Michael Robertson: Crash

“Their women?”

Finding the scene outside too upsetting, Chris looked at his son and brushed his fine hair from his wide eyes. “I don’t think so; I think they’ve stolen them and taken them as slaves. It would appear that they’re looting for women and girls as well as food.”

Although Michael only said, “Oh,” his little face looked like he was trying to comprehend the fact. “Why would they steal women?”

“Because they’re bad men.”

Sounding hopeful, Michael said, “Do you think Mum and Matilda are in there? Maybe we could steal them back?”

Another truth that Chris had chosen to withhold from his son was the whereabouts of his mother and sister, but now wasn’t the time to reveal it. Looking out of the window again, pretending to scan the dirty and broken faces in the cage on the back of the third truck, Chris said, “I can’t see them.”

“Hmmm,” Michael said thoughtfully, and then added, “Do you think they’ll leave my chocolate? I’ve been careful to make that last as long as possible. I’ve sucked just one square every night.”

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Chris pulled his son’s ration-emaciated body tightly to him. Like everything else in the house, Michael smelt of mold. Chris shivered as he said, “Maybe.” Clearing his throat quietly, he repeated, “Maybe. What we need to accept is that they will take whatever they want, and there are too many of them for us to argue.”

Michael said another, “Hmmm.”

Chris scanned the room again. With no television, no electricity, no gas and no physical energy because of their poor diet, the life they’d chosen beneath the bedclothes had seemed to be the most sensible option at the time. Chris didn’t see what moving would achieve, especially as the open road stank of human waste because of overflowing sewers. The life he’d chosen for them had seemed sustainable. Or rather, it had until now.

Looking again at the truck with the women, Michael said, “What do you think they do with the little boys? Will they take Tommy prisoner? Will they take me prisoner?”

Looking at the leader and his blood-encrusted suit, Chris swallowed back the bilious burn rising in his throat and tried to speak, but his face buckled out of control.

Michael, who was staring at what was happening outside with his jaw hanging limp, didn’t notice.

Drawing a thick and stuttered breath, Chris said. “I don’t think they will. I don’t think they make little boys prisoners.”

“Thank God,” Michael said with relief.

Looking away again, Chris blinked as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. He felt like a fool for not seeing this coming from a mile off because the signs had been there months before. He thought about the conversation he’d had with his boss just over a year ago.

Having been summoned to his boss’s office, Chris stood in the lavish room and looked around at the fine art adorning the walls. It was chosen in good taste, so he assumed that Dick had had nothing to do with its acquisition. A heavy walnut desk dominated the room, and the green leather chair that was reserved for guests was yet to be offered to Chris. The carpet he stood on was so thick that he wondered if a mower would be more effective on it than a vacuum cleaner. It felt like standing on a mattress. Looking everywhere but at his fat boss, who was currently devouring a whole roast chicken, the animal fat glistening off his ample chin and cheeks, Chris tried to keep his own lunch down as the thick greasy smell slithered up his nostrils.

“PIGS!” Dick scoffed as a slippery lump of meat slid from his fat mouth and hit the desk like a slug.

Hot saliva ran down the back of Chris’ throat, and he pulled a huge breath into his lungs to try and stop himself from vomiting. As he gasped for breath in the hot room, he pretended that the air entering his body was cool and fresh. Looking at the rotund man with his mousy-brown short and spiky hair, his round head, his piggy little eyes, and his suit that always looked a size too big, Chris nodded at the chicken and said, “Still on the Atkins then?”

Unable to get the food in fast enough, Dick loosened his tie and belched. The smell that hit Chris seconds later was like rotting offal. Chris suddenly had too much saliva in his mouth and gently heaved, but too engrossed in his feeding frenzy, Dick didn’t notice. Shuffling over to the large window overlooking the city and rubbing his watering eyes, Chris divided his time between admiring the view and watching the glutton speaking with his mouthful.

“Obviously.” His fat face stretched into a childlike grin, his blue eyes turning into slits that threw wrinkles to his greying temples. “Anyway, PIGS, have you heard that’s what they’re calling them?” He seemed excited by the news.

The sensationalist headlines dominating the tabloid media were hard to ignore, but because he couldn’t say anything positive, Chris didn’t reply.

Lifting the paper he was reading, Dick said, “Portugal, Ireland, Greece, Spain—PIGS. I’ve also heard that Italy is rocking too. Those countries will be the death of us. And I bet we’ll end up with more illegal immigrants stealing our benefits.”

The ignorance of the man was bad enough. The fact that Chris was beneath him on the company ladder made him feel positively suicidal. In spite of his internal resentment, Chris’ face remained passive as he reminded himself that Dick got the job because of who rather than what he knew. Daddy was on the board. Having been sold the pretense that he was responsible for a group of hedge fund managers, the reality was that Dick did whatever he was told to do. Chris was sure he spent most of his day idle, his huge computer monitor seeing more porn than spreadsheets. Reminding himself that whatever he thought of this man, he pulled rank over him, Chris took a deep breath and said, “Anyway, Dick, how’s Lucy?”

“The old ball and chain?”

Another thing about Dick was that he spoke in clichés. Chris offered a polite laugh and hoped his face didn’t show what he really thought, or at least that his thick boss wouldn’t notice.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, Dick was permanently oblivious. “She’s good… I’m afraid to say.” Finding his own joke hilarious, Dick actually grunted while serving up a full-bellied laugh, his gaping chasm of a mouth flinging wide to reveal hippo-like teeth.

Chris smiled again, wondering who the acronym was more suited to—Power, Ignorance, Greed, Stupidity. Smiling at his own thought, he then quickly dropped it when he realized what he was doing.

Standing up to practice his golf swing, reminding Chris that at about five feet and nine inches, a good two inches shorter than Chris, this man was almost as wide as he was tall, Dick then said, “And how’s Daisy?”

Because Dick had a big voice and a poor awareness of personal space, Chris had to step back to stop himself feeling overwhelmed by the man. He then said, “It’s Diane, Dick, and she’s very well, thank you. She’s still talking about your last barbecue.” He left out the fact that it was for all of the wrong reasons.

Tipping his plate to allow the chicken carcass to slide into the bin, Dick then shifted Sun Tzu’s The Art of War on his desk so Chris’ eyes would fall on it, which they did. Chris noticed that the adopted business manual looked like it had never been read. Dick then said, “Well, that’s the one thing that can be said for Lucy—she knows how to throw a party.”

“That she does.” Although Chris thought that if he had that much time and disposable income, he’d know how to throw a party too; he’d also do it a darned sight better than Lucy, and with much more class.