It had been easier than I thought to avoid Mark these last few days. He had been slow and moody, sitting on his bed, using more of his supply than he was selling. I had never seen him like that before, he had never been anything but in complete control.
But his demeanour meant I had been able to get out for my party, for our party, and now it was over, and just the brothers and I. But then, a shadow filled the doorway.
“Mark!” I cried out his name in horror, but straight away put a smile on my face, hoping he would think I had shouted his name with pleasure and surprise. But he didn’t appear to notice my tone. Unsteadily he walked over to the chair in front of the T.V and he slumped into it.
“Hey, buddy,” said Miles, uneasily. “Want a beer?”
Mark, not taking his eyes off the screen, where a colourful, loud film was showing with the sound turned down, held out his hand. Miles slid a bottle into it before backing into the kitchen.
The three brothers huddled together and I stood near Mark’s chair. The atmosphere was like a heavy, bad smell. I flinched as Mark picked up the remote and I looked at the television. Al Pacino was wearing a bright red shirt, there was a lady on a bed, leaning on a pillow. She wasn’t a pretty lady, she looked like no one I’d ever seen here. She looked mean. There was another man, a sweaty, nervous looking guy. Suddenly there was a flash of movement and now Al and his side kick were tied up in metal chains in the sweaty man’s bathroom. The woman, who now had a big gun instead of the pillow, turned the television up very loud. In real life, in front of me, Mark did the same. He caught my eye and with a sideways flick of his head he called me over to him.
“They have to die,” he said.
I blinked at him, thinking he was talking about Al and his friends. But then he pulled a gun out of the waistband of his trousers. It wasn’t a big gun like the lady had in the film. It was small, almost concealed in his big hands. And with a sigh which turned into a grunt, he stood up and faced the brothers in the kitchen.
Miles flinched away, held a hand up. The first bullet went straight through Miles’ palm. His fingers flicked in all directions. Someone screamed. It might have been me.
I woke up. Which was funny as I didn’t remember falling asleep. I shifted, cold now the sun had set. Then, I remembered. The boys and I were leaving, we were going to Amsterdam and beyond. I would no longer have to worry about Mark and his actions which frightened me.
But as I thought about that, I recalled something else.
Miles, holding a hand up, like a policeman saying ‘stop’. The crack of a pistol, the fingers flying off Mile’s hand, like a piñata that had split, all the goodies falling to the ground.
I sat up, found that I was slumped by the front door which, for only the second time since I’d been here, was closed. The boys were nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t see Mark either. A quick glance at the television told me I’d not been spaced out for too long; Scarface was still on, only now Al had risen through the ranks. Now he was the big-shot, he was the one holding the gun now, though it looked like he’d been injured again, he was wearing a sling.
It wouldn’t stop Al though, as he stalked around the office, a big old palm tree painted on the wall behind him, a false picture of cheeriness in a world as frightening as mine.
“Boy, come in here.” Mark’s gruff voice made me jump.
My feet carried me reluctantly into the bathroom.
My three friends were in there, but they didn’t look like themselves anymore.
I began to cry as I stared at David. At that big, wide mouth that only ever opened to laugh or crack a joke. Now it was motionless, an ‘O’ of shock, frozen in time forever in the horror that must have been his last moments. Vinnie, big, stubborn, sometimes moody Vinnie. Now he looked scared, frightened, and I’d never seen him like that before. My eyes travelled down his chest to his broad, muscular shoulders. His arms, the arms that grabbed at his brothers and at me, that enveloped all of us in great big hugs, they were gone. Crudely hacked off above his elbows. I looked around the floor for his missing arms, but I couldn’t see them. I looked back at the boys, realising that their skin was blackened and charred. They had been burnt, had Mark burned them?
Miles was propped up on the toilet. Miles; my favourite brother.
I glanced at his hand, the one that was still there. I avoided looking at the other one, a mangled mess.
“Miles,” I whispered.
I didn’t expect an answer, but as I spoke his name his eyes opened. I jumped back, crashed into something, spun around to see Mark standing behind me.
“He’s … he’s alive!” I took Mark’s hand, a strange gesture, never did I touch people before they initiated it, for usually people didn’t like me touching them. “Mark, what should we do?”
He looked down at me, his eyes two, blue, cold-as-ice chips
