Chapter Seven
Billy Jones woke up on Monday afternoon at precisely 1:12pm. He knew this because that was the time he saw when he looked over to digital alarm clock sitting on his side table next to his bed. He looked around the room, his head pounded unmercifully hard, and he felt like his cranium was about to crack open. He had never felt a headache like it and his body ached with the bruises.
He crawled out of his bed fully clothed from the day before, still wearing his boots, and peered into his living room. Just as he thought, three quarters of his bottle of Southern Comfort had been polished off when he had woken up at 3am; then he went back to bed at a time he didn't know. The bottle sat idly next to the television.
His memory was starting to come back to him now.
After his beating, he went back to the apartment and passed out. But he couldn't believe he had slept away all of the evening to three in the morning.
He also had no recollection of trashing the room afterwards. His couch was unharmed, but his living room mirror had been smashed, his table had been knocked over and his lamp was lying on the floor next to his window in a dozen shattered pieces.
"At least I remembered to turn the television off."
Billy didn't have a drinking problem, or at least he thought he didn't. Getting wasted on a weekend was usually his 'end of the week treat.' He never drank during the week, as he knew it would eventually kill him. Whatever Billy went through, no matter how down he felt, he still wanted to see his beautiful boy grow up to be a young man. Despite Billy not liking himself for whatever reason, his son still adored him and Billy's death would only damage the fragile little boy. He couldn't put young Joseph through that.
He staggered into his kitchen to find any medical treatment that could cure the dreadful feeling, but he had nothing. Realistically he would be better off with two pints of water, a multi vitamin and some milk thistle, but he decided to go and see Ali and get some of the hard stuff.
*****
Five minutes had passed and Billy had walked into the shop to be greeted by a flustered Ali.
"What's up?" Billy asked.
"Bloody kids!" Ali snapped.
"Robbed me they did, bloody idiots!" Ali did that thing where he shook his fist in the air to no one in particular—Basil Fawlty style. Billy found it humorous. Not the robbery, but Ali's response.
Billy queried, "What did they get?"
"A handful of chocolate bars."
Billy let out a rare chuckle and shook his head. "Christ, Ali! I thought you had been held up by gunpoint, the way you were talking."
"Hey, Billy, that's not the point. It's still money coming out of my till!" Ali slammed his fists onto the counter.
Billy laughed out loud. He only seemed to laugh when he was in the presence of his eccentric shopkeeper.
"I don't know what you're laughing at."
"I'm not laughing at you," Billy protested mockingly, almost forgetting about his banging head. "I'm laughing with you. You're just not laughing."
"Little runts!"
"Ali!" a female voice screeched in the background.
From the back of the shop appeared Ali's wife, Naghmeh. She was a lot younger than Ali, by ten years at least, very beautiful, and was dressed with a thin black scarf over her head.
"Oh, hi Billy," she greeted, and turned to her husband. "What are you doing using foul language like that in the shop, don't forget that your boy is upstairs?"
Billy tried to stick up for Ali. "He said 'little runts,' Nagmeh. Not 'little c—"
"I'm sorry Naghmeh," Ali began to crawl, and quickly changed the subject. "Are we still closing up at half past one?"
A young boy appeared from the back of the shop through the door that led to their house. He was seven-years-old.
Billy smiled with sadness as he saw the young boy. Awkwardness covered the Zarindoost family, and Naghmeh ushered the boy back upstairs and returned to the counter, standing next to her husband.
"So how are you, Billy?" she asked sympathetically.
"I'm okay. I've just come to pick up these headache tablets." He shook the packet.
"You're not going to charge him for them, are you?" She grilled her husband.
Looking half petrified, Ali sighed and said, "Look, apart from his apartment, this is probably the only place, most of the time, that Billy can come to without being pestered by people. So, yes, I will charge him, and yes I do joke with Billy and sometimes I even insult the miserable looking bleeder. And do you know why? Because he just wants to be treated like a normal person!"
Naghmeh glared at her husband and pointed at Billy. "This man saved our boy's life."
Ali lowered his head. "And I will be eternally grateful. But Billy needs normality, woman."
Billy stood sheepishly, his head bowed with slight embarrassment. Still holding the packet of headache tablets, he handed Ali the correct change for the product.
"I'm sorry, Billy," Naghmeh spoke softly. "I didn't realise."
"It's okay." Billy smiled. "Just trying to get this third year anniversary out of the way; it's next week."
Both members of the Zarindoost nodded their heads. They knew the third anniversary was coming up; after all, their boy was there when the tragic event occurred.
"Can't believe I haven't seen you in years," Nagmeth continued. "It's such a small town as well."
"I don't go out much."
An awkward silence enveloped the three adults, and Billy forced out a polite smirk at the couple, wordlessly, he turned to the exit of the shop and left the premises, heading back to his one bedroomed prison.
Chapter Eight
The young nineteen-year-old had been following Billy Jones for the last twenty minutes. It wasn't intentional; it was accidental. Although many wouldn't believe him, he had decided on going for a stroll and once the sharp wind picked up and hit his face like a thousand razor blades, he decided to go back to his apartment block before the evening weather changed for the worse and that was when he turned the corner, and he saw him a few yards in front. He wasn't following him, he just happened to be going the same way he was.
