Ectopia (20 page)

- Malik?

I know it's him. I just make it a question like what the fuck are you doing here? He's wearing my slinksuit and skypumps, grinning like being alive is excuse enough to be happy. The black slinksuit's tight to his body and his hair's tight to his head, sweat streaming down his face and neck. He looks good. His right hand grips a steel bar, like he's got the baton in a relay.

- I told you I'd come and get you. Didn't expect it to be this easy. Good to see you on your feet.

I grab his left arm and pull him down, jumping back so he crosses the threshold, pulling hard so his head crashes against the inside wall. We hear the crash of splintered wood and look up to where his head would have been. The bolt from ex-Dad's crossbow would have pierced his neck and pinned his throat to the door. Instead it's buried in wood.

Malik spins his body to roll inside. I push the door closed with my foot but check out the garden as the gap narrows. Ex-Dad's just to the left of the gate. A stack of splintered wood in front of him works as a hide. He'd ducked behind it to reload the crossbow but his head sticks up as I watch. He catches sight of me. The door slams shut to cut him from view but it's too late. I've seen him. Seen his grin. It's stretched wide across his face like he's the front of an astrojet. The cull's started. He's taking out the young ones. - Where are the others? I ask Malik.

- They're coming. We were out for a run. Wearing these shoes of yours I shot ahead. They'll be here in a minute.

The lid's burnt off the nailbox but the sides are still clear. I rip one side a bit loose so it'll catch light and take it back to the kitchen. Mom's oven glove's still hanging by the stove. It had a lamb on it once, dancing in a field of daisies, but washes and burns over the years have wiped all the picture away.

- Get through that hole, I tell Malik, pointing at the cellar – Karen's down there. And Paul. I'll join you in a minute. I'll explain then.

- What's happening?

- Get through that hole!

He's never been great at taking orders. He watches me. The match light's first time. I hold it to the torn strip of the nailbox which flames right up. Mom's glove will help. I wear it on my right hand and set the box down on its palm. I've got one chance. It's got to ignite the trench first time. The fire's got to blast round the trenches and take ex-Dad with it, before he gets the chance to reach the gate. We'll see what his grin looks like then. See how his lips flame red while his teeth shine to black.

The box's sides aren't just cardboard any more. They're blue and yellow and orange licks of flame. The heat reaches down through the oven glove. The nails on their own will glow enough to fire the trenches. My hand's burning. That's good. It's time. I put my foot on the stairs, starting my run to the top. Now or never. Ex-Dad's right. Now's now. Now can open up and swallow everything whole. You see the future and it's now. It's unleashed. You can't snatch it back.

Malik smashes the flaming box from my hand. It hits the floor and burns there.

- You stupid fuck.

His breath touches my face. It's the scent he carries inside him. It's moist and alive. His eyes go blank, like he cares for me but there's no hope, I'm just some lobo spouting headshit.

–Teensquad's coming. Dad's going to burn em. Burn em alive. All of em. I've seen it. Gotta stop it. Fire the house before they get here. Stop em getting in. It's a trap.

Malik turns to the front door.

- Where's the handle?

He beats the door with the flats of his hands and kicks at it. Those skypumps aren't made for kicking.

- Where's the fucking door handle?

He kicks at the door with his heel then turns and heads for the front room. Out through the window he sees the cans of kerosene upturned and scattered round the garden. Ex-Dad's got another can of the stuff in his hands. He pours a line of kerosene along the outside window ledge then moves out of view. The splash of liquid hits the front door. Then we see him again, striding over the first of his trenches and heading for his tower. He's put on a silver suit. It's new but it crinkles. The legs are tucked inside large silver boots. A large silver hood hangs down his back. He looks good. Ex-Dad's coordinated for the first time in his life. The suit catches the light like a shaken pool of water, and even his hair now looks silver.

The air above the trenches shimmers. Both trenches. The one near the house and the one inside the fence. The window ledge shimmers. Looking some more I see the whole ground shimmers. The garden's like a desert after dawn, morning sun sucking up the traces of dew. The light brown dust is dark in big patches with lines of dark reaching between em.

