The Chaos

  Churchill House is only five minutes’ jog away. When I get there, I realise I don’t know Nelson’s number. I go into the lobby. The place is huge; fifteen floors and thirty flats on each level. I get my mobile out and try his number again. This time he answers.

  ‘Nelson, it’s me, Adam.’

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘Hi. I’m at your place, downstairs. What number are you?’

  ‘You’re here?’

  ‘Yeah, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t know, Adam. I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think you should be here.’

  ‘Nelson, what’s up with you, man?’

  ‘Things have been … difficult … weird. We shouldn’t even talk on the phone, Adam.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. To see you, talk face to face.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  I’ve had enough of this.

  ‘Nelson, stop fucking about. I’m coming to see you if I have to knock on every fucking door. What number’s your flat?’

  There’s a pause and I think for a moment that he’s hung up on me.

  Then, ‘Nine two seven. Ninth floor.’

  ‘Right. Cheers. I’m coming up.’

  The lift’s not working, so I head up the stairs. I pass three lots of people on the way – a couple of young guys, a woman with a toddler and a baby in a sling, and an old granny with a shopping trolley. They’re all the first of January. Every single one. This place, this building, is going to bury them all.

  The first four or five floors are okay, but I’m flagging by the time I reach the ninth. Number 927 is towards the end of a walkway, open at the side. The door’s on the latch. Nelson’s hovering inside the hallway, out of sight.

  ‘Come in,’ he hisses at me. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Hi, Nelson. Nice to see you too,’ I say.

  He hardly seems to hear me, just closes the door behind us.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’ His voice is still low.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did anyone see you come in here?’

  ‘I dunno. There was a few people on the stairs, but no one on your landing. What’s with the whispering? Why are you so jumpy?’

  ‘I’m being watched. They’re on to me.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘Dunno. MI5 probably.’

  There’s no light on in the hall, and all the curtains are closed, so it’s pretty dingy in there, but even so I can see the twitch on his face is going mad and his eyes are flicking around all over the shop, looking anywhere except me.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I put it on the para-web, Adam. Like I said I would. I put it on and it spread like wildfire. There’s tons of stuff out there about the New Year. Tons. People want to read it. They want to find out. There’s so much evidence now – you’re right, Adam, something big is going to happen.’

  ‘What is it, Nelson? Do you know?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Could be natural. There’s a lot of seismic activity going on. A lot. The radon levels are up apparently.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A gas held in the rocks in the earth’s crust. If the levels go up, it means there’s activity. This guy, this professor, is posting them up on the para-web, but even that’s being shut down. Only they can’t stop us knowing about the volcanoes. Have you seen them, Adam? They did make the news.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re in Japan. We ain’t got any volcanoes here.’

  Nelson sighs.

  ‘What year are you in? Eleven, twelve? You’ve done plate tectonics, haven’t you?’

  My mind spins like a fruit machine. Plate tectonics, geography, school. It all seems like a million years ago. Nothing stuck then and nothing comes to mind now. But I don’t want to look stupid.

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘So Japan is on the other end of the Eurasian plate,’ he says.

  ‘Right. I knew that.’

  ‘So if something happens at one end of the plate, something’s likely to happen at the other end. In Europe – Greece, Turkey, Italy. Here. Like an earthquake. And we’ve got the gas and we’ve had a tremor already.’

  ‘What about fire?’

  Nelson’s twitch is taking over his whole face. He swallows hard.

  ‘You get fire after earthquakes. Broken gas pipes, electrical fires. In San Francisco in 1906, the fires burned for three days after the quake. More people were burned to death than crushed.’

  We’re still standing in the hall, but my legs are starting to feel wobbly. Fatal combination – nine floors of stairs and the end of the world.

  ‘Nelson, can we go and sit down?’ I make to go past him, find his lounge or his kitchen. He steps across the hallway, blocking me. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘You can’t come in. My mum’s in the kitchen and my brothers are here.’

  ‘Can’t you have friends back?’

  ‘No. Not you. I don’t want them to see you. I’m in enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘They traced my online posts here. They know it was me. We’ve had people round. Counter-terrorism, Children’s Services, Immigration.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They all came, the whole lot of them all at once. Went through the flat like a swarm of locusts. Interviewed my mum and dad. My mum was terrified.’

  ‘Are they illegal? Your mum and dad?’

  ‘Course not, but they came here twenty years ago, before ID cards, before anything, so all their paperwork is out of date. They’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘So they’re okay? Nothing happened? You just got searched.’

  ‘They’re not okay. I’m not okay. They’ve taken my computer. They’ve cautioned me.’

  ‘But you haven’t done anything illegal.’

  ‘Haven’t I? Conspiring to promote fear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s in the Terrorism Act 2018. Conspiring to promote fear. They could lock me up, Adam. Up to ten years.’

  He’s on the edge, anyone can tell that. Right on the edge. And I’ve done it to him.

  ‘Nelson,’ I say, ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Neither did I. I didn’t know what I was getting into.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked you. I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. Only …’

  He finally looks at me, and his number hits me again. 112027. That shitty number. He don’t deserve it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only, promise me you’ll get out of this place.’

