Young Bond, The Dead

  Greg put his hand across Liam’s mouth, silencing him. ‘There, that’s better. Quiet now,’ he said, and whimpered softly, like an animal. ‘I can feel fingers inside my head, Liam, tearing it all away. And if I ain’t here to look after you …’

  Liam made a muffled noise, ‘D’d …’

  ‘Go to sleep, my darling boy.’

  27

  It was still raining when they woke up, stiff and cold, wrapped in an assortment of coats and blankets, sleeping bags, duvets and whatever else they’d been able to find to keep warm under. Jack groaned and rocked his head on his neck, trying to ease out a knotted muscle. By habit he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, then sighed. He showed it to Ed who was coughing and sniffing at his side.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said, holding up the blank, dead screen. ‘I’m so used to telling the time by my phone. Used to do everything on it. My whole life was on here. My photos, my music, all my contacts. Don’t even know why I hang on to it. It’s never going to come back to life, is it? I sometimes think about all those satellites up there, floating about uselessly, cut off from Earth. What do you suppose’ll happen to them? Will they fall down? I never could get my head round satellites, how they stay in orbit.’

  ‘They’ll stay up there.’ Ed coughed again, clearing phlegm from his sore throat. ‘Once you’re in orbit you stay in orbit. They’ll be dead, though, just like your phone. I chucked mine out ages ago.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s just a sort of comfort thing, I guess,’ said Jack, turning his battered old phone in his hands. ‘Like Floppy Dog.’

  ‘You’ve lost me. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Floppy Dog.’

  ‘You say that like I’m supposed to know what it means.’

  ‘Come on!’ Jack laughed. ‘I must have told you about Floppy Dog.’

  ‘Nope. Not that I can remember.’

  ‘It was this stupid stuffed toy dog I used to have when I was a kid. It had these long black fluffy ears that were kind of like silky. I used to stroke one of the ears, at night, in bed. It was very reassuring, the feel of it, the softness, the smoothness.’ Jack closed his eyes and smiled. ‘I can still feel it now. I rubbed its right ear smooth, rubbed it half away by the end. I couldn’t live without him. It was a major alert if Floppy Dog ever went missing. National emergency.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘In the end, it was weird, one day … I don’t know how it happened … I went to bed without him, without even thinking. And that was that. Spell broken. I’m not gonna tell you how old I was, but after that – no more Floppy Dog.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Ed, ‘your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘It better be.’ Jack tossed his phone up and caught it neatly. ‘What time do you make it, anyway?’ he said.

  Ed looked at his watch. ‘Nearly six o’clock,’ he said. They were all used to going to sleep and waking up at different hours these days, tuned to the rhythm of light and dark. So six o’clock didn’t seem as barbaric as it once would have.

  Jack looked out of the windows. They were parked in the middle of the road on a faceless backstreet. What a miserable day. Rain was dripping off everything and splashing into the puddles that ran along the side of the pavement. There was no one to unblock the drains any more. The water just lay there.

  ‘What are you going to do, Ed?’ he asked.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You going to Islington with everyone else?’

  ‘Suppose so. Best to stick together. Aren’t you?’

  Jack tapped on the window. ‘We’re in south London, Ed. Haven’t got across the river yet. Now’s my chance. Clapham’s just a few miles west of here. Wouldn’t take me long to walk it.’

  ‘But you can’t go there by yourself,’ said Ed. ‘I thought after what happened …’

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’ Jack sounded very sure of himself. ‘But I don’t have to go it alone. You could come with me, you and Bam. Why’s it going to be any different in north London? You’ve just got it into your head that it’s safe on the coach and you don’t want to get off it.’

  ‘I know …’ Ed ran his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. ‘I suppose I hadn’t really thought beyond trying to stay as a gang. You really are a stubborn git, aren’t you?’

  ‘Quite frankly,’ said Jack, lowering his voice and leaning in towards Ed, ‘the sooner I get away from Lord Greg Almighty the better.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘So, come with me, eh?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want me around, Jack. You reckon I can’t fight. You think I’m a coward. Why would you want me along?’

  ‘Look, I said some stupid things yesterday, Ed. I was tired. You know what it’s like. The thing is, I do want you around. You’re my mate.’

  ‘But I’m not any good in a fight,’ said Ed. ‘I’m just not.’

  Jack stood up. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to Bam,’ said Ed.

  ‘We’ll be OK, Ed.’ Jack squeezed past Ed. ‘The three of us. We won’t have the smaller kids and the nerds to look after.’

  ‘What about Piers? He won’t get far with that head injury, and I don’t think Bam would leave him behind.’

  Jack stopped. Swore. ‘I forgot about him. Maybe the girls could look after him?’

  Ed laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, sort it out with Bam. Make a decision of some sort. I’m going to go and talk to his lordship up front.’

