The Fall of Man

Part I chapter 16

Chapter 16

We emerge from the house in early afternoon. As soon as I open the front door, the low winter sun dazzles me. I quickly return to the hall and retrieve my baseball cap from the coat hooks, before clumsily heaving the heavy Bergen rucksack over my shoulders. Noah silently pulls his parka hood up over his head and drags the fat zipper, teeth chattering, up to his chin. Catching my eye, he smiles from within the confines of his tubular hood, and presses a familiar, worn piece of paper into my palm. I smile back and slip the note into my trouser pocket. He then worms himself into the straps of his small mustard-coloured satchel of cash, and takes my hand as we walk down the concrete driveway together.

At the top of our drive, a rotten stench fills the air. Three weeks’ worth of waste now litters the tarmac pavement encircling the small culs-de-sac. Black and green plastic bags are piled high in front of all those homes that continue to be inhabited, clearly distinguishing them from their empty neighbours. Birds, cats, dogs and rodents have all patiently taken their turn to pick through the debris. Small bones have been scattered across the surface of the road, and packaging tumbles in the breeze. Scraps of paper flutter against the rough breeze-block garden walls and cast iron gates, and tangle in the hedgerows like bunting. Perhaps a third of the little circle of wagons that our house belongs to still show signs of life. Most of them sport the badge of at least one estate agent. Prices have been cut and then cut again, descriptions revised to put a better spin on a house that will never again be a home, a trap that has lost its bait. At least two of the vacant remainder have been broken into; boarded up windows and doors marking these first victims of the looting that is scouring the suburbs.

I close my nose to the smell. In the kitchen window of number 21 to our right, a net curtain twitches. Mr. Briggs again, no doubt, vainly attempting to keep close surveillance of our movements. We step off the driveway and onto the pavement. The bus stop is three streets away, and according to the timetable the next one is due in four minutes. The rucksack already feels heavy on my back. I shuffle the weight until it sits squarely, then click the two halves of the waist clasp together and tighten the belt around my hips by tugging on the cinch strap. The pressure on my shoulders subsides slightly.

I feel particularly vulnerable walking the fifty yards that take us out of our cul-de-sac and onto the next, more anonymous, road. We are finally abandoning ship. Noah’s small paces are a step behind mine; he walks in my shadow and his eyes move quickly from window to window, looking for the people we are leaving behind. As we round the corner onto Arlington Road, I glance back at the house – family residence, site of Joanna’s death, and our hideaway for the last nine months. It looks innocuous, just another empty shell, perhaps a few less flowers and a few more closed curtains. But otherwise, it is indistinguishable from its neighbours apart from the brash new FOR SALE sign swinging clumsily in the breeze – a marker of a broken dream, a suburban black spot.

Out on the pavement on the other side of the road, one of the neighbour’s children has his mobile phone out, and is filming his brother as he jumps off the kerb over a short stack of bricks on his BMX bike. I glance back at Noah, whose feet are trailing – scuffing the toes of his shoes - as he strains to watch the brothers play.

“Come on, Noah. We don’t have time to waste if we’re going to catch the next bus.”

“Ok Daddy.”

My world freezes. The words were barely audible whispers, but they were spoken. Immediately, I feel an enormous sense of relief, almost as if a fever has broken, and a corner has been turned. We step off the kerb to cross the road.

Away to my right, I hear the skid of brakes combine with the sharp hiss of steam being discharged. Noah and I turn around just in time to see the sparkling chrome radiator grill of a black Range Rover as it mounts the kerb and spins to the left in a vain attempt to avoid careering into us.