  ‘I can’t leave without my family.’

  ‘Get them out too, then.’

  ‘It’s not easy …’

  ‘Do it, Nelson. Just do it.’

  ‘I will. I’ll get them out.’

  I turn to go.

  ‘Adam,’ he says. ‘What did you come here for?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘What was it?’

  I can’t ask him about the screens. He’s done enough already.

  ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’

  ‘It must have been something.’

  ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Tell me, Adam. I’m in trouble already. If there’s something I can do, some way of getting back at those bastards.’

  ‘Nelson!’

  ‘They’re bullies, Adam. They’ve frightened my mum. That’s low. That’s immoral.’

  ‘I just thought … I just thought we could do something with the public information screens. Hack into them or something.’

  He smiles.

  ‘Of course. Of course we could.’

  ‘Only not without a computer.’

  ‘There are computers everywhere, Adam. There are even computers outside London, or so it’s rumoured …’

  ‘You don’t have to … you’ve done enough already. Look after yourself now. Yourself and your family.’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t have to, but I want to. They’re going to let thousands of people die, Adam. It’s not right …’

  ‘Take care, mate.’

  I make a fist and hold it out to him. He looks at it for a few seconds then he clears his throat and does the same, and we touch knuckles. I wonder if he’s ever done that before. I wonder if he’ll ever do it again.

  ‘Bye, Nelson,’ I say.

  I hear the door closing behind me. I’m not the praying sort, but as I jog along the walkway I send a little prayer out into the courtyard and up into the grey sky. Let him get out. Let him be all right. And maybe he will, because he may be quiet and he may be geeky, but I reckon Nelson’s got more balls than a snooker hall.

  Chapter 50: Sarah

  I’m only a few minutes’ walk from Adam’s house when they pick me up.

  The speed of it is shocking; one moment I’m pushing the buggy along the pavement, the next a car has drawn up by me and I’m bundled into the back seat while someone unclips Mia and straps her into a baby seat beside me. Then people get in either side of us, doors are slammed shut and locked, and we’re off.

  The buggy and our bags are left behind.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? Who are you?’

  The man next to me flips a wallet open and flashes his ID at me.

  ‘Children’s Services. Viv here is from the police. Family support.’

  ‘Why the hell did you grab me off the street? What sort of country is this?’

  The woman the other side of Mia cuts in. ‘We had to come to you because you’ve been running away from us. You weren’t at Giles Street. No one there knew where you’d gone.’

  ‘You can track Mia’s chip. You’ve done it before. There’s no need for all this drama.’

  ‘There’s every need. We’ve charged your housemates with possession of class A drugs with intent to supply. Last night you were staying in a house with the widow of one of west London’s most notorious armed robbers and her great-grandson who is currently suspended from school for a savage and violent attack, and has been interviewed as part of a murder investigation. And who knows where you were going next?’

  It doesn’t sound so great when she puts it like that.

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘We’re going to Paddington Green police station, where we will interview you about activities at Giles Street. Louise will be taken to foster carers. We’ve got someone standing by right now.’

  ‘Take her? Take her? No! No way. I’ll go to the police station. I’ll answer your questions – I’ve got nothing to hide. But I won’t let you take my baby away.’

  ‘It’s not your choice, Sally. We’ve got a court order. Your baby needs to be in a safe, stable environment.’

  ‘I’m still feeding her,’ I say. There’s silence, and I think, I’ve done it. They can’t take her away now. Then the woman says, ‘We’ll make sure she’s fed and comfortable. They’re very experienced carers.’

  And I suddenly realise, as if I didn’t already know, what a cold, cruel world it is and what cold, cruel people I’m dealing with.

  You think you can run away, and you can’t. You think you can have some control over your life, and you can’t.

  They’ll get you in the end.

  The car’s travelling at a steady speed. I’m hemmed in, not even next to a door. I can’t think of any way out of this. All I can do is sit there, and let myself be taken to a place where they’ll take my baby away from me.

  We pull off the main road, and down a ramp into an underground car park. I hold Mia’s hand in mine. Part of me still doesn’t believe they’ll actually do this. But they do.

  We’re unloaded from the car. I ask to hold Mia one last time, and they let me. She’s fussing after being lifted out of the car seat. I try to talk to her, ‘This isn’t the end, Mia. I’ll see you again, soon. I promise.’ But she’s got her eyes closed and she’s thrashing her head from side to side. And the words don’t come out right anyway: they’re squeaky, blurry, teary words. It’s all wrong. Someone reaches in and puts their hands between my arms and her body, and then they lift her away from me.

  All I can see is two people hurrying away; one carrying the car seat, one carrying Mia. The policeman next to me says, ‘This way, please,’ and puts his hand on my shoulder to turn me round. I’m thinking, ‘Get your filthy hands off me,’ but it doesn’t come out in words. It’s a scream, a roar, and I don’t punch him, I raise my hand up and drag my nails down his face, and then he’s screaming too, high-pitched, horrified. He puts his hands up to the five red streaks and I start running.

