Michael Robertson: Highrise Hell

If you’re reading this, then the likelihood is you’ve read book one. If that’s the case, thank you. I’ve had some amazing support and reviews for Crash, and I wanted to take this opportunity to thank everyone for doing so. It’s a controversial book, so the positive reviews mean a lot to me.

I plan for the Crash series to span many books, although I do have the end in mind. The violence diminishes as the books progress, which is good because some of the scenes have been really hard to write. My other work, while tinged with horror, certainly doesn’t go to the depths of depravity that the Crash series does.

Crash 2: Highrise Hell, is George’s story and follows on from the end of Crash . The intention is to tell each book from a new perspective as the cast of characters cross paths.

Crash is inspired by the global recession of 2008. What if money became worthless overnight? What would that do to the one percent? What would that do to the ninety-nine percent? What would that do to the poorest in society, who in the UK are the ones being blamed for all of the problems? Go figure. With class tension high in the UK, how would the previously oppressed react?

Reviews are so important for authors, so if you feel inclined, please leave a review wherever you bought the book. If you want to keep up with my future work:

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Thank you for reading, and I would love to hear from you.

With only a few days left before my partner gives birth, I have to dedicate the book to Gromit (my son’s name for her - we still can’t decide on a name).

I look forward to seeing your little face and the light that you will bring to an already amazing family.

Also, to anyone who has downloaded this book. Thank you.

George looked at his bloody hands. They were evidence of what he’d become. He’d made an orphan of an innocent boy, and for what? He’d left him in a burning house to–

“Look out!”

“Fuck!” George gasped. He squeezed the wheel. The people were too close. The truck wasn’t stopping.

Head for the gap .

It looked too tight.

Fuck it!

He hit the horn. He winced.

Fuck !

Bang!

The wing mirror flipped in. Arms and hair flailed. Children screamed.

When George hit the brakes, the shudder of the ABS ran up his tense leg. Rapid breaths racked his large body, each one providing less oxygen than the last.

Stars swam in front of his eyes. The corners of his vision closed in. His world was being crushed. His galloping pulse throbbed in his temples.

Thud!

Thud!

Thud!

Thud!

With his mouth stretched wide, George fought to get air into his body. Slowly, each breath pulled him back down from the panic attack, suffocation seeming less likely with the passing seconds.

Sitting back, he unpeeled his grip on the wheel one finger at a time. While staring ahead, he stretched his aching digits. Some of the dried blood came away in flakes.

The stench of Ravi’s aftershave was bad. When it was mixed with the reek of burning rubber, it sent sharp needles of pain stretching through George’s sinuses. Pinching the bridge of his nose did nothing to stop the headache that was rapidly spreading behind his eyeballs.

Looking across, he saw Ravi dipping his head to look into the wing mirror. The boy was wide-eyed and several shades paler than his usual hue. He looked as bad as George felt. Looking into his own mirror, George couldn’t see much. “What the fuck just happened?”

Without removing his glare, Ravi shrugged. “You just hit her.”

“I know I fucking hit her.”

The boy still didn’t look across. When George focused on Ravi’s wing mirror, he saw a spider’s web of cracks running through the glass. Light and color shot off in all directions, and it was still bent in from the impact. “It’s only a mirror, Ravi. We can replace it. Hell, we can get a whole new truck if we need to.”

“N… n… n…” Shaking his head, Ravi pointed instead.

Hot saliva filled George’s mouth, and his palms started to sweat when he saw what the boy was talking about. Hanging from the black plastic was a lump of flesh the size of a fifty-pence piece. It had tendrils of blonde hair flipping in the breeze.

Looking behind again, George saw that a crowd had surrounded the woman. “Do you think she’s okay?”

Ravi didn’t reply.

“What shall I do?”

“What can you do?”

Stars swam in his vision again. The collar on his t-shirt suddenly felt too tight as it pressed against his neck. Pulling at it, he opened the window to get some fresh air. Panic rode the cold currents as many of the group behind screamed and cried.

Thunk!

Glancing across, George saw that Ravi had also wound his window down and had pushed the mirror back in place.

Holding his chest, his heart kicking against his palm, George frowned at the boy. “Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?” Although Ravi was twenty-six, George still considered him to be a boy.

“I just wanted a better view, man. There’s what, forty of them? Why aren’t they retaliating?”

“Because they’re mostly kids. Two-thirds of them at least.” In the chaos, George could only understand one word.

“Help!”

Watching a man run to the downed woman, George looked across at Ravi, who was watching it too. “He must be the one in charge.”

The crowd parted to reveal the fallen woman, and a cold chill ran through George. She looked like a broken doll, lying on the floor, unmoving, limbs splayed. “Where’s that blood coming from?”

There was no reply from Ravi.

Staring at the ever-increasing pool, his guts churning, George burped a flat taste of cornflakes. After three weeks of eating nothing else for breakfast, the stale cereal was getting tedious, especially since milk went bad weeks ago. He’d now resorted to eating them with water.

She jolted.

“Fuck!”

She jolted again.

“Maybe she’ll be okay, George?”

“Don’t try to humour me. She’s fucked. Unless that man’s Doctor Frankenstein, she ain’t getting up and walking away.” Running a hand through his thick, greasy hair, George looked at his lap. “Why did I drive so fucking fast?”

“We have to move fast. Remember when Si was jumped on Penge High Street? If he’d been driving faster, they would have left him alone. If you drive too slow, the gangs see you as an easy target. We lost four men that day.”

“The men we lost were a waste of oxygen. She’s a woman looking after kids. Her death means something.” The leather creaked as he twisted around in his seat for the first time. “Where are the others? I hope they’re moving slower.”

When the two pick-ups rounded the corner, George relaxed. “Thank God, they’re driving slowly.”

“I wouldn’t count your chickens yet.”

“They’ve slowed down! Fucking hell, what’s wrong with you, boy? A bit of positivity, yeah?”

Ravi shrugged.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should know. You’ve been in the gang longer than I have. Dean’s an unpredictable mother fucker. I wouldn’t assume this crowd was safe until they’re at least three post codes away from that lunatic.” Scratching his silly little beard that ran along his jawline, he added, “and I’d still be hesitant then.”