Crash II: Highrise Hell (17 page)

The child flew through the air, his limbs loose, responding to their own independent physics without the muscle coordination to help them do anything but.
 

Holding his breath, George watched on.

Spreading his arms to catch him, Dean then stepped aside at the last minute. The tiny corpse slapped against the concrete floor. A dead fish hitting a pier. Leaning over the boy, who was on his back and staring up at the sky with blood leaking from the hole in his head, Dean then turned to George. With narrowed eyes, he laughed, his face remaining stony. "Cracked like a fucking egg."
 

Balling his hands into fists, George stepped forwards. Warren and Naps raised their weapons.
 

Looking at the two men, one stood on either side of him, Dean smiled. Hunching down, he prodded the kid with his hammer. "I may not like this spoiled little cunt, but don't worry, George, it's not all kids that I hate. I'll make sure your unborn niece or nephew are okay. They'll be safe with me."

"You're full of shit. You don't have a fucking clue where Sally is."
 

"I know exactly where she is, and if she's going to give birth safely, I need to get back to her soon. If anything happens to me, she's fucked. She won't get out of the room I have her locked in. And believe me, it's hidden enough that no one's gonna find her."
 

Searching Dean's face for the lie didn't reveal it.
 

Throwing George a wink, Dean then lifted the dead boy by his foot.
 

George turned his back and stared at the women's truck. Looking at the waste-covered floor, his eyes stopped on the charred leg again. Swallowing the phlegmy bile that rose into his throat, he looked at the women. For once, Liz wasn't watching him. Instead, it was the two girls from the close, now ugly from abuse, that stared back. Sunken eyes. Pale skin. Healing wounds. Greasy hair. The prom queens turned refugees. A heavy sigh rolled through George, and his attention left them when Dean spoke.
 

"I used to be at the bottom of society."

Dean was looking down at the fat owner of the house, dangling his little boy so close that the kid's dead face was nearly touching him. The man stared at his progeny and cried louder than before.
 

"I lived in a shitty council flat and got refused every job I went for. I was either underqualified or didn't have enough experience. That was when I was lucky enough to get a response at all from the people interviewing me. I went for a lot of jobs. A lot of shitty jobs." The frown on his face cast a dark shadow over his features. "I couldn't even get them."

After a deep breath, he voice grew louder. "I listened to rich twats like you, clueless Tory politicians like our wannabe prime minister and media-brainwashed idiots rant on about how good, hard-working families were being robbed by benefit scum like me."

Straining his ears, George picked the fat man's words out of his sobs. "I never said that about you. I promise."

Snorting a laugh, Dean sneered down at him. "You'd suck a man off to stay alive, so forgive me if I don't believe a word that comes out of your fat fucking mouth." Bending over, spittle spluttering from his thin lips, Dean said, "Anyway, we were blamed for the state of the country as if the welfare budget was the cause rather than the effect. We had no fucking jobs because that cunt Thatcher sold us out in the eighties." When Dean stepped closer to the man, his shadow smothered him. "All of the money went to wide boy cunts like you. 'Good, hard-working families' were cut adrift. They used to be able to make a living before Thatcher killed industry."
 

The tension in the air sparked and lifted gooseflesh on George's arms. Turning away again, he looked at Liz and heard the fat man shout, "Please. No, please."

Spinning back around, George balked when he saw the lunatic rubbing the dead boy's head wound in his father's face. "Fucking hell, Dean, what's fucking wrong with you?"

Looking at George again, Dean bit down on his bottom lip and then spun to kick the fat man.
 

There was a wet crunch as boot hit face, and George felt his own jaw weaken in sympathy.
 

Turning around to face George again, his shoulders wound up to his ears, the limp boy still hanging from his grip, Dean snarled. "The more shit you give me, the more I'm going to fuck this fat cunt up." Kicking the man again, Dean said to his victim, "Tell him to leave it."

With blood pouring from his mouth, the man slurred, "Leave it."

