Not children any more, though. Just wild animals.
Jacob. Her heart thumped in her chest. You can’t leave him in there.
The doorway was clear now, the last of the children drawn through inside and following the noise of the chase on the far side of the hall.
The boys knew where to head to, she told herself, they had the gun. Furthermore, she was going to achieve nothing cowering here. If they made it out, and then didn’t find her beside the parked bikes, they might be stupid enough to come back in for her.
Go. Now!
She got to her feet and scooted quickly in the darkness across the floor to the open bay door. Resting against the cool breeze-block wall, she heard several more shots in the distance and the playground voices rising to a crescendo.
She quickly popped her head around the door, examined the loading bay. It appeared to be empty. She hesitated a moment, listening to the distant noises, trying to read them, trying to understand if those shrill voices were screaming in frustration at their lost quarry, or were the excited celebration of a kill.
Unable to decide whether to flee or go back and find Jacob, she lingered on another moment, until she thought she heard the soft patter of feet nearby inside. No choice; she slipped through the doorway and threaded through packing crates and cardboard boxes out towards the main sliding door of the loading bay. The muted peach glow of the after-sunset sky streamed in from outside, across the concrete floor.
Once again she hesitated a moment in the shadows as she scanned the empty acre of car-park outside. There was no one to be seen. She sprinted across the weed-tufted tarmac towards the steps of the pedestrian bridge over the railway, stepping as lightly as she could, but the metal steps rang far too loudly in the still night for comfort. She sprinted across the overpass to the far side.
At the top of the steps leading down to the playground she could see the trailer and their bicycles still parked below. And there she remained, looking back across the car-park at the open delivery bay, hoping, pleading silently to see - any second now - the dark shapes of Jacob and Nathan pegging it towards her as if the devil himself were in hot pursuit.
The last vanilla light of day was gone and the sky was now a deep evening blue, stars scattered across it. No moon yet. She could only just make out the rear entrance.
‘They’ll be out any second now,’ she told herself. ‘Any second now.’
Chapter 40
10 years AC
Excel Centre - Docklands, London
The children scattered at the sound of approaching boots and jangling belt buckles. Nathan saw torches bobbing up the concourse and voices calling out to each other.
Then they were standing over him. Half a dozen young lads wearing neon orange vests that made them look like a highways maintenance crew; except, that is, for the guns they were each brandishing.
‘Go on, piss off, you wankers!!’ shouted one of them, firing a few rounds indiscriminately into the stampeding mass of children. He watched them go, tumbling over the plastic palm tree and disappearing down avenues between the corporate stands before finally shining a flashlight down at Nathan.
‘You all right, bro?’
Nathan looked up. A young black man, he looked older than him; at a guess mid-twenties. Long thick dreadlocks cascaded from beneath a red Nike bandanna and a chunky gold chain glistening around his neck.
Nathan managed a hasty nod. He glanced back down at Jacob’s body on the floor. ‘My friend’s . . . they . . . I think he’s hurt badly.’
The black guy stooped down to the floor and flicked his flashlight across the prone form. ‘He with you?’ he asked.
Nathan nodded silently, his mouth hung open, still in shock at the last minute reprieve.
‘Lemmesee,’ the young man said. His hand flicked a blood-soaked lock of Jacob’s hair out of the way and reached around under his jawline as if he was attempting to throttle him. He fumbled for a moment, adjusted his grip around the neck several times, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he felt for a pulse.
‘Ain’t dead, bro,’ he said after a while. He turned round. ‘Jay-zee, get him on to the cart.’
A tall black lad barked an order at two younger boys. They passed their guns to a colleague, stepped forward and scooped Jacob’s body up between them.
‘We takin’ him home, Snoop?’ asked one of them, a white kid who looked several years younger than the one with the bandanna - clearly their leader. He also sported a thick gold choke chain.
Snoop nodded. ‘Yuh, Tricky, we takin’ him back. We take him to get the doc’ see to him.’
He turned to Nathan. ‘You comin’, too.’
Not a request, it seemed. An order. He looked down at the assault rifle still clutched tightly in Nathan’s hands. ‘Hey, nice gun, bro. Lemmesee it.’
Nathan passed it up to him, looking over his shoulder as he stood up. The other two were hefting Jacob away between them up the concourse.
The black guy nodded approvingly at the weapon. ‘Army gun. Kept nice an’ clean. This your piece?’
Nathan nodded.
‘Good gun-care, bro. May be that the Chief will wanna make you a praetorian.’ He flicked his head. ‘Come.’
Nathan’s gaze returned to him. ‘Who . . . who are you?’
‘Me?’ he grinned. ‘You call me Snoop - the top dog. You?’
‘Nathan Williams.’
‘What about the white kid?’
‘Jacob Sutherland.’
Snoop shrugged. ‘Okay, Nathan Williams, we’re goin’ before them wild fuckin’ rugrats return. Like fuckin’ mosquitoes way they keep comin’ back here.’
He followed after the others, walking backwards swinging his torch to and fro and keeping a wary eye out for the feral children.
‘Where we goin’?’ asked Nathan, stepping smartly to keep pace with them.