  Jack yawned and made his way to the front of the coach. He had to step over Liam who was lying in the aisle wrapped in a blanket, Greg’s jacket under his head for a pillow.

  Greg was sitting in the driver’s seat with his shotgun in his lap, staring straight ahead through the rain-streaked windscreen. He was still as a statue, but as Jack got close he suddenly burst into a wild coughing fit that ended with him spitting into the stairwell.

  Jack stopped and took a deep breath. It wasn’t good when an adult coughed like that. It usually meant only one thing. He let his breath out slowly and stepped closer.

  ‘Do you know exactly where we are?’ he asked, hoping for the best.

  Greg ignored him. Just sat there.

  ‘Is this, like, Borough, or somewhere?’ Jack pressed on.

  Nothing.

  ‘Greg?’

  Just the rain, tapping on the roof.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  There was a sound somewhere between a shriek and a sob. Jack turned round. Zohra was with Liam, trying to wake him.

  ‘There’s something the matter with him,’ she said. ‘He won’t wake up.’

  ‘What?’ Jack felt very cold suddenly.

  ‘What’s happened to him? Why won’t he wake up?’

  ‘Get some water, splash his face maybe.’

  ‘He won’t move.’

  ‘Put him in the recovery position.’

  ‘LEAVE HIM ALONE!’

  Greg’s voice sounded uncomfortably loud in the cramped confines of the bus. Everyone fell silent.

  Still Greg wouldn’t turn round.

  Jack went over to Liam and knelt down. He shook him. He felt frozen. Jack lifted his face. His lips were blue, his eyes wide open and staring, slightly bulging. There were red marks and bruising round his neck.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said to nobody in particular.

  ‘I said leave him alone!’ Greg snarled. ‘Don’t touch him. Don’t go anywhere near him. I’m looking after him. You’re none of you fit to be anywhere near him.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Jack repeated.

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘You were with him last night,’ said Jack accusingly. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘HE’S ALL RIGHT!’

  At last Greg turned round and stood up. His face was greasy with sweat, his eyes and nostrils red-rimmed. There were white spo
ts around his mouth. But the thing Jack found most disturbing was that he was wearing Liam’s wire-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Why are you wearing them?’ he asked.

  Greg put his hand to his face.

  ‘The sun was too bright,’ he said, blinking. ‘I needed to put me dark glasses on.’

  Jack was gripped by a cold, hard fury. ‘You’re sick,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’ve got the disease. You’re just like all the rest.’

  ‘I ain’t sick. I’m fine.’

  ‘Look at yourself, Greg. Look in the mirror. You’ve got the disease.’ Now Jack pointed to Liam’s lifeless body. He was shaking with rage, his finger waving. He knew Greg was dangerous. He knew he should be careful, be clever like Ed, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘Did you do this?’ he asked. ‘To Liam? Did you?’

  ‘I was protecting him,’ Greg croaked. ‘So nobody can ever hurt him. If I ain’t around to look after him what was he gonna do? He was always gentle, my little Liam, never a tough nut like me. Couldn’t look after himself. He would have got hurt. He was the sweetest, kindest boy. And now he always will be.’

  ‘Greg …’

  ‘Shut up! Sit down and shut up. I said I was going to get us all to Islington and I will. I’m taking Liam home.’

  He aimed his shotgun at Jack, who backed into a seat, shaking worse than ever.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Greg, showing both barrels to everyone on the bus. ‘Now, all of you, stay where you are, sitting down. Don’t talk to the driver when the bus is in motion, or the driver will shoot you. Got that?’

  Greg returned to his seat and started the engine. A spray of rain rattled down the side of the coach, which rocked as a blast of wind rolled over it. Jack realized with dismay that Greg would virtually be driving blind.

  As the coach eased forward Ed nipped up the aisle and tucked in next to Jack.

  ‘He’s lost it,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Just sit tight and wait for our moment. He’s not gonna get far like this.’

  ‘He killed Liam?’

  ‘Looks like it. And he’ll probably kill the rest of us if we don’t stop him somehow.’

  Greg moved the bus up through the gears, so that they were soon thundering along through the cluttered streets of south London. Too fast. Greg was completely out of control.

  There was a thump and a grinding crunch as they hit something on one side, but Greg just speeded up. Someone screamed, and Zohra started wailing. They were all being thrown about in their seats. Jack pressed his face to the side window and tried to get his bearings.

  ‘Where’s he taking us?’ Ed asked. ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘Not sure. We’re somewhere near London Bridge, I think. But I reckon we’re heading south, away from the river. It’s so hard to tell around here. None of the roads go in a straight line.’

  There was another terrific bang and the coach lurched sideways across the road. Greg wrestled with the wheel.

  ‘This is crazy,’ Jack said, standing up and climbing over Ed.

