If The Bed Falls In Read online

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” she asked.

  “If you ask me that one more time, I’ll punch you on the nose; however cute it is.”

  “Goodnight, then.”

  “Nighty-night,” replied Tom.

  “And don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  “Oh, bugger off,” Tom said managing a broader smile.

  He stood and watched the car disappear into the night, then turned towards his house.

  ▽

  ▼

  ▽

  Chapter 3

  The arguments never stopped. As long as Mum and Dad were in the same room – the same house – the same universe – he ripped into her like the worst bullies at school.

  People said that me and Mum were very alike; our blonde hair, our blue eyes, our cheeky grins and the same fear of dad coming home.

  It was six o’clock, and the feeling in our house, that had been creeping up for about half an hour, started to make my belly ache. I often had a runny tummy, but it was not my runny tummy that caused the pain, it was the pain that caused the runny tummy. I think it was the same pain that made Mum start to clean the house, like a mad thing, and get really short with me. It was the pain that came with six o’clock.

  I put my pencil down, and closed my homework book. For a few minutes, I just sat in my chair. My belly gurgled. I wanted to fart, but was scared I might mess my trousers. So, I tensed my stomach muscles and felt the fart bubble back into my gut. I felt like crying, but I knew that if Dad came home and found me with red eyes, there would be hell to pay.

  I stood up and wandered around my bedroom. The pain in my belly was now in my arms and legs as well. I closed my eyes and tried to wish the pain away, but it wouldn’t go. It just got worse. I let out a very small cry. Tears started, so I rubbed my face and slapped my cheeks, just a little bit at first, but I couldn’t control myself and hit myself harder and harder. I wanted to die.

  I could hear ornaments being moved on shelves downstairs. Mum was cleaning, but it wouldn’t help; nothing helped. I went over to the window, and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of him. He went out at five in the morning to his job on a building site. I wasn’t sure exactly what he did. He never talked to me, he just shouted. I think he told the other men what to do? He finished at four, and went to the pub.

  I saw his car turn into our street, and drive slowly towards our house. I farted; a little bit of shit came out. I struggled not to cry. I mustn’t cry! The noise of ornaments being moved got louder. I could feel Mum’s pain. I could feel it in my head.

  I followed the progress of Dad’s car as it crawled along. He told me that the car was his pride and joy, and yet he always said bad things about it; always complained. I think that’s what’s called a ‘love-hate relationship’, you neither know whether you love or hate a thing. Sometimes, when we were all out in the car together, Dad would go totally into hate mode. He hated the car, he hated Mum and he hated me. At those times, he seemed to forget the ‘love’ part. Maybe it was the car? Maybe it was the car smell or the colour or something? I don’t think I like cars very much.

  I heard the key in the door, then a loud slam. I turned around and stared at the closed door of my bedroom, and wished it had a lock, a big one, like the one I saw in a book at school, the one on Fort Knox. That’s where the Americans kept all their gold. I wished I had gold. If I did, I’d take Mum away, maybe to America, and hide so Dad could never find us.

  I could hear voices downstairs. Dad was nagging. I couldn’t hear his actual words, but I knew he was nagging. Mum’s voice was much quieter. I could barely hear her, but she must be there. Dad’s voice would only sound like that if me or Mum were in front of him. If he was by himself, he was always silent.

  My head was so noisy. So many voices; all shouting at me. I didn’t know which ones to listen to. And anyway, I couldn’t hear any of them properly. Just a word here and there. Maybe a few words together, but the voices always told me that I was doing something wrong or not doing something I should or thinking about doing something, but was too much of a wimp to actually do it. The voices often sounded like my Dad, but they were mine; and they always agreed with Dad. If only I could do the right thing. If only I was clever or brave, I would know what to do and have the courage to do it. But I was neither brave nor clever. I couldn’t take away Dad’s anger or look after Mum – I was a disappointment.

