Chapter 4 #2
“Now, if we’re going to start taking Marcus Henderson seriously, then we are in trouble, aren’t we?”
I sob quietly with my stooped head resting on my crossed arms upon my knees.
I didn’t fully understand back then, but I was mad that it could be true, that I didn’t get to do what I wanted to. It caused perpetual anger within me, deep within my bones, and it’s still there to this day.
Malcolm removes his glasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket, and lifts my tear-ridden face to meet his gaze.
“Listen here. I don’t care what Marcus, the president, or the queen of England says!
Whatever this government dictates, I promise you, it is absolutely not the plan we have for you!
Do you understand me?” I wipe my snivelling face dry and give a nod.
“We have big plans, little sparrow, and I promise one day, you can live where you want, with whoever you want, when the time comes, okay?”
I nod again, and he pulls me in for a hug as my tears dampen his shirt, before leading me inside. Always the one to help reason with and comfort me, my emotional support dad.
I wish I could see him now.
I’m not sure I heard it right as doors slam and voices raise a few times before I fully come around from my slumber.
From downstairs, Malcolm and Roscoe shout instructions to each other while banging and dragging the furniture around.
I lie in my bed, straining to hear what is being said, when they fall silent.
And it is the silence that truly wakes me.
With a click, the landing light turns off, and the digital glow of my bedroom clock snaps to black. I grow frigid as the suspense of silence grips me. And then—a gunshot. With the shattering of glass, my heart drops from my chest, consumed by a single thought: someone has shot one of my dads.
Another shot fires. And another. Glass shatters, falling to the floor like a deafening, chaotic rain. My body tenses with every bang, ducking below my bed as I count the continued fire. Nine, ten… seventeen, eighteen…
I clamp my eyes shut, bracing my head in my arms. It sounds like there’s more than one gun as the shots ring out below. My panting breath is all I can hear when the gunfire ceases. Then—a voice.
“I think … I think that’s all of them,” Roscoe says, sounding strained.
“Move out,” Malcolm says. “Put some pressure on that, and we’ll meet at the truck.”
I don’t know what has happened, but I know that at any minute, one of my dads will come through my bedroom door, and we’ll leave this place for good.
After sliding from under the bed, I grab my backpack and frantically shovel in the prized possessions I’ve collected while living in this house: my books, DVDs, coloured pencils—even thinking practically, some clothes and trainers.
While wearing one of my dad’s T-shirts as a nightdress, I shove on my jeans and sneakers.
As footsteps come up the stairs, I rush to close my bag.
It’s so full as I kneel on the floor, squeezing it shut as I struggle to pull the zipper closed.
The door opens, and Malcolm’s silhouette fills the doorway. He steps into the moonlight, kneeling to help me close the bag. Freckles of blood stain his white shirt, with sweat glistening on his brow.
“Well done, sparrow,” he says. “It’s a shame you’re getting so good at this, but we have to go, okay?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay, but Roscoe got caught. He’s meeting us at the truck. We—”
“Papa, let’s go,” I say, jumping to my feet, eager to get to Roscoe, but Malcolm steadies me with his calming touch.
“Wait. Everlee, listen to me very carefully. I will carry you downstairs. I want you to close your eyes. Keep them closed until we get out to the truck. Can you do that for me?”
Understanding his serious tone, I nod. He puts my bag on my back, grabs my baseball cap, and pulls it down on my head. I jump into his arms, straddling my legs above his hips with my face buried in his shoulder.
As he carefully descends the staircase, I notice that the house no longer smells like home.
In the living room comes the grating sound of glass crunching beneath his boots.
My brows crease as I sniff an unfamiliar scent.
I pin the distant choke of gasoline, but there’s something else?
The other smell—a metallic tang, like the rusty machinery in the barn—strengthens as we continue.
It sparks my curiosity, so I peek over his shoulder.
The room is still dark, but the moonlight illuminates the chaos of upended furniture across the room, when a pair of boots catches my sight.
The flipped dining table hides the remainder of the body.
I lift my head in panic. “Is that Dada?!”
But as soon as I do, I realise the body on the floor is not Roscoe—and it is not alone. More boots, more legs. My eyelids flutter as I see the still, fixed stares of men. The puddles of red paint, glimmering like metal beneath the lunar glow.
Malcolm forces my head back into his shoulder. “No, sparrow. They are … they are the bad guys.”
He kicks the front door open with a bang, and the cool of night snatches my heat when he stands me on the porch and ushers me to the truck as he returns indoors. I sprint towards Roscoe, panting with fear for myself and for my family.
Roscoe is propped up in the passenger seat with his door open, looking grey, with beads of sweat rolling down his face. I go to hug him, but hesitate as I spot him clenching crimson-soaked dishtowels to his waist.
“Hey, baby girl… It’s okay… It looks worse than it is … all right?” he breathes between gritting his teeth and flaring his nostrils.
I’m old enough to know he’s not okay, since he’s the one who always gets injured after a reckless stunt. I’ve seen him hurt many times before—but not like this. He’s usually so courageous, unbothered by pain, but now he winces with every inhale.
“Okay, Dada. Let’s get you in.” I gently press his legs into the car, and he groans from the manoeuvre.
The front door slams shut, and I turn back towards the house, where Malcolm holds a duffel bag over his shoulder and a glass bottle in one hand.
He pulls a lighter from his pocket, and with a flick of the lid, holds the small flame to a rag tucked into the neck of the bottle.
As the rag catches, he throws it through one of the broken windows, and the living room immediately lights up.
It animates the house like an enormous jack-o’-lantern with its shadowed, creeping shell illuminated from within.
My little face is mesmerised as it sees the orange glow and watches the dancing flames plume out the windows, playfully licking the night air.
It lures me, tempts me to touch it, when I am snapped from its hypnotic hold after Malcolm shouts to me and tucks a handgun into his tan leather chest holster.
“Everlee, it’s time to go!”