‘Okay, screw this,’ he muttered, getting to his feet and scrambling down the stairwell after Derry. He fired another un-aimed burst into the air to deter them from following too closely, hopefully buying them a few more precious seconds.
Call-sign Whisky were reunited at the bottom of the stairs, in a small, rubbish-filled opening that led out on to a three-foot wide rat-run, strewn with a mélange of discarded furniture and bric-à-brac, rotting vegetation and a central sewage gully down which a clotted stream of faeces flowed.
‘This way, I think,’ said Carter pointing upwards.
‘Yeah,’ Andy replied, gasping and breathless, ‘right or wrong though, we had better fucking run.’
CHAPTER 36
7.40 p.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London
‘This is it,’ said Leona, ‘turn left here.’
Dan swung his van out of the almost static river of traffic on Uxbridge Road into St Stephen’s Avenue, a narrow tree-lined road, flanked on either side by a row of comfortable-looking Edwardian terraced houses.
‘Home!’ cheered Jacob from the back of the van.
Leona twisted in her seat. ‘Jake, we’re going to be staying at Jill’s place.’
‘Uh?’
Dan looked at her, ‘Yeah . . . uh? I thought I was taking you home?’
‘She lives three doors down from our place, she’s a good friend of the family.’
‘Why aren’t we going home?’ asked Jacob
To be entirely honest she had no idea why, only that Dad had been really insistent that they go to Jill’s and not home. There had been the sound of fear in his voice, implied danger. And deep down, she knew it had something to do with the man she saw. None of this was going to make sense to Dan or Jacob, nor to Jill of course.
‘Dad said for us to go there, so Jill can mind us until Mum or he can get home.’
‘Aren’t you a bit big for a babysitter?’ said Dan.
‘You saw what it was like in Hammersmith.’
Dan nodded. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’
They drove slowly down the narrow avenue, squeezing around the large family vehicles parked half on, half off the pavement. Passing number twenty-five on their left, Leona looked out at their home. None of the lights were on. It looked lifeless.
‘We live there,’ Jacob informed Dan as they drove slowly past.
Leona pointed to a house ahead of them, on the right. ‘Number thirty. That’s Jill’s house.’
Her car, a Lexus RX, was parked on the pavement outside, but there were no lights on. Dan parked up next to her car, and Leona quickly climbed out. She opened the garden gate and headed up the short path through her front yard - little more than a few square yards of shrivelled potted plants embedded in gravel - to the front door. She could see junk mail was piling up in the post-box, and knew that Jill must be abroad on one of her conferences.
‘Damn!’
‘What’s up?’ said Dan, joining her with several shopping bags in each hand.
‘She’s gone away.’
‘Ah.’
Jacob staggered up the path with a solitary bag full of tins. ‘Heavy,’ he grunted like a martyr.
‘So, back to yours then?’ said Dan.
Leona looked over her shoulder at their house, thirty yards away on the other side of the avenue. ‘I suppose we’ve got no choice, if Jill’s gone on one of her visits.’
Dan nodded, ‘Okay.’ He turned and headed down the path.
Do NOT go home . . . it’s not safe.
There was no mistaking the urgency in Dad’s voice. There was something he knew - didn’t have time to tell her. The limited time he had on the phone was taken up with one thing; making sure she understood not to go home. That was it, explanations would no doubt come later.
‘Wait!’ she called out. Dan and Jacob stopped.
She looked around uncomfortably before picking up a stone from the front yard and quickly smashing the frosted narrow glass panel in the middle of the front door. The glass clattered down inside, as she reached through and fumbled with the latch.
‘Oh boy,’ said Jacob, ‘that’s against the law.’
Jill never double-locked her front door, even when she was going away. Instead she relied on the timed lights in her house, and the always-on radio in the kitchen to convince would-be burglars that elsewhere would be a better prospect. She was a little ditzy that way.
The door cracked open and she pushed it wide, spreading the junk mail across the wooden floor in the hallway.
