Breaking Point (14 page)

I stand there, one thumb resting on Big Red, the other on Dial, frozen, one arm out and up, the other down and out, like a crippled Jesus, and I think of my mum, and my dad, and my brother, and most of all, Pam and Jodie. I see them holding each other, crying, as bailiffs take all our shit away, me absent, in jail, I see Tel, in cuffs, I see him patting me on the back and buying me a drink, I see my grave, unvisited, I see myself in a cell, I see myself hanging in a cell, I see myself bleeding out from a knife wound in a prison yard, and I see myself lying next to a sleeping Pam, eyes open, damned to hear a child’s voice crying and begging and screaming for the rest of my life.

And finally, I see Jodie, sitting spread out on the sofa, nine years old, reading a book while the telly’s on, kissing her on the head, and my heart fills with helpless, overwhelming love, and my eyes fill with tears, and I feel them spill over and out and down my cheeks, and my thumb presses the button.

GENESIS

You want to know why I did it.

Well, hopefully not. Hopefully, you do know. Hopefully, He has revealed Himself. Hopefully, definitive proof of God now exists, and the age of miracles has returned. In which case, nobody will ever read this.

But maybe not. If you are reading this, then you have learned something very important, though you may struggle to believe it.

If you’re reading this, God does not exist.

And I’ve proven it.

It took a lot of blood to get here.

You’ll be assuming I planned it for months, but that really isn’t so – it all came together in the last forty eight hours. Before that, I’d... given the matter some thought, I suppose it’s fair to say. When my mother left, that certainly led me to some questions. And my friend, who I’ll not name here in the unlikely event that he survived me, discussed with me the existence of God a lot, often in the pub, over beer – he was sure of existence but wishing there were proof for others to see, me vacillating, depending on the way life was treating me. I envied his faith, even as I felt it infantile, uncritical. At the same time, I could not – cannot - deny the feelings I have experienced.

If only feelings were proof.

It started with the sound of breaking glass.

I snapped awake, the sudden movement also waking Wizzy. She hissed and clawed at my foot through the thick duvet, before curling back up to sleep. My head was spinning, half convinced I was still dreaming. I remember my heart thudding unpleasantly in my chest.

Then I heard the front door open. I drew in breath to call out, wondering if maybe Dad had forgotten his key and broken in, when I heard his bed frame creak as his feet hit the ground.

Not Dad.

The realisation woke me up all the way. Goosebumps broke out on my arms. I heard Dad moving, floorboards shifting as he ran to his bedroom door and opened it. Downstairs I heard footsteps crunching, moving fast, broken glass under boots.

Feet on the stairs. I sat on the edge of the bed, poised to stand but afraid, unsure what to do. I decided it was safer to move and had just placed a foot on the cold floor when...

“STAY THERE!”

My father’s voice, a roar. I froze completely. Hardwired response. Didn’t even occur that he might not be talking to me.

I heard his footsteps in the hall. A voice shouted up from below “Now, Ted...”

Then a loud bang.

I jumped hard. My ears were ringing. Outside the room, I heard muffled footfalls, yells. A dull crunch. Words, but indistinct. Not my father. Not his tone.

The front door closed. A dull sound, like I had cotton wool in my ears.

I couldn’t say how long I sat there. I heard car doors slamming - they sounded a long way off. A car engine revved. I stared at the wall, not really seeing anything.

They’re taking him.

That did it. I ran to the window, opened the curtains. Saw the car pulling away. Red. Four door. New-looking.

They’ve taken him.

I looked at the door. Wishing I could see through it. Picturing the hallway outside, the staircase. Someone is waiting for me, out there. It’s a trap, it’s...

There’s no-one there.

But...

They’ve taken him.

I took a deep breath. Walked to the door. Opened it.

I stepped out into the dark, and a bitter burning taste crawled into my throat. I flicked on the hall light - its illumination was harsh. I squinted as I looked down the stairs.

There was blood on the carpet. Some on the stairs. The banister was broken at the half way point landing, where the steps doubled back to the ground floor. Splintered.