Malik picks up the computer chair. He comes running the chair at the window then lets go. The cushioned seat and back hit the glass. The window doesn't even shake.

Ex-Dad's climbed his tower. He's looking down, over the fence and into the road. I hear shouts from the street but they're muffled. Ex-Dad's voice is loud and clear. He's calling down into the street. It seems teensquad's arrived.

- Stop fretting, scum. Your Malik tried. He sneaked in and tried to fuck my daughter. Thought she was hot. Thought she was asking for it. Well she's not. Not while her father's still around. I dragged him off her. Dragged his little boy's quivering body off her while he was holding her down. Poor Malik. He's not up for it any more. He's got a headache. I say ache. His head's kind of caved in. So she's still intact. My daughter's still a virgin. And she's staying that way. I'm sick of you young pups spilling around every time the bitch goes on heat. Run off home, all of you. Run off home to your mummies and daddies. Go jerk each other off in the woods. Do whatever the fuck you want, only leave my daughter alone.

Malik plucks the backrest off the chair so that its steel pole sticks out. Hoisting the chair up, he rams the pole into the window. The pole glances to the side. Malik's body judders with the impact. A slight round mark shows where he's scratched the glass. That's it.

- It's armored plate glass, I tell him – Dad got a legacy from Gran years back. He used it to change the downstairs windows. I guess this was why. He's been thinking ahead.

Malik leaves the window and heads for the kitchen. The windows are armored glass there too.

You can't smash a rock through armored glass, but words pass through it. Ex-Dad's talking again. It's talking not shouting, but it's loud. He's getting personal. His arm's rigid. His finger points down to pick off each of teensquad one at a time.

- You, yes I'm talking to you dwarfbrain, you who's all mouth and no dick. You I could let in. That'd make Karen's day. She's a medical student. She could strip you naked and have a good laugh trying to sex you. Is it a girl or is it a boy? she'd ask herself, picking your dick up with her tweezers. And you, yes you with your mouth hanging down, you who's all gums and no bite, you I could let in. I've never seen a more obvious little cocksucker in my life. Girls frighten you don't they, babyface. You need a cock in your mouth for comfort. Waaa. Baby needs his cockdummy. Give him his iddybiddy cockdummy. Now you, you're really dangerous. I'm not talking about that little knife you're waving. That's a toy. Your knife's not dangerous. I mean your face. Those boils could erupt any time. They should put a bag over you. Spare us the ugliness and spare us the puss. You, yes you, standing there scratching your balls. Don't bother. You won't find em. They've not dropped yet. And you. How old are you? Seven? Six? What's your role? You must be the mascot. They bring you along for luck. You're the mascot and this is the team. What's the sport? Skipping? You all fresh from coming a valiant last in the neighborhood skipping contest? Or maybe you're the sewing circle. The neighborhood boys' sewing circle. They call you the Needledicks, coz your dicks are too tiny to thread. Well bad luck, Needledicks. Put your mascot back in your pockets. He won't do you any good. This isn't your lucky day. You want my daughter to come out and play, but I'm sorry. She's too old. Too old for the likes of you. She doesn't play with dolls any more. Run off and play with each other. Go on, all of you. Fuck off. Fuck off before your pimples burst and mess up the street. Fuck off before I faint from the stink of you. Is that your secret weapon? Your juvenile stink? It makes me sick. You make me sick. Fuck off before I vomit all over you. Am I making myself clear? Are you receiving me? Who's the one with the brain cell? Who's the one to get the message and pass it round. F-U-C-K-O-F-F. But you can't spell. I'll put it together for you. Fuck off. Fuck off.

This is what ex-Dad does. It's a skill of his. He's got nothing to say but he keeps on saying it, words words words like your brain's turned to shit and a fly's buzzing round it, till all you can do is swat at him.

Someone shouts. A rock comes over the fence. The shot's not bad. It's at the level of his face but a meter wide. I hear a cheer from the street but Ex-Dad doesn't duck. Another rock comes flying. The shot's good. It hits the rail around ex-Dad's platform.

- Miss. You missed. That was a girlie throw. Go back to your sewing circle, Needledicks. Leave proper sports to the big boys.

