Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

Crack !

Bang !

Crunch !

Frowning so hard it had given him a headache, George rubbed his numbing face. When the smell of rot and dirt smothered him, he pulled his hands away.

Within the next day or two, Ravi’s mates would storm the building again. Surely they would do it better this time? To plan for anything less than that would be foolish. In the time he had left, he’d try to get to Sally. If that didn’t happen, he’d have to make sure he took Dean with him. Even if he had to knock the cunt out to get him into the pickup. The rest of the gang could go fuck themselves. Dean was the key to Sally.

When another throat-splitting scream shattered his nerves, George clenched his fists and released them. Repeating the process, he stared up at his ceiling. Once he’d been reunited with Sally, every bit of suffering dished out by Dean would come back to him tenfold.

Retribution would be sweet.

Holding his breath, George twisted the creaking lock on his front door again. Dean’s flat was three stories above him. It was just far enough away that he could sneak out without being seen. Just.

Blinded by the darkness, he bent down and grasped fresh air once or twice before finding the holdall’s handles.

When he lifted it slowly from the ground, the tools settled and shifted in the bag, a noise of rubbing steel whispering through the flat. Saws, hammers, pliers, screwdrivers, George had the lot. If Dean was going to be made to pay for his actions, George was going to be sure to do it right. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open again.

It was pitch black in the hallway, but it wasn’t silent. The sound of Dean’s filthy laugh came from above, accompanied by slapping flesh. Looking up, George couldn’t see any further than a few inches in front of him.

Reaching out into the inky black, George stepped forwards. Despite knowing this corridor, a falling sensation dropped in his stomach every time he shifted towards the stairs in case he misjudged it.

When he finally found the railing, Ravi’s loud voice filled the hallway, and he froze.

“You still awake, Si?”

“Yep.”

“What do you think George will do?”

“Dunno.”

“Surely he’s going to do something.”

“Dunno.”

“Do you think he’ll go for us too?”

“He might go for you. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

The conversation ended.

It was a slow descent, but once George was at the bottom of the stairs, he pushed the door open a crack. Again, he heard Ravi’s voice, and again, he froze.

“What was that?”

“What?” Si sounded like he’d just woken up.

“Didn’t you just feel that gust of wind?”

A torch sprung to life at the top of the stairs and darted around.

“Fucking hell, son, you’re paranoid. There’s no one there. Just chill the fuck out, yeah? You’re stressing me out.”

The light went off.

Having kept the door open, George looked up at the top of the stairs for a few more seconds before he poked his head outside. The frozen wind burned his exposed face. The moon helped him see shapes, but none of them were human. Where the fuck were Ginge, Jason, and Warren? Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the door open further and slipped through the gap.

Shivering from the cold, George continued to scan the area, his heart pounding. Then he saw them. All three of them huddled together as one big shadow by the gate, steam rising into the air from their collective breaths.

Stepping in the other direction, George headed for the truck with the women.

In just three steps, he was behind it and hidden from view. As he walked along its side, he came face-to-face with the girls from the cul-de-sac. They stared at him through glassy eyes. George pushed his index finger across his lips. Their expressions remained unchanged. He would have got the same reaction from cattle.

Crossing the gap between the women’s truck and his own, George then placed the holdall on the floor and slid it just underneath the driver’s side of the cab. Removing the keys with shaking hands, he pressed the button, the hazard lights flaring up in the darkness.

“Oi,” the inevitable call came out. “Who’s there?”

“It’s George.”

“George?”

When the man got closer he saw it was Ginge. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“Keep your knickers on, I’m just getting another blanket from the truck.”

The moonlight illuminated the greasy guard, who had his tennis racquet raised. “Do we have a problem, George?”

“I’m not the kid I used to be.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“As a younger man, I would have taken what you did to me personally. I would have waited until you were sleeping and cut your fucking throat. I can’t be bothered with that bullshit anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I still have my limits, and I still think you’re a cunt, but I don’t plan on attacking you if that’s what you mean. I’ve dropped you like a sack of shit already. It’s done.”

Watching the thought process play out on the idiot’s face, George opened the truck door and found the blanket that he knew to be in there. “Nice chat, Ginge.”

Turning his back on him, Ginge wandered off to the gate to return to the other two guards.

Seizing his opportunity, George grabbed the holdall and slid it beneath the driver’s seat.

Lying in his bed, an electric buzz of exhaustion running through his tired mind, George stared at the ceiling. Having pulled the gap in his curtains tight, the room was now darker than an ant’s arsehole. With nothing to look at, his mind ran away with him. How would he find Sally? How could he rescue Liz? Could he free the other women? Would Sally’s labour be okay? How would he get rid of Dean? How—

Crash !

Bang !

Slap !

George clamped his hands over his ears so hard it distorted his vision. The throb of his pulse ran through his eyeballs and turned everything blurry. Grinding his jaw, his blood boiling, tension locking his body tight, he continued to lie there.

Crash !

Bang !

Slap !

Letting his hands fall to his side, he listened to the dragging sound that was like someone being shifted around Dean’s flat. When he closed his eyes, he saw an image of the infected bite marks on the girl in the cage. They grew in his mind’s eye until the yellow, glistening puss covered her entire cheek. The girl’s face then changed into Liz’s, and the imagined abuse unfolded.

Black eye.

Split lip.

Cigarette burn.

Crash !

Sheered nipple.

Broken ribs.

Blood.

Semen.

Lots of semen.

Rolling over onto his side, George snapped his knees up to his chest and rocked gently. “No.” Swallowing back the painful lump, his dry throat tasting like the musty room, he continued rocking.

Crash !

“No.”

Slap !

“No.”

Smash !

Frowning hard, shaking with ragged breaths, George opened his mouth to scream at the ceiling. Then he stopped. Something was wrong.

Crash !

Something was missing.

Slap !

He couldn’t hear her any more.

Smash !

He couldn’t hear Liz anymore.

After what could have been no more than half an hour of tossing and turning, George got out of bed and returned to his armchair.

Huddled in the threadbare piece of furniture, his knees to his chest, his duvet wrapped around him for warmth, he stared into the darkness. Having thought Liz’s screams were torture, he was now listening to something much worse: her silence.