  Sometimes I thought Jesus might help. My Religious Education teacher was always saying that Jesus came to Earth to save us. Would he save me or Mum or Dad? I prayed to him every night, but so far, He hadn’t answered and nothing had changed. I wondered if the voices in my head were Jesus telling me what to do, but if it was, He seemed to be telling me off rather than helping me. I didn’t want to hear what was wrong. I just wanted to know what to do to make things right. I am not very clever. I can’t work things out. I need simple instructions.

  Dad’s voice was getting louder, and I heard something smash. Maybe an ornament that Mum had been cleaning. Maybe she hadn’t cleaned it properly. Dad liked everything to be clean and tidy, but somehow me and Mum could never do it right; however much we tried.

  Dad often got so angry with me and Mum that he would hit us. Once he threw me against a wall. I heard my arm snap. At the hospital people kept asking how it happened. They seemed more interested in that than how much pain I was in. My Mum said I had tripped and fallen on the stairs, but that wasn’t true; Dad threw me against a wall. They set my arm in plaster. Mum drew a funny face on it, and said everything was going to be better from now on. The kids at school all wrote their names on my plaster cast; even my teacher. But Dad wouldn’t write anything. Maybe he felt guilty.

  The noise downstairs was getting louder. Dad sounded like a dog barking. Mum sounded like a scared cat. Dad kicked the neighbour’s cat once. It had done a poo in the middle of our garden. Dad tried to catch it for days, and when he did, he kicked it, hard, then chased it around the garden, but it got away. Mum sounded like that; frightened, in pain, just wanting to be loved.

  I wanted Dad to stop hurting Mum. I knew if he went over the edge he would not be able to control himself, like throwing me against the wall or kicking the cat. I had to save her. No one else would. The police had come to the house many times, but they couldn’t help. It was down to me. I was the only one that cared. I couldn’t trust anyone else; not the police or Jesus.

  I walked towards the door. It was like walking towards a force-field. The nearer I got, the more pain I felt. I saw that once on Star Trek. I managed to get to the door, through it, and started going down the stairs.

  Mum and Dad were in the front room. I could see them through the open door. I sat and watched them. I felt invisible. Maybe they would stop.

  Mum had both of her hands on Dad’s chest. She looked like she was stroking him. Dad’s hands were fists. His arms hung straight down, swaying, like the pendulum in my auntie’s grandfather clock. Mum still sounded like the cat Dad had chased around the garden, and Dad still barked like an angry dog. Then he lifted his fist and punched Mum in the face. The noise of the punch made me jump. It didn’t sound like it did in the movies. I saw something on telly once about that. Special people, after the film is made, add noises. They make the sound of a fist hitting a face by punching dough; the stuff bakers make bread from. This didn’t sound like that. This sounded much quieter, more of a thud than a splat. Mum just stood there. Her hands fell from Dad’s chest. Then she fell to the floor.

  Dad didn’t move. He made strange angry faces. Then, as if my invisibility cloak had suddenly slipped, he looked straight at me. His eyes were empty, like his skin was still there, but all his insides had been removed. I didn’t feel scared anymore. I didn’t know what I felt. I just wanted Dad to storm out, and Mum to get up. But neither of them moved.

  I got up and walked over to where Mum was lying. I looked up at Dad, then back to Mum. Dad’s mouth kept opening and closing, but no words came out. Then he did sa
y something, but I couldn’t really hear what the word was. I think it may have been, ‘sorry’, but I wasn’t sure. Then he suddenly rushed out of the room towards the back door.

  I think that was the moment it dawned on me. I bent down to Mum and put my hand just above her mouth. I couldn’t feel her breathing. I shook her. Nothing. I thought I knew what this meant. Our dog, Boris, had been like this. Dad had taken him to the doctor, and when he came back he said that Boris was okay, but had to go to a special home. Could Dad take Mum to the doctor, but bring her back to our house instead of going to the special home? I got up. I had to ask Dad.