Steel glints in the sun. A knife spears the air above his head. Ex-Dad turns to watch it rise and rise then fall.

- Here's a lesson for you, Needledicks. A throwing lesson. Speed plus trajectory plus aim plus strength plus intent. You need intent. You've got to really want to hurt someone.

He stoops down, then straightens himself with a rock in his hand. It's the size of a fist. He holds it a moment by the side of his face then jerks his hand forward. The rock flies.

I hear a cry. It's a yelp. It's got to be Furbo. He's had it coming. You don't let off at ex-Dad like he did then stand in range. Furbo's got a rock in his mouth. Ex-Dad never misses with cheap shots.

- Ha! Ha!

It's not laughter. It's a war cry. Ex-Dad opens his mouth like that to make his face a target. You've got to live with him to know it. Like you live with a disease. You know what it's doing, you just don't know how to stop it.

A steel bar comes next. It spins around. Ex-Dad snaps his head to the side so just the breeze of spinning steel hits his face.

- Ha! Ha!

A rock comes. A knife comes. A bar comes.

- Ha! Ha!

He dodges. He shifts. He jumps sideways at a knife that snags his silver suit then tumbles to his platform. He doesn't duck. He waits. Waits for a whole arsenal to come flying over the fence in all its bits and pieces. A rock hits his shoulder and bounces up to scrape the side of his face.

- Ha! Ha!

Then nothing. For a moment nothing.

Then a can. An empty can. They've run out. Ex-Dad's thrown nothing but the one stone back. They're scraping the street for litter. That's what they're reduced to. Litter.

This is when he ducks. With nothing worth dodging coming over the fence, he crouches on his platform. He picks up a plastic-coated wire. It leads to a broad staple hammered into his fence, and threads through that to loop around a bolt on the front gate. He doesn't tug. He just pulls gently. The bolt edges loose.

Malik and me are mainbrain. Without us teensquad isn't teensquad. It's not even undertow. It's mindless. Dad's coiled himself around every friend we've ever had and is throttling em dry. Malik and me could have stopped it. We could have known what to do and done it. Dad knows that. He's separated us. We're locked in the house and they're on the street. He's got away with it. He's disarmed em.

Ex-Dad stands up on his platform again.

- You want your toys back? Come and get em. The gate's open.

His arms rise, his hands go wide. He's opening the gates of hell. Click. I don't hear it. I don't even see it through the wobble of fumes that rise from the garden, but I feel the latch move inside my head. The click of the latch connects with the back of my brain. The future's coming to pass. I know it.

The gate eases open.

Soo's first. Poor sod. His polytext shirts always creep above the waistband of his shorts. This shirt's his favorite, with its narrow orange and green stripes. He's painted the same orange and green on his hand-me-down trainers. He fills the gate a moment. He looks up at Dad.

Dad's kept to his platform. He's getting ready to receive his guests. His left hand's in a silver glove that matches the rest of his costume. His right hand's sliding into the other glove.

Soo checks the garden for the weapons. They've mostly landed in the far corner. Soo could go and grab hold of Dad's tower, grab hold of its support, and rip it from the ground. He's capable of that. Dad would come tumbling down. It's the best thing Soo could do.

It can't happen. Soo does the best thing that's suggested to him and no-one's suggested bringing ex-Dad down. Ex-Dad's let him in to run and collect his weapons. That's what he'll do. He'll jump over the fuming trenches, hurdle the fallen cans, run round the barbed-wire traps. He'll pick up what he can.

I raise my arms. Malik raises his beside me. We beat the flats of our hands against the glass. We scream so loud each word is like a punch in my guts and then scream some more. Get out Go back Get out Get out Get out.

Soo smiles. The poor sod smiles. Creases of worry ease from his face. He recognizes me. The friend he punched coz he thought it would help is up and by the window and waving at him. He thinks I'm waving at him. He lifts a hand to wave back, and starts coming my way.

- Get out Go back Get out Get out Get out.

I ball my hands into fists and beat at the armored glass. I stand back a pace and make pushing away gestures as I keep on yelling.

Soo turns his head. Is he going?