There are better ways to beat the strife.
The response from the group behind him sounded faint and embarrassed. He sang louder and urged the others to do the same. “Come on,” he roared. “Lives depend on us!” They marched past Caroline standing outside her shop, her face crumpled and her arms laced tight across her ribs. The posture reminded him of Tricia. Caroline turned around, flipped the shop sign to closed, and joined the procession.
Several punters, including Thumbs Tom, stood gathered outside Kennedy’s, drinks in hand and all looking somber. Billy’s breath caught. Were they not going to join him? Were they just going to stand and gawk? Right as he reached them, they downed the last of their drinks and fell into rank behind him. More men and women spilled from the pub and joined the marchers. Billy’s chest swelled.
He led the growing, gallant group out onto the main road toward town and the major roundabout. Vera, Bald Art, and a few others from the factory bore signs reading Beep If You Care. A blast of horns sounded, gladdening Billy ever more. He felt sure they would meet more marchers along the way and that by the time they returned to the village hall their group would have amassed to a more impressive number.
Deveney jogged up next to Billy. “Let’s march off to the side, in single file. There’s cars backed up big time.”
“Yeah, that’ll make a statement, all right.” Billy had no intention of clearing out of the way or apologizing for taking up too much space. He’d spent his whole life doing that. Before Deveney could respond, Billy roared into the bullhorn.
Trouble comes to everyone.
Please talk with someone.
*
After, the group filed into the village hall, Billy still in the lead but without any of his earlier bravado. His elation as he’d exited the village had soon left him. He and the group had marched for almost two hours, covering the four miles to the roundabout and back at Billy’s sad pace. No one else had joined them along the way and the entire experience had proved uneventful. He felt heartsick.
He trooped down the center aisle, flanked on both sides by rows of empty seats. His inner thighs smarted and the soles of his feet felt on fire. His knees and right ankle stabbed at him. His throat was raw from shouting. All of that was nothing, though, next to his humiliation. It wasn’t just the awful turnout. Several times as they had walked, he’d struggled with his breathing, light-headedness, and the sharp pain in his joints. It had taken every ounce of his everything to force one foot in front of the other and not give up.
He pushed himself to the front of the room and struggled onto the stage. He hadn’t felt such gloom in a space since the funeral home. The dim and dusty chapel-like hall required all the lights to be turned on to make the place feel habitable. The yellow cast to the bulbs recalled his fridge back at home and the sense of disappointment it delivered. A ravenous hunger battered his stomach. His fingers morphed into sausages. He licked his lips, his appetite further whetted by their salt taste. He felt mad to eat. To eat and eat.
No one braved the front rows. The young journalist, Jimmy, remained at the back of the hall, texting. Then he turned around and walked out. Sweat stung Billy’s eyes and the room started to spin. He bit down hard on his lower lip, tasting more salt. Maybe Jimmy had stepped out to take a call and would return. Billy saw a flash of John, the hateful look on the boy’s face after he’d hit him and the anger of the hot, red mark. The fearful, furious way Tricia had looked at him, too, as she’d stood between him and the children. A sour squirt of vomit burned the back of his throat.
Lisa stared up at him. She looked distressed, as if expecting him to fail, as if knowing he could never pull this off. Just as he thought he might faint, Denis appeared by his side with a dripping-wet bottle of water from the ice cooler. “You’ve got this,” Denis whispered. Billy drank, his eyes closed in thanks.