Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

Swallowing like he was having difficulty with his food, Ravi nodded and gulped twice more. “Um. Yeah, it does.”

“There’s that many ghosts out there,” George said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “that I was sure I heard Ravi talking to someone when I first walked in.”

Mrs. Vadher’s mouth hung open. “It’s that bad?”

“Tell her, Ravi, I could have sworn I heard all kinds of things while I was out there. Proper conversations.” Gripping his knife so tightly it shook in his grip, he looked at Ravi’s throat.

Taking a sip of water, Ravi threw a sideways glance at the cutlery in George’s hand. “Um. Yeah. It’s crazy out there.”

“Crazy?” Throwing his head back, George released another booming laugh.

Staring down at the space between them on the table, still not confident to look up at him, Ravi cleared his throat. “Look, George, I need to be getting ready for the night shift now.”

Leaning across and slapping her boy on the arm, Mrs. Vadher pointed at George’s plate. “Ravi, let George finish his meal.”

Lifting his hands, George swallowed the cold and spicy mush in his mouth. “No, no, it’s fine, honestly, I was just about to go anyway.”

When Ravi stood up, his chair screeched across the floor. “Let me see you out.”

Nodding at both of Ravi’s parents, George smiled. “Thank you again for having me.”

Smiling back, Mrs. Vadher turned her hands to the ceiling. “Anytime, George.”

Ravi’s dad didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked up, his narrow eyes flicking between George and his son.

Once they were at the door, Ravi opened it, the smell of bleach snaking into the flat. “Thanks for coming over, George. We really appreciate the food.”

Stepping outside, George then held his hand out to Ravi. “My pleasure. Anything for a mate.”

Accepting the handshake, Ravi kept his head bowed. “My mum appreciates it too. Thank you.”

Squeezing so hard that Ravi drew a sharp intake of breath, George refused to let go of the boy’s hand. “Like I said, anytime. If we can’t look out for one another in this hell hole, then why are we even here?”

“I totally agree, George.” Yanking his hand away, Ravi then disappeared back into his flat.

Standing before the closed door in the dark hallway, George hawked up some phlegm and spat at it. “Cunt.” His word echoed in the empty space.

The tome weighed heavy in George’s hands, and the small words were hard to see in the candlelight. The sentences swam on the page in front of his tired eyes. Each blink lasted longer than the last. The story stopped making sense. His head dropped.

Snapping awake, George took a sharp intake of breath, and his eyes flashed open. He couldn’t sleep tonight. Not while Ravi was on duty. Folding the corner down on the damp page, tiredness sending a wobble through his hand, he got to his feet.

While yawning, George stretched his arms to the ceiling. A series of pops and clicks sprang from his body. With his senses sharpened from the action, George walked over to his pile of books in a dark corner of the room. There were seven stacks, and each one came up to his chest.

Literature was about the only thing that Dean didn’t want a piece of. It was the only thing George could enjoy without the control freak’s intervention. It was probably years since the stupid bastard read anything that didn’t have tits and sport in it.

The cover of a paperback on the top of the pile closest to him had curled upwards. The damp in the flat got to everything. Pushing a heavy hand down on it, George then looked out of the window. It was quiet. Ravi was standing on his own by the gate. Was he waiting for them?

Pulling his hand away, George sighed when the cover turned up again. These books had only been in the flat for a month, and they were already ruined.

After retrieving his candle, George hunkered down and shone it on the sides of the books. Waves ran through the pages of each and every one of them. The damp had even got into the first editions at the bottom, despite him stacking at least fifteen to thirty books on each. He’d hoped the pressure would prevent it from happening.

“At least it’ll stop me having to carry them when I leave,” he said to himself.

Standing up, George pressed his face to the window to look outside again. The frozen glass burned his skin, and he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The book he was currently reading came from a big house they’d raided last week. Their library was everything he’d ever dreamed of. Shelved books from floor to ceiling. The smell of polished wood. A ladder on runners to access the top shelves. A leather-topped wooden desk with a brass reading light. Its green glass shade looked like something he’d expect to see in an antiquated New York library.

Once he’d entered that room, he became totally lost. Upon leaving it, he tripped over the naked and defiled corpse of a woman and her fully-clothed husband next to her. He should have stayed in the library forever.

Returning to his seat, he slumped down again. The smell of rotting upholstery surrounded him as he picked up his book. It was called The Stand by Stephen King. He’d nearly put it down several times because the post-apocalyptic subject matter was too close to reality. The Dark Man, Randall Flagg, bore a striking resemblance to their own dark man. He was evil personified. A knot sat in George’s stomach as he considered the possibility of the devil walking the earth in the form of his brother-in-law.

Reading the next page sent palpitations of anxiety through his chest. But he couldn’t stop. Maybe he persevered because of the ray of hope that sprang out of Boulder. Maybe it was the possibility that he would find happiness like Stu and Frannie Goldsmith. George and Liz? He almost laughed at the absurdity of that notion now.

The message that good was stronger than evil made sense. When George looked at the dried blood around the sides of his fingernails, a painful lump rose in his throat. Which was he?

Watching the shimmering shadows in the room, the poor light stinging his eyes, George returned to his book. He needed to know that everything would work out okay. He needed some hope.

When it became impossible to read for tiredness, George snapped the book shut and screwed his nose up at the damp smell that wafted from the pages. He then put it down on the little table next to him.

Standing up on shaky legs, he walked over to his bed and lifted the covers back. Just before he kicked his shoes off, he realized what he was doing. There was no way he could go to sleep now. Rubbing his face hard to try and banish his exhaustion, he turned around and walked over to the window.

When he pressed his head to the cold glass, his breath caught in his throat. Watching Ravi tease the gate open, he saw ten or so figures, dressed from head to toe in black, slip into the complex.

With his heart pounding, George swallowed hard and shook his head. “Fuck.”

The candle barely stayed lit as George rushed to the kitchen. Dropping it on the side a little too heavily, he flinched, expecting the glass container to break. When it didn’t, he turned around and lifted his baseball bat, wrapped his grip around the handle, and drew a deep breath. Unlatching the front door, he then blew the candle out.

The stench of bleach momentarily knocked George backwards. Coughing a couple of times, he then reached out into the darkness. His hand found the cold handrail. Taking a moment to compose himself, he then started his hasty descent.

As he moved down the stairs, George dragged his bat along the railings. The vibration buzzed all the way up the handle, an ache nestling in his elbow. An image of Zach doing the same with a stick along fences sprung into his mind. Shaking his head cleared his thoughts, and he continued on.