Teeth (2 page)

The faintest sound of jangling came from outside, and the grin on the leader’s face fell to the floor. “Oh fuck.” He turned to his gang and whispered, “He’s here.”

The gang went into a near silent frenzy, all of them scattering across the shop floor with the light pattering of shoes against tiles. They all positioned themselves to watch from the windows. All of them hidden in the shadows.

Shaking his head, Archie laughed. “They’re just trying to scare you, Josh.” Despite his confidence, he still walked quietly to the last available window.

Josh followed, the grit on the floor crunching beneath his feet. If they were trying to scare him, they were doing a pretty good job.

In the doorway of an abandoned shop was a tramp covered in rags and blankets. He was huddled in the corner for warmth, and he was surrounded by empty beer cans.

Pulling his brother in tight, Archie leaned in so close that Josh could smell his stale breath as he whispered, “See? There’s only a tramp out there. It must have been his beer cans rattling in the wind.”

The jangling continued, but everything surrounding the tramp was still. The sound wasn’t one of aluminium on concrete; it sounded more like broken crockery in a bag.

When Josh looked up the street and saw a man walking down the pavement, he grabbed his brother’s arm. The slim figure had something hanging from his hand, and it looked like a hammer. He was heading straight for the tramp. “What’s he going to do, Arch?”

Archie put his finger to his lips.

When the walking man got closer, it was easier to see him clearly. He was wearing a trench coat that looked damp, and Josh imagined it stinking of mould. Poking out of the bottom of his trench coat were dark trousers and shoes. It was impossible to see his face for shadow, and just when it looked like the moon would reveal it, it fell into shadow again. The only thing Josh saw was his stubbly neck.

The man stopped next to the tramp, and the jangling stopped too.

Moving closer to his brother, Josh could feel that he was shaking too.

When the man lifted his weapon, the moonlight confirmed it was a hammer. In a blink, he brought it down.
Crunch!
The tramp didn’t have time to scream.

Hunched over the tramp, the Tooth Fairy threw several more wet thuds into the pile of clothes in the doorway before standing back and panting.

To get a better view, Josh stood up and moved closer to the window.

The Tooth Fairy then pulled something from his trench coat pocket.

Pushing the tramp’s damp rags aside revealed a dark, glistening mass of hair. The Tooth Fairy leant in, and shoving the thing he’d pulled from his pocket into the man’s face, he twisted. After two tugs and a wet pop, the Tooth Fairy stepped away.

Putting the pliers back in his pocket, he held the tooth up to the moon. It seemed like he was watching it for an age before he shifted his gaze. His glare landed on Josh.

Josh’s balls pulled tight, and it took all of his concentration to hold onto his bladder. His heart pounded.

Dropping the tooth into his pocket, the Tooth Fairy continued staring. It was easy to see the filthy man’s face now. Stubbly. Stained with blood. Hooked nose. Dark eyes. Really dark eyes. Sticking his thumb out, he sneered as he drew it across his throat like an imaginary knife. Staring for another minute or so, he then walked away. The tingle of hundreds of teeth accompanied his footsteps.

Once he was out of sight, Josh felt an explosion of pain in his right arm. “You fucking idiot!”

Rubbing it, Josh scowled at his brother. “Ow!”

“What were you fucking doing? You were right in the fucking light. He’s seen you now!”

Stepping from the shadows and bringing the smell of dirt with him, the leader of the gang said, “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Gulping dry air, Josh shook his head.

“He’s marked you, bruv.”

Stepping into the boy’s personal space, Archie said, “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

The boy shrugged. “You don’t have to take my word for it, but I’ve seen it before. You’ve been marked. The next time you close your eyes to sleep, you’ll hear the jingle-jangle of the Tooth Fairy.”

“Look, mate—”

“I ain’t your mate.” He pointed at Josh. “Especially now the Tooth Fairy’s seen him.”

“Whatever. Just fuck off, yeah?”

“You’re in my home.”

Their conversation stopped making sense to Josh as his world spun. He only realised what they were doing when Archie grabbed his arm and said, “Come on. We’re going.”

