Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

The thought of fire made his ribs ache and his chest tighten. “What other choice did I have? When the dogs sniffed out the people in the house, I had to come back with someone or the others would have gone up to check it out. It was the man or the boy. Or both.”

“You could have chosen to batter Dean instead of an innocent man. You could have used the hammer that killed my brother to take Dean out.”

Not knowing where to look, George opted for the floor.

“The man I fell for wasn’t a coward. That man would have fought for his principles.”

“Fell?”

Liz looked away.

“I’ll find my sister, and I’ll get you out of here. We’ll find a place in the country with a big garden like we talked about. We can work the land. Get back to basics.”

With a twisted face, she jabbed her temple. “You’re fucking delusional, George.” Throwing a hand in his direction, she sneered. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them. You’re murdering scum. You’re oppressing everyone that you come into contact with to serve your own purpose. You’re a bad egg.”

“I’m—”

“You’ve let horrible things happen, and you blame it on the need to find your sister. You’re spineless, and your sister’s probably fucking dead.” She stepped back a pace and was swallowed by the shadow cast from the truck’s cab.

Biting down on his bottom lip, he pointed at her. “Fuck you, Liz.” Turning his back, George walked away, lethargy gripping his muscles. Regardless of what she thought, he’d do the right thing. In two days’ time, he’d have to.

The screeching gate cut to George’s core. Covering his heart as if it would calm his quickening pulse, he searched the dark. Frowning against the total absence of light, he clenched his fists and cleared his throat. “Who’s there?”

Squinting harder allowed him to see Ravi moving in the dark. He was letting them in. Fuck !

Drawing a lungful of air, the frigid burn of the evening biting into his warm throat, George was just about to yell an alarm for those in the block when the intruder came into view. The sight drained his muscles of their need to fight. “Dean?”

There was another scream from Dean’s penthouse.

A wonky grin split the suited nutter’s face. “Evening.”

“What?” Pointing up at Dean’s flat, George said, “I thought you were up there?”

There was a slight tinkling as Dean moved forwards. It sounded like he had a pocket filled with tiny bits of porcelain. “I was. And now I’m here.”

“What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I went out for a stroll. I like to walk in the city at night.” There was a fresh splattering of blood on the side of Dean’s gaunt face.

Glancing over his shoulder, George saw Liz was watching everything. Looking down at Dean’s hammer, George took a calming breath. She was right, this had to end now. Dean had no fucking idea where Sally was.

“Oh,” Dean laughed. “I nearly forgot. I have this for you. Here.”

At the end of Dean’s outstretched arm was a letter. “What is it?”

“A letter. Obviously. Here, take it. It’s for you.”

“Who’s it from?”

“Who do you think? Jesus, George, has the lack of sleep gone to your head or something?”

Reaching out, George took the small, white envelope. Catching the front of it in the moonlight, he recognized his sister’s handwriting. It was addressed to him.

By the time George had looked back up, the door to the tower block was swinging shut, and Dean had gone.

George didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. It could have been ten minutes. It could have been two hours. Finally, he opened the letter.

To my dearest George,

I’m writing this letter…

The words started to blur, and the note trembled in his hand. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to read it again, his tears falling freely.

To my dearest George,

I’m writing this letter to let you know I’m okay…

The grief overwhelmed him, and his legs weakened. Walking over to his truck, he opened the door and sat inside.

Upon daylight breaking, George looked around. For the past few hours, all he’d done was sit in the truck and stare.

The letter was still in his hand, and his eyes were sore. Looking over at the cage, he saw an exhausted Liz staring back at him, her eyebrows raised.

“George! I’ve been trying to call you for hours. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Stepping out of the cab, his head spinning, George stumbled over to Liz and handed her the letter.

Taking it in her shivering grip, Liz cleared her throat. “To my Dearest George, I’m writing you this letter to let you know I’m okay. Mostly. I’m as big as a house and I have cankles, but I’m okay.”

“I’m due to give birth any day now and Dean has me safely in a place where I’ll be able to have your new niece or nephew without any problems. I have good people with me—Dean has seen to that. I’ve heard you’re doing well with getting food sorted out. I’m not surprised because you and Dean and both very resourceful.” Pausing for a moment, Liz took several deep breaths. “Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine and will be fine. I’m so excited to be a mum and to introduce the little bean to its Uncle George. Take care. All my love and so much more. Sally.”

Although George couldn’t see through his tears, Liz’s silence told him that she knew where this was going. Seeing the white of the letter come through the bars to him, George took it and slipped it into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Liz.” Swallowing against the pain of grief lodged in his throat, he rubbed his temples. “I have to make sure my sister’s okay.”

Unable to tell if she was nodding or not, George waited for some other acknowledgment that never came.

“I’m sorry.”

George walked away from the cage.

For the rest of the shift, George walked the perimeter of the complex and stayed as far away from Liz as he could. She wasn’t staring at him anymore. The resilience she’d shown for the month he’d known her for was finally broken. George was good at destroying people.

It was another cloudless morning, the sharp sun beating down, the air biting at any piece of exposed skin.

The front doors to the block then swung open, and Ginge and Si stepped out. In Ginge’s hand was his tennis racquet, and it was dripping with fresh blood. Glancing at Ravi, George saw the boy staring at the weapon. Hoodie wouldn’t be happy with him.

“You can go and get some sleep now,” Ginge said as he walked over to Naps and shoved him with his foot. “Wake up, you lazy cunt.” When he shoved again, Naps fell out of the chair and hit the floor in exactly the same position he’d been sitting in.

Kneeling down, Si slipped two fingers along the side of his neck. When he looked up, he glanced from George to Ginge to Ravi. “He’s dead.”

Knock knock !

The noise crashed through George’s dream, and he woke with a start. Opening his eyes, his world spinning, he remained dead still. A sharp splinter sat in his heart as his prematurely-ended dream came back to him. He was with Zach in the park. They both loved to go to the park. Staring at the ceiling, George’s muscles felt like lead. Whoever was knocking could fuck off.

Knock knock knock ! The sound was accompanied by Dean’s rasping voice. “Wakey wakey, Georgie. Rise and shine.”

Letting out a long sigh, George lifted a tired arm and threw the bird at the back of the door as he muttered, “Fuck off, cunt.”