Free First Person by Eddie McGarrity Page B

lift our son up and
hold him close. Keeping low, we run towards the back of the house. Leaving in
the car is not an option because of the tanker and the gun battle which both
block our way out. Flocks of police cars move in, their white doors open for
the officers to spill out and fire at the combatants.
    I
hold our son in my arm and hold my wife’s hand as we enter our back yard. Water
spits out a sprinkler as we cross the lush grass. We reach the fence and run
along to the gate. My wife unlatches it with her free hand and we are out into
the alley, leaving the sound of gunfire behind. I look up and already the cloud
has dispersed into the air, leaving only a blue sky. Looking back to the alley,
a dog sniffs around a lamp-post then scampers off.
    A
man walks up the alley towards us. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and he
carries a newspaper. He is smiling. My wife is in a state of total panic. She
clutches my hand. Our son, still in pyjamas, buries his head in my shoulder. As
the man approaches, I say to him, “Turn around! Go back!”
    As
if he did not hear me, the man smiles at me and says, “Good morning,
neighbour.”
    I
go to stop him, to say something more, but my wife pulls at my hand, saying,
“We have to go. Go now!”
    I
agree. At the end of the alley, the street is quiet at first but as we pause,
considering which way to go, the red sports car rushes past. For a moment, I
feel like everything slows down and I see the driver behind the wheel. It is
the blonde in the red dress. She smiles and winks at me before gunning her car
on. Gunshots bring the moment back to normal speed and the black SUV hurtles
past, its driver leaning out of the window and firing his machine gun. I see
for the first time that he is balding at the crown of his head and the rest of
his hair is close cropped. His black suit is old and frayed at the lapels. His
tie hangs loose around the open collar of a grubby white shirt. All this I see
in a heartbeat as bullets zing and smack around us. I don’t know how we are not
hit.
    When
the cars have gone, we cower at the corner of the alley as police cars rush
after the two vehicles. I look at my wife. She is scared but is beginning to
come to her senses. She checks on our boy. He is unhurt. My wife tells me this
with a nod of her head and a relieved sigh. The man with rolled up sleeves is
still in the alley and he wishes us a good morning as he heads off with his
newspaper. My wife and I exchange a look which means we don’t understand what
is happening but we no longer care about that. All we care about is our son.
    I
ask her, “Where shall we go?”
    “The
bridge.” She is sure about this, so we go.
     
    We
walk through many streets, some I know, but most I don’t. Everywhere we go
black SUVs and red sports cars are involved in a deadly chase. A few people are
like us, frightened and scared, and running away from the mayhem and confusion.
But others, most we see in fact, are like the man with the rolled-up sleeves
and newspaper. In fact, they are like my wife and son were when I went back
home. They are impassive, unconcerned, sometimes cheerful at best. We see men
who can only be brothers of the man with the newspaper. They are dressed
differently, some with rolled down sleeves, or even a tie and hat, but
unmistakeably relatives of the man in the alley. We don’t know what to make of
this so we keep going.
    “Which
bridge are we going to?” I ask when I realise my wife is leading us in a
direction I’m unsure of.
    “It’s
this way,” she says. Her voice is a forced whisper. Her knees are bent as she
makes quick progress despite her white high heeled shoes. Our son’s head
remains buried in my shoulder. His teddy is missing, dropped somewhere behind
us. She pulls at my hand as we make our way through a less affluent area.
Burnt-out cars litter the street. Wooden houses sit back from scrubby lawns. An
old woman sits on her rocking chair and smiles at us. She seems flat to