Crash II: Highrise Hell (8 page)

When he looked up, all three of them were watching at him, hung on every word. "He died."

Ravi's mum gasped.

"I had a few beers after I'd put him to bed one night. I was watching the football that I'd recorded from earlier that day. He was a good kid. At two, he slept through the night. We were lucky that we had such a good sleeper."

The silence encouraged him to fill it. "I'd put a pizza in the oven and fell asleep." The flickering light softened, and his eyes burned as tears rose to the surface. "Sorry, you don't need to be hearing this."

It was Ravi who spoke this time. "Carry on, George. We want to know."

"I didn't wake up until the fire service were kicking the front door down." A growl tore his voice. "It was too fucking late by then. He was gone." Slipping his hand up his top, he felt the swirls of burned skin on his ribcage. "The flames set my top on fire. I can still smell the mix of my own burning flesh and sweatshirt. I hate to think about the pain Zach would have gone through. I've been told that a lot of people die in their sleep because of smoke inhalation." Pulling a deep breath into his tightening lungs, George sighed. "I hope he never woke up."

When he looked up, he saw that Mrs. Vadher was crying freely, and both Ravi and his dad were speechless. "Sorry to put a downer on things, but that's why I don't drink. It's also why I can't leave my sister to struggle on in this new world with an arsehole like Dean. I owe her and her unborn child for Zach's sake. I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure they're okay."

Although George's stomach was turning backflips, he ate the last mouthful of food. It suddenly tasted bitter, but it would have been rude to leave it. He should have offered to wash up, but he wanted out of there. The screech his chair made when he stood up tore through the flat. "Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mrs. Vadher. I think I need to go to bed now."

Standing up, she walked to the door with him. Just before George walked out, she held his right hand in both of hers and looked up at him. "You're a dear heart, George. Thank you for the food. And thank you for looking after our boy. He tells us that you're good to him."

Looking down at her frail hands, George felt her warmth. It opened his heart, and no amount of swallowing could suppress his tears. Biting down on his lip, he nodded and walked out into the hallway.

Night Shift

Opening his eyes, George remained still and watched his breath. This winter had been long. Too long.
 

Despite having four duvets and three layers of clothes, his bones were still cold.
 

Without Ravi's collection of clocks, George had no idea of the time. All he knew for sure was that it was daylight outside. The sun pushed against his drawn curtains and created a dusky hue in his bedroom.

* * *

Hours passed while George laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. Voices echoed in the hallway at points in the day, making him flinch in anticipation of a knock. The last thing he wanted was to see anyone, especially not one of Dean's little muppets.
 

He'd gotten out of bed twice. Once to go to the toilet, and once to grab some dry crackers. They'd turned into a sticky paste in his mouth, sucked all of the moisture from his body, and ushered in a dehydration headache that stabbed into his eyeballs. But not even the blinding pain motivated him to get up and get a drink.
 

The time with Ravi and his family showed him that some people still had plenty to be thankful for. In a life where so much had been lost, they'd managed to keep a hold of what mattered most.
 

Where was his sister? How was she holding up?

* * *

After another hour or so, the damp of the room had clogged George's sinuses. Letting out another exhausted groan, he opened and closed his mouth, the taste of stale phlegm sitting on his tongue.
 

Every muscle in George's body ached like he had influenza. Lifting his hands up to look at them, he then dropped them back down, panting from the effort.

The rapidly-fading light had reduced everything in his room to silhouettes. The night shift came around too quickly. If George didn't get himself up, then Dean would be upstairs to drag him from his bed. His entire body buzzed like a fridge that was about to go kaput. Even his eyelids ached.
 

After some time and great effort, George managed to sit upright in bed. The lethargy that gripped his body sat in his stomach like concrete. Each belch lifted the dry taste of crackers into his throat.
 

Once it had passed, he dropped his heavy feet onto the cold floor and stood up.
 

Picking a wobbly path to his wardrobe, he pulled on another pair of socks, some thick jeans, another t-shirt, two jumpers, a sheepskin jacket and a pair of walking boots. The night shift was the worst.

* * *

The frigid wind burned George's exposed face when he stepped outside. It was a struggle to move with so many layers on, but he had to do something to combat the cold that had settled in his body from a day of inaction. It felt like the marrow had frozen solid.
 

A cursory glance at the truck with the women showed him that Dean had given them a thick blanket. The man had an uncanny ability to sense when the group were on their last legs, and he always did something to pull them from the brink. Something to prolong their agony.
 

There were two inactive women who lay away from the rest of the group. They didn't have any interest in the blankets. They didn't have any interest in much. Sometimes Dean's judgment was a bit too late.
 

The screech that yawned from the opening gate took George's attention away from the suffering prisoners and onto Ginge. Despite living with the guy for a month, George had yet to find out his real name. They'd barely said more than a couple of words to one another. The scrawny ginger prick was so far up Dean's arse that he'd turned the man into a lollipop.
 

In one hand, Ginge had his tennis racquet, which had been bent and sharpened so the outer frame was as keen as any blade. In his other hand was a red Jerry Can. Nodding, he said, "George."

Looking at the racquet, George didn't reply. Why did he use such a ridiculous weapon? There were plenty of swords, axes, and hammers lying around. It was surely bravado. A way of displaying just how creative he was when taking people's lives. The idiot had about as much creativity as he did sense.

The moonlight caught the can's glistening surface. The strong fumes made George's mouth water. Despite its flammability, George loved the smell of petrol. It took him back to when he was a boy, lying on top of his dad's motorbike and smelling the fuel tank. How many brain cells did he kill in that time? No one ever told him to stop.

