He Runs (Part One) (15 page)

He falls through the pub door with a bang, his legs and arms failing him. The loss of physical ability, he abhors it. He needs to keep sharp, alert, and capable of killing. It's his curse, the only thing he's ever been good at. He knew from an early age that violence was his calling, just like art is to some, and sports to others. Some people are born with nothing more than the ability to survive, a blood-deep knowing of the self and what it takes to destroy. He's not proud of it, of what he's done and who he's done it to. There are those he wishes he could bring back from the darkness of death, reincarnated into something more human than human. 

More will die before he is at peace with the world, with himself and his place in it. More cuts to add to his flesh. But not Danny. He should've known his place. The rabbit does not attack the fox. 

A whip-crack sounds outside, followed by the rumbling of a freight train. He hears the pitter-patter of rain, rapidly increasing in pace. He turns and stumbles to the door, opens it and walks into the street. A flash of electricity, thrown from the clouds by a God’s hand, smacks the ground in the distance. Man stands, transfixed by the power of nature, the uncompromising absurdity of forces we can’t understand. He walks into the rain, a downpour now, and holds his arms outstretched, the grape-sized droplets hitting his skin, cleansing it, washing away the blood of the day. Before he can stop himself, he is dancing, jumping through the puddles, kicking water at nothing in particular. He turns, sees the bonfire fighting a losing battle, the beasts running in all directions to get out of the storm. His eyesight is blurred, the good eye struggling to see through the rainy haze. But he can make out Mick, his rotund shape waddling through the night. A young man approaches him, holds his arms out and embraces him lovingly. They break their embrace and exchange words, Mick patting the young man on the shoulder. Together they walk off down the street, through the precipitous weather, comfortable in each other’s company.

Man nods, pleased with what he sees and stumbles back into the pub.

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

He creeps upstairs, the creaky floorboards crying out in anguished gasps. Lily is bawling, perturbed by the weather outside. He hears Rose singing to her, her voice soft and mellifluous. She sings something inaudible to Man, a nursery rhyme maybe. But her singing does nothing to soothe the infant and Man, although drunk, can hear the pain in her words as he presses his ear to the door.

He listens for a while as she sings a few more verses and Lily’s cries begin to abate. He considers knocking, sore fists beating a rhapsodic drum, announcing his arrival. He is angry with Rose, with the way she turned her back on him as he proved himself on the battlefield. It was supposed to show her his abilities, his penchant for violence and the protection he can offer her.

She isn’t interested. It was all for nothing.

He goes to his room.

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

The cool floor welcomed his body, warm and sticky with the humid air that streamed in through the open window.

Man has been tossing and turning, rolling naked, his head sweating profusely so that the pillow is soaked through with brine. He closes his eyes, imagines Rose sitting on the corner of his bed, her wild hair voluminous with the wetness in the air. He sees her, flowery dress hanging loose on her flesh, nipples hard and inviting. Her mouth opens and words escape, an angelic tone to accompany them.

And she sings to him, her voice transcending the realms of reality, a pitch so exquisite that he can feel his heart beating like a war drum. He sees himself standing, his body more torn than ripped, a eunuch with an intent that contradicts his physical capability. He rushes to her, grabs her by the arms and throws her on the bed. The singing gets louder, her voice strong and confident and full of sadness.

The thoughts are flowing fast and freely through his mind, a storyboard flipped through quickly and he can feel something stir between his legs. He rips her dress off, the alabaster skin dotted with freckles and scars; her breasts are firm and her cunt is wet. He spreads her legs and begins to lick, his tongue flapping away like a thirsty dog. He tastes her, smells her, vows to savour the scent until the day that he dies. Her voice doesn’t waver, even as he mounts her, rubs up against her with his scarred pelvis and grabs her throat. What comes over him is an ecstasy he has never experienced and he squeezes tightly, crushes the windpipe and the singing stops. He climaxes through his eyes, salted tears pouring like uncontainable rivers.