  I went out into the garden. Dad wasn’t there, so I walked over to the shed. He often hid in there after they had had an argument. The door was closed. I put my hand out to open it, but got scared. What if he got angry with me? I didn’t want another broken arm. What if I couldn’t persuade him to take Mum to the doctor? Sometimes I said the wrong things, and he just did the opposite of what I asked just to be nasty. I must be careful; choose my words carefully.

  I pushed the door open. At first, I couldn’t see much because Dad hadn’t turned the light on. Slowly, I began to see more as my eyes got used to the darkness.

  Dad was sitting in the old armchair. From the relaxed way he sat, I thought he must have fallen asleep. Strangely, his hunting rifle was in his lap. That’s very dangerous I thought; falling asleep with a gun in your hands. If anyone else had done that, he would have shouted at them, but when he did things that were wrong, they weren’t wrong.

  I walked over to him and shook his arm. His head rolled forwards, and I jumped. It wasn’t his head, it was meat, like in the butcher’s shop. Red, bloody meat.

  I think that’s when I must have suddenly fallen asleep, and didn’t wake up until the neighbours and policemen woke me up later. They told me that both Mum and Dad were dead. And, like Boris, they were never coming back.

  ▽

  ▼

  ▽

  Chapter 4

  Tom felt cold and uncomfortable. With his eyes still closed he repositioned himself, but found his bed unusually lumpy. He stretched his legs out, but the movement was restricted by something hard and unyielding at the end of the bed. ‘What the hell is that?’ he thought, and half opened his eyes.

  He assumed it must be a trick of the light as the ceiling seemed strangely low, only two or three feet above his head. He tried to roll over and discovered another unexpected restriction. Curiosity turned to fear, and he jumped up, banging his head on the low ceiling. Tom looked around. He was in the back seat of a car. Sarah’s car? No, this didn’t look like Sarah’s car, and it stank of cigarettes; Sarah didn’t smoke.

  Rubbing the top of his head, where it had recently impacted with the roof of the car, he manoeuvred to the door, opened it and staggered onto the road. He opened the front door, and got back in. His mind was a sea of questions in which all relevant answers seemed to be drowning. Yet the significant question he neglected to ask himself was why he had entered the car on the driver’s side; as he had never sat there before.

  Tom’s eyes were now fully focused, and he peered through the windscreen at an unfamiliar location. The last thing he remembered was going to bed last night. Now it was daytime, and he had no idea where he was; West London, maybe? Unconsciously, he leant across to the passenger side and pressed the catch on the glove box. The compartment’s door fell open and, as one of the hinges was broken, flapped then hung at an impossible angle like a drunken man holding on to a railing.

  He reached inside, and pulled out the first thing his hand touched; a British passport. Tom thumbed through the pages, which were empty. On the penultimate leaf were the details of the owner. Surname, Miller – first name, Joseph. He stared at the picture, which was not completely alien to him, but the source of this familiarity evaded him and did not throw any illumination on who Joseph Miller was.

  Dropping the passport onto the passenger seat, he timidly pushed his hand back into the glove box as if he were exploring an ancient Egyptian tomb, and at any moment an archaic defence mechanism would fly into action, severing his hand. This time his fingers found a very unfamiliar object. It had an irregular shape and was hard, but not metal; maybe some sort of plastic? He picked the object up and was surprised by its weight. Tom drew the object out and stared at it. The blood, which up to now, had been rushing to his face in sweaty fear and confusion ran screaming back towards the safety of his body’s interior leaving a blanched and inanimate expression on his face. In Tom’s astonished grasp was a hand gun.

  “Beretta PX4 Storm,” he whispered.

  The words left his mouth before his mind knew they were there.

  “How the hell did I know that?”

  Again, before his stunned consciousness could catch up, he ejected the clip and slid out the bullets. He counted them.

  “Seventeen rounds: a full clip.”

  He gasped, less for air than for understanding, but nevertheless deftly reinstalled the bullets back into the clip, and the clip back into the gun. He pushed it home producing a satisfying click.

