Disharmony

‘What’re you doing, man?’ said Fonso. ‘That’s not cool.’

Others moaned, injured by the reminder of reality that streamed into the room with the sunlight.

Birthday banged furiously at the lock on the window with the heel of his hand. It looked to Samantha as though her friend would break his arm before the mechanism budged. She reached down. Parallel to the skirting board a dull silver pipe was mostly hidden by a pile of rags. For some reason it had been one of the first things she’d become aware of after they entered the room. She picked it up.

‘Here, try this,’ she said, passing it to Birthday.

He did a double take, his eyes wild, panicked. He snatched the pole from her.

‘Stand back,’ he said.

Samantha grabbed Mirela by the arm and dragged her away from the window. Like a baseball bat, Birthday raised the pole up over his shoulder and swung. The window smashed on the first blow and the crash fractured the dazed stupor of the room. Dark shapes rose up from the floor around her. Samantha wondered how many people she had stepped on as she and Mirela had made their way across to the windows.

‘Sam, Mirela, get up here,’ yelled Birthday.

He used the pole to smash out the rest of the window, glass spraying everywhere. Then he picked up wads of filthy clothing from the floor around him and threw them out the window by the armful.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Mirela.

Samantha didn’t know either, but Birthday was obviously freaked out, so she quickly shovelled up another mound of rags. He snatched them from her and spread them over the windowsill. Then he stood back, waving Mirela forward.

‘Go!’ he said.

‘What! Are you crazy?’ she said. ‘We’re one floor up.’

‘There’s an awning,’ he said. ‘It’ll hold you. I’ve used it before. Just drop down. Now.’

Mirela faced him, hands on her hips. ‘Why can’t we use the stairs?’ she said.

From across the other side of the room, the doorway darkened. Samantha swung around. She could see only one new arrival to the squat, but she sensed there were others behind him. Then they locked eyes and the world suddenly shuddered by in blink-by-blink frames. She’d never seen or felt anyone like him.

She tried to focus through the gloom. At first glance, he appeared to be wearing a white vest over a long- sleeved, multicoloured shirt. With another blink, she realised that he wore only a singlet, and his arms were completely covered, shoulders to wrists, in blazing multicoloured tattoos. A strip of spiked black hair stood at attention along the crest of his otherwise shaved head, and a livid, puckered scar gouged its way through his bottom lip and down under his chin. Something dark and narrow protruded from behind his right shoulder, like a single, sheathed black wing.

‘Sam! Now!’ yelled Birthday, breaking her from her trance.

As Mirela began to climb gingerly over the rags, Birthday leaned down and with his shoulders shoved her, squawking in protest, through the window. Samantha didn’t have to be told twice. She could feel the man coming towards them, a boiling wave of violence. Without even looking, she turned and dived headfirst through the window. Right now, she didn’t care what was on the other side.

Just as she felt half of her body clear the window she saw, directly below her, Mirela scrabbling in the fabric awning suspended over the road. And then Mirela sat up and her head and shoulders hooked in under Samantha’s diaphragm and propelled her forward.

Samantha flew over the edge of the awning.

It took a couple of blinks to realise that time hadn’t actually stopped, but that she swung upside down, two metres from the ground, her ankles gripped painfully from above.

Blink. Staring up at her, a woman with a pram met her eyes and screamed.

Blink. The shopkeeper with the broom spotted her, stopped sweeping, and smiled widely, evidently immensely entertained by her sudden appearance.

Blink. The original Nordic jock, leaning against a wall, swung his eyes upwards; froze. His cigarette fell from his lips.

Blink. The concrete pavement rushed up to meet her as the awning gave way.

***

Samantha knew that she owed her life to the lady with the pram and to an older Romanian woman. Without any thought for themselves, they’d rushed to stand beneath her and caught her, all of them crashing to the ground.

For maybe a second, the world was silent, peaceful, as she lay shrouded with her rescuers under the heavy awning. And then her hearing exploded into life again as the canvas was wrenched away from them by shouting passers-by. She struggled to her feet with the young mother, both of them desperately scanning the street for the pram. Another shopper rushed forward, pushing the baby towards them, and Samantha burst into tears. Thank God the child was safe.

Birthday Jones wrenched her by the wrist, dragging her off-balance. And she remembered that man. Up there.

‘Wait!’ she cried, as he started running, pulling her along.

The older woman sat dazed on the pavement, people bending over her to try and help her to her feet. The young mum still had not looked up from her pram. She had to thank them. And where was Mirela?

Arms suddenly wrapped around her, almost tackling her back to the pavement.

‘Are you okay?’ yelled Mirela.

‘RUN!’ shouted Birthday Jones.

They took off again, the tears on Samantha’s cheeks drying as she ran. Pain smashed against her skull with every step she took. Her shoulder throbbed in rhythm with the pounding from her head, and she tried to breathe through the pain, open-mouthed. To distract herself, she sent a prayer to Goddess Gaia to bless forever the lives of the woman still on the pavement and the mother and child, and she pushed her legs harder than she ever had to get away from what she had seen up there.

They bolted along the footpath of the busy street, shoppers clearing a path. She was vaguely aware of whistles and shouts, and of bare feet slapping the pavement as members of Birthday’s crew ran with them – in front of them, behind them, flanking them and then dispersing. They turned right onto the next road, also busy with lunchtime traffic.

And then a terrible, paralysing dread reached into Samantha’s innards and squeezed. They were closing in. An image of the tattooed man with the scar almost tripped her and she screamed in fear.

‘Birthday! They’re coming!’ She didn’t recognise her own voice.

She tried to push her legs harder, but the ruthless intent emanating from those chasing them was an emotional lasso, looping around her ankles, drawing her to a stop. It was pointless anyway to run. She felt that for every step they took, the creatures behind them took at least two. She could sense no desperation or anxiety; only their focused objective. The cold certainty invaded her lungs, freezing the air as she gulped desperately, sapping her strength. She stumbled. They wanted her. For some ridiculous reason, they wanted her, and they were going to catch her within moments. Maybe if she just stopped running they’d leave Mirela and Birthday alone. She slowed.

Mirela was by her side in an instant.

‘No!’ Samantha yelled. ‘Just keep going!’

Ahead of them, Birthday Jones skidded to a halt. Whistles and hoots from his crew bounced around them like bat signals. He bolted back to her side.

‘You idiot!’ he said. ‘I hope you can fight.’ He turned to face their hunters, the pole from the squat in his hand.

Samantha tried to tell herself that things would be okay. Surely one of the staring shoppers would call the police if these people tried to hurt them.

They rounded the corner, loping like cats. Three of them. They were Asian, heavily tattooed and utterly terrifying. Like Scarface, his friends’ heads were buzz-cut bald and they held something dark in their hands.