There’s No Place Like Home - Michael Robertson Page 0,41
Lola cut in. “Why don’t you just give us a shotgun like the one you have in there?”
“Because it’s empty.”
Michael gasped. “But you threatened those men with it.”
“I know. Good job they didn’t force me to use it.”
The conversation seemed to bore Lola and she turned her back to them again. George addressed Michael instead. “The first thing you need to know is where a person’s weak points are—”
“Killing their family makes them pretty weak,” Lola said.
Tension gripped Michael’s body and he stepped away from her. She seemed to be trying her hardest to get them killed.
George sighed and pointed to his own body as he listed the parts off. “You should go for the eyes, throat, and nuts—if it’s a man; chest if it’s a woman. Bite, kick, scratch; do whatever you need to do to hurt them. Anyone who believes in fair fights ends up dead. This is survival, and you need to do what’s necessary to stay alive.”
Because George faced Michael, he didn’t see Lola turn back around to watch them. When she opened her mouth, Michael winced.
“I thought you were going to look after him. He’s only eleven; why does he need to fight?”
George paused for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. He remained calm when he said, “I hope he doesn’t ever need to fight again. I’ll do my best to look out for him and do everything within my power to make sure he’s safe, but something might happen beyond my control, and I want to make sure he’s as well equipped as he can be.”
A four-foot tall object stood in the corner of the garden with a white sheet draped over it. George pulled the sheet away and revealed a large cat-scratching pole.
Lola walked over to it, smoking another cigarette as she looked it up and down. “What kind of pets are you keeping here? Lions?”
George laughed. He seemed genuinely amused by Lola’s mood. “It’s tall, ain’t it? It was here when I moved in. I didn’t see any pets though.”
The post had been wrapped in duvets and cushions. Rope bound them to it at various intervals.
A green barrel, much like the ones used in gardens for catching rainwater, sat tucked away behind the pole. As George dragged it across the concrete, the shrieking sound ran straight to the muscles in Michael’s neck and snapped his shoulders tight.
When George pulled the lid away, Michael peered inside at the assortment of baseball bats, croquet mallets, and hockey sticks.
“Pick a weapon.”
Why would he choose anything other than a baseball bat? Removing it from the barrel, Michael looked down the length of his new weapon, smiling as he did so.
George stood aside and showed the dummy to Michael as if he were introducing them. “Okay, squirt; give it your best shot.”
Michael hesitated, wringing his grip on the bat as he stared at his inanimate enemy. In that moment, it stopped being a dummy and it started being the man who had killed his father. George, sure, but not the George that had let him into his home and fed him.
Adrenalin coursed through his limbs and Michael couldn’t look at George; if he did, he’d swing for him. Instead, he drove the bat as hard as he could into the dummy’s midsection. The sound of splintering ribs rang through his mind.
He took another swing, harder this time, and the bat sunk into the duvet and connected with the firm post beneath. He pulled back and swung again, fighting for his dad’s life. Crashing into the improvised dummy again and again, swinging with everything he had, he yelled so loudly his throat burned. “Take that, you fuckers. Die, cunt, die!”
When he couldn’t breathe any longer, Michael stopped and dropped the bat to the stone-covered ground. The clattering sound of wood echoed around the enclosed space. He rested his hands on his knees and pulled deep breaths into his skinny body as he cried. Despite the cold snap in the air, sweat stood out on his brow.
As his breaths started to flow more easily, Michael looked up to see George staring at him with his mouth hanging open. But it wasn’t the George he’d just attacked; it was the real-life George—the George with an excuse for the way he’d behaved.
Michael noticed Lola looking at the man too; although by the look on her face, she’d seen George the monster… George who had run her mother over—George the murderer. Michael felt safe for the first time in months. If