closer all the time. He was trapped and they were just playing with him, toying with the moment they finally pounced on him, tore him to shreds.
His back was against a wall. He tried to listen, get his bearings that way. The nightly beer screams and responding sirens, the human hyena howls of the estate that he grew up with. Nothing. All he could hear was the pounding of blood round his body, the ragged gasp of his breathing. And the cars.
He wanted to cry. Just sit in the street and cry. But he couldnât. Because Renny and Pez might be in the cars as well. And he didnât want them to see him like that. So he stood up, looked round. Saw a walkway he hadnât been down yet. Or didnât think he had been down. Walked towards it.
There was no light, only darkness and shadows. The streetlights were broken, his trainers crunched glass underfoot. The walls were graffiti-enriched concrete, it stank of bodily emissions. Calvin tried to hold his breath, hurry along. Perhaps this was it. The right way lay just ahead. The opening, lit by the weak orange glow of a streetlight, seemed a long way off. But he made his way towards it, moving as quickly as he could. The wind carried the sound of engines again. He moved quicker and, in his haste, tripped.
He put his hands out to break his fall, felt broken glass, sharp stone, pierce his palms. Felt his hands connect with other substances that he was glad he couldnât see. As he hit the broken concrete slabs, the air huffed out of his lungs. He pulled himself on to all fours, tried to force air back into his body. Supporting himself with the wall, he got slowly to his feet. Looked ahead. The light didnât seem so far off, now. In fact, he could make out houses beyond it, streets he recognized. He heard a drunken howl going up. His heart leapt. He knew where he was. He knew how to get home.
Reinvigorated, he made his way towards the light. And abruptly stopped.
He had been grabbed from behind, arms tight around his body, pinning him to his assailant, stopping him from moving. Calvin struggled, kicked. No good. Whoever it was had him held tight.
He tried to scream. A hand was clamped round his neck, cutting off the air, trying to make a fist with his neck at the centre of it. He struggled, tried to claw it away. It quickly moved, turned into a fist, punched into the side of his head.
Stars exploded before his eyes. Painful ones. Another punch. More painful stars.
He was roughly thrown to the ground. His attacker said something to him, something unintelligible that he felt he had been expected to know. He turned round, tried to run.
Saw the knife coming towards him.
Calvin didnât have time to cry out, to scream, to feel fear, to think. The knife plunged straight into his chest.
There were other jabs, other cuts, other slashes, but he felt none of them.
The first cut had stopped his heart.
Anne Marie awoke. Daylight seeped almost apologetically round the curtains. The lights were still on, Scott Walker still going on repeat. She sat up, looked round. She was on the floor by the door to the kitchen. Cold all around her. She was frozen.
Anne Marie sat up. Shivered. She pulled herself to a kneeling position, tried to get up off the floor. Placed her hand on the wall for balance.
And stopped.
Where her hand had been, she had left a smear of blood.
She crumpled down again as if she had just been punched.
âNo ⦠no â¦â
Her hands went to her face, covered it. She felt the blood on them, knew she was smearing it all over herself, knew she couldnât stop it. She looked down at her clothes. Even against the black fabric she could see blood.
âOh God â¦â
The door opened. Jack entered, ready for school. He looked at her and froze, face a Munch-like tableau.
âGet out!â Anne Marie screamed, aware of the blood mask she was wearing. âGet out!â
He did so, running for the front door, slamming it behind him.
Anne
His back was against a wall. He tried to listen, get his bearings that way. The nightly beer screams and responding sirens, the human hyena howls of the estate that he grew up with. Nothing. All he could hear was the pounding of blood round his body, the ragged gasp of his breathing. And the cars.
He wanted to cry. Just sit in the street and cry. But he couldnât. Because Renny and Pez might be in the cars as well. And he didnât want them to see him like that. So he stood up, looked round. Saw a walkway he hadnât been down yet. Or didnât think he had been down. Walked towards it.
There was no light, only darkness and shadows. The streetlights were broken, his trainers crunched glass underfoot. The walls were graffiti-enriched concrete, it stank of bodily emissions. Calvin tried to hold his breath, hurry along. Perhaps this was it. The right way lay just ahead. The opening, lit by the weak orange glow of a streetlight, seemed a long way off. But he made his way towards it, moving as quickly as he could. The wind carried the sound of engines again. He moved quicker and, in his haste, tripped.
He put his hands out to break his fall, felt broken glass, sharp stone, pierce his palms. Felt his hands connect with other substances that he was glad he couldnât see. As he hit the broken concrete slabs, the air huffed out of his lungs. He pulled himself on to all fours, tried to force air back into his body. Supporting himself with the wall, he got slowly to his feet. Looked ahead. The light didnât seem so far off, now. In fact, he could make out houses beyond it, streets he recognized. He heard a drunken howl going up. His heart leapt. He knew where he was. He knew how to get home.
Reinvigorated, he made his way towards the light. And abruptly stopped.
He had been grabbed from behind, arms tight around his body, pinning him to his assailant, stopping him from moving. Calvin struggled, kicked. No good. Whoever it was had him held tight.
He tried to scream. A hand was clamped round his neck, cutting off the air, trying to make a fist with his neck at the centre of it. He struggled, tried to claw it away. It quickly moved, turned into a fist, punched into the side of his head.
Stars exploded before his eyes. Painful ones. Another punch. More painful stars.
He was roughly thrown to the ground. His attacker said something to him, something unintelligible that he felt he had been expected to know. He turned round, tried to run.
Saw the knife coming towards him.
Calvin didnât have time to cry out, to scream, to feel fear, to think. The knife plunged straight into his chest.
There were other jabs, other cuts, other slashes, but he felt none of them.
The first cut had stopped his heart.
Anne Marie awoke. Daylight seeped almost apologetically round the curtains. The lights were still on, Scott Walker still going on repeat. She sat up, looked round. She was on the floor by the door to the kitchen. Cold all around her. She was frozen.
Anne Marie sat up. Shivered. She pulled herself to a kneeling position, tried to get up off the floor. Placed her hand on the wall for balance.
And stopped.
Where her hand had been, she had left a smear of blood.
She crumpled down again as if she had just been punched.
âNo ⦠no â¦â
Her hands went to her face, covered it. She felt the blood on them, knew she was smearing it all over herself, knew she couldnât stop it. She looked down at her clothes. Even against the black fabric she could see blood.
âOh God â¦â
The door opened. Jack entered, ready for school. He looked at her and froze, face a Munch-like tableau.
âGet out!â Anne Marie screamed, aware of the blood mask she was wearing. âGet out!â
He did so, running for the front door, slamming it behind him.
Anne
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