Man holds her tightly, her face red, eyeballs strained and bulging from their sockets. He kisses her and cries, screams into the night like a wolf that’s lost its mate.

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I love you.’

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

Man opens his eyes and sits up.

It was not a dream, far too lucid to be a dream. It was a vision. Like many he’s had before. He knows what it means, what will follow shortly if he doesn’t get far, far away. Many people he knew before the lights went out, including his mother, spoke about being able to see into their soul, about visions they would have that told them all they needed to know about the kind of person that they were. Man does not believe in souls or good or evil any more. He gave up on that a long time ago. He knows that if we had souls, if good existed and gods ruled from the skies above then the human race wouldn’t have tried to murder itself. He believes that we are nothing at all, a fluke of the Universe, our time on this planet short, like one single note in the symphony of the cosmos. His mother once told him that a window into the soul can be a glorious thing if what lies beneath it is not dark and brooding. All he has known is darkness, split intermittently with tiny rays of light.

And now he likes the darkness. Accepts it.

It’s what he is.

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

A booming crash throws him from his placid slumber, the scraping of wooden dresser legs on a hard floor.

‘HEY! GET OUT HERE! BOSS WANTS TO SEE YOU!’

The shrieking voice is not recognised by Man. That is not a good sign.

He stands up slowly, pulls on his bottoms and acquires the crescent blade from beneath the mattress.

‘HEY, DID YOU HEAR…’

‘I heard you,’ says Man. ‘I fucking heard you!’

He pulls the dresser back and the door opens slowly. He stands back, blade readied in his hand, the stainless steel feeling like an extension of his being.

The yellowed, scarred dome of a shaved head pokes through the gap in the door, eyes black as midnight coals, a mouth full of browned teeth smiling ludicrously.

‘Hello,’ says the intruder, ‘and how are we this morning?’

Man recognises him as one of Mick’s vanguard, a minnow in a school of barracuda.

‘What do you want?’ asks Man, his grip flexing on the handle of his blade.

‘Boss is down stairs,’ says the thug, ‘has a surprise for you.’

‘What kind of surprise?’

‘The delicious kind,’ says the thug as he licks his lips, strains his eyes in a crazed fashion. ‘Now hurry up! Or we’ll come in and get you.’

‘What if that’s what I want?’

‘There’re fifteen of us, and in such a small room. Doubt you’d be able to use that Paki-knife of yours. Now, hurry up. Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

Man nods, sensing the lion-pit that’s formed down stairs, and the yellowed head disappears.

Man stretches as he gets dressed, his back arching like a cat, loosening himself for combat. He’s not sure as to the nature of Mick’s visit but understands that it could very well be an elaborate scene, a poorly played parlour trick used as a deterrent. The karambit sits nicely in his waistband, the miniature sickle poking his flesh, reminding him that he is alive. He moves the dresser from behind the door and steps out into the hallway. A tribe of thugs greets him, a medley of shirtless, beaten savages eying him up like a choice cut of steak. He walks into the encompassing body of predators and feels strangely welcomed by them. As he moves to the top of the stairs he sees that Rose’s bedroom door is wide open; from downstairs a whirling aroma of searing meat invades Man’s nostrils like a Mongol horde, the smell of bacon evoking a storm of sensory reactions.

Slowly, surrounded by an unfriendly entourage, Man descends the stairs.

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

Mick sits at a table near the mucky windows, the faded sunlight struggling to reach his rotund face. He is surrounded by more of his thugs and next to him, sitting back, eyes half open and skin paler than usual, sits Rose. Man cannot see the child.

‘Ah, if it isn’t my new captain!’ says Mick, a wide smile spreading under his thick moustache. ‘Come, join us! You must be hungry after last night. You were in a bit of a state! I find that nothing beats the hangover better than a full English breakfast.’

