Tears of Blood Page 2

  A few steps in and we almost get bowled over. I pull Olly closer. People are running in all directions, carrying rucksacks and bags overflowing with food and goods and whatever else they can get their hands on. They push each other out of the way as they run from shop to shop, filling bags and trolleys and boxes and baby-seats, anything at all that can be used as a receptacle. There are fights. People are pushing other people out of their way. Men are throwing fists at each other. Smack, a cracked jaw, blood flying, a tooth too. A man falls to the ground; another is standing over him laughing. The one standing bends down and grabs the bag, ripping it off the fallen man’s back. He goes to walk away, but when his back turns, the other man smashes his elbow into his back. This time he falls. He grabs his bag back and runs to the next store. I watch on mesmerised. This is like a T.V show. I can’t quite believe this is happening.

  We walk on trying to avoid the fights and the struggles. We skulk down the high street, trying to stay out of the street lights, in the direction of the pharmacy. As we walk past the first shops, we can’t help but stare in through the broken windows. The shops have been completely pillaged. There is stuff everywhere, all over the floors, littered outside on the pavement, shelves have been pulled down, and there are people inside grabbing what’s left over. We stand and gape. A memory flickers deep in the recess of my mind, I hear it now as if someone is speaking inside me. It is a warning, ‘when it falls, it falls fast, be prepared’, and they were right, so right. The people have already turned into animals, it is already feral. I shake my head and focus. No, no, no. This isn’t quite real, they aren’t really inside that shop grabbing all they can in a blind panic, are they? Are they? We are just watching some sort of deformed, dark carnival, aren’t we? I laugh. My brother looks up at me and giggles too. We are lucky, everyone ignores us, we are too small to challenge and obviously don’t have anything worth stealing on us, at least for the moment. All they care about is what they can take.

  A smash, and an alarm, our heads whip round in the direction the sounds are coming from. Someone is using a crowbar to rip open the closed security gates of the jewellery store. He is furiously stabbing the crowbar into the gap between the ledge and the shutter. People are standing around watching, egging him on. Someone else helps. They bend the shutter, others pull at it. They rip it down. They scramble all over each other to get inside. They are enemies now, no longer accomplices. I turn away, pulling my little brother closer to the pharmacy. This is no place for us, how could we ever be prepared for this? They are desperate, savage, uncontrollable. They know they can’t be saved. Someone rushes passed me and knocks me to the side. It takes me a moment to gather myself.

  “Are you OK?” I ask my brother.

  He just glances at me, nods, and keeps on walking. I grip his tiny mitted hand. I focus. We will carry on regardless. Taking one step at a time, dodging all we can. It suddenly strikes me, what has he been doing all day? Has he eaten? Has he drunk anything? I am about to ask him when he glances up at me, and I know he has. I just know it. I have the strangest feeling, a soft vibration flutters through me like someone has strummed a single string on a violin within me. It is peaceful for a nanosecond. He grins. He knows I know. I throw him a quizzical glance, squinting my eyes, smiling widely, comically. He just grins even more. He is a born survivor. I bend down and kiss his cheek.

  “I love you. No matter what happens we will be OK.”

  “I know. I love you too,” he replies with perfect calm.

  I focus. We walk. We must get to the pharmacy. I guide my brother between the looters and the injured laying scattered all over the high street. Some are sitting on the pavement and rubbing their heads, wondering what just happened. Someone screams to our left. A glass bottle with a lit rag stuffed into the neck smashes into a shop door and begins burning a hole into it. My brother grips my hand tighter. It starts to snow. We both shiver simultaneously. The pharmacy is just ahead. I see people piling out. Oh no. Please let there be something left.