Dan looked at her. ‘Uh, Leona, you’re breaking and entering.’
‘She’s a friend. She wouldn’t press charges. Now let’s get our stuff inside as quickly as possible.’
She headed out to the van to grab a load when she spotted the DiMarcios’, two doors down, on the other side of the avenue. Mum was on pretty good terms with them, particularly Mrs DiMarcio.
‘Leona!’ she called across to her.
‘Hi, Mrs DiMarcio,’ she said offering a little wave.
The woman was slim and elegant, in her early forties - yet, as Mum often said of her, she could easily pass as someone ten years younger.
‘Leona! What you do home?’ she asked, her English clipped with a Portuguese accent.
‘I . . . er . . . my mum and dad said I had to,’ she replied.
‘This thing? This thing we see on the news?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Pffft . . . this is terrible, hmm? This Mr Smith, your Prime Minister, he say we will have rations?’
‘Rationing, that’s right. That’s what Dad was saying too. This could be quite bad.’
She looked over Leona’s shoulder at Dan and Jacob carrying another load of shopping bags between them. ‘You buy rations?’
She nodded. ‘We went to Tesco, bought in some tinned goods and bottled water.’
Mrs DiMarcio looked at her with eyes that slowly widened. She knew about Dad’s preoccupation with Peak Oil; he’d bored both her and Mr DiMarcio with it over dinner one night, after he’d had a couple of glasses of red.
‘Your father? He tell you this could be bad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Is this the thing, what he call it, Peak thing?’
‘Peak Oil?’
‘Yuh, that’s it. Is this . . .?’
‘I don’t know. But Dad said I had to come back, collect Jake, get some supplies in and stay over at Jill’s house.’
Her hand covered her mouth. ‘Oh, meu Deus, o teu pai estava certo!’
‘You know, you should hurry if you want to get some things,’ said Leona. ‘When we left, people were going mad in the supermarket, it was really quite scary.’
‘I wonder, we maybe leave?’ Mrs DiMarcio said, more to herself than Leona. She was thinking aloud. ‘Is city,’ she said gesturing with her hands at the avenue, ‘this is a city . . . I remember your father he say city is a bad place to be in a . . . a . . .’
‘In a crisis?’
The woman nodded.
Leona was surprised at how much they’d taken in. Perhaps they had been listening after all when Dad had gone off on his anti-oil diatribe.
‘I will talk with my husband when he comes in.’
‘Maybe it’s a good idea to leave if you can,’ said Leona. ‘Find somewhere out of town to stay.’
‘We take you and Jacob with us, if we go?’ she offered. ‘We have spaces in car.’
Leona shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got my orders to sit tight inside,’ she said nodding at her home. ‘And wait for Mum and Dad to get home.’
Mrs DiMarcio nodded. ‘I understand. I talk with my husband. We stay? We go? We will talk about this.’
‘Okay. Look, I better help with the shopping,’ said Leona.
She reached out with her hands, grasped Leona’s shoulders and smiled. ‘You are good girl, very sensible girl. Jenny and Andy I think very proud of you.’
Leona shrugged awkwardly.
‘I go. Maybe I ring Eduardo on his mobi
le,’ she said, thinking aloud. With that she turned and headed hastily back to her house.
Up and down the normally quiet, leafy avenue, Leona noticed more activity than normal; a man was busy unloading bags of goods from his car, whilst talking animatedly on his phone. A few houses up, a woman emerged from her home, running; she hopped into her people carrier and started it up. Leona stepped out of the road to allow her to pass, as she drove down St Stephen’s Avenue, at a guess heading towards the busy end of Shepherd’s Bush to do some panic-buying.
You’re probably too late, already.
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
She heard a car door slam, and another car engine start up with a throaty cough; it felt like the whole avenue was beginning to stir to life.
Leona reached into the van and grabbed an armful of bags and began to help the two boys get their supplies inside.
CHAPTER 37
10.41 p.m. local time Al-Bayji, Iraq
They stumbled noisily down the back-street, picking their way through small stacks of rubbish, wooden crates of rotting vegetables, trying to avoid stepping in the sewage gully running down the middle.
