weary; he didn't have a chance. He was always told to pick his battles, a theory that caused him discomfort when he was younger. But he knows now, in his older years, that strategy is just as important as action. 

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He sits in Mick's home, looking up at the spacious ceiling, beams of poorly preserved wood and stone, decorated with cherubs and assorted religious figures. The stained glass windows change the light into a blood-red colour that covers Man's face, hiding the gore that adorns it. 

He looks around him, sees the huge space where seats used to be, cleared to make way for an open plan living arrangement. Hanging at the back of the church is a homemade flag, the red and black symbols of Nazi Germany scribbled clumsily across it.

This church, it was once a holy place, and as gullible as its belief of a deity may have been, it supported life and the kindness of fellow man; it now smells like death, the putrid stench of decaying flesh and ruined souls. Man smiles as he looks at the ceiling, wondering how long it will be until his head is sitting on a spike on the other side of the roof; his body will be placed on a spit, barbecued for the villagers to feast on. He's been present at two feasts, knows exactly what happens to the people who step out of line. They are the main course, served after an ill-informed and misleading sermon, biblical words manipulated to accept the cannibalism that engulfs the village. 

'Why are you smiling?' asks Mick suspiciously. He hands Man a cigarette, a little white stick to calm the post-battle nerves. 

'Just making my peace with God!' says Man, his voice brimming with sarcasm. 'And wondering how my head will look on that fucking roof up there.’

'You think I'm going to kill you?'

'It makes sense. I killed one of your men, mutilated another. It seems I don't play well with others.'

'No, no you don't, lad!' says Mick as he lights his cigarette.  'But I'm not going to kill you. Not yet.'

'What do I have to do then?' asks Man as he looks away, studies the stain glass window that depicts Jesus Christ nailed to a cross, a long spear protruding from his side.

'Firstly, you can tell me your name. I won’t be having anyone so precious about their fucking identity. You live here now. I’m the fucking boss, the fucking chieftain, the Mayor, whatever. After that, you agree to become my right hand man. You put Kevin in his place, showed him who's top of the fucking food chain. Reckon you could do that to other people?'

'More than likely,' replies Man, his tone bordering on boredom. 'You're not getting my name. Well, I suppose I could tell you it but how do you I'd be telling the truth?' 

'I don't. But how do you know I'm telling the truth?' Mick crosses his chubby legs with great effort, cocks his head to the side as if he's working out what Man is about.

'How do we know anyone tells the truth?' asks Man. 'These days, there's no proof we are who we say we are. People have always lied, it's been part of survival since our species developed the ability to think outside of instinct. And then it became instinct. Everyone lies for one reason or another but the best liars are psychopaths. Just like you.'

'A psychopath?' says Mick. 'Me? Surely not. I'm merely a facilitator of survival.'

'That's exactly what a psychopath is; devoid of empathy, a true survivor. I remember seeing a drawing once, of a giant shoe descending from the heavens. Underneath it was a man, hunched under the weight of it and underneath him, underneath his shoe, was a smaller man, and then a smaller man and so on. You think you’re the big shoe, crushing the people beneath you. But the interesting thing about that drawing is that you can’t see who the big shoe belongs to. That’s because it changes. It’s nature’s way of cycling the psychopaths.’

Mick laughs, slapping his thighs with his spare hand.

‘Psychopaths and big shoes!’ says Mick. ‘You are some bloke, I’ll give you that. If I am a psychopath, then surely you are one, too.'

'Maybe I am now,’ replies Man. ‘But I don't think I've always been like this.'

'Who the hell are you?' asks Mick, his face alive with the mystery of Man. 'You're too good for this fucking life you're living. You're sharp, gritty, an intelligent killer. You wanted to destroy Kevin. You baited him, didn't you?' 

'No. He brought about his own destruction. I am happy to step into his shoes if it means I keep my life for a little while longer. But I'll not be eating people. I'll protect you and only you. I will not raid or hunt or do unspeakable things anymore.'

'Judging by the way the crowd reacted to your victory I reckon I could do with a bodyguard. I'll take you on.' Mick stubs his cigarette out on the arm of the chair. 'But don't fuck up, son. It's not a threat. I know that you don't care if you die but there's a pretty red head that you're fond of.'

Man flicks the cigarette at Mick's feet, stands up as he feels the adrenaline rising once again. 

'Don't,' says Man. 'Don't.'

Mick laughs, a nervous shudder in each bellow. 

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'Just seeing which buttons to press. I'm fond of the red head. She'll be safe. Just don't disappoint me.'

'I won't,' says Man. 'I guarantee to make an impression.'

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Meat sizzles on a large drum barbecue while a band of musicians belt out songs on time-beaten instruments. Thugs with shaved heads don aprons and spatulas and other cooking utensils; they drink alcohol and dance in front of flame-grilled torsos, laughing and soaking in the atmosphere through black, rotten mouths. 

