Episode 15 - Happy New Year
Michael grinned widely to see the little girl in the pink puffa jacket, bouncing as she ran towards him, probably more vertical motion than forward movement. He squatted to be on her level as she ran up, her hands already reaching for a rocket. The parents were right behind, smiling too, indulgent.
“Charlene!”
The mother rolled her eyes, an apology in there, but not much of one. Michael winked, holding the long stick of the firework just out of reach of the pudgy hand. The woman came so close that he could smell her perfume, before pulling her daughter close. She nodded to the rocket. “You giving these away for free?”
“Totally! Only thing we ask, wait till the stroke of midnight before setting them off. That work for you, you think?”
“Well, sure, it’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Will the little one still be awake?”
Another sickeningly indulgent look. “A bit late for her, to be fair.”
Michael returned his attention to the girl, blonde pigtails, pink cheeked, maybe two years old, shouting cheerfully but nothing he could make out. Putting him in mind of his own daughter, safe at home in Nottingham.
“Sorry Charlene. I got to give this to your mom and dad. A real firework, see.”
The father was there now, accepting the rocket and examining it, looking only slightly uncertain.
“What’s the idea here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Michael opened his arms wide. “What I’m here for, bruv.”
Almost mid-day on New Year’s Eve, and Michael had been pushing his brightly coloured barrow through Hyde Park for a little over two hours, handing out about a hundred rockets so far. Meaning another hundred before he could get out of here, on the road back North.
The barrow was emblazoned with Union Jacks over a London skyline, and the logo Destination London.
“Destination London, you heard of us?”
“It sounds familiar, but…”
“No worries, mate. Our vision is to return London to the number one global destination, right where it should be. Lots of initiatives, but what I’m doing today is simple. These rockets will light up all over London in red, white and blue, right on at the stroke of twelve. New Year, new London.”
Charlene’s parents caught each other’s eye and nodded, meaning, Michael thought, sure we can buy into that.
He asked, “Would you mind telling me where you live, not the address, just the area?”
“We’re not in central…”
“Central is so covered, man, believe me.”
“Croydon.”
“Perfect! High altitude drones gonna be up there, recording the whole event. Beaming it around the globe. A real simple idea but, if people play their part, it’ll be mega.”
Charlene’s mother was smiling. “Sounds great. Look, I don’t want to come over as grabby, but we have friends a few streets away…”
“Brilliant! Love it when somebody says that, really. So long as they set it off at the stroke of twelve, that’ll be so cool, man. More the merrier, like my old dad used to say.”
Michael’s father had said no such thing.
Charlene was clapping her hands and hopping, picking up on Michael’s enthusiasm. The rockets were long, almost a metre with their wooden tails. Their Union Jack tubes were shorter, safety warnings and instructions flapping at their base.
These were simple enough fireworks, standard, but repackaged by Michael himself.
“Just put it in a container that won’t fall over, something like a wine bottle, and light the blue touch paper. Simple as, but safety instructions are right there. I’m meant to tell you to read them.”
The man nodded and Michael grinned his thanks and got going again, anxious to keep moving. His plan had been to move a lot faster than he had been, keep well ahead of anybody he had given a rocket to, but it hadn’t worked out like that. They all wanted to talk, ask questions, slowing him down. What was it the Russian had said? No plan survives contact with the enemy.
He had started at Marble Arch, angling through Hyde Park towards Kensington, eventually aiming for Holland Park. His intention was to keep moving, handing out rockets but keeping ahead until the entire two hundred was gone, then he would ditch this damned barrow and flat out run to where he had left the motorcycle in Holland Park Avenue. Even if the roads snarled up and clogged, as they often did in this rotten, stinking city, he could fire up that bike and get out of there proper fast. Three hours later, he could sit with Akela and wait for the bells to ring, watch it all on telly.
A group was suddenly around him, young men who were clearly slightly drunk, laughing, trying to pluck rockets from the barrow. That wasn’t good. Two of them had cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Young guys like that, they were likely to set them off here and now, heedless of warnings.
The situation was getting out of hand, control slipping away, but Michael surprised them, shouting. He didn’t just raise his voice, he roared, with every bit of volume he could muster.
“Stop! Get away!”
London people, Michael knew, were totally unused to a full-throated shout. The Russian had taught him that too, the guy full of advice. They never heard somebody shout like that, he said, not in the West.
As he had hoped, the young men fell back, shocked, allowing him to grab the barrow and push it quickly away, putting distance between them. They called after him, hurling insults, but that was fine. He had, however, drawn attention to himself and here was a police officer, two of them, a white man and an Asian woman, changing course to intercept.
The man asked, “Everything all right here, Sir?”
“No problem, thanks officer. Just a bunch of guys with a drink too many.”
The woman was looking at the barrow, checking what was in there. “Have a licence to sell these?”
Michael picked up the Destination London ID from around his neck, showing them his photograph, but someone else’s name.
“I’m from Destination London. Head office squared it with the Council. Apparently, we don’t need no licence if we’re not selling, handing stuff out for free. Our telephone number is on there if you want to check.”
The telephone number for the cell in Michael’s pocket. If they called it, they would get a busy message. Call back later.
“You’re handing these out for nothing? Really?”
Michael went through his spiel, then offered a handful. “Let a few off yourself? Help the cause, guys.”
The woman laughed, “I’d love to, but I’m not sure how that would work out, on patrol with fireworks. I’ll look out for them tonight though. Good luck.”
By the time he reached the wide lawns of Holland Park, the light was fading and he was struggling to stay calm. People in this damned city couldn’t be trusted to do what they said. He was handing them out three or four at a time, desperate now to get out of there, when he caught sight of the little girl, Charlene, still bouncing in her pink jacket. A very bouncy girl.
She was only about twenty yards away, hopping with excitement, holding her mother’s hand. As Michael watched, the father bent and flicked a lighter, putting it to the fuse of the rocket.
Michael didn’t run. He watched as the firework rose in the air and exploded, a spectacular crown of fizzing red, white and blue, just as he had said. He thought about running, trying to reach the bike and get out of there and hoping everything would be ok. But he knew what was in there, the little capsule tucked into the cone of the firework, had put it there himself. The Russian had warned and warned him.
You under there when firework bursts, you dead man walking. Michael couldn’t see it, but knew that the aerosol was already dropping, imagining it settling over cars and trees and buildings. Over Charlene and her family.
He held out his hands, but couldn’t feel anything, wouldn’t feel anything for hours. Charlene was waving her stubby arms, and her parents were turning, only now catching sight of him and straightening, looking guilty.
The man raised a hand, “Sorry, mate. We really wanted Charlie to see it.”
Michael managed a smile, turning it into a wide one. “No worries! Great to see the little one enjoying herself.”
He picked up the remaining rockets, maybe a dozen of them. “Tell you what, that’s me done for the day. How about we set this lot off, go out with a bang?”
Charlene, now in her father’s arms, waved her head above her head, and cheered.
About the author
Bill Davidson is a Scottish writer of horror and fantasy. His recent work can be found in a number of publications from the UK and US, such as; Flame Tree Publishing’s Endless Apocalypse Anthology, Terrors Unimagined Anthology, Dark Lane Books, Storyteller, Under the Bed, Emerging Worlds, Metamorphose, Enchanted Conversation, Electric Spec, Tigershark publishing and Storgy Magazine.
Want to learn more? Visit Bill's website and connect on Twitter.