Light flooded into their world seconds later, and the huge frame of George filled the doorway. Chris, although petrified to be staring at the large man, knew everything would be all right when he saw his face.
As he frowned down on the two of them, George scratched his head. He then closed the cupboard, throwing the pair back into total darkness.
Chris started to cry, the withheld emotion pouring out as he held his son in his arms. He whispered, “I love you, Michael. So much. I love you—”
The door was flung open again, and the light stung Chris’ eyes. George then leant into the tiny space and lifted Chris from the ground. When he dumped him on the landing, Chris’ bad knee gave way and he fell to the floor. George looked at the little boy cowering in the dark and frowned like he was trying to ward off a headache. His dilemma played out across his dark face before he closed the cupboard on him.
The last thing Chris saw before the door was closed was Michael mouthing the word ‘Dad’.
While dragging Chris down the stairs, George shouted to the other men, “Right, boys, let’s move on. There’s nothing upstairs worth taking other than soiled sheets.”
It was the first time Chris had gotten to see the two men up close, and they looked as despicable as they sounded. They were modern-day pirates—dirty, smelly, unshaven, and unkempt. They stared back at him, their ruthless eyes silently sentencing him to his fate.
Once outside, Chris inhaled the thin and cool air. It was about the only thing that had felt good over the last twenty minutes. As George led him up the driveway towards Dean, he said, “He was the only person in there.”
“No pets?” Dean asked, and when George shook his head, he looked disappointed.
“His wife and daughter are dead. Hung themselves.”
Dean surveyed Chris with a leering grin. “Your company that bad, eh?” He then said, “Kneel,” as he loaded up another Molotov cocktail.
Lighting the fabric, he stared at the bottle as he watched the hungry flame grow. He then launched it through the front window of Chris’ house. “Look at it,” he ordered.
Chris turned to look at the house, shuffling around on his knees, totally unaware of the cuts the sharp concrete was raking across them and the agitated football injury that screamed at his movements. Dean probably thought he was watching the fire. He was actually looking at the upstairs window and the pulled-back curtain that showed him just the slightest amount of his son watching on like a ghost.
“It’s a shame, ain’t it?” the psychopathic Dean said. “I mean, you worked so hard for all of that stuff, and now it’s gone.”
Looking at his son’s lost face again, Chris shook as he said, “Fuck you!”
Dean lifted his hammer above his head, hatred gripping his angular red face, but before he could bring it down, the looter with John interrupted them.
“Uh, Dean. I thought the missus was hot, so I brought a picture for you to see.” In his hand was one of the family portraits from the stairs. In his other hand was the razor-sharp tennis racket.
Dean looked at it for a moment, and Chris watched him intently. He then looked up at the cruelty in his eyes, which was like barbed wire. His voice had a forced calm that crackled, impatience dripping from every word, “Where’s the boy?”
Chris’ entire body slumped, and his breathing became fast and shallow. A panic attack ran away with him as he looked at Dean and then George, his wide eyes pleading with the big man. “George,” he fought for breath. “Help me, please?”
When Dean raised an eyebrow at the large man by his side, George quickly took the hammer from his hand and said to Chris, “How the fuck do you know my name? What the fuck? Why would I help a posh twat like you?”
The last thing Chris saw was the hulking man lift the bloody hammer above his head, his jaw set like he could bite through rock. Chris then closed his eyes and pulled a deep breath into his body. It did little to stop him shivering like he had hypothermia. His last thought as he listened to the grunt of exertion when George brought the hammer crashing down was of his son. He started to whisper his name, “Mi…”
The wet crunch meant he never got a chance to finish. His head hit the floor with a loud crack, an explosion ringing out behind him as the flames found the Ferrari in the garage and masked Michael’s shrill scream.
Epilogue
Every breath burned, filling his lungs with acrid smoke. The pressure in his head felt like his skull was shrinking. His thick pulse crushed his eyeballs. Tears rolled down his face. Taking the final few steps, he used what was left of his lung capacity to expel a high-pitched cry and kicked as hard as his tired leg could manage. The door flew open and he fell into the back garden on all fours.
Hunched over, his concave stomach retracting towards his spine with every gulp, he pulled at the cold air. Smoke sat in his nostrils and all he could see was a watery blur. Barking coughs bucked through him and a surge of heat carried a wave of lumpy bile up into his throat.
The world spun as his stomach tensed. With a wide mouth, he tried to draw air into his body. Another hard pull and his throat finally cleared, flooding his lungs with the oxygen he so craved. He vomited again and this time it splattered on the floor.
Every exhale was delivered with a cough or more acidic bile.
After a few minutes of being locked in the suffocating cycle, he finally leveled out. Sweating, and with his pulse still racing, he was careful to breathe slowly so he could keep the coughing at bay.
Waiting for a few minutes, he finally stood up.
With his lungs still burning and the strong bitter taste of sick in his mouth, he looked around. The fences surrounding his garden were much taller than he could climb. His dad had told him that a spate of robberies had occurred and he wanted to make sure they weren’t an easy target. He didn’t know what a spate was, but it didn’t sound good. For months, he had woken up during the night and pulled his curtain back to peek out into the garden in case anyone was there.
The black metal spikes that ran along the top of the fence had looked cool when they were put up. ‘Like a castle,’ his dad had said. Staring at them now, he imagined slipping and one of them spearing his stomach. The only escape would be through the front and there was no way he was going out there.
Walking down the side of the house, the fire tearing through the interior, he caught a sight of his own reflection in a downstairs window. His face was blackened, his hair was greasy, his eyes were red.
When he got to the side gate, he looked through the peephole. It wasn’t a real peephole, that was just what he liked to call it when he was spying on the neighbors. Some days, he’d spend hours staring through it. As he pressed his face against the wood, he smelled the chemicals used to treat it. The nostalgic reek took him back to the carefree days of less than a year ago.
The men were at number seven. It was the last house in the cul-de-sac. It was a holiday home for a rich Arab family. Whenever they visited, they kept themselves to themselves. Once, his dad said that they thought their shit didn’t stink. Michael didn’t understand that. Everyone’s shit stinks.
Continuing his search, his heart then kicked and the breath left his lungs when he saw his dad more clearly than before. The big black man that had killed him was still stood over him. His world blurred again as warm tears rolled down his cheeks. What was he going to do? Where would he go now? Who would look after him?