Flight Of The Ashes

The fog doesn't seem to be clearing at all. London, I think, and
roll my eyes as if to say, typical. My mind conjures up a scene from an
old Jack-the-Ripper movie, dark nights, dirty roads, and that fog.
Every time something bad happens, there is always this fog, thick and
gray, its invisible heaviness weighing me down, its cold, damp fingers
creeping under my clothes and making me shiver. I hug myself and rub my
arms with my hands, sick of staring at the fog, too tired and lazy to
look away. 6:48 am. The alarm will go off in twelve minutes, waking me
for another day, except that I am already awake. I want to pull the
blind down and crawl back into bed, but all I can do is stare out of
the window and wait for twelve minutes to pass, the last twelve minutes
before the day officially starts and I can begin to go about my
business.

Looking back, I find it difficult, if not impossible, to pinpoint the
exact time when I noticed that something was wrong. I remember sitting
on my brother's bed, my bare feet tucked under my nightdress and my
arms clasped tightly around my legs, partly because I was cold, partly
because it was a comfortable position to sit in. I sat like that on
many occasions and I recall laughing and crying, talking and listening,
advising and scolding or just watching TV on his little portable
black-and-white.

Then came the time where he had less and less time for our chats. He
started going out late at night and came back at some time when I was
already sleeping. At first he used to sneak out but he didn't go
undetected for long, and after a blazing argument with our mother he
decided that at eighteen years old he could do as he pleased and no
longer tried to hide his nightly activities.

One night, or rather early morning - I was close to waking up and
wasn't sleeping deeply - I heard a key in the lock. I assumed that he
was long asleep so the thought of someone unlocking the front door at
this hour scared me half to death. I heard footsteps on the stairs and
suppressed the urge to hide under my blanket. Instead I got out of bed
and frantically hunted around for a weapon. I was still looking when
the footsteps stopped outside my door and a shadow appeared in my room.
It was Grant.

"Sam, are you awake?" he whispered. His voice sounded strangely
muffled. He switched the light on and I could see why: A large white
plaster covered his nose. I forgot to be annoyed with him for scaring
me.

"What happened to you?" I managed.

"Got into a fight," he whispered. "Damn nose is broken. Mom will kill
me if she sees me like this. I'm packing a few things, will you tell
her that I'm staying over at Phil's house for a while?"

Judging by the cuts and bruises that he regularly came home with, this
was not the first fight he'd been in. None have been as bad as this
one, at least for Grant.

I sat on his bed one night while he was getting ready to go out. His
quick, determined movements impressed me. The clothes he wore impressed
me. Suddenly I wanted to know what he did when he left the house.

"I want to come," I said.

Grant pulled his face into a grimace. "You can't come," he said
shortly and without offering any further explanation. He continued to
get dressed while I watched him. Despite the fact that his body was
toned from regular workouts he wasn't what I would call handsome. His
face was too square, his hair too short and his shoulders just that
little bit too broad. He pulled the zip of his leather jacket up and
took his motorbike helmet off the bed. "Besides," he said, "you're not
even dressed."

"I can get dressed in a minute," I said, but without much hope.

Grant was already half out of the door. "You can't come, Sam!" he
called back.

The next night I walked into his room fully dressed, wearing jeans, a
thick sweater and a denim jacket, trying to balance my motorbike helmet
on one finger like a basketball. Still I didn't think I was in with a
chance. Grant looked up and confirmed my feeling. "You're not coming,
Sam," he said.

"Why not?" I asked. "I like to hang out with your friends."

Grant rose to his full height of 6 foot 2 inches and looked down at
me. "We don't hang out," he said. "That's what you girls do at the
mall. We have things to discuss. You would be in the way. And you have
school tomorrow, Mom would kill me if she found out that I let you come
with me this late."

Did I hear something like resignation in his voice? "I won't be in the
way," I said. "I promise not to say a word. Please Grant, let me come,
just this once, I just want to see what you do!" He looked undecided,
which was a step in the right direction.

"Maybe you could be useful," he said. He looked at me and seemed to
size me up. I tried to make myself look taller than my 5 foot 6 inches
but it was no use. Grant shook his head as if to clear it of some
unpleasant thoughts and said, "I can't let you come, Sam, it wouldn't
be right. We have things to do, and you wouldn't like it. End of
discussion."

He turned around and took an envelope out of his desk drawer, making
sure to lock it afterwards. I realized that begging would be to no
avail so I watched him silently. As he walked to the door I saw
something under his jacket, sticking out of the top of his jeans. It
was black and shiny. It could have been part of his belt but it didn't
look right.

"Grant!" I called. He stopped and slowly turned around. I expected him
to be angry but he wasn't.

"Look Sam," he began but I interrupted him with a wave of my
hand.

