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?”