Jules and Naps then stepped outside with who George assumed was the owner of both the tracksuit bottoms and the house.
Tugging on Freddie’s baggie slacks as he walked past, Jules winked at him. “Looking good there, boy.”
Not offering a reply, Freddie turned beet red as they pushed past with their porcine prisoner. The fat man was obedient to the gang’s direction as they led him over to Dean.
The rest of the crew exited one by one with boxes and bags filled with food. Each one of them smirked at Freddie’s trousers.
Dean watched the containers of food pass him, his smile subsiding. Then he turned to George. “They had a fucking banquet on the go in there.” Nodding at the fat man, he shrugged. “Although I’d imagine it takes a lot of food for this cunt to feel full.”
George didn’t reply.
Holding his open palm out to Si, Dean caught the keys that were thrown at him and then tossed them to George.
Catching them, George opened the back of the truck so the men could fill it up. Each new load of food crushed more air from the pig’s lungs.
Turning back to the house owner, Dean pointed the hammer at him. “You, on the floor.”
All it took was a moment’s hesitation for Jules to kick the back of his knees and Naps to shove down on his shoulder.
Wincing when he hit the ground, the fat man looked at his wife and then back up at Dean. “P… please don’t kill me. I’ll give you anything you want.”
Dean’s shrill laugh skipped over the city’s silent rooftops and hurt George’s ears. “What makes you think I’m going to kill you, fat man?” Without taking his eyes off him, he flipped the hammer and caught it again. “Besides, we’re already taking what we want, so it’s not like you have anything to offer me.”
The man started crying.
“Although…” Dean said.
The man stopped and looked up.
“What are your blow jobs like?”
After sighing, George looked at Liz. As always, her eyes were on him.
At first, the house owner’s face creased. Then he said, “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t kill me. Please.”
Driving his right fist across the guy’s chin, Dean leant over him as he fell to the floor. “Have some fucking dignity! Your boy and wife are dead, and you’re prepared to suck a guy off to survive! What’s fucking wrong with you, you fat cunt?!”
As Warren walked past them with food, Dean pulled an apple from the box. He looked at it for a moment, tossing it in the air and catching it again. He looked back down at the man. “Where did you get fresh fruit from?”
The man was hyperventilating.
“Come on, fat man, spit it out.”
There was still no reply.
At that moment, Ravi emerged from the house. He looked at Freddie, and Freddie glared back. He then looked at the dead woman. It was the first time Ravi had been so close to the action. For a dark-skinned boy, George was surprised at how pale he currently was.
Flicking his head up at him, Dean said, “Go and get the boy.”
It snapped Ravi from his daze. “But the boy’s dead, Dean.”
“I know he’s dead, you fucking arsehole. Now go and get him.”
Opening his mouth, Ravi then looked at the hammer in Dean’s grip. Closing it again, he turned around and went back into the house.
Broken Britain
The air left George’s lungs when Ravi emerged from the house with the tiny form of the little boy sprawled across his arms. His small mouth lolled open, his eyes extinguished like they’d never been ignited with the exuberance of youth.
Before Ravi could walk down the steps, Dean raised his hand to halt him. “Throw him.”
When Ravi looked up, his face was as drawn as the boy’s.
George tutted. “Fucking hell, Dean, what’s wrong with you?”
With his face locked in a deep frown, Dean turned around. Bouncing on his toes, he ran the tip of his tongue out over his thin lips. “What?”
“I said, ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ It’s a fucking kid. Another fucking child! Jesus, Dean, pick on someone that can actually fight back.” Gritting his teeth, George stared straight into Dean’s black eyes. “You’re sick in the fucking head.”
The rest of the gang fell silent. Even the sobbing man on the floor stopped.
Instead of answering, Dean turned to Ravi. “Throw him to me. Now!”
Ravi’s face buckled.
“You’re fucking mental.” George tapped his temple with his right index finger. “You need to get checked out, mate.”
Lifting the hammer, Dean stayed focused on Ravi. “If you take another step forwards, I’ll cave your fucking head in, boy. Throw me the fucking kid. Now!”
It looked like Ravi was fighting against a body that refused to cooperate. Releasing a primal scream as if he were drawing on all of his energy reserves, he launched the dead boy.
The child flew through the air, his limbs loose, responding to their own independent physics without the muscle coordination to help them do anything but.
Holding his breath, George watched on.
Spreading his arms to catch him, Dean then stepped aside at the last minute. The tiny corpse slapped against the concrete floor. A dead fish hitting a pier. Leaning over the boy, who was on his back and staring up at the sky with blood leaking from the hole in his head, Dean then turned to George. With narrowed eyes, he laughed, his face remaining stony. “Cracked like a fucking egg.”
Balling his hands into fists, George stepped forwards. Warren and Naps raised their weapons.
Looking at the two men, one stood on either side of him, Dean smiled. Hunching down, he prodded the kid with his hammer. “I may not like this spoiled little cunt, but don’t worry, George, it’s not all kids that I hate. I’ll make sure your unborn niece or nephew are okay. They’ll be safe with me.”
“You’re full of shit. You don’t have a fucking clue where Sally is.”
“I know exactly where she is, and if she’s going to give birth safely, I need to get back to her soon. If anything happens to me, she’s fucked. She won’t get out of the room I have her locked in. And believe me, it’s hidden enough that no one’s gonna find her.”
Searching Dean’s face for the lie didn’t reveal it.
Throwing George a wink, Dean then lifted the dead boy by his foot.
George turned his back and stared at the women’s truck. Looking at the waste-covered floor, his eyes stopped on the charred leg again. Swallowing the phlegmy bile that rose into his throat, he looked at the women. For once, Liz wasn’t watching him. Instead, it was the two girls from the close, now ugly from abuse, that stared back. Sunken eyes. Pale skin. Healing wounds. Greasy hair. The prom queens turned refugees. A heavy sigh rolled through George, and his attention left them when Dean spoke.
“I used to be at the bottom of society.”
Dean was looking down at the fat owner of the house, dangling his little boy so close that the kid’s dead face was nearly touching him. The man stared at his progeny and cried louder than before.
“I lived in a shitty council flat and got refused every job I went for. I was either underqualified or didn’t have enough experience. That was when I was lucky enough to get a response at all from the people interviewing me. I went for a lot of jobs. A lot of shitty jobs.” The frown on his face cast a dark shadow over his features. “I couldn’t even get them.”
After a deep breath, he voice grew louder. “I listened to rich twats like you, clueless Tory politicians like our wannabe prime minister and media-brainwashed idiots rant on about how good, hard-working families were being robbed by benefit scum like me.”
Straining his ears, George picked the fat man’s words out of his sobs. “I never said that about you. I promise.”