Eric took one loping stride towards him. Darren moved forward as well, probably thinking that Eric was going for the crossbow to reuse the bolt in his hand. But he wasn’t.
As Darren swung the machete in a wide horizontal arc – more of a threat than a defensive action – Eric dropped like a sack of stones and planted the bolt in the other man’s calf.
Darren yelped and swore as he keeled over, slamming the hilt of the machete down between Eric’s shoulder blades. It was a hard enough hit to drive the air from Eric’s lungs. He crashed face first to the floorboards.
Darren reached down and yanked the bolt out from his leg in one sharp motion and one loud, enraged yell. Flinging the bolt to the side and out of reach, he pointed his blade at Eric and demanded one last time that they all turn around and leave him be and never come back.
But his demands were cut short when blood suddenly filled his throat and choked out his words.
Focused on Eric, he hadn’t seen Sammy approach him quickly from the side with her Swiss pocket knife gripped in a white-knuckled fist. Even if he had, he likely wouldn’t have expected her to plunge a blade into his neck. He had probably assumed that the knives behind him on the dining table were the only ones in the room.
The man called Darren – just one of the many people they had witnessed die that day – collapsed, spluttering and finally letting his machete fall beside the crossbow so he could use both hands to grasp in desperation at his irreparable throat. His eyes didn’t look so sunken anymore after the life had faded from them. They bulged large and dry from their sockets, accusing, asking questions of Kingsley that he realised he had already answered for himself a while ago.
*
They did not have time to give James a proper burial outside. Even if there was no possibility that the other three people from Darren’s group would get back from their supply run any minute now, there also weren’t any places to bury him. The flat block backed up against a wide car park and it had no gardens or green spaces around it.
The best they could do was cover his body with a bedsheet where it lay on the scarred floor of the flat.
Tears streamed down Sammy’s face. Eric cheeks and brow trembled as if anger and sorrow were battling for control over his facial expression. Kingsley cried soundlessly.
“We need…” Sammy struggled to speak between sobs. “We—we need to do something for him. We can’t just leave him here for other people to...”
“There’s nothing else we can do,” Kingsley said. “We don’t have time. We should already be gone by now. If Darren’s friends come back to this mess, they’ll want someone to blame, and if they’re as well armed as he was, we could be in real trouble. I don’t think James would have wanted a funeral. He wouldn’t have liked us mourning him, he wouldn’t have wanted that kind of attention... He would have wanted to empower us, not make us grieve.”
Eric was already looting Darren’s flat – grabbing food, weapons, his meagre medical supplies, dropping them into the duffel bag on the chair beside the dining table.
“I think you’re right,” Sammy whispered after a long, tear-filled pause.
Eric went into the bedroom and came out with two pillows and a bottle of multivitamins, both of which he also crammed into the bag.
The chain mace he held in his right hand. He frowned at the spiked head dangling by his hip as if the weapon was an unpredictable beast in need of taming.
Sammy leaned over James’ shrouded form and balanced something on his chest, her hand remaining over the object for a few seconds before she stood up and turned away, wiping her eyes. Her pocket knife, still wet and glistening from its recent use, lay on James’ body like a sick flower petal, coated in a crimson sap.
Kingsley knew then what he needed to do. The events of the day had repeatedly dug up sour memories of his bad choices, and now he saw exactly what needed to happen for him to forgive himself.
He needed to get back to Emma, he needed to make sure she was okay, and he needed to try to make a real apology to her. Just like when he had sat in the doctor’s office after the accident, thinking about how unhealable Emma’s wounds would be while he received his own diagnosis – a minor concussion, some bruising on the ribs – Kingsley realised it was past time he took action to make things better.
Back then, the action he had resolved to take was to distance himself from Emma, to give her space so that he wouldn't be able to ruin her life anymore. But now he needed to do the opposite – to find her and make sure she was okay.
*
The sombre trio had no idea they were being watched as they exited the block of flats.
They were too busy watching the group of snappers at the butcher’s van as they snuck away to notice the three pairs of eyes regarding them from behind a communal bin next to the building, paying special attention to the chain mace and the overflowing duffel bag they were carrying.
And of course, they didn’t see Darren’s friends enter the block after they were gone, or creep into the flat with knives and a cricket bat poised. The look of pain and disappointment on those faces when they saw the carnage inside.
One of them picked up the Swiss pocket knife from the body, twirled the sticky weapon between his fingers for a moment, and then announced through clenched teeth, “We’re going to make those fuckers pay for this.”
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