  Across the car park, an engine starts up. It’s the car they’re taking Mia away in. I run towards it. They’ve seen me – the tyres squeal as they accelerate up the ramp. There’s a metal gate at the top, and they have to wait for it to open. I can catch them. The gate slides to one side. I’m almost there. I reach forward and my fingers brush the boot and then the brake lights flash off, the car moves away and it’s gone, joining the stream of traffic on the Edgware Road. I start following, but I soon lose sight of it. I slow down and stop, leaning forward with my hands on my thighs as I try to catch my breath.

  I glance behind me and there are half a dozen cops streaming out of the police station. I watch, almost detached, and then it sinks in that they’re after me.

  I’ve got more than a hundred metres’ head start on them, but they’re closing in fast, and suddenly the thought of their hands on me, grabbing me, shoving me, is too much. Anger surges through me again, together with a kick of adrenalin. I don’t know where I’m going to go, but I’m not going to just stand here and let them get me. I start running. My coat is making me too hot, so I shrug it off and drop it. Then I’m away, arms and legs free to stretch, feet pounding into the pavement, splashing through puddles. I run down alleys and passages, cut through a car lot and round the back of a pub. I don’t look back, not once. I just keep going, one foot in front of the other. My chest starts to ache, it’s like my lungs are going to burst, but I’m not stopping. I run through a market, through the smell of wet cabbage leaves and frying burgers, and finally, I find a path down to the canal, a dreary strip of grey water. I keep looking round, but there’s no-one behind. There’s a pile of railway sleepers at the side of the path. I stop running and sink down onto them.

  All I’ve got is the clothes I’m wearing. I have nothing else left. When they took Mia away, they were taking my life. Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! The only thing in my head is her, the absence of her, how my arms are missing her weight, how my breasts are hot and full with milk she’ll never drink. Being there, sitting there without her, is unbearable. I want to run again, do something, move – but I can’t. Even sitting down my legs are shaking. They’re not taking me anywhere for a while. And so I have to stay here, alone with my despair.

  Unbearably, utterly alone.

  Chapter 51: Adam

  I don’t go straight home when I leave Nelson. I should do. I should go home, pack my bags and get on the first coach out of London, with or without Nan. But at the back of my mind, I don’t want to leave it all to Nelson. I want to try and do something, like the Gherkin thing or the Tower Bridge thing, so I set off into town for a last attempt to wake the city up.

  I end up in Oxford Street again, and I can hear this chanting some way off. So I follow the noise. There’s a voice booming through a megaphone, the crowd backing it up. I don’t get what they’re saying to start with, then when I make out the words I realise where I am. This must be Grosvenor Square. It’s the demo we saw on the telly last night.

  ‘No war, no war, no war.’

  The sound echoes off the buildings even in the streets all round. In the square it’s overwhelming. There are uniformed police posted every few metres. I squeeze past and into the crowd. The guy with the megaphone is at the front somewhere – I can’t see him, but I can hear him all right, and suddenly I know what I’ve got to do. I’ve got to get to him and I’ve got to grab the m
egaphone. It don’t occur to me to wonder if I can. I just go for it.

  It’s a big crowd, but the atmosphere is great. There’s lots of young people, some families, even really young kids and some oldies, even older than Nan. Everyone’s there for the same reason. These are people who think that if enough of you shout loud enough, people will listen.

  I make my way through them, getting closer to the centre of the noise, and then I spot him, the man with the megaphone. He’s middle aged, one of those guys who’s in denial about their hair, so it’s thin on top but down to his shoulders. I worm my way between backs and shoulders and arms until I’m right next to him. I could grab hold of the megaphone from here, but that’s Plan B. I’ll try Plan A first.

  I tap the guy on the shoulder. He looks round at me, does a double-take when he sees my burn, then releases a button on the megaphone to turn it off.

  ‘All right, mate?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, cool,’ I say. ‘Can anyone have a go?’

  He’s not sure. He don’t like war. He don’t like the Americans. He don’t like the government, but he likes to have control of the megaphone.

  ‘I wanna be like you, man,’ I say. ‘I wanna change the world.’

  A grin spreads across his face.

  ‘’Course you do. ’Course you do. Okay, young fella,’ he says. He holds the megaphone out towards me. ‘Press the red button and keep it down when you speak into the end. Don’t be shy. Give it some welly. I’ll introduce you.’

  He turns away, holds the mouthpiece up to his face and presses the red button.

  ‘We’ve got a young warrior for peace here. I want you to give a warm welcome to …’ he pauses and leans his head back towards me.

  ‘Adam,’ I whisper.

  ‘… Adam. Let’s hear it for Adam.’

  The crowd all cheer like crazy. They haven’t got a clue who I am, but they’ll cheer anything – it’s that sort of morning and that sort of crowd. I take hold of the megaphone. It’s heavier than I’m expecting, but I take a deep breath, hold it up to my mouth and press the button.

  ‘No war!’ I shout. ‘No war!’ I stop, and the crowd chants back at me. I do a couple more rounds of that, until they’re really on my side. Baldy slaps me on the back and then holds his hand out for the megaphone, but I’m not done yet. I’ve only just started.