Ginge dropped the large can with a clang. It was obviously full. Looking up at George, he flashed him a grin of black stumps that were once teeth. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. "Busy day today." The can rang like a deep bell when he kicked it. "It took me fucking ages to fill this bastard up. Petrol's getting much harder to find."

George nodded.
 

Looking over George's shoulder at the women, Ginge licked his lips. "I could do with one of them tonight to give me a rub down." Running his fat tongue across his black teeth, he laughed. "That young one that we caught the other day would do me just fine. Her sister was as tight as a worm's hole."
 

How much force would it take to knock his stubbly jaw clean off his dirty face?

The reason Ginge was alive was because he was a good soldier. When Dean wanted a task performed, he would get to it without a second thought. That was the problem; he never had a second thought. Grinning, his green eyes slightly out of focus, he then laughed again. It was a shrill, disorientated giggle. He'd clearly drunk a little too much petrol. "I've been out siphoning today."

"Really," George said, "I never would have guessed." Rolling his eyes, he looked around them. "With you already telling me and all."

The high-pitched cackle turned into a hacking cough. After spitting on the floor, Ginge looked up, his eyes spinning. "Isn't it obvious?"

George sighed.
 

Moving so close that George could smell his halitosis, Ginge lifted his top lip up and his bottom lip down. His words came out as a muffled slur.

Pulling his head back, George frowned at the man. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Letting go of his lips, Ginge pointed at his face. "This is why I hate siphoning." Spreading his lips again, he then leaned forwards.
 

Holding his breath, George saw what the problem was and nearly vomited. Running along the inside of both of Ginge's lips were so many ulcers that they looked like insect eggs on the bottom of a leaf. Barking another deep heave, George stepped back. "Fucking hell, that's disgusting." With his hand over his mouth, his stomach tensed again. "Does it hurt?"

"Like hell."
 

It was a good job that dry crackers were the only things George had eaten. Anything else would be on his boots by now. "You need to get that looked at. It won't be long before it's septic."

Shrugging, Ginge lifted the Jerry Can, walked past the women's truck and placed it next to the wall of them that were already there. Whenever George was outside, he always had half an eye on their supplies. They had enough petrol to last them weeks. They had enough petrol to set half of London on fire. Regardless of this, Dean still sent people out for more.
 

When Ginge walked back past the cage, he banged his fist against it, sending out a loud rattle. He then blew the women a kiss and thrust his crotch forwards. "Maybe one of you lucky ladies will get to ride this soon." The ring of his laugh bounced off the walls outside and then up the corridor as he disappeared into the block.
 

Staring at the door Ginge had just disappeared through, George couldn't help but imagine the filthy looter kissing one of the women. The cluster of ulcers would no doubt pop like tiny bath pearls. Thick, yellow puss would ooze from his mouth.
 

When his stomach rolled again, he shook his head.
 

He needed to get away from this place.

Help

Standing in the tower's heavy shadow, George looked up at the bright moon. When the cold's skinny fingers found the gaps in his clothes, he hugged himself in a futile attempt to stay warm.
 

Looking up at the line of windows along the side of the tower, George saw they were all dark except for Dean's. Each window was an opportunity for one of Dean's little minions to watch what was going on below and report it back to him. The building was rammed full of sycophants who would cut their own arm off to gain favor with their master. Although many things had disappeared because of the crash, Big Brother was as strong as ever.

In his previous life as a bouncer, George had spent every shift checking his watch to see when his night would end. The night shift felt much the same except he didn't have, or care for, a watch. You were done when you were done. That was usually when the sun rose. If Dean liked you, that was. Ravi would always have to do an hour or two more than everyone else. Dean once sent a message around that he should be left until lunch time. As a 'fuck you' to Dean, George nearly went down to relieve the boy. Nearly. As always, he chose the coward's path.
 

There were at least four hours left before George was relieved of his duty. It would more likely be six. Bouncing on the spot for warmth, he then rubbed his freezing face and turned full circle to see what was happening.
 

The bright moon allowed him to see as far as the perimeter fence, but beyond that, it was inky black. It was hard to get used to the lack of light in a city where light pollution used to almost banish the moon.
 

As he stood there, he listened to the rustling of what he assumed were scavenging foxes and the roar of the occasional motorbike or car engine far off in the distance.

With no visual distractions, George had to battle the horror show that was on the periphery of his imagination. The motorbikes were gangs forming. The rustling was them being surrounded. Every sound spiked his pulse. What would he do if a mob bore down on them now?
 

Several women from the cage coughed, so George turned his attention to them. There was no point in worrying about what he couldn't control. If they were to be overrun, then they would have to deal with it when it happened.
 

Standing close together for warmth, the women huddled beneath the blanket and stared out. Thick bags sat beneath sagging eyes on white faces. Liz looked as bad as any of them. A cold chill gripped George. It was like being stared at by a ghost.

Drawing a deep sigh filled George's sinuses with the reek of smoke. His throat dried, and he scanned his surroundings. Where was it coming from? Were the fires closing in? Would they be able to get out by morning? Taking another deep breath to settle his nerves, George's lungs were irritated by the reek of burning plastic in the air. He started to cough.
 

Once George's coughing fit had passed, he heard stuttered breathing from the women's truck. Having avoided doing anything other than glancing at the cage until now, he couldn't ignore the sound. When he looked over, his blood turned cold, and his breath abandoned him. It was the girl that Dean had taken up to his flat.
 

Moving closer, George saw her battered face. She looked like the elephant woman. One eye was swollen shut, her two front teeth were missing, she had deep weeping bite marks in her cheeks and there was a dark red cigarette burn just beneath her left eye. The stench of excrement caught in George's throat when he gasped, and he had to chew back his heave. "What the fuck?"

The older, curvy woman from the gated community moved out from under the blanket. Her face twisted as she pointed at him. "You let this happen."