After some time of staring at his dad, who looked like he was trying to kill him, Michael gave up and fell limp. Swallowing back the tears, Chris saw in that action that his boy was giving up—that he was accepting what he believed to be his fate. That, in spite of his dad’s aggressive approach, he was acknowledging that he knew best, or at least that he couldn’t fight him anymore. That he was prepared to die.
Chris’ restraining hand remained, but he used the other to stroke Michael’s hair and said, “Shh, little boy. I’m not trying to hurt you. You’re having a panic attack. It can’t harm you, despite what it may feel like. Everything will be okay. Do you understand?”
A ripple was sent up Chris’ arm to his shoulder as Michael gave a curt nod, compliant through fear rather than holding confidence in what his father was telling him. The little boy then blinked and a tear escaped from the far side of either eye, running down each temple.
“I’m going to let go now, mate. All I ask is that you stay quiet, okay?”
Michael nodded again.
Letting go, Chris moved back. When Michael sat up, Chris hugged him tightly, the feeble boy in his arms shaking as silent sobs bounced through his tiny body. Glad that his face was hidden, Chris looked skyward as his own eyes watered and grief sat in his throat like tonsillitis. What had he become?
As he sat with his son, Chris realized that the drama inside had made him oblivious to what was happening outside. That thought seemed to make him suddenly aware of the sound of chaos coming in through their open window. He was sure it was there all along and that he’d just stopped hearing it for a time.
He listened to Frank bawling and shouting in a slathering indecipherable drawl, and Marie screaming like a banshee. He thought about Tommy and the imagery of his death that would be stamped in Chris’ mind forever. He thought about how little time he had to make sure Michael didn’t suffer the same fate. Rubbing his little boy’s bony back, trying to both warm him up and calm him down, he whispered, much like he used to when Michael was a baby, “Shh, it’s okay, Michael, just relax.”
After about thirty seconds, Chris accepted that he wouldn’t be able to sit with his son for as long as he’d have liked. Letting him go, he looked back out of the window again. The first thing he noticed was Dean. He was the kind of man that always took center stage. He had a strange charisma that was necessary for a leader, and although he clearly instilled fear in those around him, there was something about the way he held himself, or the way he moved, that inspired. He stared at the fallen boy beneath the wheel of the truck and then dropped down so he could get a better look. He used a claw hammer to fish around in the bloody remains. When he stood back up and looked around, every person was silent save Frank and Marie, and they all refused to look at him. Everyone that is except George, who was currently eyeballing the psychotic man like he wanted to rip his head clean off his neck.
Not needing much provocation, Dean threw his arms wide and said, “What? Have you got a problem?”
Chris prayed for something to kick off at that point and hoped that an in-fight would distract the group long enough for him to get away. That was until he saw two men go around the back of the houses, removing the possibility of an easy escape.
George didn’t reply, but he didn’t back down either. He just stared at Dean, his dark eyes turning cold and hiding any hint of emotion.
Dean stared back, adjusting his hammer in his hand so it was ready to use.
The whole cul-de-sac, even Marie and Frank, were watching the standoff and holding their breath.
In a clear attempt to regain control, Dean then said, “Yeah. I didn’t fucking think so.” He then walked in Frank’s direction, agitation twitching through him, straining for release.
Trying to talk with a jaw that was flapping loose seemed both painful and logistically impossible for Frank, who growled his intention at the leader and scowled hard. He then tried to spit at him, but the blood and saliva missed and rolled down his disabled chin. Looking at how quickly his broken neighbor had been rendered powerless scared Chris, and butterflies of anxiety danced through his guts as his burning throat dried.
Addressing the cul-de-sac again, the suited man looked around and shouted, “This is what happens to the one percent!” His already red face turned redder. “This is what happens when you actively deprive others because of your greed. When you push us down so you can stay in power!” Tossing the claw hammer in the air, flipping it so he caught the handle again, he then pointed it at Frank.
Seizing the opportunity, Frank leapt to his feet and delivered a well-aimed kick to Dean’s groin that lifted the scrawny man a few inches off the ground. The three men minding Frank pulled him back and started kicking his already broken body. The blows, although fierce, didn’t even seem to register. It looked like they were kicking a dead cow. That was until the looter with the tennis racket pulled it back and delivered it deep into Frank’s thigh with a full-bodied swing. It ate into his flesh like an axe into soft wood, and Frank screamed. Pulling it out again, the huge wound belched dark blood like an overflowing drain, and the weasel of a man pulled it back for another swing.
Dean, who was curled on the floor in the foetal position, shouted, “Enough!”
They stopped, pulled Frank to his knees again, which seemed almost impossible for the huge man to maintain with his wound, and they were about to stand back until the man with the tennis racket took two more swings at him, one for each Achilles tendon. Chris was sure he heard them twang like snapping strings on a double bass.
Arching his head back, Frank roared at the sky as if calling down hellfire. As he tried to fall forwards, the two other men held him up.
Dean looked up at the man with the racket, his tight mouth locked shut. He then said, “What the fuck?”
The ginger weasel half smiled as he said, “I was just stopping him getting up again.”
Getting shakily to his feet and lifting his shotgun, the end, which was now pointed at the ginger man, shook from the rage coursing through him and Dean said, “Did I ask you to?”
The man with the racket tried to reply but wasn’t quick enough, so Dean asked again, louder this time. “Did I fucking ask you to do that?”
The man shook his head.
Keeping his gun pointed at the ginger sycophant, Dean then looked at the big man. “That was a very fucking stupid move.” Shaking his head, he repeated, “A very stupid move.”
It was hard for Chris to ascertain who he was talking to, but Frank looked up at the hammer wielding Dean from behind his now swollen face and through his one good eye. He remained defiant despite the pain that must have been raging through him.