Allowing his brother to lead him down the escalator, Josh heard the boys shouting down to them, “Sweet dreams!”

As they walked across the ground floor of the shop, chased out of the building by laughter, Josh dug his heels in, making Archie stop. “Wasn’t he the man that burned our house down?”

Archie nodded. “Yeah, he was. Now let’s go before the lunatic comes back and burns this place down.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t safe to walk the streets at night.”

Turning to face his brother, Archie grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me. Nowhere’s safe, Josh. Dad said something to me before he left. He said that everything’s changing now—that we couldn’t trust anyone or anything. All we can do is love one another. Make sure that the other one’s all right, and expect change. He said he loves us—they both do.”

Pouting, Josh said, “He also said they’d be back.”

“Maybe they have gone back. Maybe we’ve just missed them.”

“Don’t say that, Archie.”

“What could we have done? Stayed in a burning house? The point is, he said we need to adapt. Nothing stays the same; it just happens to be moving quicker now than ever. Dad said as long as we love each other, then we’ll be okay. Love is constant.”

“I miss Mum and Dad.”

It was the first time in a long while Josh had seen Archie cry. Wiping his eyes, his big brother said, “I miss them too. I love you, Josh. Now let’s go before that lunatic comes back. All we can do is focus on getting to Nana’s.”

With the sting of tears spreading across his eyeballs, Josh followed his brother out of the building.

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Crash (Book One)

(Chapter One)

By

Michael Robertson

And Finally, It Begins…

No matter how old Michael got, when he cried in Chris’ arms, he became that red-faced screaming baby in the delivery ward again, and Chris’ instinct to protect him burned as brightly as it ever had.

Shivering by the slightly ajar window, the heating having been cut off months before, the eight-year-old boy looked at his father. He wore a mask of grief that twisted his dirty face. “Why, Dad?” He mewled. “Why did they do it? Why did they leave us?”

After running a hand through his thick and, at forty-two, prematurely white hair, Chris pulled his son closer, not only to comfort Michael but also himself. “I don’t know why your mum chose to leave with your sister. Things are quite a mess at the moment, and maybe she was worried that they wouldn’t get any better.”

Big innocent blue eyes stared up at Chris, searching for the truth as the boy asked, “But things will get better, won’t they? They have to.”

Chris swallowed and looked around the room. They were in the guest bedroom. They’d chosen it because it was small and therefore easier to keep warm. With no gas and electricity, they had to resort to smothering themselves with as much bedding and blankets as they could find. They had so many dirty sheets on the floor that it was impossible to see the blue carpet beneath. The thick red velvet curtains were permanently drawn to combat the chill emanating from the windows, but they blocked out most of the light, making the gloomy room a breeding ground for depression. The entire wardrobe of each family member sat in the corner in one huge pile like a compost heap. When Chris drew a deep breath that reeked of mildew, he told his son what he believed to be a lie. “Yes, Michael, they will.”

“What if they don’t?”

Chris knew that Michael could see straight through him. He’d have given every drop of blood and his final breath to give his son a guarantee that things would get better. But he couldn’t. They currently existed in a world without precedent. Life was now a desperate struggle. Looking at the small, dirty boy in his arms, he had to swallow the lump rising in his throat and blink away his tears. “All I can really promise you…” he coughed to clear his throat, “…is that I will do my best to look after you. I will do everything in my power to…” Before he could finish, a loud crash exploded outside.

In the past, Chris would have rushed to the window if he’d heard such a disturbance. Now he was much more cautious because ‘get off my land’ didn’t quite cut it anymore. He pulled the curtain back slightly and peered out.

The cold breeze hit him, and he flinched. Although it was winter, they left the window slightly ajar to try and let the smell of four dirty bodies out of their living space. As a result, there was more ice on the inside of the glass than the outside.