Andy and the others were no longer worrying about keeping quiet. They scrambled through the mess and the crap as quickly as they could, doing their best not to lose their footing or tangle with the obstacles in their way.
Behind them, Andy could see the bouncing and flickering of torches as they were being chased, their pursuers having an equally difficult time with the terrain. Sergeant Bolton, however, was slowing them down, enough that the militia-men were closing the gap on them.
Lieutenant Carter and Private Peters, still carrying Bolton, stumbled and fell to the ground, splashing into the sewage gully; a tangle of shit-soaked limbs.
‘Ah fucking hell!’ Bolton cursed angrily. ‘The bloody dressing’s come off!’
‘Hold still!’ hissed Carter. In the dark the officer fumbled to find the surgical band amongst the river of faeces.
‘It’s bloody pouring out,’ said Bolton.
Andy turned to look back down the narrow passage. The flashlights were getting closer. He aimed the Sergeant’s assault rifle towards them spraying a long burst that had the torches lancing wildly around as they dived for cover.
‘Short bursts, you twat,’ cursed Bolton, ‘it’s not a bloody water pistol!’
Andy waited a moment before letting loose another three-round volley. This was only going to buy them time whilst the gun had rounds in the clip.
‘All right, sod this for a laugh. Give me the friggin’ gun and piss off.’
‘No,’ snapped Carter. ‘We’re not leaving you behind.’
‘Yes you are. Because I’m bleeding like a bastard.’
Derry leant over, and placed a hand on Bolton’s arm. ‘You’re a shithead if you think we’re leaving you, sir.’
‘Shut up Derry,’ Bolton wheezed painfully, ‘you’ll all be dead if you carry on dragging me. Just give me a bloody gun and fuck off, all right?’
Andy looked at Carter, Peters and Derry. They were all thinking the same thing - Sergeant Bolton was right - but none of them wanted to be the one to say it.
There’s no time for this macho crap.
‘He’s right,’ said Andy. ‘He can buy us the time we’re going to need.’ He pointed up the rat-run. There was a flickering glow in the distance, perhaps a couple of hundred yards away. ‘That’s the market-place up there.’
Carter struggled with the decision for a while, whilst back along the way they had come, the torches were on the move again, cautiously drawing nearer.
‘All right Bolton,’ said Carter, wearily resigned. ‘Your way then. Give him a rifle.’
‘Sir, we can’t leave!’ protested Derry.
‘Shut it! And do as the officer says!’ grunted Bolton.
Derry reluctantly handed him his rifle. ‘It’s out sir.’
Bolton took the gun, pulled a clip out from a pouch on his webbing and slammed it home with a grunt of pain. ‘Good to go.’
Andy checked his watch. ‘It’s quarter to eleven. We have to go.’
‘Bolton,’ said Carter, ‘keep those bastards off our tail.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he groaned, shifting painfully into a prone position behind a pile of rotting household rubbish.
Andy reached out for the Sergeant’s leg holster and pulled out his service pistol. He placed it on the ground beside Bolton. ‘Don’t let them take you alive,’ he said quietly. ‘Understand?’
Bolton nodded. ‘No fucking chance. Now you lot better piss off.’
The men shared a glance, there was no room for any words. Bolton racked the gun and stared down the barrel, through the scope at the flickering shapes moving swiftly up the side-street towards them.
They started off towards the flickering glow in the distance.
Sergeant Bolton watched the torch beams slowly approaching him. They were taking their time, cautiously sweeping the way ahead before advancing.
Very sensible. This little alleyway was a jumble of rubbish and boxes, discarded furniture and tufts of weeds. Nightmare terrain to be advancing through, especially at night.
Just a little closer and then he’d pop off a few rounds at the nearest git holding a flashlight. Sooner would be better than later. He could feel himself slipping. In fact, it felt a little like being pissed. Like having a pint mid-morning after a heavy session the night before - hair of the dog.
