Michael Robertson: Crash

An overwhelming guilt saturated Chris because he liked these people; he’d even call them friends. Yet, when the chips were down, he sat by like an impotent idiot and watched on as they were dealt their fate. He didn’t even have the slightest inclination to help. He wondered if Frank would do the same if the roles were reversed. Probably not. Frank was an honorable man that wouldn’t let the actions of this gang go unchallenged. As they dragged Marie towards the truck, her naked ankles scraped along the bumpy road. It looked painful, but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she screamed his name, the repeated word exploding from her mouth with saliva and snot, “Tommy!”

Chris only realized that he hadn’t answered Michael’s question when his panicked boy, who was still watching everything outside, spoke again, “What are they doing, Dad? What are they doing to Marie?”

Chris sighed, the damp smell of mildew snaking into his sinuses. He then put an arm around his small son, who was shivering from what he assumed was a mixture of fear and cold, and said, “They’re taking her away.”

At first, Marie resisted the open cage by pushing away from the truck as they tried to force her into it, but when the heavy boot of her captor was delivered into her stomach, she squealed like he’d just kicked some bagpipes and became instantly compliant.

Michael, who flinched upon seeing his neighbor hurt, looked at the captured family and said, “But what about Tommy? He needs his mum. What about Frank?”

Thinking about his own wife and daughter, Chris said, “You’re right, mate, Tommy does need his mum, but sometimes we don’t always get what we want or need.” His whole world turned blurry, and he looked away.

“Where are they taking her?”

Chris didn’t answer, instead he watched the cage door on the back of the truck get slammed shut and secured with a chunky padlock. The other women, of which there were about twenty, shuffled to make room for Marie. They watched the newest prisoner with apathy, their faces reflecting their broken souls.

Frank then let out an almighty scream as if he was pulling his energy from the ground he was kneeling on. His face turned beetroot and veins stood out on his neck like ropes. His deep roar echoed around the horseshoe cul-de-sac like a gunshot in a quarry. He then stared at Dean, his face contorted into a gargoyle’s grimace.

“What are you doing with my wife, you sick fucks? You can take anything you want, but leave my family! Why do you need them?”

Looking at the gathered looters, Chris could see how some of them were enjoying the process more than others. The ginger weasel with the tennis racket seemed positively excited by the proceedings. Stood behind Frank, he bounced on the balls of his feet and held his tennis racket like an executioner’s axe, ready to strike. Some of the men watched from afar, guarding the trucks and looking around for signs of activity in the other houses. The two with Marie and the one with Tommy seemed nonplussed about their roles, performing them like they were farmers minding livestock. The only one in the group who looked regretful was George. It terrified Chris to see a man of his size and conscience having to go along with the group mentality to survive. If a man like this, with what he assumed were strong morals and a powerful physique, had no control, then Chris didn’t have a prayer.

A loud crack then echoed around the cul-de-sac as Dean whipped the sawn-off butt of his shotgun across Frank’s face to silence him. An explosion of blood leapt from the impact and fell onto the light brick driveway with a splat. Frank followed it, hitting the ground face first.

When the men behind Frank pulled him up again, Chris saw that his strong jaw was broken, hanging like a pub sign and pouring blood. His eyes were wild with pain as he growled. He’d been reduced to a feral beast. Chris pulled Michael into his chest so he didn’t see anything else. He felt his tiny frame stutter with tears.

Watching the events unfold made Chris sick in his throat, but he quickly swallowed the lumpy and acidic mucus back down again because vomiting now would surely reveal their location. From that moment, no matter how much he swallowed, the footprint of acidic bile in his throat couldn’t be eradicated. He shuddered as he fought against the waves of nausea.

Tommy looked from one parent to the other like a fox cub cornered by a pack of dogs, desperate for a way out. His beige trousers darkened around the crotch, and he tried to cover it with both of his hands. Chris didn’t need anything to strengthen the fear for his son’s safety, but seeing this little boy being systematically destroyed and left alone to deal with it amped it up tenfold. Squeezing his already tight grip on Michael, he felt him squirm for comfort against the strong pressure.

Marie screamed again, shaking the cage and rocking the truck. The other women stared on, unflinching like captured sheep and backing away from her so they didn’t get hurt by the thrashing movements.

Squatting down, Chris looked into Michael’s confused face as he stared at the floor, his bottom lip sticking out. “It’ll be okay, Michael. Everything will be okay.”

Michael looked up through bloodshot eyes. “It’s not going to be okay though, is it?”

Squeezing his skinny little boy, Chris’ mouth turned down, and he had to clear his throat to banish the lump.

Michael squirmed free and peered past the curtain again. “What are they doing to Tommy?”

Looking back outside, Chris saw the man guarding Tommy drag him along by his feet. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the boy was alive and in pain, giving him the same regard he’d have given a sack of bricks or a dead goat.

Tommy screamed and kicked, desperately trying to wriggle free. A cold scowl from the man dragging him was enough to calm him down. Tommy fell limp like a corpse, crying as the back of his head bounced along the ground.

“What are they doing to him?” Michael asked again.

Chris couldn’t reply, instead he pulled his thick white hair away from his forehead and watched them drag the boy to the truck. “No,” he muttered as they wedged his head under the front tire. “They can’t do that.”

“What are they doing?”

Drawing his son in again, Chris held him tightly. He definitely wasn’t going to be watching this time.

Having walked up to the truck, Dean stared at the distraught boy with a detached curiosity. Tommy lay perfectly still with his head under the wheel, holding on to his childish expectation, from years of social conditioning, that his compliance would be rewarded. With wide brown eyes, he regarded the crazed man. Dean then undid his fly, and Chris felt every muscle in his body fall lose. Horrific images of child abuse and his son made him start to cry.

Dean then urinated on the child’s face, and as demoralizing as it was for Tommy, Chris felt relieved as he pulled back from the dark place he’d just occupied in his mind. The powerless child coughed and spluttered, but he took it.

Both Marie and Frank fought against their restraints and shouted obscenities at the looters. Chris felt a burning in his gut as he replaced Tommy’s face with Michael’s.

Looking at the parents and then back to the boy, Dean’s wonky grin split his gaunt, angry face, and he opened the door of the truck. Getting in, he then poked his head from the open window and shouted at the houses surrounding them, “Let this be a warning! This is what’s coming to you all!” Laughing, he started the engine, the deep diesel roar booming around the cul-de-sac.

The powerful engine roared again, and Marie screamed louder, rocking the truck like she was trying to turn it over.

Frank, who was bleeding and couldn’t speak with his broken jaw, knelt on the floor and wailed, paralytic with grief as spittle and blood sloshed from his mouth. Chris was sick in his throat again, and sweat stood on his brow despite the frigid air.