"It's not that," I said. He looked at me quizzically. Suddenly I wasn't
sure what I had wanted to say. Why are you carrying a gun? How long
have you had it, have you ever used it? What is in the envelope you
took out of your desk? Why won't you let me come with you? How could I
possibly ask him those questions?

Instead, I pointed to the grip of the gun. Grant's hand went to the
back of his belt and with a guilty look he pulled his sweatshirt over
the gun. "You see why I can't let you come?" he asked. His voice
sounded angry, and when he took a step toward me I involuntarily
stepped back. My foot caught his discarded work boots on the floor and
I sat down hard on his bed. He stood over me and made no attempt to
help me back to my feet.

"It's not what you think," he said. I had no idea what to think, and
before I could form a clear opinion he continued rapidly, "it's just
for insurance, you know? Sometimes, the people in the clubs aren't all
that nice, and you need a little something to make them respect you.
You understand that, don't you Sam?"

I nodded. I didn't know if I really understood or if I just wanted
Grant to stop staring at me so intently, but he looked relieved and
suddenly held his hand out to pull me off the bed.

"Not a word to Mom, you hear me?" Grant said, still holding my arm. I
shook my head. I opened my mouth to ask him what was in the envelope,
but somehow I had the feeling that I didn't want to know. He raised his
eyebrows, waiting for me to speak.

"Take care of yourself," I said and it sounded lame. He grinned and
winked. A moment later I heard him start his motorbike.

6:56 am. The quiet cul-de-sac is still asleep, the street lamps barely
penetrate the thick fog which still does not appear to be clearing. I
could call my boss and say I am sick. When the alarm rings I could just
switch it off, go back to bed and try to get some sleep, God knows I
need it. I haven't been sleeping well, not for a long time, not for
years. Or I could just go to work like every day, trying not to let the
exhaustion show, do the job I am paid to do and wait for the end of my
shift, wait for nightfall, wait for sleep. It won't come. I know
already that sleep will elude me until the early hours, and tomorrow I
will again wake up at daybreak.

What would have happened had Grant given in to me that day? Would I
have gone just that once, or would I have become a member of his gang?
Would I have liked what he did? I was still awake when he got home that
night, sick with worry that he might get hurt. When he looked into my
room I pretended to be asleep and he crept out again, quietly closing
the door behind him. It occurred to me that he probably checked on me
every night when he got home, and a brief wave of affection for him
washed over me. Since our father had died it seemed that at least in
part Grant was aware of that role and fulfilled it to the best of his
abilities. Then I got angry. If he wanted to look after us properly,
would he be going out at night with a gun in his pocket?

I didn't know what to do. For the first time I felt scared of Grant,
scared of what he might say or do if I confronted him again about the
gun. I wanted to tell mother but I wasn't sure what good that would do.
In the end I did nothing. Grant was old enough to know what he was
doing. Or so I hoped.

What exactly was it he was doing? I only had a very vague idea of what
it might be, but even in my imagination clouded with sisterly love for
my big brother I could not envisage anything good. How did he get into
it? I wished I could ask Grant those questions, but for the first time
I felt a distance between us that I did not know how to cross.

"Are you going out tonight, Grant?" mother asked, knowing that he was.
"Be careful, the fog is so thick you can't see a thing." Her words had
no significance for me at the time except to repeat the warning to
Grant when he left later that evening, as an extension to my usual
"take care" that had replaced the sisterly peck on the cheek that I
used to give him.

Grant did not come home that night. I woke in the morning and when I
opened my bedroom curtains his bike was not in the drive. I debated
whether I should wake and tell my mother but she already knew. She was
pacing the kitchen silently. Then she stopped. "He is eighteen years
old, he can stay out one night without me having to worry, can't he?"
she said. I nodded.

Shortly after breakfast the police came. Grant had been shot. A
gangland killing, the officer said. Three of them had died, the
officers found drugs and illegal guns. Mother kept shaking her head.
"Not my son," she kept repeating. "Not Grant, he would never do that."
She hugged me tightly.

The officer turned to me. "Did you know about the activities your
brother was involved in?" he asked. I shook my head. Even if I had
known more, at that moment I would not have been able to tell them. It
took weeks for me to understand what had happened.

None of his friends came to Grants funeral, and while I did not really
expect them to it still saddened me. Several police officers attended.
They wore ordinary suits and ties but I still knew who they were.

The alarm startles me and interrupts my thoughts. I tear myself away
from the window to switch it off. For a brief moment I hesitate, then I
start to get ready for work. It is no use: If I stay home today I might
as well make plans to stay home every day for the rest of my life
because this is not getting any better. It has been four years since
Grant died, I am nineteen years old now. I need to get on with my
life.

I look out of the window again in passing. Doesn't look like the fog
is going to clear at all today.