Xavier Leret

My Daughter asked for speech marks, so, as I am writing for her, in this chapter there are speech marks. When I get a mo I will add speech marks to the rest of it.

Ahead of her was a patrol moving slowly from building to building. Men in uniforms halting people as they passed, knocking on doors. Questions, questions, faces dropping to the floor. No eyes connecting. Faces drained of colour, eyes glazed. Over the other side of the road a man was confronted. His bag searched. The man gesticulated, struggled, shouted. Was pushed to the wall. Sal kept walking. There was no stopping now. The man was brought to his knees. Sal's eyes concentrated straight ahead. The man fought his way up. He was screaming and Sal kept walking. Her head down, ignoring him. By now a crowd was squinting out of the windows and the man was fenced by a crowd of black uniforms. He was pushed to the floor and his torso pinned with a boot and the back of his head cracked and his forehead split forward into the pavement. And the girl keeps walking but she has to look, to glance, because to not do so would be unnatural, and yet all who walk passed keep their eyes to the ground, to the ground, but stretching to see. The mayhem is to her right and the man is dragged to his feet and bundled into the back of a ruck, a deep dripping cut in his forehead and the engine hums a monotonous threnody as it goes about its work.

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That night he was like a fish pulled from the sea, his body flapping this way and that in his bed. Would Daizee be there next Friday? And what if she wasn't? What if something happened to her? Only that morning he had read about the killer who hand picked prostitutes from the streets and, having killed them he shaved them clean to deposit them as naked mannequins in fields. Carlo's stomach cramped. He pictured Daizee lying in a field, broken, naked, on her front. Saw himself searching for her, trolling the whole of Bristol, every building site, every disused building, the Downs, Leigh Woods and finally, after walking out into the countryside, seeing her from a distance. A white blur, it could be anything but he knew it was her, could feel it in his stomach. Throughout his search he knew that this was how it would end, that she hadn't abandoned him, but had been taken from him. Falling to his knees to take her up in his arms, his lips brush with her hair. Carlo bit his pillow, choked and as he told her that he loved her again and again he could not control himself from soaking his pillow with tears.

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I have been tinkering. Have lost the other narrative. I think this story is much more visceral if I keep it focused on the children. I don't think I need to make it clear what is chasing them. The children's disorientation is shared by the reader.

3.

Where are you going? Said the disembodied voice of her mother.

I have to get food Mum, she says, standing alone outside the derelict apartment, before leaning into the door to listen for Johnnie, somewhere behind it, needing to know that he was alright. That he had gone back to their sister. But she could hear nothing beyond the sound of her own breathing. The corridor seemed darker, the torn carpet more filthy. There was a chronic chill to place, the air she was breathing was smut ridden. Unable to hear any activity behind the door she turned to face the empty doorway at the top of her stairs. She stood there listening, testing the air for the scent of strangers, thought she heard a groan, bit her lip, dismissed the sound as being of her imagination, forced herself to move to the doorway and then craning her neck around, she saw that she was alone, edged out to the top of the stairs, before making a slow decent, with one hand on the wall and the other on the metal bannister that shook under the strain of her grip.

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Once home Carlo sat down to supper, his head lent sadly to one side, resting on his left hand. He was unable to face his meal. The dining room walls were plastered with two dimensional Byzantium icons depicting the Madonna and child, various saints in various states of ecstasy. Behind his father the Saints Peter and Paul. Behind his mother Christ was crucified.

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Carlo had no idea what the film was about. His attention was captivated by Daizee who was sitting beside him engrossed in the movie, twisting her short hair with her finger and spooning popcorn into her mouth. She hardly noticed him, at least that was what he thought. Every time she laughed it brought a smile to his face.

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Through the branches of the bushes under which they were hiding, Sal could see the feet of children running and hear their excited voices shouting, screaming and laughing. With each sound she squeezed herself closer to her brother. Every time footsteps came too close she held her breath. Johnnie was holding her hand tightly, and his arm was wrapped around hers. Boo was lying quietly across the lap of her crossed legs. Sal could feel that her legs had gone to sleep, but she didn't dare move, just in case she caught a branch, and the branch shuddered the entire bush, to give away their presence to the whole of the park.

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During the week he could think of nothing else but her black eye. Had it happened in that car she had climbed out of? He had only seen the shadow of the driver, was this the villain? Or had she wandered into some dark place like some caped crusader and dished out as much as she had received, leaving her attacker broken on the floor, exiting the scene as police sirens howled warning of their coming? It was not long before he too had been there, in the scene, and, once the blow had been planted on her, he shot into action and broke the hand of her assailant before splintering his legs to leave him begging for mercy, which he was not prepared to give, and it was she who stopped him from landing the killer blow for she was a creature of clemency.

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