  We edge towards the door. Closer and closer, people are rushing passed us with their bounty. I stop before we get to the door. I take a moment to breathe in courage. I glance at my brother. He thinks it’s all fun and games. Perhaps it is I wonder. We head into the battered entrance. The door lays flat in the doorway, wrenched off its hinges. We tread over it and into the darkened interior. I pull out my phone and chop it twice. The torch lights up. I point it ahead of me and scan the shelves. They are almost entirely empty. I aim the light at the floor. At last some good news. There is a whole box of throat sweets which I grab and hide under my coat. But there is nothing better than stupid paracetamol for the pain. I jump the counter to where they keep all the good stuff. I step behind the aisles. I gasp.

  “Don’t,” I cry, lifting my hands.

  A man is standing there. He is holding up a baseball bat, ready to swing.

  “Please,” I say.

  He glares at me. He looks angry, not ill. He lowers his bat. He looks over the counter into the darkness and sees the silhouette of my brother. He softens. Olly waves. I feel that soft vibration once more. It tickles me delicately. Time seems to slow.

  “What do you want,” the man asks, gruffly, breaking me out of the illusion.

  “Painkillers.”

  “How many?”

  “As many as possible.”

  He shoves a few packets into my hand. I shine my light onto them, dihydrocodeine, and oxycodone.

  “They will do the trick,” he says. “Hide them away though. They.” His eyes flick to the window. “Will kill you for it.”

  I nod, unzip my coat and shove them down my bra and into my inside pockets.

  “Thank you,” I say, but he is already back to searching through the leftovers.

  three

  “Dad’s back,” Olly calls as we step in through the front door and see my Father’s coat and briefcase lying in a heap in the hallway.

  He never does that. Besides, it’s far too early for him to be back anyway. Oh, God. The darkness is entangling me. It rises to new heights. Olly begins running towards the kitchen where we can hear our Father moving about, and coughing. I grab Olly’s hood. I pull him back towards me, a little too violently. He falls silent, his face drops. He looks up at me confused.

  “Sorry,” I say kindly, running my hand over his soft little face, I am smiling at him through the dread. I kneel down and hug him. “Let’s just take these off first, ay?” I add as I unwrap the scarf from his neck.

  The darkness has engulfed me, and I am falling through it. Olly stares at me. He knows there is something wrong despite how much I try to hide it. He doesn’t argue. We are silent as I take off his coat. I kiss him on his cheek.

  “Why don’t you go and put your cartoons on,” I say. “Leave Dad alone for a bit ay. He’s been at work all day.”

  The darkness is cascading through me like a tidal wave. It is escalating as I walk up the hallway toward the kitchen door. The coughing isn’t stopping. It’s getting worse. At the doorway, I stop, close my eyes, wring my hands together, gulp down the acid, and try to force down the bubbling horror, but it is like trying to force the fizz back inside a shaken coke bottle, pointless. I shake myself down, push the door and step into the kitchen. He’s leaning over the sink with his back to me. He is coughing. His whole body is convulsing to the throes. I step slowly towards him. He is still coughing. Blood is coming out of his mouth.

  “Dad,” I scream rushing to his side.

  “Stay away,” he tries to fend me off with his hand. “Don’t get any closer.”

  But he is so weak, he falls to the floor. I drop to my knees beside him.

  “Are you OK?”

  He looks at me and nods sadly. I help him up and onto a chair. I give him a tea towel. He begins coughing into it. The electric flickers. I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. An energy is erupting in my core. A memory awakens, something I have tried to forget. I can’t quite see it yet. It exists as a gap inside me
, a shape, and I do not know how to fill it, not yet. I shiver. I can’t quite remember, but I know it is there, and I know what it is not. My head instinctively spins toward the doorway. My little brother is standing there staring at us. He is on the cusp of bursting into tears. I squeeze my Father’s hand, then rush to my brother’s side. I take him back into the living room.

  “Be a good boy,” I say, then kiss the top of his head.

  I pick him up and sit him down on the sofa, in the best position with all the cushions around him. I fluff them up.

  “I love you, Izzy,” he says, his eyes are wide and imploring, he is staring into my soul.

