Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

The watery blue hue of daylight pushed through the curtains. God was changing his palette for yet another day. Snorting a laugh, George sneered. “Fat fucking chance of there being a God.”

Sleep deprivation doubling the weight of his exhausted body, George continued to sit in his chair and stare into space. Breathing through his mouth, the awakening day burning his dry eyes, George swallowed against the strong and bitter taste in his throat.

Frowning did nothing to relieve the headache that drove needles into his temples. Lifting a heavy arm, he massaged his face. It offered no relief.

The echo of voices in the hallway forced his eyes to the door. It was hard to hear the words but easy to identify the speakers.

Si.

Thud .

Ravi.

Thud .

Dean.

Thud .

Si again.

Thud .

Dean.

Thud .

Dean.

Thud .

Dean.

Thud .

Dean.

The thudding was accompanied by grunts and groans and went past his flat. They were dragging something down the stairs.

Pushing against his chair, his thick arms shaking under the strain of his own large body, George forced himself to stand.

As he walked to the door, his feet heavy on the cold ground, a wobble ran through him. Once he was halfway across the flat, his head spun, and he tilted to the side. Sticking his arms out for balance, he continued walking.

When he was close to the door, the diluted scent of bleach whispering through gap beneath it, he leant against the cold lump of wood.

“Hold up, Si.”

“Fucking hell, Ravi. What’s fucking wrong with you? I didn’t realize how much of a pussy you were.”

“Look at him.” It was Dean’s voice. “Are you really that surprised? I often wonder how that skinny body carries its own weight.”

The cackles of laughter soon died down. The grunts of exertion returned.

Thud .

Thud .

Thud .

Thud .

Relief wasn’t the word, but there was a mild easing of the anxious knot in George’s stomach when he heard the front doors open and the three men leave the building. Every thud on every stair had run through him as if he were being dragged down them himself. What had they done to her last night ?

Standing up and rolling his aching shoulders did nothing to alleviate the dull pain that sat deep in them.

Returning to his bedroom, he pulled the curtains open, a frigid blast jumping forwards and biting into his exposed skin. The single pane glistened with ice on the inside.

Watching the cage, he waited to see them appear with Liz.

Then he saw movement.

They weren’t where he expected them to be.

His breath caught in his throat.

Si and Ravi were heading for the skip. They had a body wrapped in bin liners.

Grabbing the windowsill to steady himself, George watched on as they carried Liz up the metal stairs and tossed her into the large container like an old sofa. Close on their heels, petrol can in hand, Dean leant over and emptied the contents of it into the skip.

Lighting a piece of card as big as a dinner plate, Dean watched the flame grow.

Turning to look up at George’s window, he then smiled as he let it drop.

Mirroring its descent, George fell to the floor again.

Fire exploded through his jaw when he caught it on the windowsill.

The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth.

Then the lights went out.

Opening and closing his aching jaw, George ran his swollen tongue around the inside of his mouth.

Not moving, his face pressed against the cold floor, he listened to the heavy thuds outside. It was the sound of post pounders driving poles into the ground.

Sitting up slowly, his world rocking and his stomach doing backflips, George took deep breaths and swallowed a metallic gulp of his own blood. Turning his tongue over on itself, he flinched, finding the slimy and tender hole that he’d bitten from it when he fell.

Grabbing the cold windowsill, he pulled himself up an inch at a time.

Once upright, he rested on the window and looked out. Over the past few weeks, he’d conditioned himself not to look into the skip. But today, with someone he cared for burning, he stared straight into its dark heart.

There was no trace of the blue paint on the inside. It was coal black. Liz’s smoking body now looked the same as the bed of skeletons it lay on. Scorched flesh clung to white bones like mud stuck to the roots of a freshly-excavated tree.

Zach had looked exactly the same. Although he was smaller.

Much smaller.

Holding his breath and fighting the lethargy in his muscles, George tiptoed up behind Dean. Gritting his teeth, he shoved him hard, the arsehole’s neck snapping back as he fell to his knees.

In two steps, George was over him, fists balled, shoulders pulled back. No one else existed at that moment other than him and Dean.

Scooting backwards, Dean sat up and laughed. “What was that for, Georgie?”

For the second time in as many days, George was yanked backwards. Fighting and squirming did nothing for his cause.

“Seems like you’re outnumbered again. So now that I have your attention,” Dean got to his feet and dusted himself down, “do you want to tell me what that was about?”

The sickly sweet smell of Liz’s burning corpse filled George’s sinuses. “You burned her, you cunt!”

The rictus grin on Dean’s face grew.

“You sick fuck.” Surging forwards, George was quickly overpowered again.

“Now now, Georgie. I think you need to calm down a bit, son. I don’t think you’re in any position to judge anyone about burning things.”

Nausea balled in George’s stomach. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Forgotten already, have ya?” Walking over, Dean leant in so close to George’s ear that it tickled the bottom of his neck. “Zach. Your son. I’m not sure if you remember, but you set fire to the poor little bastard.”

Roaring, George pulled again, fighting so hard that stars swam in his vision. It was difficult to tell how many, but more men jumped on his back. With his eyes streaming, George gritted his teeth as he shook and writhed.

Watching on, Dean picked his teeth with a fingernail that was grimy with dried blood. “I think you need to relax.” Tapping his temple, his eyes widened. “You’re losing the plot, mate. The only reason you’re not lying in that skip is because I love Sally.”

When Warren laughed, Dean turned on him. “You think that’s funny, do you?”

“I… I—”

“Come on, retard, spit it out.”

Dropping his head, Warren stared at the floor.

After watching him for a few more seconds, Dean turned back to George. “Now I suggest you go back upstairs and get some sleep. You seem a bit cranky—”

“A bit fucking cranky?” Spittle flew from George’s mouth. “You’ve just burned the woman I cared for!”

“Aw, you cared for her? How fucking romantic.” Moving close enough for George to inhale the usual reek of fleshy rot, Dean’s black eyes darkened. “She was a fucking good ride.” He shrugged. “But I guess you wouldn’t know about that. Having only held her hands through the bars of the cage and all. I bet it felt right fucking romantic staring into her eyes as she stood in her own waste.” Running his tongue around his lips, Dean then scratched his filthy beard. “I’ll tell you what though, once she was cleaned up, she looked tidy. I love a feisty redhead. I could have ridden her all week.”

There was no fight left in George’s body as he watched Dean pick up his hammer.