Their home was one of six large and detached red brick houses in a gated community. The houses horseshoed around a road that was wide enough to u-turn a bus in. Even looking at it now, with the overturned bins and abandoned toys, Chris could still see Michael and Matilda playing outside with their friends. The gates were made of iron, painted black, and did an effective job of keeping people out when everyone was living under the previous, if tenuously balanced, capitalist society. Back then, a gate meant keep out and was effective at enforcing its will. Things were different now. All that was left of the old social structures were memories. New rules were being established, and to survive you had to evolve. Failure to do so invariably resulted in death. With this in mind, Chris’ plan to hide away like a scared fox in a hole didn’t seem like such a good idea. Especially now the hounds had arrived.

“What is it?” Michael asked as he stood on tiptoes to peer through a gap in the heavy curtain.

A black and battered Ford F-150 had rolled through the gates. In spite of the superficial damage, it still looked relatively new. Chris assumed the huge truck must have been taken from the forecourt no more than six months ago because the angry and pockmarked paintwork showed no signs of rust. It didn’t have licence plates, so he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of its age, but he felt like it was a good hunch. He wondered for a moment where in London one would get such a car until he remembered the American car importer a few miles south. He assumed the driver was local.

A huge battering ram protruded from the front that looked like a steel pillar of about six feet long by four feet in diameter. It gave the truck a fierce nose that looked like it had been utilised many times. Its effectiveness was clear to see because the black gate that had once provided the family with such a strong sense of security had been cast aside like it was made out of cardboard. It now lay useless and mangled like a barely identifiable body part of someone who’d stepped on a landmine.

There were seven men in the back of the truck. They were filthy and bulked up with layers of clothes to combat the January chill. The youngest, Chris guessed, was in his mid-twenties, the oldest no older than fifty.

Chris looked at their weapons and saw steel bars with spikes, baseball bats wrapped in razor wire, long knives and swords, and even a tennis racket that looked like the edges had been sharpened to be as keen as the deadliest blade. Each weapon, without exception, looked like they could end a life with great efficiency. From looking at the fierce men with their deep frowns and blood-splattered clothes, Chris had no doubt that they already had.

He finally replied to his son in hushed tones, the fear of these men discovering them clinging to him like frostbite. “They look like looters.”

After weaving into the middle of the cul-de-sac, the truck finally came to a halt, and the men on the back vaulted off, weapons raised and ready for action. While grinding his jaw, a habit Chris was only ever aware of when a headache kicked in, he said, “We need to be very careful around these men. They’re dangerous. Very fucking dangerous.”

The childish innocence in Michael’s wide blue eyes showed how he was more shocked by his dad swearing than the fact that looters were outside their house. He then said, “What do we do, Dad?”

After a pause, Chris said, “We wait, son.”

The cab door opened and out stepped a slim man with black hair and a red face. He looked like he was in his mid to late thirties. His angry skin appeared to writhe like his body was a prison of rage—a prison where the ratio of guards to inmates was stretched so thin that chaos could erupt at any moment. The blue suit he wore had crusty patches of what Chris could only assume was dried blood. It was as stiff as wood. In his hand was a sawn-off shotgun. It was clear to see that he was the leader. Chris could only see dark shadows where his eyes should be, and the man reminded Chris of a shark.

One of the men from the back of the truck, a short and lithe, red-haired weasel of a man who had the razor sharp tennis racket, called to the leader, “Dean, which house first?”

It seemed that even this question annoyed the tetchy man, who, without saying a word, pointed the barrel of his gun at number one in the close.

Chris only remembered that Michael was watching too when he said, “That’s Tommy’s house.”

Gathering his son in his arms, Chris told his next lie. “Don’t worry, Michael, Tommy will be okay.” What else could he tell him?

The roar of another diesel engine hailed the arrival of a second Ford F-150. This one was blue and had a cage on the back that was full to bursting with enough food to feed a small army, which is exactly what they were. It was mostly packets of dried food and tins, but there was a live pig tied up and stacked like all of the other objects in the congested cage. It looked exhausted, and even if it wasn’t bound as tightly as it was, Chris thought that it would have still been as inactive. It stared ahead with its tongue lolling from its mouth like it was dying of thirst.