Shaking his head, George turned away from Dean and cringed when he heard, "Lick it. Lick the boy's wound like the animal you are."

The silence would have been complete were it not for the sound of a lapping tongue and the occasional giggle from Dean. Unable to stop himself, George turned to see the fat man's mouth and chin were red from his son's wound, lumps of flesh wobbling on them. Drawing a sharp breath stopped the heave in his throat.
Fuck this
! There was no way that Sally could still be around. She probably ran off the second everything turned to shit. Dean was fucking with him.

Marching over to Dean, who kept a hold of the limp corpse, George pressed his forehead against that of his brother-in-law's. There was a rich smell of blood surrounding him. The stench increased his awareness for the claret raging through his own veins. "Put the boy down."

"What the fuck's it got to do with you, brother?"

"I ain't your brother."

"Technically, you are."

As he looked down at the boy's chubby face and his dad licking the wound, George said, "Just fucking stop that, man."
 

Pulling away, the house owner then vomited on the floor in front of him.

Despite being fully aware of the entire gang raising their weapons, George said again, "Put the boy down."

"Are you threatening me?" Dean lifted his hammer above George's head.
 

"Put the boy down. You've killed him already. Isn't that enough?"

"No, it's not enough." Dean tilted his head to the side. "You'd best watch yourself, George. You're on very fucking thin ice."

George could feel it creaking beneath his feet. "I don't care." Snatching the boy's left arm, George yanked him hard. Hoping the corpse would slip from Dean's grasp didn't make it a reality, and suddenly, both men had a strong grip on a cold limb.

Tears stung George's eyes, and he spoke through gritted teeth, "Let him go. Now."

"George, you're my brother-in-law, which is why I'm so fucking tolerant of you." The hammer twitched in the air, ready to come crashing down. "I love your sister, and I know you'll be a good uncle."

"You love her enough to fuck all of these women every night?"

Sighing, Dean said, "But I swear, if you don't give this up, I'm going to drive this fucking hammer into your head. Only one of us can walk away from this if it goes any further." Turning to the gang surrounding him, he said, "And you don't have any backup."

Looking across at Liz, George saw her gently shake her head. Holding her glare, he saw her do it again. Letting go of the boy's arm, George watched the small cadaver swing in Dean's grip.
 

Dean stared at him for a moment longer, his red skin burning and his eyes wild.

Turning his back on the man, George trudged towards the truck.
 

The lonely walk was accompanied by Dean addressing the fat man, "Say sorry."

"Sorry."

"Fucking hell, fatty! Have you got a guilty conscience or something? I didn't even say what for."

The tone of Dean's voice had changed. It had more gravel in it. It was the voice he used when his head had gone. Inhaling and then releasing a stuttered breath, George dragged his feet and continued on towards the truck to wait for the inevitable.

Upon reaching his truck, George waited by it and turned around to watch Dean.
 

With the boy still hanging from his outstretched arm, Dean stared at his dad. "Open your mouth!"

Knelt on the floor, the man regarded his boy through watery eyes before looking up at Dean.
 

Raising his hammer, Dean lowered his tone and spoke slowly. "Open your fucking mouth!"

With a wobbling jaw, messy with his child's blood, the man's resolve cracked, and he opened it.
 

"Wider than that, you fat cunt." Dropping the boy, who hit the concrete face first, the rest of his flaccid body piling down on top of him, Dean pointed over at George. "Open it like you're about to suck his cock." Laughing, he said, "Maybe he needs that to calm him down."

Fighting against the frown, George watched on. The right time would come. When it did, he was taking Liz and the food. Leaning against the cold truck, aware that at least half of the group were looking at him for a reaction, George kept his attention on the fat man, who opened his mouth so wide his jaw disappeared into his chins.
 

After Dean had reached into his suit pocket, his hand shot at the man's mouth, culminating in a loud crack that bounced off the white walls of the house.
 

The man's muffled scream shot out. It was only when Dean got out of the way that George saw the apple the man was now biting on.
 

