Beginning of the End
An ‘In The End’ Novella
GJ Stevens
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © GJ Stevens 2020
The moral right of GJ Stevens to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved.
Copyright under the Berne Convention
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2020 by James Norbury
Cover design by James Norbury
www.JamesNorbury.com
ISBN: 9798714322549
DEDICATION
For Jayne. You make me.
For Sarah. My inspiration.
1
Wedged in the tight space, I stood shivering; not just because of the cold on my bare arms or piercing through my thin pyjamas. Not because of the darkness; the only light coming from the bottom of the door. Not for the memory of that smell that made me want to gag with every breath.
My stomach gripped tight, like a hand clenched around my organs, but not only because I hadn’t finished my breakfast. There was plenty of food stacked on the long rows of shelves on the other side of the door, but only if I cared to chance my life with what might be waiting beyond.
I shook because the once blaring sirens had gone silent, along with the other loud noises that faded to nothing. I shook for what would come next.
I’d been there so long. Hours at least. Half a day, perhaps. My bladder aching.
I was in a cupboard; a utility room barely seen in the flash of daylight as I ran in. Pulling the door closed behind me, I panted so hard I thought I would burst. I’d seen the shelves, but not paid attention to their colourful contents. I’d seen the great white porcelain sink I leaned against and the mop and bucket in the corner. I smelt the stale odour.
Despite knowing I could turn and relieve myself in the sink, I couldn’t bring myself to expose my back to the door and let my guard down to relieve the pain.
A not-too-distant sound of feet scraping along the pavement beyond the outer door stopped me just as the courage rose enough for the turn.
The sound died back and I relaxed, but not enough to move from the spot. Not enough to twist around and take those few moments to risk my life for a little discomfort.
The shivering grew worse, each tremor as if it would force my aching bladder to burst.
I slowly raised my hands, pausing at what could have been a sound beyond the door, or it could have been my imagination; an imagination I hoped had made this all up. An imagination which had conjured the fear, the pain and the loss.
I strained to hear, but the sound had gone and I tried not to think of something heavy, a body, being dragged across the floor. I tried not to think of my brother out there. And my mum.
It had been long enough; the moments sinking into memories. The feelings overtaking the sights. Everything twisted in my mind. They could have been out there searching for me. They could have been waiting to explain the misunderstanding. To tell me I’d been sleepwalking. To tell me I shouldn’t have run off. To say I shouldn’t have followed Mum’s plea to get away.
Not able to hold back any longer, I eased my hands backwards. Feeling the cold of the sink, I rushed around, pulling my thin trousers down. Breathing away the relief, I clenched at the sound it made gurgling down the plughole. It smelt so strong, so rich. Mum’s voice reminded me I had to drink more.
Pulling up my trousers, I basked in the comfort and my mind wandered back to her voice ringing in my ears.
“Run.”
2
Steve, my brother, worked long hours; usually leaving before I woke and would be back home just as Mum served dinner.
Yesterday, staggering through the door and arriving much earlier than he normally would, he surprised me, almost sending me falling into the Christmas tree and spilling my lunch across the floor.
On seeing his grim expression and grey complexion, I spoke whilst trying not to show my concern over his hunched appearance.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure,” he replied, squinting as he shuffled over to the fridge before opening the door to glance at the shelves.
“You don’t look it,” I said.
“I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong with your arm?” I added, as I noticed he’d kept it bent at the elbow and tucked in front of his stomach.
“Nothing,” he replied, turning his back as he pulled out a carton of orange juice and drank.
“You could get a pay-out,” I said and he turned, scowling my way. “What did your work say about it?”
“Nothing,” he said, glaring at me before dropping the juice carton back on the shelf. “There’s bigger things going on in the world than money.”
“You should have told them at least.”
“What does a sixteen-year-old know?” he said, still with his back to me.
I turned away, listening as he staggered to the stairs, taking his time with each step until the sound faded to nothing.
When Mum came home from work, she found him sound asleep when she took in his dinner, calling me in to see if I agreed with her concern. I thought he looked much better as he slept in the double bed, thinking he probably had the cold currently going around.
It was no surprise he was ill, Mum would always say whenever he got even a sniffle. The lab worked