I stood still, willing my heart to quieten down. Little by little, it did.

Silence. The house felt empty.

I ran down the stairs. There was broken glass at the bottom, from the front door. Blood stained some of the shards.

And my father’s gun.

It lay on the carpet, the one black eye staring me down, blank. I knew it was loaded, and felt my heart speed up again.

Fuck. Dad’s gun. He got a shot off, then they took him.

Fuck.

I reached for the gun, meaning to cover that blank gaping hole. The heat in the barrel burned my palm, and I yelped; drew back. My head hit the wall. The picture beside me fell off its hook and hit the ground with a crunch. I was panting, like I was struggling to breathe. Like I was going to faint. I felt twitchy inside, belly leaping, nauseous.

I looked down the hall, at the phone hanging on the wall, lit by the moonlight coming through the kitchen window.

Call the police.

“Never, ever talk to the Police, son. Never.”

“Dad, they’ve taken you! I have to...”

“Never. Understand?”

How many times had he said that to me? Enough. Enough so that at a time like this, when it counted, I’d remember.

I looked back at the gun. At the blood. I tried to think.

They’ve taken him. Where?

Look, son. Really look.

I felt him. Or was it Him? Something. Some presence. I looked down at the broken photo. The light from the landing cast a shadow across it. Me and Dad at the beach. I’d walked past it for how many years? Seeing but not seeing. Wallpaper. Now...

Now, the shadow and the light and the cracked glass drew a circle. Around the beach house.

I stood up straight. My eyes travelled to the middle landing. A wooden Jesus hung there, looking back at me.

I felt something then, something strong in my stomach.

I went back up the stairs into my room, moving fast. The light going on sent Wizzy scrambling under the bed with a hiss. I grabbed trousers, my leather jacket, keys, boots, helmet. Looked over at the clock. 3:16.

That’s only now hit me. At the time, I was just glad the roads would be clear.

I ran down the stairs, pivoted in the hall, and my boot collided with the gun. It spun across the glass, shards scattering, and bounced off the door.

Pointed back at me.

Take it.

My Dad’s voice, but deeper. Smoother. The voice I remembered from childhood, before the smoke became such a big part of his life.

I took the gun carefully, by the handle this time. Zipped it into my jacket pocket. Grabbed the spare key bundle from the hook under the sink, flicking through to make sure the beach house key was on there. Then I got the bike out of the garage and rode.

The night air was cool, but not really cold. Inside the leather and helmet I was warm enough. I rode safe until I got to the town limits, but as soon as I hit the road to the coast I opened up the throttle.

The first car I overtook was a crapped-out blue Escort. God knows what he was doing out at that hour.  It was another fifteen minutes before I saw a red saloon up ahead. A Rover. Judging by my speed, doing a solid seventy. Safe. Not wanting to risk a camera.

I couldn’t stop the car. Too dangerous. I’ve never fired a gun, and the idea of doing it from the back of a moving bike was absurd. Following them would be too obvious, and bike versus car didn’t really appeal. But I knew where they were going. I hoped.

I believed.

So I roared past them, not trusting myself to even look. Kept my head forward and low. Just a midnight biker getting his speeding kicks.

It took me ten more minutes to make it to the coast. Another four to the house. The parking area at the beach was deserted. Leaving the bike there seemed like a bad idea. I took it down onto the beach instead, stashing it  beside the next hut over (no lights on, thank God, nobody out partying away the early hours). Hoping they wouldn’t notice.

Hoping they were in a hurry.

I let myself into the hut, breathing picking up again; heart rate too. My hands stayed steady at least. There was only one window, in the right hand wall. No curtain. Clear night, so the moonlight lit the room pretty well.

I hadn’t been down here in years. Since before Mum left. It wasn’t how I remembered it.

For starters, it was mostly full of crates. Piled five high, against the wall opposite the window. I took off the bike helmet to get a better look. Solid wooden boxes. Stencilled in Arabic. A red crescent on the sides.

