Saving a Child From God, page 21
He put the microphone down and walked to the door as the karaoke guy called him back. He went for a piss and headed home.
He opened his front door and paused in the hallway.
There was something he was supposed to do.
He frowned and put his hands on his hips, his attempt to remember interrupted by the parrot screeching. He went into the living room to see it jumping around on its perches.
He opened the cage door and stuck his index finger against its stomach. It happily stepped on and he brought it out.
“Allah akbar,” he said. “Can you say that for me? Allah akbar.”
He smiled and sat down on the couch, talking to the bird.
****
His ear was being tugged.
“Get off...”
He raised a hand and touched something feathery, causing him to sit bolt upright. The parrot squawked and flew back to the top of its cage where it strutted around.
“Christ.”
He rubbed his head and looked round the front room, realising he was still in the clothes he’d gone out in. He took a few deep breaths and groggily stood. His head ached and his eyes were gritty. He badly needed a drink of water.
He turned off the living room lights and walked out to the hallway, his nose wrinkling. What was that smell? He stopped outside Abdullah’s door and frowned.
Something...
Then a picture flared horribly of the boy sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.
He swallowed, stepped away from the door and rubbed his goatee.
“In a minute.” He licked his lips. “In a minute...”
He turned and skirted around the dried vomit sprayed across the floor. He got some water, drinking it while staring at the door. He put the glass down, wiped his mouth and knocked.
“Abdullah... You in there?”
No answer.
He unlocked it and pushed it open.
Abdullah was lying on the bed with his back to him. He closed his eyes. The kid had picked himself up and got onto the bed so there couldn’t be anything wrong. He’d obviously been worrying about nothing.
“Abdullah, you want any breakfast?”
The boy gave a long slow moan that degenerated into a rattling exhalation.
He frowned. That didn’t sound good. Perhaps he should take a quick look.
He walked down and bent over him, recoiling from the sight of his badly swollen right arm. It was stained with ugly, purple blotches and undoubtedly broken. The sight made his gorge rise and he staggered backward.
He sat on the bottom step with his head in his hands. “Oh, Jesus Christ...”
Abdullah seemed to become aware that someone was in the room and began moaning louder.
He got up and approached him again. The light blue duvet was soaked in sweat. He put a hand on his forehead, amazed by the heat radiating from him. The kid was burning up.
“Abdullah... Can you hear me?”
The boy groaned horribly and said something unintelligible. He tried again, but it sounded like he was speaking in tongues. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“What am I gonna do? What the fuck am I gonna do?”
Medical help was obviously needed. There was no way he could fix a broken limb, even if he did manage to reduce the fever.
But he couldn’t take him to hospital. That would be the end of everything.
Then a little voice whispered: Just let him worsen. Let him slip away. And this madness can end.
“Shut up!”
He clutched his head. He was not going to let Abdullah die.
But wouldn’t it be easy to just go back up the stairs, shut the door and wait? Abdullah was clearly in a bad way. How long would it take? A day? Two?
Then he could quietly dispose of the body and return to some version of normality.
He walked backwards until his calf bumped into the steps. He sat again, willing himself to turn his back on the child.
No. He was not a killer.
He’d always had the boy’s best interests at heart.
That meant there was only one course of action: he had to try to save him.
First things first. Paracetamol to tackle the fever. He was pretty sure he still had some pills left. He dashed upstairs and rifled through the bathroom cabinet, disappointed to find only three. That would never be enough. He’d have to go out for more medicine.
He went back downstairs and half-filled a glass with water. He returned to the boy and knelt down on one knee, his nostrils twitching at the sour smell streaming off him.
“Abdullah... you need to take these. It’s medicine.” He pressed the blister foil, depositing two tablets onto his palm. “It’ll make you feel better.”
He gently put a hand behind the boy’s head – oh Christ, he was so hot – and lifted.
“Open your mouth. Abdullah, come on. You need to open your mouth.”
The boy didn’t seem to understand so he prised his mouth open with an index finger. He placed a pill on his tongue and tried to give him a drink, but the water simply dribbled down the sides of his face. Abdullah made a choking noise and the tablet ended up on the bed.
He tried again, this time dispensing with the water and just holding his mouth shut until he swallowed. He looked in his mouth and it seemed to have gone. He did the same with the other two tablets and laid his head back down on the damp pillow.
He put a hand on his forehead again. With a temperature like that, his brain was in danger of cooking. He’d have to get something a lot stronger than paracetamol.
He left the house and hurried along to the pharmacy. As he pushed open the door, he stopped in his tracks.
Lucy.
She folded her arms, making no attempt to disguise the disdain on her face.
Goddamn it, why had he come here? He hadn’t been thinking. He should’ve gone to the other pharmacy at the top end of the common, the one between the off-licence and bookies.
Too late now.
What did it matter anyway? Just get the bloody medicine and go.
He swallowed, went to the counter and found he couldn’t look any higher than her stomach.
