Last Man Out - Extract 1

Chapter 1

Absolute silence. No intrusions, no demands. Henryk closed his and
savoured the moment . His only connection to the rest of the world came
from the rich aroma of the coffee rising from kitchen table beside him.
He slowly opened his eyes and half turned his head. Beside the coffee
cup, toast, butter, jam, and a folded newspaper were neatly arranged,
ready for the ritual.
He unfolded the paper and removed the sports section, placing it to the
left of the cup. Still silence. He scanned the results column looking
for the scoreline that would make or mar the morning. Spurs 3 Chelsea
0: he was going to enjoy breakfast.

Crumbs of toast fell on the paper as he ate, and he flicked them away
with the back of his hand, small blemishes on the order and precision
of the table. Sunday morning was his refuge from the bombardment of
life, and he guarded it jealously . Christine had learned over the
years not to trespass. She left him to himself until nine o'clock,
knowing that to disturb him would mean a day of sullen stares and
grunted responses to her attempts at conversation. She knew, but even
after fourteen years of marriage she didn't understand his craving for
solitude.
Peter knew but didn't care. As soon as he woke the boy would trot down
the stairs to the kitchen, shake some cornflakes in the general area of
a bowl, and head for his playstation. It was seven-thirty; Henryk
reckoned on having another hour of peace before the beeping, whirring,
and crashing began.

He read the match report, then turned his attention to the main news
section of the paper. The headline announced the fall of Kabul to anti
Taliban forces. The second story reflected the growing fears of
recession, exacerbated by the events of September 11th ,and listed the
major lay-offs announced during the week. Henryk snapped the page over,
nearly tearing the paper. He had enough worries already, he thought,
without a bunch of mad bloody arabs threatening his job.
Peter had started at a private school in Highgate just three months
earlier, and already the monthly fees were killing him. Christine was
looking for work as a supply teacher, and that might just pull them
back into solvency. In the meantime he was juggling the credit card
bills, and taking every opportunity for overtime at the office.
Fortunately his current project, a new direct sales system, was running
six months late. Everyone on the team had been putting in extra hours
in the vain hope of getting it back on schedule. Henryk mouthed a
silent prayer of thanks to the Marketing department. Their constant
changes of mind could keep him working for months yet.

He browsed through the columns of print while sipping the hot coffee,
searching for a story to lighten his mood. An eight page "Battle
Against Terror" special report wasn't what he wanted right now. Where
were the nuns claiming virgin births, or the sightings of Elvis in a
chinese take-away? . Even the normal diet of politicians' affairs and
soap stars' love nests had dried up. All that confronted him were page
after page of gloomy speculation interspersed with photographs of
refugees and shattered buildings.
His mother had never tired of telling him to be thankful for what he
had, that the world was full of people worse off than them. But the
words and images in front of him failed to elicit any sense of
gratitude or good fortune. In Henryks' eyes they merely reinforced his
view of the world as a place of trials and terrors, to be engaged with
only where necessary, and withdrawn from at every opportunity. Now its
harsh realities were intruding on his precious Sunday breakfast, and
the resentment transformed his face to a scowl.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke his introspection. Peter
appeared at the kitchen door in Harry Potter T-shirt, shorts, and
slippers, his fair hair still tousled from the pillow.
"You're up early". Henryk failed to mask his irritation.
The boy ignored him and sulked over to the cereal boxes. Henryks' scowl
turned inwards as he heard the tone of his own voice, and saw the
effect on his son.
"How about taking the kite over to Hampstead Heath later on?" he asked,
trying to repair the damage.

"I'm going round to Davids' house."

"What time?"

"After breakfast."

"Well you won't be there all day. We can go this afternoon, and pick
up some ice cream at Fredos' on the way back."

Peter made no answer. He finished pouring milk on his cereal, and made
his way to the door, hands cupped around the overfilled bowl, gazing at
it like a gypsy reading a crystal ball.
Henryk started to call him back, but the words subsided in his mouth.
Leave it, he thought, just leave it. Don't start an argument with him,
not at breakfast. He leant forwards, elbows on the table, and rested
his head in his hands. He had never found it easy to talk, not even
with Christine. Ever since they met, she'd had to prise words out of
him like a dentist pulling teeth. Sometimes he wondered why she
bothered, and he knew that sometimes she wondered too. And now he
couldn't talk to his son without ballsing it up.

He found himself staring down at a photograph on the open page in
front of him. A man in a long tattered coat and chequered headscarf
squatted beside the rubble of what was once a house. Only the door
frame still stood, leaning drunkenly to one side. There was no caption.
There was no need: the gaunt stubbled face told the tale with silent
clarity. For a second Henryk found himself gazing into a mirror, and
the thought made him shiver. He drew back from the table and quickly
folded the paper to hide the image. The face in photograph bore no
physical resemblance to his own round flat features, but the sense of
dreadful recognition stayed with him. The feeling puzzled and disturbed
him in equal measure, and he knew he had to solve the puzzle so that he
could put the feeling away. Elimination, he thought, just like testing
a piece of software; work through the elements, discover the culprit,
find the solution. It wasn't the face, too dissimilar. Not the clothes,
he had nothing like them. The eyes. The eyes said 'no refuge'. Not in
bricks and mortar, or stone, or timber, or steel. Not even in Sunday
morning.