I just stared. My brain was spinning uselessly. I started thinking maybe this was all just some vivid dream.

The crashing of the waves brought me back to myself.

This is happening, Son. Get it together.

I shivered and looked around again. The only real hope seemed to be the sofa at the back wall. There was room either side, clear of the crates. Maybe...

I stood in front of the sofa, looking at the door.

Maybe if I just sat there, gun out?

My head turned to the window. No curtains. A clear view of the moonlit beach.

Okay, what about behind the sofa?

I dragged it forward, pulling from the middle, scraping the legs over the wooden floor. Puffing with the effort. It looked ratty, but the metal frame was heavy. I got it out far enough to get behind it.

Maybe this would work out better. Wait ‘till they were in the room, with Dad, please God, alive. Pop up. Element of surprise. As long as I didn’t have to actually pull the trigger, should be fine.

I crouched behind the sofa.

Got the gun in my hand. Practiced springing up a couple of times, just to get the feel of it. Then I sunk in for the wait.

I remember feeling like everything was suddenly crowding in on me. Like I’d seen a three hour movie in five minutes. Like I was going to puke. I kept hearing the gunshot, the breaking glass, my Dad yelling “STAY THERE!” The guy saying...

“Now, Ted...”

They knew him. By name. Something else, though. The accent.

Irish.

I thought about the weed Dad’d been selling over the last two years. The long ‘fishing trips’. I thought again about the statue of Jesus. That woman who’d seen me in the town centre that afternoon. “Jesus loves you!” she'd said, and  pressed a flyer into my hand. The crates with Arabic on them.

Dad, what the fuck are you into?

The crates.

My motorcycle helmet.

Sitting right on top of them.

That’s when I heard the car engine as it pulled into the parking area.

I was moving before I’d even decided to, felt like. Every second out of my hiding place I felt exposed. A mouse in the moonlight hearing the screech of the owl. I reached the crate in four steps. Grabbed the helmet. As I turned, I looked out of the window. Saw the red car, parked right next to the beach. Its doors were opening. I dove, hit the ground; crawled into the corner. My heart was banging and my mouth was painfully dry. Had they seen me?

No time. Doors shut; one two. Another opened. A grunt of effort. Another slam. I stared at the helmet in my hand. Where could I hide it? What could I do?

The hat fits, idiot.

I pulled the helmet over my ears, the foam squishing them into my head, then crawled behind the sofa. It was a snug fit with the helmet on. I had to turn my head sideways, but I managed to get there. Got my legs under me, knees bent.

My breath was hot inside the helmet. I tried not to pant.

Two people. Dragging a third? Carrying? Was he...

He’s not dead. Trust me.

I felt a momentary wave of heat, calming me. Like I used to feel at Communion. My breathing slowed. Okay, get yourself ready.

The door banged open, cheap lock no match for a well placed boot. I heard them moving into the room. Okay... three, two...

There was a sudden growl, then a huge weight crashed into the sofa and drove it back against me. My legs pressed together and slid to one side. I would have fallen, but the helmet was wedged so tight it held me up. There was a second of agony as my body weight hung from my neck muscles, then I got my heels flat again and propped myself up.

In the process, I dropped the gun.

I was saved by my father's screams. His voice was loud enough to disguise the sound of the pistol hitting the floor.

“Now, Ted. That looks painful to me.”

Four quick steps, then the frame of the mattress shook with a fierce blow. My father's scream was abruptly cut off, muted.

“I hate to see you suffering like this. Truly, I do. We bear you no personal ill will, you must know that.”

That accent again – thick. Three more blows, each rocking the frame against me. The helmet saved my life, then; holding the frame apart from the wall as it pinned me in place. Each blow was answered with another muffled grunt of pain.

“Give him a second, now. Let him get his breath.” My father's screams tapered into sobs.

“Ted.”

More sobs.

“Ted.”

The sobbing stopped. I felt a tremble through the sofa frame. Could have been him. Could have been me.