Mick sits around a table at the centre of the arena, a harem women feeding him chunks of greasy meat. The ground is stained with the remains of those who perished, their bodies hacked into fillets to be consumed by their own species. The winner, he was no exception to that rule. Man found that out when he returned from Mick's house to the arena, the winner standing victorious amid a sea of butchers. Man watched as the cruelness of this village descended upon the victor, pulled him limb from limb, tearing apart any hope he had of being one step closer to human. 

Rose is working the bar, a makeshift bench adorned with mismatching drinking vessels.  She moves carefully, her body and mind focused, her baby girl Lily swaddled and strapped to her chest. She has been avoiding Man's gaze since he returned, an act she seems more than competent at.

Man looks around him, feels the split-second flitting of deadly eyes on his person, the incompetent minds trying to work out how to avenge his actions. 

Kevin is alive. Recovering in a nearby house, a man named Graham looking after him. Graham is the village doctor, a man with a great deal of knowledge but little ability to action it. Man met him a week ago, surveyed the ageing medic's furrowed brow and full head of white hair. His eyes, a dull, autumnal brown never flashed once during their brief encounter. All that Man learned from the conversation was that before the lights went out, Graham was seemingly a big fish in a little, inbred pond. And now that he is no longer the same big fish, his motivation to cure people has been ruined. Man guesses that it is his natural fear of being murdered and eaten that spurs his nurture of Kevin. 

Human flesh is served with booze aplenty, the villagers turning into an enthusiastic rabble at the promise of a bountiful feast. They dress in the sort of clothes Man always thought they wore in the countryside: a congregation of corduroys and checked shirts, flowery dresses and cargo shorts. Some of the women have worn make up, undoubtedly plundered from nearby settlements. It doesn't make a difference; they all look beaten and weathered, faces chiselled into masks of primal existence. The only woman that stands out is Rose, her face devoid of war paint, her eyes glimmering with the essence of a soul not lost. Man smiles at her but she looks away. 

The bar slowly quietens as patrons move to the barbecue and queue patiently for their promised food. Man laughs at the absurdity of it. Even in this darkness, this cesspit of devolved morality, there is an etiquette to the proceedings. 

He takes his chance, approaches the makeshift bar with caution, his beer shaking slightly in his hand. Her back is to him and he fears it may stay that way. He has never been comfortable with the type of conflict that follows a disagreement. It goes against his instincts. 

'Hello,' he says, waiting for her to unleash a barrage of verbal accusations. 'Can I have another ale, please?'

She turns slowly, as if she knows it is agonising for him.

'Help yourself,' she says. 

He does, reaching into a barrel of yellowy-brown liquid and ladling some of it into his cup.

'Thank you,' he says. 

'What for?' 

'The beer.' 

'It's what I'm here for.'

She turns and Man flinches, his arm trying to reach out and grab her. 

He can't. It is not the way. Not anymore.

'You hate me for what I do,' he says, his voice quivering under emotional strain. 'It's okay to hate me. I do to.'

'I don't hate you,' she replies without turning. 

'What is it then?'

She turns slowly again, arms wrapped tightly around her child, a mother protecting her young. 

'I fear you,' she says. 

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

'How long you have been here?' 

'Long enough son,' replies Mick.

'But you're not from here.' The cup in Man's hand tips slightly, the warm ale spilling to the hardened earth, mingling with dried blood, turning it into a historical cocktail.

'I'm not,' says Mick. 'I'm from Doncaster.'

'In Yorkshire,' says Man, his voice giddy with the pride of a correct answer. 

'That's correct.' 

The night has invaded the village, faces illuminated by the flickering flames from a communal bonfire. The air is sticky and humid, the same as Man experienced in the jungles of Borneo. He didn't like it then and now, he hates it. In this country, the country of his birth, the country that cowered under the attack of extremist terror cells and crumbled like a stale biscuit, humidity means one thing. 

Rain.

'What was this village called?' asks Man, his voice bumbling under the influence of booze. 'I saw no sign post when I came in. Nothing in the streets! It's as if it came from nowhere.'

'It did,' says Mick. 'I brought it with me.'

'So what was it called?'

'That's unimportant. What things used to be, what they used to be called, it has no meaning now. What it is today, and tomorrow and the day after, and for years to come, that's what matters.'

Man does not reply; he drinks some more and with each sip he can feel acids brewing below, his senses dulling, his ability to control the darkening rage dissipating. Tonight is not the night for any foolery. He knows that. It is an acknowledgement to his psychology, the ability to stop before things become murky. 

'That's me,' he says, clambering to his feet. 

'What's you?' asks Mick.

'For the night. I'm done.'

'Have it your way, lad. You've had a tiring day. You wouldn't feel this way if you ate with us. I guarantee that.'

'One day, Mick. One day.'

Man finishes his beer, shakes Mick's hand and walks away. 

The field is not far from his bed, from the red-headed beauty who lies with her child, the only one in the Godforsaken village that cares if he lives or dies. 

He turns after twenty yards, looks back at the congregation of beasts, dancing and fucking in the ambience of the fire. He sees the light flicker on faces, showing them in all their decrepit glory. There's still hope for some of them. No firelight dances on Mick's face. 

'One day,' says Man, 'one day I'll kill you and burn this abominable place to the ground.' 

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