“My niece... She’s sick. Got a fever. Flu or something. Can you...?”
A pause. “How high’s her temperature?”
“I dunno. High. He’s burning up.”
“He...?”
“What?”
“You said ‘he’.”
“She. What’s it matter? I need... She needs some medicine.”
He saw Lucy’s midriff turn toward the shelves behind. He took out his wallet and put a ten pound note on the counter.
“This is ibuprofen. It should bring his... her temperature down. How old is she?”
“Six.”
“Wait, I’ll speak to the pharmacist.”
He heard her quietly conferring in the back room before she returned.
“With children, it can be quite effective to alternate the ibuprofen with paracetamol but make sure you don’t overdose.”
“OK.”
He saw her hand take the note. The cash register bleeped. He scooped up the packet, she gave him his change and he turned to go.
“James...”
He hesitated, eventually half-turning toward her. He kept his eyes on a promotional two-for-one display of Listerine.
“You... don’t look so great. Are you OK?”
“I... I...”
“Look, er...”
His peripheral vision caught her turning toward the shelves again. He heard her put something on the counter.
“This is a health tonic. It’s got thiamine and calcium and... Well, all the vitamins and minerals you need. A little pick-me-up. Can really help if you’re a bit rundown. My mum swears by it.”
He pulled out his wallet again.
“It’s OK. It’s on me.”
His stomach strained upward. He tried to say thanks but the words wouldn’t come out. He grabbed the packet, opened the door and stumbled onto the street without saying goodbye.
****
He gave Abdullah the ibuprofen. The hours passed as he searched online for information on fever and broken arms. When he came back to check on him, the anti-inflammatory drug hadn’t made any apparent difference. He was still drenched in sweat with his eyes rolling in his head.
He found a thermometer and was aghast to see the mercury rise to just over forty degrees. If it kept rising, it would result in irreversible brain damage.
He paced the floor.
“Jesus, Abdullah... Don’t die. I never wanted you to die.”
An ice bath. That was the next logical step. He ran to the chest freezer and pulled out two bags of ice.
“Abdullah...” He said, kneeling by his bedside. “I’m going to take you upstairs and give you a very cold bath. OK?”
He gently picked him up and tried to support the damaged arm. Abdullah screamed and then lost consciousness. He was completely limp in his arms. The heat radiating from his little body was amazing and frightening in equal measure. Up close he could see the bone poking against the tightly stretched skin. The whole arm was ballooning and changing colour.
“It’s OK, I’m here, Abdullah. I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you.”
He turned, moved slowly up the stairs and into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Abdullah. I’m so sorry. I didn’t plan this... You gotta believe me. It wasn’t meant to go this way.”
He tried not to look at the arm as he laid him in the bath. He put the plug in, turned on the tap and dashed downstairs to retrieve the bags of ice. He returned to the bathroom and placed one next to his good arm.
“You’re gonna be all right, Abdullah. You’ll see.”
He put the other bag of ice on his chest. His legs were becoming submerged. The professor stepped away to watch the water creep over his little body.
It’d be so easy to grab a foot and tug him under. Just put a hand on his chest and hold him down. A brief struggle and it’d all be over.
The water continued rising as he backed against the bathroom wall.
Let him die.
Surely it was always going to end this way? Hadn’t he known that from the moment he discovered him bruised and terrified? And anyway, what was one life on a planet of billions? Abdullah was a mere animal, a microscopic blob of life. He was not special, there was no such thing as a soul. He was a tiny light waiting to wink out, a lost diver bobbing on the surface of a vast sea about to be swallowed up. In the great scheme of things, his existence was no more significant than a bug’s.
And so what if he got splatted? The species would continue.
Kraa kraa.
He could put the little body in the boot of his car and bury it in Tiverby’s woods tonight. There was a good spot out round the back of Atherton’s Farm with some pretty dense ferns that would provide excellent cover. The grave would be so small he’d barely have to break sweat.
Kraa kraa.
Were the police even looking for Abdullah anymore? He hadn’t seen anything on the news for ages. They’d given up. They knew he was a goner and maybe it was time for him to do the same.
He pushed himself off the wall and looked at the feebly moving child. He knelt on the mat alongside the tub. He slipped a hand in the water. Abdullah’s head lolled toward him.
He braced himself.
“God giveth, Abdullah... and God taketh away.”
He took hold of a foot and –
Something slammed into the window.
He jumped and turned to see a large crow flapping its wings and rapping the glass with its bill. He stared at the dementedly cawing animal as it strutted up and down the sill. Then he glanced at his hand on the boy’s foot. A pulse savagely beat in his temple. He closed his eyes and put a hand on his head, groaning until it stopped. Silence screamed and when he looked back at the window the bird was gone.
He pulled his hand out of the water and turned off the tap. For a while he knelt beside the tub with his forehead resting on the edge, unable to stop his shaking shoulders.
****
He walked in the darkness.
