Chapter 10 #2
Daddy begins to hurriedly root inside the bag, pulling out a roll of tin foil, shaking his head angrily (oh God – why does he hate tin foil?), and what appears to be a broken pen.
This revelation makes him shout at the boy on the floor, something about him stealing, being a thief and getting the hell off the porch before he has his head knocked clean off.
It’s becoming loud (why are they so OK with being so loud and so naked?) but Daddy seems not to care at all.
I instinctively pull my hood over my head in an attempt to disappear into my seat entirely – or at the very least camouflage myself, though I quickly realise my coat is the colour of an actual lemon.
The blonde half-child half-security guard starts to laugh, then spits directly onto the boy with the flowers – who is still on his back – then calls him words that I am able to lipread without difficulty. Letch, whore, pussy slut.
The door slams shut, and the two mostly naked men disappear.
I turn my head – trying not to make too much movement or become some kind of blinking Lululemon beacon – glancing at the other houses to see if anyone else has come out, if any lights have flickered on behind the windows.
Nothing. I turn back to the boy. Not moving.
Holding the flowers, face up to the sky, rain pelting in his face. Why isn’t he moving?
Please, just – get up. And leave. So I can leave.
He slowly begins to stand. Good. That’s good.
A fleeting relief envelops me with the understanding that I have not just watched a murder happen.
I don’t really think going into witness protection tonight would be great news (although at least things would be different, and come to think of it, some good material could come from it) but he looks OK, I don’t see any blood.
After he’s managed to make his way onto the pavement – flowers still in his hand – I watch him begin to hobble away, down the street.
Time to leave.
I put my fingers around my keys, about to turn them again, when he suddenly becomes illuminated in a brilliant, white light.
It startles me. I half anticipate him to be transported up into the sky by an unknown entity when I realise they are headlights.
A car screeches to a halt and stops dead in the middle of the road right next to me.
A white BMW with its bumper missing. A door opens, and a man steps out.
The first thing I notice is that he uncannily resembles a lump of concrete.
Stocky, bald head, set like a brick. Then I see that he is actually holding one.
I try and dodge the thought that I perhaps unknowingly took meth at some point this evening.
My body is now nearly entirely in the footwell.
I can practically hear him breathing on the road right next to my car.
There is something deeply unsettling and sinister about him, his voice hoarse, face bunched like a hardened potato, little scars littering the top of his shiny head.
Another potential guest to this fucked up chem-picnic?
‘Leo,’ he says. The boy in the tracksuit hears him, and stops.
I watch him from under my hood as he turns and sees the bald man.
When his eyes catch the glare of the headlights, they don’t appear alive.
He squints. A moment of recognition enters them.
His face drops and a look of utter terror is injected into his features.
His body turns, and he starts to run, limping away in the glare of the beams.
But the man with the scars moves his arm, throwing the brick.
It lands squarely in the flower boy’s back.
The thud reverberates through the rain, through the windscreen, right into the air around me, snapping my brain awake.
I watch the force of it send the boy flying forward, down onto the tarmac in the middle of the road.
I bite down on my finger so hard that I taste blood.
The bald man stands stock-still no more than three metres to the left of my car, staring at the boy.
I can see the stripes on his jacket, a cigarette burn in his sleeve.
I should scream. Scream for help. Call the police. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. My arms won’t move. I am paralysed. Paralysed by the doubt, by the thought of being caught here, with them, somehow complicit...
He moves. Begins to step towards him.
Get out and help the boy.
Call the poli—
‘Oi. Look at me,’ the man says, now stood over the boy’s writhing body. ‘No one runs from Brick.’ Wait, is he actually called Brick? What is happening? ‘You’ve fucking had it, mate. That’s your last chance. Gone. You’re not using me for your gear anymore, do you get me? Now give it. All of it.’
‘He took the stuff...’ the boy stammers, trying to push himself up.
‘He took it into the house. I’ll get it back for you, I swear...
’ He puts his hand up in front of his face, in an attempt to shield himself, but it’s no use.