Slipping, and it was happening quite quickly.
He’d been leaking blood slowly for twenty minutes, and now he’d lost enough that things were beginning to shut down on him.
Bollocks.
He wanted to drop a few of them before he went under. Just a couple would do.
‘Come on you fuckers!’ he shouted out, realising with some amusement that he sounded like some drunken bastard at closing time brazenly taking on half-a-dozen coppers.
There was a flicker of reaction. The torch beams swept up the alley towards him, and then across the mound of detritus he was nicely hidden behind.
Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . can’t see me, fuckers.
Slipping.
He decided it was time. He squeezed the trigger, aiming at one of the torches.
It spun into the air and dropped.
Score one.
Slipping further. He’d felt this pissed a couple of times before; once at his wedding, once when England caned the Aussies at Twickenham.
Fuckin’ all right.
Vision was blurring, spinning. But he was lying down already. Good. He’d look a right twat if he was trying to stay on his feet.
The torches all winked out instantly, and half a second later he saw three or four muzzle flashes picking out the alley in stark relief. And the stinking pile of rubbish in front of him began to dance with the impact of bullets, and the air either side of his head was humming.
He felt his shoulder being punched. Just like a hearty pinch and a punch, first of the month.
Didn’t bloody well hurt, so fuck you.
He fired again at the swirling, flickering muzzle flashes, pretty certain he was probably aiming at phantoms now.
Another punch, and another. Neither hurt.
Struggling to make sense now of the swirling light-show, he squeezed the trigger and held, firing until the magazine emptied.
Jesus, that was fun. Surely hit something down there.
And then with some effort he reached out for the pistol Andy had placed on the ground beside him. His arm seemed to have no strength in it, like pins and needles. He found the pistol’s butt, fumbled at it with useless fingers, and then managed to get some semblance of a grip on it.
The rubbish was dancing again, the air humming . . . and he felt another punch in one of his legs.
Big . . . fucking . . . deal.
He fumbled for the pistol on the ground beside him.
But then another of those flailing, wimpy, pussy-punches landed home.
CHAPTER 38 br />
7.46 p.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London
You can tell so much about a family from their kitchen cork-board, or the mementoes, Post-it Notes and silly clutter that they’ll stick to their fridge with little fruit-shaped magnets. Ash had a theory, one of many little theories he’d accumulated over the years, observing as he did, life - normal life, that is - from afar. This one went along the lines of, ‘the more cluttered the family fridge, the happier they are’, and it was a theory he’d just come up with.
The Sutherland fridge was bare. No photos, memos, notes or shopping lists.
And it was as clear as anything that this was a home in which things had pretty much come to a dismal conclusion. In the kitchen boxes were stacked in the corner, full of crockery and utensils, in the lounge there were boxes of CDs, DVDs and books; in the hallway, lined against one wall, boxes containing wellingtons, scarves and anoraks - on all of these boxes, scrawled with a Magic Marker, was written either ‘Jenny’ or ‘Andy’.
The Sutherlands, as a family unit, were disintegrating.
Ash had hoped to find Mrs Sutherland home, in the hope that she might be able to help him find out who exactly ‘Jill’ was, and more importantly, where she lived. But alas, an empty house.
The study, Dr A. Sutherland’s study, he’d hoped might yield something. Turning the PC on, he checked through the email addresses in Outlook Express’s contact book, to no avail. There was no Rolodex, or equivalent, on the desk either.
In the lounge though, he found a tiny black phone book. It listed a small number of people, some friends, some family; not a huge number of friends, which was convenient. Ash could see no one called ‘Jill’ here either, nor anyone with ‘J’ as an initial.
But there was a sister not so far away. A sister, as opposed to a friend, because it was on the same page as ‘Mum and Dad’, written in the unmistakably round handwriting of a woman. Beside the tidy entry was scrawled ‘Auntie’; the carefree scrawl of a child. Mrs Sutherland’s sister, and obviously they were quite close, because as well as an address and a home phone number, there was a mobile number.