Sometimes motorists blared their horns and shouted at him to get out of the way. He stumbled and weaved, eventually following Tiverby Road into the city. He stood on its central bridge staring down at the streetlights’ yellow reflections on the filthy river. He stayed there so long that the occasional passer-by asked if he were all right. He did not answer any of them, eventually turning and wandering back into Tiverby.
He knew where he had to go, where it would all end.
As the dawn began to break, he walked up the narrow High Street, passing his old school, the pharmacy and the Raven’s Beak pub. He stopped at the horse chestnut tree and looked up at its branches, recalling all the hours he’d spent as a kid trying to knock conkers down from it. He patted its sturdy trunk and pressed his cheek against it.
He set off again and turned at the tail end of the common onto Chesterton Road.
His pace slowed as he spotted Abdullah’s dad sitting on the low wall opposite the mosque. His head was down and he was apparently studying his feet.
He ambled closer, trying to make a decision until he stood six or seven feet away. His hand reached inside a jacket pocket and touched Abdullah’s letter. All he had to do was place it on the wall.
He felt his face crumple, knowing he couldn’t do it.
The father continued to study his feet. If he were aware of his presence, he wasn’t letting on.
The professor cautiously sat next to him.
“My friend,” he eventually said, “I hope you’re going to be more polite than last time.”
He swallowed. “I’ll try...”
The father glanced sideways at him with narrowed eyes. Then his expression softened. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and proffered one.
“I don’t – ”
“You look like you need one.”
He nodded, put a cigarette in his mouth and allowed it to be lit. He tried to inhale, instantly breaking into a coughing fit. His back was thumped as his eyes streamed. Gradually he got his breathing under control again.
He looked at the burning cigarette, knowing that was all the time he had left.
They smoked together.
The father spoke again. “May I ask what you’re doing out and about so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He nodded. “Ah, yes. I know that feeling.” He turned to look at him again. “Are you OK?”
“I... I don’t know.” The professor took another drag but didn’t inhale. “I saw you on the telly.”
“Yeah...” He sighed. “Not that it did any good.” He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under a foot and got up. “I have salah.”
“Does it help?”
“Does what help?”
“Praying.”
“Of course.”
He walked across the road, took off his shoes and disappeared into the mosque.
The professor continued to sit on the wall, aware of the growing red tinge to the early morning light. Movement to the left caught his eye and he turned to see the tabby cat with the red collar slink past a stationary car. He smiled and beckoned. It meowed, unsure of whether to come to him. Then it made the decision and darted across to begin rubbing against his legs. He fussed over it until it walked a few feet away and sat in front of him licking a paw. It looked at him in a really strange way, as if waiting for him to do something.
He glanced up at the mosque’s minaret silhouetted against the deep red sky. A couple of birds landed and began strutting along one of its edges.
The world was so beautiful.
He took another drag on the cigarette, now able to feel the heat on his fingers.
He watched more birds alight on top of the mosque. They started cawing and he knew they were calling to him.
He dropped the cigarette and stood, aware of something in his trouser pocket. He pulled out the golden key.
He stared at it, unable to remember putting it there.
And then he made his way across the road, took off his shoes and hesitantly entered the mosque.
*
If you enjoyed this story, please take the trouble to tell someone. Dave Franklin has written eleven other books, none of which should be read to small children at bedtime. Contact him at babyicedog_dave@hotmail.com Here’s a handy guide to his full-length work at Amazon US and Amazon UK:
HORROR SUPERNATURAL DARK FANTASY
Begin The Madness: The Straitjacket Blues Trilogy – From insane killers and the horrors of war to religious ecstasy and suicide, Dave Franklin cordially invites you on a journey to the darkest corners of the human heart.
PSYCHOLOGICAL / CRIME
To Dare a Future – A van driver with abduction and murder on his mind. A schoolgirl snatched on her way home from ballet. A tortured reporter, happy to use her death and the terrifying reign of a child killer to help make his name...
Girls Like Funny Boys – An ultra-dark tale that charts the life of misogynistic Australian schoolboy and wannabe comedian Johnny Goodwin through to his modern day fame.
Riders on the Storm and other Killer Songs – Three rock classics turned into horrifying tales of crime.
DARK COMEDY
Looking For Sarah Jane Smith – A caustic comedy that follows one man’s search for the perfect woman.
Manic Streets of Perth – A comedy that centres on a bunch of Australian misfits all struggling to make better lives for themselves.
English Toss on Planet Andong – A biting black comedy that focuses on three hopeless expat teachers who have all ended up in a South Korean classroom for the wrong reasons.
Evil Arse Soup: Three Ultra-Dark Comedies – A bargain-priced anthology of the above titles.
EROTICA
Bawdy Blokes: Three Porno Funnies – Three blokes. Three lewd tales set in China, South Wales and Saudi Arabia. What more do you want?
BABY ICE DOG PRESS
Dave Franklin, Saving a Child From God