  He had felt one other object amongst the incomprehensible hoard of the glove box, and now reached in for the third time to retrieve it. He pulled out a satellite navigation unit. Tom pressed the ‘on’ button, but had no idea if this was going to give him any useful information. The screen lit up and showed a street map. Tapping the display caused a menu to unfold. Tom looked at the options and felt pleased as he noticed the word ‘Home’. He selected this option and the machine started calculating a route, presumably to the home of Joseph Miller.

  He moved his hands around the steering column, and found the keys in the ignition. ‘How hard can this be?’ he thought. But his easy practical acumen was assailed by painful childhood memories. He turned the key, and the engine coughed then started. Tom sat for a moment before noticing the gun and passport on the passenger seat. He hid the firearm in the shadowy space of the passenger foot well, then selected first gear and, over-revving the unfamiliar engine, allowed the clutch to rise. The car leapt forward like a juvenile kangaroo taking its first steps; then he was off.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the navigation unit announced as Tom drew up outside number six Trojan Gate.

  “Wherever the bloody hell that is!” Tom said, feeling a little more confident as he had driven rather well. He looked up at the impressive three storey Victorian house, which seemed familiar, and then moved his gaze to the passport where it still lay open on the passenger seat.

  “Who are you, Joseph Miller?” he asked, looking back at the house as if the building might answer him. “Anyway, you have a nice house.”

  Tom removed the keys from the ignition and the engine died, but not without a belligerent pre-ignition attempt at defiance. He left the car, and walked up the path, then the steps, to the front door. ‘What now?’ he thought. Tom rang the bell. A chime beloved of the ‘Avon cosmetics company’ sounded deep within the residence. No answer. He rang again. A dog barked in a house a few doors away, but otherwise all was quiet.

  With satisfaction, Tom noticed that he was no longer nervous, and his confusion had transmuted into intrigue. His hand slipped automatically into the pocket of his jeans and alighted on a bunch of keys.

  “Okay, Joseph Miller. Ready or not, here I come!”

  The key slid easily into the lock, and the door opened. Momentarily, fear made a brief reappearance, but as a cameo rather than a leading player. Tom glanced over his shoulder. He had noticed a rhythmic squeaking and faint footsteps coming from the road. A young woman passed the house wheeling a pushchair. She doggedly looked straight ahead and walked slowly, almost as if she were in a trance. She turned her head towards Tom, smiled then returned her gaze to the pavement ahead of her. Tom watched her go; the image of her pleasant smile persisted on his retinas. A really pretty face, but strangely quirky as she had eyes of different colours; one blue, one brown. Tom returned his attention to the open doorway.
r />   “Hello? Hello? Joseph Miller?” he called out tentatively. There was no answer. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  He moved systematically through the house, checking each room with a confidence of experience that did not seem to be his. Finally, as he entered and checked the last room, the living room, he relaxed, just as a sharp pain erupted at the back of his neck. He passed out.

  Tom opened his eyes, but had no idea what had happened or how long he had been on the floor. He was given no time for contemplation. A voice came from behind him.

  “Sleeping Beauty. Time to wake up.” The voice was male and American.

  Tom pulled himself into a sitting position, and putting his hand to the source of the aching in his head, drew back blood-soaked fingers.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed.

  “Now, now. What a foul mouth Sleeping Beauty has!” continued the unseen voice.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Tom said, looking for the first time to put a face to the voice.

  “Top man, my eye!” teased the American.

  Tom stared in disbelief. The American, seeing Tom’s stare, reacted.

  “What? Do I have something on my face?”

  “Preston?” Tom said with acute incredulity. His voice could not have held more confusion, even if it were twice the size.

  “You got it, baby.”

  “What the hell… what’s with the American accent?”

  “‘Scuse me?”

  “The accent? What’s with the American accent?” Tom repeated.

  Preston looked confused.

  “This tends to be the accent you have when you’re from Baltimore. You Limeys get madder every day.”

  “Why did you hit me?” Tom said, hoping that a change in the line of questioning might bring forth something that would make sense.

  “What did you want me to do, shake your hand?” replied Preston, and followed his sarcasm with the drawing of a gun. “Now to business.”