  My heart melts. For a moment nothing matters but the look in his eyes. The darkness evaporates, and for that one moment, I am lifted, as if gravity has stopped working just for me. A sense of hope floods through me. But, reality dawns and the darkness quickly rises again, weighing down on me and blocking out all other emotions. I am grounded by the sound of my Father coughing. I grab the blanket and pull it over my brother. I tuck it around him.

  “Stay here,” I urge. “Promise me you’ll stay here.”

  “OK.”

  I rush back into the kitchen. He is standing up again. This time he is leaning against the kitchen cupboard, one hand holding the tea towel to his mouth. I help him back to the chair. I fill up a glass with water and hand it to him. I run to the front door and grab the throat sweets and painkillers. I rush back and rip open the plastic. Why do they make it so difficult? I hand him a packet. Cherry flavour. He actually smiles, albeit sadly, at the sight of them. He knows, I know, we both know. He leans forward into the table, elbows on the table top, he stares at me as he opens the packet. He pops one into his mouth. He grins with it between his teeth. I laugh dejectedly. I sit silently beside him. I do not know what to say. He looks like death. I can’t deny it to myself. What am I supposed to do? I hand him the packets of oxycodone and dihydrocodeine. He turns the packets over in his hand. He looks at me, confused yet pleased.

  “How did you get all these,” he says. “In fact.” He tries to laugh but ends up coughing into the tea towel. “Don’t.” Cough, cough. “Tell me.”

  I rub my hand over his back, he is boiling up. His shirt is soaked, it’s almost see-through. A wave of fear rises up through me. I want to cry but I somehow manage to hold the tears back. I gulp it all back down. I stare at the packets. He pushes two of the dihydrocodeine out and takes them with some water. We just sit together in silence staring at the grain of wood in the table. I can hear him sucking on his sweet. He coughs too. What am I going to do? Why is this happening? What is going to happen? I scratch my head. I am sweating even more. I am panicking. My skin is itching. I can’t keep still. I feel as if I am being pulled into the chair. I am beginning to merge with it. I shudder. My memory is going berserk. It is stampeding over my life. All the things my Father and I have been through together. All the good times, all the bad. I am a child in the paddling pool he made for me. I am on my phone calling him to come and pick me up from my best friend’s house. He is telling me off. It is as if my life is flashing before my eyes, not his life flashing before his eyes. Like I am the one that is dying. I am feeling his death.

  “Do you remember when I was a little girl and we found that baby bird?” I suddenly blurt out.

  My Dad looks at me. I can see him disappear into his memory.

  “Yes, I remember,” he says.

  “Do you remember what you told me?”

  He smiles and nods.

  “You told me that we’ll try to save her, but, you said that if she does die, that I mustn’t dare be upset, cause it’s not the end, it’s just another beginning.”

  “Yes,” he smiles warmly, “I remember.”

  “What did you mean?” I say staring into his eyes, searching for hope, gripping his sweaty hand.

  “Oh Izzy,” he puts his arm around me.

  The darkness is turning from denial and transforming into a profound acceptance deep in my heart. Grief fills me. Hollow, absolute, sorrow. I start to cry. The upsurge is unstoppable. I cry more and more. Olly comes in. He is crying too. The electricity begins to flicker. I pull Olly up on to my knee and we all hug. I can feel his little heart beating next to mine. They start beating in unison as if we are one. I wipe my eyes and sit up straight. No, no, no, I’m, not ready to give up yet. The electricity stops flickering.

  “Do you remember?” I ask.

  Both me and Olly are staring at him now. Hope forced back into us.

  “I just meant that life is just a phase, there is so much more than this. I meant that you shouldn’t worry about the little bird.” He coughs into the tea towel. “It’s a passing through, that’s all life is, a passing through. From darkness to darkness, from one unknown to the next. It is exciting. It is a process of returning. I am not scared. I promise you.”

