Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

Donovan picked up a hammer from the hood of the car and stepped out into Gatsby’s path. The fat man didn’t see him, ran straight on. Donovan had to sidestep, or the mountain of fat would have rolled right over him. Donovan stuck out a leg and Gatsby stumbled, teetered for a moment, then toppled like a great beast to the sand.

Donovan stver the felled man, the hammer in his hand. He looked around at the gathering crowd of his neighbors and heard their voice as one. “Do it, Donovan.”

He raised the hammer high and brought it down on the fat cop’s head.

Carmen Fortune walked back from the taxi toward her apartment, still feeling a buzz even though she knew the tik rush was waning. She knew, also, that she was going to have to face the mess in her bedroom. But she had done good. For once she had done the right thing.

After she had smashed the Virgin on Uncle Fatty’s head, she had grabbed the boy, Matt, pulled one of Sheldon’s T-shirts over his head, and run with him. She had not stopped to think until she was in a minibus taxi, the blond kid on her lap, watching the streets of Paradise Park slide past her.

The kid was still groggy from the Mogadon, which was a godsend. She hoped that he would have no memory of what Uncle Fatty had tried to do to him. She knew only too well how those memories burned into your consciousness like a hot wire into flesh.

She ignored the stares and whispers of the other passengers. She knew how it looked, a beat-up colored chickie, blood on her T-shirt, with a white kid.

Fuck them.

She stroked the boy’s hair, and he lifted his face, trying to focus on her. Then his eyes closed again. Sheldon’s T-shirt was too small for him, and it was unwashed, but at least it was better than the pj top with Uncle Fatty’s brains all over it.

She knew she had killed the old man, had felt his head all spongy and soft under the Virgin Mary. Served the bastard right. While she was beating him she had flashed back to memories of her own childhood, and there were moments when, what with the tik and all her rage, she wasn’t sure if she was hammering Uncle Fatty or her own sick fuck of a father.

The taxi slammed to a stop, and passengers fought their way off, while others clambered in. She grabbed the boy and pushed her way out, past the leering sliding-door operator.

“I see where he got his blue eyes,” he said, laughing at her bruises.

She didn’t waste her breath on him, just slung Matt over her shoulder and crossed to the community center. The kid weighed her down. He had big bones, the little bugger.

She pushed through the smear of depressed humanity patiently waiting for nursing sisters and social workers and government grants, until she came to the door of Belinda Titus’s office.

She banged once on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. Belinda Titus sat at her desk, fastidiously applying lipstick while she admired herself in a compact mirror. Her freshly painted lips parted like a hooker’s thighs when she saw Carmen.

“I beg your pardon, but you can’t just march in here!” Belinda Titus, indignant, twisted the lipstick back into itself like she was twisting Carmen’s neck.

“I just did,” Carmen said, dumping the boy on the chair facing the social worker.

“What is this?” Belinda Titus demanded. “Who is this chil?”

“His name is Matt. He’s American. I think he was kidnapped.” Carmen was on her way out. She stopped as she opened the door. “By the way,” she said, rubbing a finger across her mouth, “you got lipstick on your teeth.”

She had slammed the door and walked back through the downtrodden and the oppressed, and she had felt better than she had in a long time. She knew it wouldn’t last, but what the fuck, she’d enjoy it while it did.

Then, as she came into Tulip Street, she heard the crowd before she saw them. A low animal roar of bloodlust. Carmen pushed her way through the mob and saw a bloody shape lying in the dust. It took her a few moments to recognize Gatsby. Donovan September was hitting him with a hammer, and some of the other boys and men were putting the boot in. The crowd was roaring its approval, calling for revenge.

Carmen, not able to drag her eyes away, was having serious reality issues. At last she convinced herself that what she was seeing was real, not some tik hallucination, and she heard her voice joining in, calling for the blood of the fat boer.

Burn sprinted up the street in time to see the mob form around Barnard and envelop him. Burn dived in, shoved bodies aside, his white skin and American voice surprising people out of his way.

“Stop! Don’t kill him!”

The boy with the hammer looked up for a moment, paused. Then he went back to his work, smashing Barnard’s head open like a Halloween pumpkin.

Burn tried to level the Mossberg at the boy, but hands in the crowd, like tendrils, took the gun from him. He was jostled, sworn at, and he felt a fist connect with his jaw. Then a rock hit him above the left ear and he dropped to the ground. The crowd became a single organism that lifted him off his feet and moved him to its perimeter, where it dumped him onto the sand.

Berenice September, carrying shopping bags on her way home from work, arrived at the moment when the mob parted and allowed the child to roll his tire to the center.

She saw the unmistakable form of Gatsby lying on the sand. And she saw her son, the serious one she loved so much, crouched over the cop, a bloody hammer in his hand.

“Donovan! No, Donovan!”

Her son looked up at her, and she saw his face as she had never seen it before.

Then the crowd closed again.

Donovan September took the tire that was offered by the solemn child, and he lifted Gatsby’s head and slung the tire around his fat neck like a necklace. Then a jerrican of fuel was passed through the crowd, and Donovan doused the fat man’s body.

Gatsby was still alive, his ribs pumping, his hands reaching up to the heavens. The mob moved back a few paces, and Donovan September lit a cloth and threw it at the fat man.

Gatsby exploded into flame.

Benny Mongrel stood at the very edge of the crowd and watched as they fell upon the fat cop. Every blow that rained down on that fat body smashed the desire for revenge out of his own.

It was right that this was happening.

It was good.

It was why he had been led here.

Benny Mongrel watched as the flames consumed the man who had killed his dog.

Rudi Barnard was in the lake of fire that his preacher had prophesied. His body was spiderwebbed with black char lines as the flames burned through the layers of his skin. He lifted his arms and welcomed the flames, even though they consumed his flesh with a most terrible agony. This was when he would be granted salvation, the gift of voices, when he would emerge from the fire cleansed of mortal sin and find his reward.

He looked around him in the lake of fire and saw the sinners, the lost souls, damned to burn in this hell for eternity. He tried to lift himself, to take a step forward, toward the light that he knew was ahead of him.

But he could not.

The burning water held him back. The limbs of the damned enfolded him and pulled him deeper and deeper into the inferno. He tried one last time, to drag himself toward the light that grew fainter and fainter as it retreated from him. Then, when the light at last was dimmed forever, Rudi Barnard finally had his answer.

His god was dead.

Susan Burn lay in the operating theater, bisected by the sterile drapes that screened her lower body from her view.

She felt dislocated, detached, a numbness beyond that caused by the epidural anesthetic. She felt alone. Unlike when Matt was born, she had no hand to hold, no familiar presence to give her strength through the pain. No Jack to share the joy when the moment came. The drapes added to the sense of dislocation and alienation. Her doctor and his team were busy beyond the curtain, and Susan was reminded of a puppet show she had seen as a child.