He looked up to see the early dim moon that hung like a flashlight using the last of the life of its batteries, and the clouds drifted nonchalantly across, as if they had all the time in the world.
His own apartment was in the same block as Billy Jones, and the last thing he wanted was for the man to think that he was being stalked by some idiotic lonely guy; so he remained behind him and hoped he wouldn't turn around. He was sure that he had had enough of that kind of behaviour over the last three years from odd individuals as well as members of the press.
The nineteen-year-old looked up to see the weather changing for the worse, and without warning the rain hit him like a shower of diamonds, which cooled his warm skin. He was glad that the man in front was quickening his pace and they were now both a half a mile away from home.
He walked past a car that sat under the tree; its long bushy arms protecting the metal being from the rain filled skies. It was similar to a car he used to drive himself before being done for drink driving.
He had never managed to enjoy normality since losing his little brother three years ago. Every time he looked back on the event that dominated the national press for weeks, left a bitter taste in his mouth, like he had a mouthful of vinegar.
Despite that his brother had closed his eyes upon the light of the world forever a few years ago, he still felt that the older man he was accidentally following back to the apartment block, deserved more credit for his efforts that day. He had seen him on a couple of occasions as they passed one another on the stairs. The first time he saw him, he just gazed at him.
He couldn't help himself, it was like having a minor celebrity in the building, and although Billy Jones wasn't the kind of man to revel in what he had achieved, the young man couldn't help himself and promised himself that the next time he bumped into him, he would try and be a bit more relaxed, rather
than freaking his neighbour out, otherwise a punch on the nose might come his way.
The youngster hadn't been living there that long, and although the area and apartment was a little run down, it was all he could afford from his wage from the supermarket.
He turned left into his street and hung back as the evening was gradually lowering its contrast. He watched Billy Jones walk into the building block and then followed suit, as he was paranoid that Billy might think he was some kind of stalker. He waited a few seconds, and then quickly went in, as this wasn't the best of streets to be hanging about in, especially after dark. Knowing his own apartment was on the same floor as Billy's, opposite his door, he took his time walking up the flights of stairs and eventually speeded up his progress once he heard Billy's door shut loudly above his head.
Now that the man was out of the way and in the comfort of his one bedroom apartment, the nineteen-year-old made more of an effort and turned his walk into a jog making his way to the top of the block and went through his front door.
It wasn't the right time to pester the man for answers. Maybe another day?
Chapter Nine
He grabbed the right hand of the attacker and fell to the floor; both men struggled and fought for their lives. Billy looked into the man's eyes. Billy was no medical expert, but the man looked gone. There was no other way to explain it. He just looked…gone!
Billy was fighting a losing battle, as the man was so much stronger than him and thankfully when the man fell onto his back, the knife fell out of his hand and skittered its way across the floor. Billy desperately reached out for the knife, and without having time to think, he clasped both hands around the handle of the knife and drove it through the right side of the man's chest like a vampire slayer.
The attacker let out a deep sigh, as if he was annoyed by something, his left hand grabbing the sleeve of Billy's shirt. His eyes closed as he took his last breath, his arm fell to his side. Billy looked down onto his attacker's chest. It was obviously bloodied from the penetration of the blade, and formed almost a perfect bloody circle around the area of where his heart once pumped. His hands were still tightly clasped around the knife, oblivious to the frantic screams of female adults and mainly children that swirled around his head.
He looked around and saw young bloodied bodies scattered over the floor, some were moving, but some weren't. Some stood crying, other just stood there shaking. Some were being comforted, whilst others stood on their own. Billy remembered young Ali especially. He stood in the corner of the room next to the poster with the alphabet on, and shook violently, sobbing, and urine clearly trickling down his frightened legs. Billy would never forget that image.
He stood to his feet; his hands removed from the handle of the knife and scanned the room. Stepping over the man's corpse, he then suddenly realised why he was there.
Joseph.
*****
Billy snapped out of his daydream and took another slurp of his tepid cup of coffee. His dusky thoughts left him boiling mad, and his head spun like a spinning top with un-welcomed visions that refused to leave him, like pilot fish that hung around sharks awaiting the scraps of its kill.
He always hated Mondays, even when he was working.
He reached for the remote and turned on the television.
Having a head as heavy as a book weight, and having concoction of emotions bubbling within him, was now considered a normal feeling for Billy Jones.
His eyes widened and moved them rigidly from side to side like one of his old Action Man dolls, to wake himself up. He widened his sticky eyes again, like a child does when yearning for a toy, and his slow, tired feet, trudged lazily to the bathroom as if he was walking in thick lumpy porridge.
He twisted the taps to fill his bath and looked in the mirror to see his worn, tired face. He inspected the side of his hair and was neither disappointed or bothered about the new grey that had seem to have materialised overnight. He walked out of the bathroom to leave the sound of water in the background, and headed into his living room. He had seen it a thousand times since the crime had occurred, but his heart still weighed heavy as he looked at the unframed picture of his Joseph on top of the fireplace, leaning against a wall. It was only a small photo—the size of a credit card, but it was his favourite. He stepped closer towards it, picked it up, and gave it a kiss.
