Алия Уайтли - Skein Island

The crush of bodies grew stronger. He felt the pressure of them, elbows digging, hands reaching, and he shoved back, not caring how he connected as long as they fell back. He heard a woman screaming and started to throw people aside with the same kind of strength that had infused him on the island. His own power amazed him. Within moments he stood at the fifth hearse, and put his body between Sam and the crowd.

She was breathing hard, her hat missing, her hair mussed, with a dusky swelling below her left eye that promised to be a beauty of a bruise. The screams had not been hers, but she was holding her left hand at a strange angle, cradling it in her right. He reached for it.

‘No!’ she shouted over the din, snatching it back. ‘It’s bad.’

Someone jostled David from behind, and he turned around and punched, randomly. He felt his fist connect, and then there was a groan of pain.

‘Reinforcements,’ she shouted. ‘On the way.’

He looked over her head, around the scene. It looked like chaos, a kind of hell, men fighting, men crying, men trampling over each other. He realised something down the street was on fire; the smell of burning rubber was growing stronger. ‘We need to go.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go,’ he shouted.

‘Where?’

He needed time to think, and a better field of vision. He swung himself up onto the bonnet of the hearse, and kicked the legs of the men on the roof until they crumpled and fell into the street. Then he pulled Sam up beside him, hauling her by her shoulders, and helped her up to the roof.

The first two hearses in the cortege had been overturned, and one was alight. The police were forming a line across the street at The Cornerhouse end, and had linked arms to start a march forward, but the men were not moving back, not obeying the shouted commands. Some of them had armed themselves with stones and bits of wood, and pulled the hoods of their jackets up over their faces. This is an organised attack, he thought, and a surge of adrenaline ripped through him. The seconds slowed to a crawl as he took in the pattern of the crowd, and the twenty or so men who had formed a group were working their way down the hearses, destroying each one in turn.

Behind him, at the other end of the street that led in the direction of the library, there was no organisation, just random destruction, men running, shouting, smashing with contorted faces, fighting each other in the madness of the moment. It was too dangerous – he couldn’t see a way through. But the small alley that led to the library car park, that looked clear, although it was in shadow and so impossible to tell who might be lurking inside.

David made his decision. It was his best chance to get Sam to safety.

There was no time to explain. He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, and jumped down from the roof. As his feet impacted on the ground, time began to move forward at an extraordinary rate, as if a fast-forward button had been pressed. He ran for the alley, weaving and dodging, hugging Sam’s legs against his chest. She was so light, so easy to carry. He could have run with her for miles.

He reached the alley, edged inside, ran through the semi-darkness, and burst out into the car park. It was full, the cars in perfect order, each one parked between the white painted lines, as they should be. How ridiculous they looked, after such chaos.

There was nobody in sight.

‘Can you walk?’ he asked her, then realised she could hardly reply from that position, so put her down. She looked red-faced, in pain, holding her arm against her breasts. ‘Sorry about that. Did I shake it about?’

‘I should be back there.’

‘No. You need to see a doctor.’

‘Listen, I’m glad you were there, but I don’t need—This isn’t about wanting anything from you.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’

But it wasn’t. The sensation of being watched pricked at his senses. He scanned the car park again, more carefully, looking for something out of place, anything.

The feeling of malevolence, directed solely at him, was so strong that his body reacted. His muscles clenched, his feet shifted apart to a fighting stance; it was intuitive.

‘What is it?’ said Sam.

‘I’m not sure.’ The feeling intensified. ‘Get behind me.’

She moved back, and he was grateful that she had the sense not to argue. There was danger here. Someone was calculating, planning to hurt them. It came to David that perhaps photographs were being taken.

‘Come out,’ he called, at the gaps between the cars, the dense part of the hedges, the corner of the library building.

Nothing.

The feeling passed as quickly as it had arrived. Suddenly it was just him and Sam, alone in the car park, and as he turned to face her he realised she was no longer flushed, but pale, almost grey, and her eyes had lost their focus.

He caught her as she fainted. He swung her up so he could cradle her against his chest and started a jog away from the fighting, the noise, keeping to the back streets that led to the local surgery, letting the pall of smoke and the sound of men shouting fade into the distance.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, yet again, as David put a cup of sugary tea on the bedside cabinet. She was still fully dressed, lying on the bed, having refused to get into her nightdress. ‘Really. You can go home now.’

It saddened him that she was so uncomfortable. He felt no such awkwardness; the familiarity of the purple duvet, the matching curtains, the string of bells along the staircase, was soothing, calming. And they had shared such an intense experience that afternoon. He had held her, saved her.

‘I’ll go in a bit,’ he said. ‘Once you’re asleep.’

He didn’t want to get home, sink into the armchair, and end up watching the news, with running commentary on what had gone wrong and whether the gangs had been dispersed from the high street. He only wanted to stay by Sam, his soporific, and care for her broken wrist. He couldn’t help remembering an ancient custom he had once heard of – saving the life of somebody meant they belonged to you. It seemed obvious that Sam belonged to him, in a way that Marianne never had.

‘I can’t sleep with you here. Not after… Where’s your wife, anyway? Shouldn’t you tell her you’re okay?’

‘We’ve split up.’ Was that the truth? Yes, he supposed it was. They had both accepted that they couldn’t be together any more. Still, the words sounded wrong, and it must have shown on his face, because Sam said, ‘I’m sorry, really,’ before falling back into silence. ‘At least let me make you some dinner,’ he offered. The late afternoon sunlight was waning, hovering on the brink of collapse into another long night. Swindon hospital had taken up hours – crowded, frenetic, with ambulances arriving and subdued, beaten men slumped into the orange plastic chairs scattered through A&E.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ He was ravenous; how could she not be? Didn’t they feel the same things? He was certain that their thoughts and emotions were linked in some way. ‘I’ll make something anyway, and you can throw it away if you like.’

She shrugged, and winced.

‘Is it still very painful? You can have another painkiller if you like.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t have!’ She struggled to a more upright position, leaning back against the pillows. ‘You are such a hypocrite, standing there, pretending to look after me, to care, when you—’

‘I do care.’

‘You went after Marianne! You chased her to that island.’

‘You said I should.’

‘I changed my mind.’ She started to cry, and it burned that he couldn’t help. He suspected she would never allow him to touch her again. All he could do was stand there and watch her pain.