'ON ROAD'
by Mark Turley

It�s so dark I can�t even see my own feet. Two-thirty a.m. and I�m coming out of the bathroom, feeling weary. Stillness and blackness fill the house.

There�s something warm and relaxing about the landing carpet beneath my toes. The pile pushes up between them. It�s a comforting feeling, homely and secure, much nicer than the hard tiles in the bathroom. I look over there and see the wooden blind fluttering by the open window. A chill breeze breathes through the space. I think about going to close it, but don�t want to go back across that cold floor. With the half-asleep urgency of one who should really be in bed, I make my way slowly across the landing. One foot pads before the other until I hear it.

When the sound comes I�m suddenly still, eyes wide, not drowsy any more. I�m even holding my breath. It�s unmistakable. Noise caused by movement. Shuffling footsteps, a door being closed.

There�s somebody downstairs.

I stop dead by the top of the staircase, take a quiet breath and then hold it. At first I don�t want to believe. But the sound comes again and I know the truth. Part of me accepts that being a man means facing danger, protecting what�s yours. The rest of me just wants to hide, to hope that it all goes away. I hear it again. A cupboard door is opened and closed. It sounds like its coming from the kitchen. I allow myself to breathe, the air whispers in and out of me. Focussing is next to impossible and my mind wanders. I try to stop it, but it�s so hard. Panic makes thoughts light and fluttering, like butterflies. Inevitably they skitter into memory, alighting at a predictable place.

**

I was a small kid, 6 years old. My dad hadn�t left us for his 9-year stay in Pentonville yet. We were living in the 1-up, 1-down on Green Lanes where I was born. We used to sleep all in the same room, my mum, my dad, my sister and me. We cooked and ate downstairs. It was the middle of the night and my mother was sitting up, the whites of her eyes shining through the gloom. She had one hand on the back of my dad�s neck, shaking him awake.

�Malcolm!� she had said, her voice hushed but panicky. �Malcolm! There�s someone downstairs!�

My dad rolled over and pulled the corner of the blanket back, raising his head off the pillow.

�Stay here� he said, climbing from the mattress. �I�ll go and take a look.�

He stood slowly, only wearing a pair of white boxers. The large muscles in his upper leg bunched. His knees cracked a little. He saw me looking at him and frowned.

�Go to sleep� he said.

I was too frightened and excited to obey, but closed my eyes anyway, not wishing to make him angry. I waited until his broad, diamond-shaped back moved through the doorway, then got up and followed, taking great care with my movements. My mother waved me back. I ignored her and left her stroking my sister�s head.

�Shhhh� she was saying, �Sshhh, its gonna be ok�sshhh.�

I reached the top of the stairs and looked down. My father was near the bottom, moving soundlessly, placing one foot gently and silently before the other. He reached the lowest step and stopped. There was something in his right hand. I peered through the dimness. My eyes were straining. A bottle.

When he leapt forward, I was startled and let out a little scream. I heard my father say, �You picked the wrong house to break into pal!� and then the sound of splintering glass. Crying, I ran down the stairs to see him with the dead burglar by the throat. He looked pale and shocked. His shoulders shook. Blood was spreading on the floor around him.

�Fucking thieving bastard!� he was saying. He sounded like he was crying. �Fucking thieving bastard!�

I was small and wide-eyed, tears welled against my lashes, but I loved my dad so much just then. The feeling engulfed me.

**

There�s little reassurance in the memory. My Father was a large, hard man, years of labouring had strengthened his body. I�m not like that at all. I�ve inherited his height, but not his build. My lifestyle has kept me thin. I stretch out a skeletal arm and put my hand up in front of my face. It�s fluttering like a flag in the wind.

More noises from downstairs force me to refocus. �Dad�s not here.� I think. �He�s gone. I�m on my own.� I hear more sounds. Footsteps and more cupboards. �Am I man enough?� I�m not sure. Not with my bare hands anyway. But I want to be. It would have made Dad proud. I look around frantically for something that I can use. There�s nothing convenient.

I begin to descend, taking the stairs one at a time. There�s a light on down there, at the far end of the house, near the back yard. I stop halfway down the staircase and sit down silently. From this position I can peer into the lower floor of the house through the space underneath the banister. The light is definitely coming from the other end, the kitchen probably. The door to the lounge is open and the illumination highlights objects here and there, glinting shyly off the television and the mirror on the wall.

I raise myself up and advance a few more steps, placing my naked feet so carefully onto the carpeted stairs. By now I�m three quarters of the way down. Again I hear movement. This time it sounds like it�s a little closer. Not in the kitchen anymore, perhaps in the dining room or even the other side of the lounge.

They�re coming my way.

I start to move more quickly, more carelessly. I�m buzzing and I�m at the bottom of the stairs. I know that I have to keep the element of surprise on my side. Dad taught me that. If he sees me first, he�s got the advantage. I pick a vase off the shelf in the hallway and wait by the open door.

The light at the other end of the house is extinguished and I�m plunged back into darkness. Breath starts to rattle in and out of me, faster and hotter. My heart pounds against my ribs. I feel like I might faint. Maybe I want to. The footsteps are clearer and nearer now, echoing slightly off the wood floor. I know that soon me and this other, this bringer of destiny, will be face to face. It�s going to happen in seconds.

When the shadowy silhouette appears in the doorway I�m ready, at least as ready as I can be. He obviously wasn�t expecting to find anyone in the house and hasn�t seen me. My hands are shaking so hard that I almost drop the vase. Almost, but not quite. Before he even knows I�m there I�ve raised it and brought it crashing down on his head. It shatters and he makes a little sound. �Hmmmpphh.�

He goes straight down, hitting the deck solidly and lying still. Somehow I just know he�s dead, but it doesn�t bother me. It feels as if this was meant to happen. I�ve been waiting for it for 20 years.

�It�s his fault for being here.� I think, breathing hard and fast.

I drag him into the lounge by his feet and switch on the small desk lamp on the coffee table. It�s only the second time in my life that I�ve seen a dead man. The side of his head where I hit him has gone a bit shapeless. I think I must have smashed some bones.

The sight of blood makes me giddy but I am composed enough to check his clothes. The Mercedes keys are in his trouser pocket, as I thought they would be. 60 grand�s worth of brand new, luxury car. That helps to settle it in my mind. I had to kill the bastard. I had no choice.

The wound is seeping onto the floor. Red spreads on the laminate, running in the grooves between the boards. Nausea washes over me and suddenly I just have to get out of the house, away from the body. I rush out into the hallway and open the front door. The night air is cold and sharp and I haven�t even stopped to get my shoes and socks.

I beep the Mercedes and climb in. There is something reassuring about the vinyl of the steering wheel. The engine starts smoothly and I pull out of the driveway, into the suburb. The trees and semi-detached houses begin to fly past the windows and I relax again, relieved.

It takes me half an hour to get to Simon�s. He�s waiting for me when I get there, a big, welcoming grin on his face. I get out of the car and he approaches me.

�Well Done!� he says, his hand on my shoulder. �Gimme the keys.�

I do as I�m told and look at him desperately.

�All smooth?� He asks.

I shake my head.

�The owner was there.� I say. �I think I killed him.�

Simon shakes his head. Breath escapes through his teeth with a soft whistle. He pushes a small bundle of notes into my hand.

�Go buy some rocks� he says. �You better keep your head down for a while.�

There�s a look on his face that I don�t much like. He seems disappointed. But the money feels good and I hold it tight. I creep into the night. The road is cold beneath my feet.

� Mark Turley
Reproduced with permission

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