"My beautiful boy."
Chapter Ten
The TV was showing a film starring Matt Damon, but Billy was totally oblivious to it and sat and glared at his living room wall. Another predictable flashback had entered his mind and he sat with wide eyes, re-living an incident that had occurred three weeks after the tragedy.
Almost three years ago, Billy had been phoned a few times by the family of Thomas Nordin, thanking him for what he had done for their special boy, and that the youngster was asking for him and kept on asking their parents: "Where's the good man?"
He remembered that at first he wasn't at all comfortable with visiting the youngster; it had only been three weeks since the tragedy, emotions were still raw and he had gone through a lot himself. He attended every funeral of the children that were killed and was emotionally drained. His work at the time, despite knowing about the circumstances, was putting pressure on him to return, and he felt that everyone was wanting a piece of him.
He finally agreed to visit Thomas. The young boy was due out in a few days, and the surgery went well despite the fact they couldn't save his fingers and he would have to spend the rest of his life without his forefinger and index finger on his right hand for the rest of his life.
As soon as Billy arrived at the hospital, barging past three photographers that hung around like vultures, he was greeted by Thomas's parents and was hugged by both his mother and his father. The parents told them what ward Thomas was in, and announced that they were going to get themselves a coffee to leave them both in peace.
Billy entered the ward and saw six beds. Two beds were empty, and another two had two elderly women sleeping in them. The bed on the right had a curtain drawn around it and the final bed at the end on the left was where a young Thomas Nordin was.
The red head was sat up and was engrossed in his pocket game console. Billy stood and stared and waited for young Thomas to finish what he was doing. Then the four-year-old suddenly stopped and looked up. He put his game on the side table and lowered his head.
Billy walked over slowly and greeted the youngster with a timid smile. The boy couldn't see Billy's greeting, as his head was lowered and his eyes stared at his lap. He was tucked into bed and was wearing his Snoopy pyjamas; he was sat up and continued to glare at the white sheet across his lap. Billy sat on one of the chairs provided to Thomas's left and wondered if the young boy was having second thoughts on his visit.
Being the adult, Billy felt obliged to start off the conversation. At best, conversations with four-year-olds were hardly an intriguing experience as he well knew, but he couldn't just sit there in silence without making an effort.
Billy asked, "So how have you been?"
He was greeted with silence, and realised his question was too serious and too adult for a four-year-old to answer. Both man and boy sat sullen, and Billy wrestled with his brain on what else he could say to the youngster, he was totally unprepared.
"Are they treating you well in here?"
Thomas's head remained lowered and his bottom lip began to puff out making his face looking petulant. Billy had come to the conclusion that Thomas might have, what he used to call, 'Santa Syndrome.'
'Santa Syndrome' affected most kids across the world, asking and begging their parents to see Santa, and once their parent succumbed to the pressure and did what they were asked, the kids would curl up with fear once they actually met Santa and burst into tears. Billy feared this was what was happening with young Thomas. Billy thought that maybe his presence was a reminder of that fateful day, which could have been the main reason Thomas had snuck back into his shell
This unc
omfortable scenario also reminded him of ten years ago, before the idea of children had entered his mind. Billy had taken his nephew to Euro Disney; his nephew was crazy about Mickey, Donald, Goofy, Daisy, Minnie and Pluto. Donald was especially his nephew's favourite, as he thought that the way he talked was hilarious and often tried to impersonate the duck with no success.
When Billy eventually took the flight to Paris to Euro Disney, his nephew screamed in terror when he eventually came face-to-face with his idol. According to Euro Disney it was Donald Duck, but to his nephew it was an eight foot duck with a possible throat infection, and as scary as hell.
Billy thought that he would try once more with Thomas, and hoped that his parents would be back soon. He rested his right hand on the bed, by the side of Thomas and asked, "So have they told you when you're allowed out?"
More silence greeted them and the young boy's head remained lowered with a mixture of shyness and trepidation.
Billy remembered throwing his head back after asking him the final question and closing his eyes. He puffed out his cheeks and was hoping that the parents would be back soon from their coffee break.
Suddenly, Billy felt his right hand being gently squeezed, which gave him a little fright. He half jumped and peeped to his right, his eyes meeting Thomas Nordin's. Thomas's eyes were wide and watery; the tears were ready to fall and he squeezed Billy's hand once more with his 'good' hand. "Thank you," the boy's voice broke and quavered with emotion.
"It's okay," Billy sniffed. "You don't have to say anything."
*****
He sat on his sofa thinking about that touching episode three weeks after the event, and wondered how young Thomas and his parents were coping with life. Better than him, he hoped.
He took a slurp of his coffee and continued to gaze into nothingness. Maybe I should get dressed?
Billy heard a faint thud as he began to be engrossed in Matt Damon's martial arts skills as Jason Bourne that was being played on the muted TV. He sighed, and although he wasn't sure something had been delivered or someone had rapped his front door, he paused the TV and walked nonchalantly towards his door.