Michael Robertson: Crash

As Dean walked down the driveway towards the downed dog, his face was lit up with a huge grin and wide, excited eyes. He was mania personified.

George ran at Dean, and Chris wondered whether this would be it.

However, before George could get to their leader, he’d lifted his right leg and brought the heel of his boot down on the dog’s head with a thick crunch. The black body fell limp. When Dean lifted his boot, the dog’s crushed head looked like Picasso had reinterpreted it.

Chris threw up, his heaves hidden by the screaming girls in the truck. Spitting the acidic and thick bile from his mouth, he looked up again in time to see George push Dean so hard that he fell forwards onto all fours.

Looming over the insane man, George shouted, “What’s fucking wrong with you?”

Chris clenched his fists and pulled in lungfuls of smoke as he silently encouraged George to start laying into the scrawny man.

Dean got to his feet and stared at George. Both men looked poised to fight.

Trying again, George said, “Why the fuck would you kill a fucking dog? What has it done to you? What fucking threat does it pose?”

Pointing at the truck with the girls in, the bottle of champagne, which he’d managed to hold onto for the entire time, hanging from his hand, he said, “It takes hope away from those cunts. Their existence robbed the poor of any wealth, so I’m robbing their lives of everything else.”

Staring at Dean like he wanted to kill him, George watched him tip the rest of his champagne over the fallen Charlie. Red fizz ran down the driveway. He then walked past the big man to his truck, filled the bottle with petrol from a small can, stuffed his skinny black tie into it, lit his cigarette, and then lit the tie. Watching the fire eat away at the thirsty fabric, droplets of flames falling to the floor like wax, he launched the bottle at the Gerrards’ house. It crashed through their living room window and landed on the sofa, consuming it instantly.

Looking back at George, who was still staring at him, Dean grinned. He then looked over at Chris, who was too well hidden behind his net curtain to be seen, and said, “House number three.”

Glancing at his wide-eyed son, Chris said, “Oh fuck.” His only thought, other than absolute fear and an urgent need to shit, was that he was grateful his wife and daughter didn’t have to be subjected to this.

“You’re unemployable, Chris.”

Looking at his skinny wife, who was now even skinnier from their self-imposed rationing over the last few months, Chris said, “We’re all fucking unemployable. That’s what tends to happen if there are no jobs.”

Running her eyes up and down his body while pursing her thin lips, she said, “Surely you can do something? The problem is, you’ve been a fat white man in a suit for so long that you don’t know how to do anything practical. Can’t you grow vegetables or something?”

She was right; this wasn’t a world for fat white men in suits anymore. That didn’t mean he wanted to hear it from her. “And what have you done? How have you contributed?”

From behind dead and sunken eyes, she said, “I’ve looked after the children. While you’ve been working, or playing golf, or entertaining clients.” She looked him up and down in accusation. “Or whatever else you’ve been doing.”

He frowned, ground his jaw and asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring his question, she continued, “I’ve been here making sure that our children are happy and well looked after. I’ve been interested in their education and the issues in their lives. You’ve been absent.”

Rubbing his waxy face, Chris said, “You haven’t exactly done a great job of looking after the house and kids lately though, have you? For the entire time I’ve been unemployed in fact.”

“There’s been no electricity, you idiot. I’ve still dusted, swept and mopped the floors, made the beds and cleaned the bathrooms.”

“The carpets are filthy though.”

Her eyes pinched at the side. “I’ve read to the kids, helped them continue working from their text books and even tested them.”

“Wow! So the blind have been leading the blind, is that what you’re saying?”

When she didn’t reply, he took chili powder from the spice rack in the kitchen, walked over to their large staircase and emptied the entire contents of the jar onto the white carpet. It felt good to watch her stupid face contort like it was being sucked inwards. He then rubbed it in with his foot and smiled at her.

With a reddening face, Diane struggled to get her words out. Taking a breath, she said, “You fucking arsehole! Why would you do something like that, you piece of shit?”

As Chris passed her on his way back into the kitchen, the smell of decay coming from her was like rotting fabric, and no amount of perfume could hide it. If anything, the chemical odor highlighted the smell by contrast, and while they all stank the same, he noticed it more on her. Taking a stack of plates that had been cleaned with a dry cloth because they no longer had running water, Chris tipped them onto the floor. The whole stack, at least twenty, hit the white stone tiles with a crash that exploded throughout the house. The acoustics of the cavernous rooms made it sound like a hand grenade going off. Fragments of white porcelain splayed out in every direction, several shards biting into his shins. He didn’t look down because he didn’t want her to know that he’d been hurt.

“So, Diane,” he said, “it would seem that you’re just as fucking useless as I am.”

The commotion had brought the children downstairs, and they stood in the doorway, looking at their parents with utter horror on their faces.

Chris felt beyond caring, and after running a hand through his white hair, he left the room.

Chris jumped the final step at the bottom of the stairs as if not touching it would banish the guilt he felt for creating it. It didn’t. As he landed on the flagstone floor in the hallway, his thin shoes did little to prevent the shock from hurting his feet and jarring his body. The hard landing stimulated an old football injury in his right knee, jabbing pain through it that felt like a hot spoon wedged beneath his patella. He wanted to pull up and stop moving, sit down and let it lock up as he rested an ice pack on it. He almost laughed at the absurdity of that notion. Almost.

Looking up at the banister, which had one noose already hanging from it, he turned to his waiting son and whispered, “Michael, get me another chair please.” He then coughed into his sleeve, the black smoke restricting each inhalation more than the last. It felt like he was choking on his own sick, and stars floated before his eyes. With his constricting throat fighting against him like it was being held in a strong grip, he had to force himself to relax. His breath slowly returned. Once he’d recovered, he wheezed, “And make sure you do it quietly.”

Michael looked at the chair already there and didn’t move.

Chris wanted to scream, especially as the sound of the pick-up’s engines roared outside. He guessed they were moving closer so they could transport their stolen goods to the trucks more easily. He wouldn’t allow himself to entertain the idea that they’d had their fill and were driving away. He didn’t have that kind of luck. Looking at his immobile son, he threw his arms wide and said, “What are you waiting for? Do it now! We’ll die if you don’t!”

His words made Michael’s eyes open wide, and it forced action into the small blonde boy, who ran into the large kitchen. Taking the chair that was already there, Chris hobbled with it to the front door, his knee weak with pain, his throat sore with toxins, his head pounding like a bass speaker. He wedged it beneath the handle, hoping that it would stop the looters temporarily, giving them a few precious seconds when they needed it most.