‘I’m a vegetarian,’ says Man as he moves to where Mick is sitting. He turns briefly, sees one of Mick’s thugs behind the bar, cooking the delicious smelling meat on a camping gas burner.

‘Not anymore,’ says Mick. ‘Not anymore.’

‘I told you,’ says Man looking at Rose, ‘it isn’t happening. Unless you’ve found some bacon which I doubt you have.’ A flash of light throws Man off balance, a searing revelation that cuts through his brain like a molten cleaver. ‘Where’s Lily?’ he manages. ‘Where’s the baby? Rose, where’s your baby?’ He moves to her, lifts her head up and sees nothing. She is alive, her skin is still warm but those green eyes have turned black, their fires seemingly extinguished. ‘What have you done?’ asks Man, his face turning to challenge Mick. ‘WHERE IS THAT FUCKING CHILD?’

Mick sits back, his belly poking out from under his shirt, pink flesh mired with stretch marks and intermittent clumps of thick, black hair.

‘ROSE!’ screams Man. ‘ROSE!’ He puts his hand on her shoulder, shakes her hard and she looks at him, her facial expression blank, her body locked in a catatonic state.

Man turns quickly, slips the karambit out of his waistband and lunges at Mick. Before he can close the distance and slice the intended arteries he is hit by something hard, something blunt, and falls with a dead weight through the table.

Before he can arrange his thoughts he is pulled from the floor, the blade stripped from his hand and sat on a chair facing the tyrant he was unable to kill. Zip ties bind his hands together and two large, meaty mitts rest on his shoulders.

His world is a blurred swirl of lights and patterns, a primordial mash of savagery. Slowly his eyes start to focus and he can make out his captors, stood around him like carrion birds, shoulders hunched, arms attached to an assortment of blades and clubs, ready to cut him into strips of meat should Mick order them to. His eyes focus fully just as the horror show begins to unfold, the thumping realisation of a fate deserved by no human being; a large pan is placed on the table, its fleshy contents sizzling quietly. The smell is as strong as ever and as it climbs up his nose the sputum quickly follows.

He looks down at the shirt, sees the yellow chunks of unidentifiable digestion sliding slowly down. He cannot bear to look up.

‘Breakfast,’ says Mick slowly, ‘is served, my friend. After yesterday’s events, after I saw that mutinous look in your eyes I thought I would pay you a visit, test your loyalty to me. And now, swiping at me with weird fucking knife, you’ve shown me your true colours. I’m afraid you are demoted, lad. You will not serve as my captain. You will not leave this village. You will not beat me at my own game. You will only die. But not before I get my satisfaction. Will you join me?’

Man spits the remnants of vomit across the table in an attempt to contaminate the dish, but misses by a fair distance.

‘There’s no need for such barbarism,’ says Mick, ‘especially not at my table. We are civilised, after all, and we are in the company of a lady.’

‘You’re the furthest thing from civilised I have ever encountered!’ spits Man. ‘You are sick, well and truly sick.’

‘I thought I was a psychopath, like you. An adaptation of sorts. Now I’m sick, you say.  Isn’t that hypocritical. Surely we’re sick together, part of the human virus.’

Man does not respond and is struck hard by one of Mick’s thugs.

‘I can see you don’t want to talk, lad. That’s fine. Just eat. Rose is joining us, aren’t you my dear?’ He puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her in and kisses her head.

‘Where is the baby?’ asks Man, his voice trailing off in a monotonous drawl.

‘Lily? The little one?’ asks Mick.

‘If that is her in the pan, I swear to whatever power I have left in this universe I will murder you.’ Man raises his head, looks at Mick’s face with vacant eyes. He sees his target in black and white, colours having left his world upon the arrival of a gut-turning rage.

‘My granddaughter is fine,’ says Mick.

Man’s face contorts in bewilderment at the bomb that has just been dropped.

‘Wha…what are you talking about?’ he stutters.