The man’s foot lands squarely into it, twisting the boy’s head so sharply that his whole body contorts across the wet concrete.
I can’t stifle my gasp. I audibly scream.
Oh, God – no!
But the bald man doesn’t hear, because the bald man doesn’t stop.
He kicks, again and again, right into the boy’s chest, his face, his head, as my own empties, the only thought remaining: he’s going to die.
The boy is going to die. In an instant, my hand has reached and opened the door handle, and I am standing next to my car in the pelting rain.
I can see the boy trying to clamber to his feet, to get away, but he can’t – every time the man’s foot lands into him, he crumples.
‘Ile-hey...!’ I stammer, but I can’t – I can’t seem to... ‘Stop that!’
The bald man is now pulling the boy up by his T-shirt, standing him up straight and throwing his forehead straight into the boy’s face – again and again.
‘Stop!’ My voice cuts through the rain.
The bald man momentarily pauses, turns... and sees me. My feet move, and not in the direction I anticipate. They progress forward – towards him – and I feel the bottle of pepper spray in my hand, extending it out in front of me, pointing it right at his face.
I press the nozzle.
But it doesn’t work.
It works, but not as I expected, because he has pulled the boy directly between us, shielding himself. A piercing scream as the pepper spray enters the boy’s eyes. The man drops him, so he lands in a heap at our feet.
The bald man’s eyes scan me. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I hear myself saying. He turns back towards the white BMW, its engine still running. I drop to my knees, next to the boy on the floor now clawing at his face, two ripe plums for eyes.
Oh, God. Oh holy God! I fumble for my phone – shit – I left it in the footwell. ‘I’ll call for hel—’
‘No! No—!’ His voice is muffled, his mouth swollen so much that I can hardly hear him under the noise of the BMW reversing away from us, back up the road, the headlights swinging over us as he turns.
I try to catch a glimpse of the licence plate – remember it – but as soon as the car disappears, so do the digits.
‘Is someone there?’ the boy mumbles. He can’t see.
‘Yes. Yes, someone’s here.’ He flinches. ‘I’ll call for help—’ I say, turning to the houses. Where the fuck is everyone? But, I stop. I can’t be seen here. I can’t.
‘No!’ the boy gurgles. ‘Please just fucking – leave me... I’ll be fine. Fuck! My eyes...’
‘I’ll call the poli—’
‘No!’ he screams, his fingers rubbing into the mangled mess that was once his face.
I can’t leave him here. I can’t. He can’t see. His face is pulp.
My brain has completely whited out, like someone has turned a floodlight on inside my head. I can’t think. ‘I’ll take you to the hospital.’
‘No! No way. Just fuck off. Please just fuck off.’
Lights are turning on in the windows of the houses now. Concerned residents peering through curtains. ‘People are coming,’ I say.
That’s not good. Not good at all. People will ask why. Why there are vol-au-vents in my car. Why I was sat in it for so long, watching.
I can’t be found like this. Ronan.
The boy’s bloody hand suddenly grips my arm. ‘Help me,’ he mutters. ‘Please... get me out of here.’ His voice is so urgent, so intent, that I feel briefly compelled to take him in my arms and hold him.
Sirens.
I hear the distant whine of sirens.
We speak at the same time. ‘Shit.’
I take his hand in mine and pull him up, one arm under his, one around his back, and lead him towards the car, helping him quickly navigate his steps.
I open the passenger door, grab the picnic hamper, throw it into the back and guide him into the now empty seat.
I slam the door shut, and in the moment of utter quiet outside, I look back at Daddy’s house.
The wooden blinds are still firmly shut. Like any other house on the street.
Lights begin to flicker on in the porches, people stood peering out of doors in their dressing gowns. I pull my hood up and step into the car.
‘I’ll take you to the hospital,’ I repeat, because there is logically no other option, however thin logic feels right now.
‘No.’ His head is between his knees. ‘Just take me home.’
‘Can you see yet?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Turnpike Lane.’ The sirens are growing closer. ‘Please drive.’ I turn the keys and leave Priory Road, with the boy in the passenger seat.