Michael Robertson: Highrise Hell

The convoy of three trucks continued through the deserted streets. George looked up at the cloudy sky. Grey was fading to black as late afternoon turned into evening. Figures moved in the shadows. The city was coming to life. The beast was waking up.

Remaining at the back of the convoy, George couldn’t avoid looking at Si’s truck. The women stared back. The next time he closed his eyes, they’d be there, regarding him with listless accusation.

After twisting to look out of the back window, Ravi turned to George. “I tell you what though, I wouldn’t mind getting hold of the key to the padlock for this truck. God knows my parents could do with the food.”

Raising an eyebrow, George kept his eyes on the road. “He fucked Jason up for leaving the lock unlocked. If you stole the key…”

“If I stole the key, I’d be gone in a flash, bruv.”

Tension gripped George’s entire upper body, and he frowned at the boy. “Stop calling me ‘bruv’. I fucking hate it.”

“Sorry, man.”

That was only mildly better. “But seriously, Dean would never let those keys out of his sight. Dean loves the control those keys give him. He can supply the gang with sex and food. Those stupid bastards don’t need much more than that. He’s their Pied Piper, although from the way that stupid cunt acts, I’m sure he thinks of himself as their god.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he did.” Lifting his fringe from his eyes, Ravi looked straight ahead. “But there must be a way.”

“Just don’t expect me to help you out, boy.”

The silence hung in the car until Ravi broke it, as always. “I think there were families in the last two houses.”

“What?”

“In the last two houses in that gated community. The ones that we set fire to.”

Even the mention of fire accelerated George’s pulse. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“I was just thinking about it. Their gardens backed onto the road. They must have watched what was going on and left sharpish. I don’t fucking blame them either.”

Scritch! Scritch! Scritch!

George looked across to see Ravi scratch the little beard that ran along his jaw line. “Why don’t you shave that stupid thing off? You’re always fucking scratching it.”

Ignoring George’s attack, Ravi continued, “Unless they were hidden in the house? Maybe they found a little cubbyhole, and they managed to hide out in it? Maybe they’re barbecuing as we speak?”

A wobble ran through George. Biting down on his bottom lip, he breathed heavily through his nose. There was no way that Ravi could understand what he was saying. It wasn’t fair to get angry with him. But the little cunt never knew when to shut the fuck up. Exhaling hard, George looked at the ratty boy. “Do you know what it’s like to burn in a house?”

The smile dropped from Ravi’s face, and he shook his head.

“Well maybe you should think about that before you joke. Imagine seeing your mum and dad burn.”

“That would be fucking horrible. Why would you say that?”

George didn’t respond.

“At what point do you think the pain stops? Or do you think you feel every second of it? Do you think you’re fully conscious as you watch your skin bubble and pop like molten plastic, or do you think you pass out?”

Scratching the scars on his aching ribs, the memory of charred pork returned to George’s sinuses. “Do yourself a favor, Ravi. Learn when to shut the fuck up.” When he looked across, he noticed that Ravi was staring at where he was scratching. His jumper had lifted up.

“How did you get those scars on your ribs?”

Quickly pulling his jumper down, George stared ahead. “Why do you dress like a cunt?”

Looking down at himself, Ravi then looked back up with raised eyebrows. “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

Scanning the streets, George’s foot went for the brake when he saw the broken traffic lights. Then he eased off. There was no need to make sure the road was clear. It was always clear now. “You look like a prize cunt. That’s what’s wrong with it.”

“I could never afford nice threads before the world went to shit, so I wear them now.” Pointing at his trench coat, Ravi continued, “This is Armani.”

“And?”

“Armani, George. This is the proper shit. I loved this stuff before everything went to hell, so why can’t I indulge a little now?”

“Because it’s January, and you’re running around in loafers and a suit.”

“Not being rude or anything,” Ravi said, raising the palm of his hand at George, “but your fashion advice doesn’t hold much weight with me.”

“What you trying to say, boy?”

“You look like you’re about to go to work on a building site.”

“One word: practical.”

“That is a word, George, you’re right.”

“Cheeky cunt.”

While patting George on the shoulder, Ravi laughed. “In all seriousness though, I’m having to watch kids get their fucking heads run over. If I can’t wring a little pleasure out of this miserable life, then what’s the fucking point?”

It was painful to admit, but the boy made sense.

Frowning as he drove, George thought about Rory. The red of Si’s brake lights suddenly filled his vision, and George stamped on the footbrake. The ABS rattled like an old machine gun, and Ravi slid from his seat.

Crunch! He hit the window face first.

Breathing hard, George looked at the explosion of blood on his windscreen. “You’d best fucking clean that up.”

The pathetic-looking Ravi stared up at him from the footwell.

“And wear a fucking seatbelt next time.”

With blood spilling over the grip he had on his nose, Ravi’s swollen eyes pissed water. “Danks!”

Sitting back, George took deep breaths, his pulse rapid. Then he saw the reason for their stopping. “There’s another gang down there.”

Unfolding himself from the floor, Ravi slid back into his seat. Continuing to hold his nose in a pinch, he leaned to the left to see past Si’s truck. “Dat ain’t good. Dere a bit do close to de dower block.”

The roar of motorbike engines was accompanied by Dean holding his horn. Winding the window down, George poked his head out, the cold biting into his face. There were a few cars, but the majority of the vehicles were motorbikes. There must have been about thirty of them at least.

When Dean accelerated through the crossroads, which was still busy with traffic, George flinched. Seconds later, the hollow bang of metal connecting with metal went off like a gunshot. A motorcyclist was catapulted into the side of Dean’s truck and then fell to the ground.

Continuing on, Dean’s truck crushed the bike. Seconds later, Si did the same.

Pulling his head back in, the warm air in the truck setting fire to his cold face, George then did the window back up and drove on.

On their left was a wall of brake lights. Most of the riders sat on their bikes looking behind them. Two of them were running towards their fallen friend. On their right was the lone rider, writhing on the floor and holding his hip. They made eye contact briefly before George continued forwards.

Crunch!

If his bike wasn’t fucked already, it certainly was now.

“It looks like dere’s more of dem dan dere is of us. We need do get de fuck out of here.”

The convoy sped up, and George fell into line behind them. Checking his mirror, he saw no one was following them. Looking forward again at the caged women, it seemed that half of them were oblivious to what had just happened. Their own personal hell was much deeper and darker than a road accident.

She was fully aware, however, her stark stare burning bright. Holding eye contact with her, George then looked away. The story behind his scarred ribs wasn’t the only secret he was keeping from Ravi.