‘Take you back to the Zee.’
‘The Zee?’
‘Yuh. Zee . . . the Zone. Where we live. Ain’t far.’
‘Jay . . . Jacob, my friend, he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’
Snoop shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know. Doc’ll look him over when we get back.’
They stepped out of the main hall, down several wide steps into a foyer lined with registration desks and turnstiles and across a floor littered with glass granules that crackled underfoot. They pushed their way out through a row of rotating door frames, the panels cracked and lined with shards of glass.
It was almost completely dark now. Waiting patiently just outside the doors, beneath an entrance awning of canvas that stretched off down a long, covered approach promenade, were a pair of ponies harnessed to an improvised cart; the four wheels and a chassis of a car, with a flatbed of planks laid across.
‘We was inside there with someone else,’ said Nathan quickly.
Snoop shrugged again. ‘Well, shit, they’re dead or they run by now. Ain’t my business.’ He barked orders at the others. ‘Get him on the cart.’
The other boys in orange vests eased Jacob onto the cart then clambered on themselves. He turned to Nathan impatiently. ‘Well, get on, unless you want wait around for the rats to come back.’
Nathan cast one last glance back at the dark interior of the ExCel Centre, desperately hoping to see Leona come stumbling out of the gloom, barking at them not to go and leave her behind.
‘What you waitin’ for? Get on, fool, or we’ll go leave you behind.’
Nathan did as he was told, clambered onto the planks and settled down beside Jacob.
Shit. He shook his head and looked down at his friend’s face, criss-crossed with rivulets of tacky drying blood, his breath rattled out though clogged nostrils.
Shit, Jay . . . please don’t die on me, man.
Snoop hopped on the front of the cart and barked an order at one of the other lads. With a shrill whistle and the crack of a stick on their haunches, the ponies lurched forward and the cart spun out from beneath the awning and across the approach. Ab
ove them the last stain of dusk’s amber was gone and stars had begun to dimly pepper the night sky.
Nathan clenched his lips, thankful it was dark enough that none of the others sitting beside him were going to notice the silent tumble of tears on his cheeks as he squeezed one of Jacob’s clammy hands.
Please, mate.
Lee, what’re you going to do?
She remained where she was, silent, her hands grasped the overpass railing, her eyes locked on the building, scanning the empty car-park for any possible shadows of movement coming her way.
An hour might have passed. She had no idea. It could have been longer. In that time a yellow, sickly three-quarter moon had risen and arced some of its way across the night sky. Its wan light glinted off the water of Victoria Docks, smooth and sullen, and every now and then a soft sigh of warm summer breeze stirred through the saplings on the railway bankings below her.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she couldn’t walk away not knowing what had happened to them.
Maybe they’ve escaped out the other end?
In which case, they’d try and make their way back here. That’s what she would do. The trailer parked at the bottom of the steps was all there was for food. They’d have no other choice than try and find their way back to the bridge.
Please not Jacob, too.
First Hannah . . . now Jacob. This shitty world seemed fully intent on taking away absolutely everyone she’d ever cared for; taken from her one by one so she could really savour the pain of each loss . . . get to squeeze every last ounce of hurt out before the next one could be snatched away.
Stupidly, for a while yesterday, listening to Take That, the Kaiser Chiefs, the Chili Peppers, even Abba, she’d allowed the gloom to shift ever so slightly. She’d allowed herself to wonder whether she really did want to go home to her old bedroom, snuggle up in whatever was left of her duvet and call it quits. Raymond’s ‘fight-on’ spirit had managed to touch her for a few hours.
I can’t lose Jacob, too.
Something was telling her she hadn’t lost him . . . yet. That he was alive. But she might be wasting valuable time standing here looking at the back of the building.
Go back in?
The thought terrified her. Those bones . . . and the horrible look of those things, she could barely think of them as children; they were like wraiths, lost souls. No, running in there and getting taken by those feral children wasn’t going to help anyone. She realised the only sensible thing she could do was to stay where she was and watch and wait for the boys’ return.
Come first light, Lee, what if they’ve not returned? What then?
She had no idea. No plan.
Can’t stay here for ever.
She stood in silence on the bridge, holding on to the handrail, listening to the soft rustle of trees below.
‘Maybe I’ll find him at home?’
Chapter 41
10 years AC
‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea
Valérie Latoc watched the women moving amongst the terraces and walkways of the drilling platform, watering the plants from cans, taking care not to waste a single drop of fresh water. It was quieter here. Fewer people to break the soothing murmur of the sea below. Quiet enough to hear himself think.
Whilst Jennifer Sutherland had been unconscious, in the grip of a chemically induced stupor, he’d noticed how quickly things had begun to unravel under the stewardship of that poor old fool, Walter. His manner was clumsy and unappealing. He patronised people when he spoke to them. He was gruff and irritable, and when he did attempt some good-natured humour, it was usually ill-judged and fell uncomfortably into a silence.
