Under Her Black Umbrella

21:05

Luke made his way through the crowded room, spilling beer everywhere.

     —Hey, watch it!

     He looked down and noticed the can in his hand, stains running down his slacks. He fell onto the sofa beside Simon, sighing, drying his hands on his jumper.

     —I'm a wreck. ­­

     Simon didn't reply. Luke felt with his hand, touched something soft, like wool, and started to tug. The skin under his eyes began to prickle and it wasn't long before warm tears were nestling in his lashes. He glanced at Simon, found him staring into the bottom of an empty glass, and grunted to announce his presence. A lump grew in his throat.

     —Remember this song? Luke asked, hopefully.

     A song, a bloody song, that's all you can think of? Come on, do it, say it.

     —I played it at the first gig you came to.

     Look at me. Just look at me.

    —Yeah.

     Say it, just say it.

     —Back when we both thought we'd be alright. Simon, I don't think Maura can get you the permit. And, if I'm right, I'm going with you.

     Simon smiled to himself and, not taking his eyes from his empty glass – as if he had found some new meaning there – he said:

     —It's okay Luke. I'm going to write my epic.

     Luke thought he saw fireworks outside the window. He got to his feet. Sudden dizziness. The music stopped and the lights came on. Luke spotted Ryan standing by the door, phone in his hand, his face white, lips quivering.

     —What is it? someone asked.

     He didn't answer.

     —What does it say? they shouted.

     He didn't have to answer, as a ball of fire landed in the back garden. Those who were smoking gathered around it, wondering if it had fallen from the skies. Someone yelled:

     —A bottle.

     Screams came from next door. They could hear glass smashing. The smokers moved away as the bottle continued to burn, spitting sparks around the garden. Black figures hopped over the walls.

     —Run!

     That was the last thing Luke heard being said. His legs went from under him but Simon leapt to catch his fall.

     Sounds returned, muffled, of trampling feet and cracking glass. The ground rumbled. His chest was tight, as he was being pressed up against someone's back. He opened his eyes, found his face resting on a damp shirt, arms wrapped around a body. Just as he looked over his shoulder, nails sliced his cheek. The girl's flailing arms followed her to the floor where feet trampled her body. He tightened his grip.

     Don't let go.

     He found himself hovering on the edge of a step, heard the paintings crunch beneath their feet. They stopped. Something was blocking their way.

     —Move!

     —My ribs are cracking, he screamed, kicking his feet. He saw Simon looking back, noticed his heavy-lidded eyes, his bloodless rims. Vitality dried. And yet he smiled.

     He rested his head on his shoulder.

     No way out. Going to die here. Suffocating, sleep...

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