As snot shot from the man's nose, Dean looked around and said, "Look, boys. Hog roast."

Some of the men laughed.

Pointing his hammer at the floor, Dean said, "On your belly, fatty."
 

A shove from Naps encouraged the large man to fall forwards. With his hands still tied behind his back, his ample gut absorbed most of the fall. When he landed, his face was once again next to his son's. He closed his eyes with such force, his head became a mass of wrinkles.
 

Leaning down, Dean said, "Open your eyes. I want you to look at him." Shifting the dead boy with his foot, Dean made it so their faces were touching. "The kid was destined for greatness, eh? Well guess what?"

The man still had the apple in his mouth as he looked up at Dean and fought for air. Tears ran down his face.

"I've seen plenty of amazing kids fucked up because of poverty. Because greedy cunts like you have all of the money and think it's because you've worked hard." Pointing his thumb at his chest, Dean's top lip curled in a snarl. "You judged us. Called us 'benefit cheats', 'lazy', 'the problem with the state of this country', 'chavs'. We were living on the fucking breadline, you fat waste of space. You and your tax-dodging mates lived lives of luxury, paid fuck all tax, fucked the financial sector up, and then told us that we were the fucking problem." Dean jabbed a finger at his own temple. "That's fucked up."
 

After a slight pause, Dean said, "You used to have power in society. You used to be the one controlling things when money had any meaning. But it was never real. The only value it had was what we attached to it as a society. When it stopped working for most people, it was rejected, and what were you left with? Fuck all! A fat man in a suit used to be a symbol of power. Now it's a symbol of greed and weakness. I wear this suit just to show you how much a man in a three-piece can ruin your fucking life, you horrible cunt."
 

When Dean lifted the dead boy again, George shook his head and opened his truck. Getting in, he slammed the door. Once more, he became the focus of most of the gang's attention. Staring straight at Dean, who returned his gesture, the hammer down by his side, he flashed a facetious grin, put the key in the ignition and twisted. The powerful engine shook the car as it came to life.

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When the well-manicured Ravi came over and rapped his knuckles against the window, George wound it down and stared at him.
 

Unable to make eye contact, Ravi looked at the floor. "Dean wants to know what you're doing."

The boy still stank like the perfume section of a department store. "Warming up." When Ravi didn't move, George nodded at Freddie. "He knows you, doesn't he?" George wound the window back up again before Ravi had time to answer.
 

The fans were up full, the loud whirring preventing George from hearing anything outside the car. Resting his hand over one, he let the heat from it run up his sleeve and stared straight ahead.
 

It was easier to watch Dean when he couldn't hear him. The arsehole dropped the boy and walked over to his truck. While this was happening, Naps and Jules pulled the fat man up so he was kneeling again. They made him bow his head.
 

A cold chill ran through George when he saw Dean produce a sword. "Fucking hell."
 

Throwing practice swings through the air as he walked over to his prisoner, George flinched and looked away.

After a few minutes, George looked back, expecting to see a beheaded man. But he was still kneeling, and Dean was shouting at Freddie.
 

At first, Freddie backed away. That was until Dean's body snapped tight, his mouth flapping as he became more irate. The powerful fans and closed windows made it impossible for George to hear what he was saying.
 

Freddie stepped forwards.

When the boy was close enough, Dean held the sword out to him, handle first.
 

Popping the door open, the bitter air rushing in, George got out of the car. "Dean!"

Dean looked over.
 

"Leave the boy alone. You should be doing this, not him, you spineless cunt."

A huge grin spread across Dean's face, and he turned to Freddie again. "It's time for you to do your bit, son."

Shaking his head, Freddie then stared at the weapon. "I can't do that. I can't kill someone."

Looking at all of the other gang members, Dean laughed. "Is poor Freddie too sensitive to take a man's life?" The humor left his voice when he stepped into the boy's personal space. "It's kill or be killed, sunshine. Those are the only two choices you have."

Taking the sword, the long weapon wobbling in his grip, Freddie looked at Dean.