  But I am scared. Really fucking scared. But, I don’t want to tell him that though. I look away from him and down onto my brother’s blonde locks. My Father leans towards us and kisses us both. I can see that the drugs are starting to take effect. The worry on his face is dissipating. He grins. Olly laughs. Dad kisses him on the cheek again. I carry Olly back into the living room.

  “Be good,” I say, he nods.

  I hold my breath and step back into the kitchen. I take my Father’s hand and elbow and help him upstairs and into his bedroom. The sweaty atmosphere halts us immediately. The heat emanating from the room has turned up a gear. I gulp, my Dad gulps. We share a glance. We venture in. My Dad collapses onto the bed beside my Mum. She doesn’t budge. She is fast asleep... I hope. I run around to check. She is breathing. I feel her hot breath on my hand as I hold it under her nose. I sigh. My tense shoulders drop a little, then re-tense straight away. I pull off my Father’s shoes and throw them into the corner of the room. He rolls over and pulls the duvet over himself. I stand staring at the two of them, cocooned, dying. What can I do? This was never supposed to happen. I was supposed to be moaning about college work tonight. But instead things are just getting worse and worse. I pull the painkillers out of my pocket.

  “Mum,” I say as I step back around her side of the bed. “I’ve got the painkillers.” I push two out and place them on the bedside table. “Mum,” I shake her, gently, “Mum,” I shake her some more.

  Slowly her glassy, hollow eyes open, she doesn’t recognise me. The darkness is rising to extremes. It is around my throat. It is strangling me. I can’t talk anymore. I choke. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.

  “Darling,” she croaks finally. “There you are,” she grips onto my hand.

  I take in a massive gulp of air.

  “Yes, yes, I’m here,” I stutter, then bend down and kiss her. “How are you?” I ask on reflex, already knowing the answer.

  “Better,” she lies.

  I laugh one sad, solitary laugh and wipe away a tear.

  “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  I grab her glass then run downstairs into the kitchen. I shove it into the dishwasher after noticing copious amounts of lip residue on the rim. I shudder. I take two fresh glasses from the cupboard. I turn the tap on. I let it run for a few moments. I become captivated by the stream pouring out and out and down into the sink, glugging away into the sewers and onwards and downwards onto the seas and oceans. I wonder, as I stare into the translucent flow, what is it all about, life? I wonder what the point of it all is, what is all this for? I am being stripped of who I thought I was. I am changing as the world changes around me. I can no longer afford to be a weak child. I have to be strong. I have to be more than I was before all this started. The stream begins to shine out at me. I see a rainbow of light inside it. I feel as if there is something hiding in the water droplets, wanting to tell me something. I feel a strange sort of magnetism, as if my stomach, my gut is being pulled towards it. Something is being awoken within me. I shake my head. What is going on? I fill the glasses. I am being ridiculous, searching f
or meaning where there isn’t any, just like I always am. What is wrong with me? I always feel something in the nothing. I always feel like I know something unspoken, unknown, unheard of. I am lost. Stop it, I tell myself. I push the thought out of my mind and listen. In the other room I can hear my brother laughing as he watches his cartoons on his favourite DVD. I wonder about him too, I wonder how much he understands, how much he can accept, more than me probably, but I must stay strong for him. He needs me. I rush back up the stairs, fight the pungent air, and sit on the bed beside my Mother. I take her hot head in my hand and right it. I feed her one of the tablets and pour the water into her mouth. I rest her head back down.

  “Thank you, darling.”

  I hold her hand in both of mine. I look down into her face.

  “I’m scared, Mum,” I say after what seems like an age. “Can’t you call a doctor?”

  She is silent. Her eyes close, slowly, like she is deep in thought, not passing out, again. My Dad rolls over clumsily and looks at me.

  “I’ve tried, Iz,” he says. “It’s engaged, always engaged. 999 is engaged. NHS Direct is engaged.”

  He starts coughing. He pulls out the packet of throat sweets, pops one out, opens it and places the packet on his bedside table. I stare at the wrapper. What am I going to do?