The Enemy

Sam was still clutching the butterfly pin. It wasn’t enough. He needed to find something else he could use as a weapon. With his other hand he felt around on the shelves behind the bar. There must be something. A corkscrew maybe, or even a knife. His hands closed over a hard plastic object. He ran his fingers over it, trying to work out what it was.

A cigarette lighter.

Better than nothing. It might help him to see where he was going if he ever got out of here. He slipped it into his pocket and carried on searching.

He found nothing else and eventually the grown-up stopped moving about. Sam left it as long as he could – he was so close to getting out he couldn’t stand waiting here any longer.

He peered round the end of the bar. Nothing. No movement. Only those dark shapes on the floor. He tiptoed to the door, passing through a wet patch. He didn’t like to think what it might be, but it made his feet suck and squelch.

It sounded horribly loud to him, but he couldn’t stop.

Keep moving, Sam. Just get out of there.

He was at the door. It was open.

Thank God.

He’d made it.

So long, you dirty bastards.

He went through. It was pitch-black out here, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He told himself that it was all right. Nothing would jump out at him, because nothing could see him.

It didn’t help.

He was petrified. If he hadn’t weed himself earlier he would have done it now. His heart was beating so hard he could feel his whole body shaking, and in the dead silence the blood surging in his ears was deafening. He’d always been scared of the dark. His mum had told him not to worry.

‘If you can’t see the monsters, they can’t see you.’

Back then there had been no monsters. Not real ones. Only imaginary.

Now…

He held his breath and inched forwards, his hands stretched out in front of him, feeling the floor with his feet.

He came to a step.

Stairs.

Good. They would take him down, away from this awful place.

One step… Two steps…

It would be a long climb but maybe there would be windows soon.

Step followed step followed step. He started to move quicker as he grew more confident. Finding a rhythm.

He came to a wall and was confused for a moment until he realized that the stairs turned a corner. He reached out his hands, groping in the darkness.

They touched something warm and soft.

What was it?

It moved.

No…

He turned round. He had to get away. There was only one thing it could be – a grown-up.

He started to cry. He couldn’t run, not in the dark. He fell to his hands and knees and crawled like a dog. His eyes screwed shut. The grown-up was coming after him, he could hear its feet scraping, its breath rasping.

Sam felt strong hands grip his ankle. He kicked out. Got away. Sped up.

But where could he go? Upstairs there were only more grown-ups.

If he moved to the side and kept still maybe this one would go past him. He tried it. But the grown-up was already there, on the step next to him.

Sam shouted in panic and scurried up the steps as fast as he could. He was back at the door to the directors’ box. There was movement on the other side. The grown-ups were waking up.

It was all over. He should never have shouted.

He blundered into the room, the weak light seeming suddenly bright after the inky blackness of the stairwell.

There was a wet slurp behind him. He turned. The grown-up was filling the whole doorway. He was huge, a tall father, well over six feet. He was wearing a long, soiled overcoat and had a huge black beard and no teeth. He opened his mouth in a silent howl and grabbed Sam, clutching him to his chest.

Another father blundered across the room and tried to snatch Sam back. The giant swatted him away.

More grown-ups came on now, with hunched backs and bent legs too feeble to hold their weight.

The giant must be an intruder, come to steal food. The group in the directors’ box didn’t like it. They swarmed around him, their strength in numbers, as he pushed them away and lashed out at them. Sam was being crushed against his hot damp chest. The mother who had first snatched him got hold of an arm and tugged. Sam felt like he was going to be torn in half.

‘Get off me! Get off!’ he shouted but the sound of his voice only seemed to send the grown-ups into a frenzy. Sam was surrounded by a stinking, fetid mass of bodies, hands clawing at him, faces looming close. But nothing could make the giant let go.

Sam’s hand holding the butterfly pin was clamped in the fold of the giant’s arm. Then he remembered the lighter. With his free hand he groped in his pocket until he found it. He prayed that it would work.

He pressed the button. Nothing. He pressed again. Still nothing.

Again… Click-click-click…

A spark.

Come on. Come on.

There were spots dancing in front of Sam’s eyes. His ears were singing. He couldn’t breathe. Any moment now he was going to pass out.

Again he pressed and this time a small orange flame sprang into life.

He raised his hand and put the flame to the giant’s beard.

The effect was spectacular. There was a blinding, scorching flare as the beard crackled and sizzled. The giant yelped and dropped Sam, batting at the flames and sparks with his huge, grubby hands.

Sam was in danger of being trampled underfoot. The giant was hopping and dancing around. Sam flinched clear as hands reached out for him. He realized he still had the lighter clutched in his hand, with the flame lit. He held tight to the bottom of the giant’s coat and put the flame to it. In a few seconds it was alight.

The giant stumbled across the room as the flames spread up his coat. Some of the other grown-ups kept a fearful distance, others jumped on his back. Soon a full-scale battle was raging, the remaining bits of furniture were being smashed to pieces and set alight. A fat mother seemed to actually explode as if her clothing had been trapping flammable gases.

Flaming bodies ran in panic. The giant was a living fireball. The room was lit up bright as day and Sam could see the full horror of it. The blood and filth and bits of dead bodies.

It was like a vision of hell.

He didn’t stay to watch.

‘Die, you dirty bastards!’ he yelled and in a moment he was back on the stairs, holding his lighter up to see where he was going. Its feeble light slowly dimmed as the last of the fuel ran out, but he was hurrying down, three steps at a time.

There was a shriek behind him. He looked round. Flames were leaping down the stairwell and burning grown-ups were coming after him.

Run, Sam, run…

12

‘I’m not coming.’

‘What do you mean you’re not coming?’

‘I’m not leaving this place, Arran. It’s home. It’s safe. I like it here. I’m not leaving and you can’t make me.’

‘Callum, you can’t stay here by yourself.’

‘I won’t be by myself. Others will want to stay, just you see. I won’t be alone. Not everyone wants to go.’

‘But they’re all outside, waiting. It’s arranged.’

‘Ask them,’ said Callum. ‘Ask them if they really want to go, or if they’d rather stay here with me.’

‘We took a vote on it,’ said Arran wearily.

‘No we didn’t. We voted on whether to go into the centre of town or into the countryside. You never asked them if they’d all rather just stay here. So ask them.’

‘You ask them,’ said Arran.

‘No,’ said Callum. ‘I’m not going out there. I’m happy here.’ He sat down and folded his arms.