No one seemed to like the poor man. He’d heard the ladies mutter about him. How his little rheumy pink eyes darted where they were not invited. How they hated it when he accompanied Jennifer on her tours of the rigs. The bunking areas in particular. His ‘little ferret eyes’ - that’s what that woman, Alice Harton called them - always seemed to be hunting for a tantalising glimpse of someone half-dressed, according to her, lingering too long on items of underwear that dangled from washing lines strung from handrail to handrail. How he seemed too close to Jennifer and her family; how he’d been too close to poor young Hannah . . . always there, hanging around their personal quarters.
The superficial unity of this community had very quickly begun to unwind with Walter in charge of things. Without Jennifer Sutherland’s forceful personality keeping things ticking over, they were drifting, breaking apart.
That’s why I ended up here. Their compass is spinning. They’re lost.
What they needed to know was what he fully understood. That their being gathered here on this remote, windy, damp artificial island wasn’t just random happenstance. There was a purpose to it. Something far more important than mere ‘making do’ day after day.
Valérie knew deep down it wasn’t mere chance that had driven him east out of London up to this remote rump of England. He was needed here. These people, these hard-working, these wonderful people, who’d managed to create something that vaguely resembled a little Garden of Eden on these ugly rusting platforms, they needed to hear that they were all alive and fed and safe and living in this remote place for a very specific reason.
God has plans for you.
Valérie could see what these platforms were; true they didn’t have a keel or a rudder, or a hull - they stood on solid base rock instead of floating on the sea, but those details withstanding, undeniably, this was an ark for those God had determined should survive.
He understood now that God - Jehovah, Allah, Jahmeh . . . whatever people chose to call Him - had a sense of irony, a sense of humour even. He could have gone Old Testament on the old world and flooded it once again with globally-warmed ice water from the polar caps. But, instead, He’d chosen a very modern way to show His displeasure; He’d chosen to strangle man with his own arrogance. All that technology, all those power stations, all those convenient machines that mankind so relied on, were stilled in one night when the oil was stopped from flowing through pipes from the Middle East.
Valérie shook his head. Who would have expected God to be so modern-minded?
He watched a dozen people making their way across the long walkway from the production platform. He recognised some of their faces from the last prayer meeting he’d held, and there were some new faces that they’d brought along with them. Word was spreading amongst the others that he had something to say worth hearing. That God wanted to talk to all of them - whatever faith they’d been clinging to in the past - and explain His plans. Here, on this sea-borne Garden of Eden, right here, was where the future could be written. And Valérie could feel the tug of destiny, the obligation to step into Jennifer Sutherland’s shoes before things fell apart completely and lead these people to a place where he suspected Jennifer had already, gently been coaxing them; away from old material values towards a simpler, sustainable life.
The only thing she’d forgotten to add to the mix was God’s merciful message. It was the knowledge that they were special, chosen, that would bind them together, and they certainly needed that.
Martha Williams appeared in the doorway across the deck from him. She waved to catch his eye. ‘They’re ready below,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I will come along in a minute.’ He watched her turn and step back inside. The woman had become his most helpful ally. Although Alice Harton had been one of his first converts, she wasn’t a popular woman. Martha, on the other hand, everyone seemed to warm to, and trust. The fact that she’d recently gathered up her few belongings and moved across from the accommodation platform to be with him on the drilling platform had helped his cause immensely. Others were coming now. Several more fresh faces each and every day.
Things were gently sliding Valérie’s way. Walter was doing a fair job of alienating almost everyone he interacted with, and the more he sensed authority slipping through his fingers, the more stressed and h
arried he seemed to become.
When Jennifer finally recovered enough to climb out of her cot, he hoped she would be sensible enough, and selfless enough, to hand over the burden of leadership to him. These people needed what he had to offer. Needed it so badly. It would be damaging for everyone’s morale if there was some sort of an unsightly power struggle between them.
For now, though, the longer she stayed in bed, the longer Walter had to really screw things up, the longer Valérie had to build his congregation, the better it would eventually be for all of them.
An idea occurred to him.
An idea to help speed things along. Many of the women already viewed Walter with a little suspicion; clucked amongst themselves at how close he’d always been to the Sutherlands, particularly Leona . . . particularly Hannah. Hadn’t there been something about his almost constant proximity to the little girl that had looked a little inappropriate . . . needy even?
Didn’t he just look the part, too? Old and unappealing, bushy eyebrows that shadowed furtive eyes and opportunistic glances and a Captain Birdseye beard on those florid cheeks, thick enough to hide the subtle leer of a pervert.
Just a suggestion. That’s all. A question or two about Walter. What do we know about his life before the crash? Did he have some kind of . . . ‘form’? Had he ever been on some sort of a ‘register’? Perhaps? Who’s to know, eh?
And that shrew of a woman, Alice, seemed the perfect person for him to ask.
After all, that’s all it took - just asking the question - to taint an unappealing old man like Walter with the lingering smell of that kind of a suggestion.
Once branded, always branded. It’s how that kind of thing worked.
Chapter 42
10 years AC
Shepherd’s Bush, London
Home was almost as Leona remembered it. St Stephen’s Avenue, Shepherd’s Bush - a leafy suburban cul-de-sac flanked on either side by a row of modest terraced family homes fronted by modest gardens gone to seed.