  ‘Jack, no …’

  Jack fought his way to the front, rocking from side to side, stumbling into the seats.

  ‘Stop the bus!’ he yelled. By way of a reply Greg flung an arm back and fired off a round from his gun. It went wild, peppering the ceiling with shot, but Jack threw himself to the ground and lay pressed against the carpeted floor.

  ‘Sit down!’ Greg yelled, still waving the gun around.

  Jack stayed there, hoping that Greg might at least slow down. It was clear, though, that nothing short of a major accident was going to stop him.

  Jack made a decision.

  If the bus hit something head on, he’d be thrown forward head first along the aisle like a torpedo.

  He started to crawl. Inch by inch along the floor. Hoping that Greg wouldn’t notice him in the big convex mirror that gave the driver a view of the entire bus interior. He passed Liam’s body, tried not to think about what Greg had done to him, carried on.

  The bus went way too fast over an obstacle, a speed bump maybe, and Jack was flipped up into the air and landed with a thud. He heard something scraping all the way along the underside. Still he crept forward, his eyes fixed on the shotgun that Greg was waving blindly in the air.

  Greg couldn’t drive properly like this, and neither could he aim properly. Sooner rather than later either they were going to crash or Greg was going to loose off a shot that would hit one of the kids.

  Jack had to keep going.

  At last he reached the front. Greg was close enough to touch. Jack picked his moment and then forced himself up from the floor. He shunted Greg’s gun arm out of the way and grabbed his wrist. There was a bang as Greg squeezed the trigger. Shot raked the windscreen and punched a hole in the door.

  But that was it. The gun only held two shells at a time. If Greg wanted to shoot again, he would have to reload first and Jack wasn’t going to give him the chance. He wrenched the weapon out of Greg’s grasp and butted the stock into the side of his head. Green snot exploded from Greg’s nose and he fell away from Jack as the coach slewed across the road, hurling Jack down the steps. For a few seconds the coach ploughed on, sideways, filling the street from pavement to pavement, its tyres screaming. Then there came a final almighty smash as it hit some parked cars and they at last stopped moving.

  From his position sprawled in the stairwell Jack could see smoke and steam rising outside.

  Ed unbuckled his belt, ran along the aisle and pulled Jack up out of the stairwell and on to his feet.

  ‘Well done!’ He grinned at his friend who looked shaken and a little disorientated.

  But Greg wasn’t finished. With a roar, he surged out of his seat and punched Ed out of the way with a meaty forearm, trying to get to Jack.

  Jack aimed a wild kick at Greg; it got him in the knee. Greg yelled and swung back at him, a vicious right hook that, if it had connected, would have knocked Jack’s head off. But Jack managed to duck and scurry away backwards up the aisle, dragging Ed with him.

  Greg went into a low crouch, arms outstretched, his red eyes burning with hatred and rage. There was blood drooling from his mouth – whether from Jack’s blow to his head or from internal bleeding deeper in his guts, it was impossible to tell. He coughed, spraying blood and mucus over the kids at the front of the coach who were up out of their seats and retreating from him in a pack like startled ducklings.

  Greg belched, causing a big brown bubble to form between his lips. It burst, filling the coach with a foul stench. He wiped his mouth and then spat a gobbet of rubbery mucus against a window, where it slowly crawled down like a fat yellow slug.

  ‘If Liam ain’t gonna live,’ he slobbered, ‘none of you deserve to live. NONE OF YOU. I’m gonna rip you to pieces.’

  28

  Brooke was lying in a confusion of spilt and scattered boxes at the back of the bus, half buried beneath packets of crisps and biscuits. A can of beans had hit her in the back of the head and for a moment she wasn’t sure where she was. Then Courtney pulled her out and she quickly caught up with what was going on. Greg was advancing down the aisle, forcing the panicked kids ahead of him. Brooke swore and looked round for some way to escape the chaos.

  Fixed above the window was a sort of little metal hammer thing in a glass case.

  ‘Look,’ she said, twisting Courtney round. ‘Let’s smash the glass and get out of here.’

  ‘Do it!’ said Courtney.

  Brooke jumped on the seat and used her elbow to break the thin glass covering the hammer and then fumbled to remove it from the clips that held it in place.

  ‘Let go, you stupid thing.’

  At last she got her fingers round it and tore it free.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Aleisha was watching Greg slowly make his way up the bus. Kids spilling from their seats and falling over each other to keep ahead of him.

  Brooke swung the
hammer.

  Too weedy. It just bounced off.

  Useless.

  ‘Harder!’ yelled Courtney. ‘Do it harder.’

  ‘I know!’ Brooke snapped. ‘Give me a chance.’ She pulled her arm right back, bared her teeth and grunted like a tennis player as she swung again. This time there was a satisfying crack as the window turned into a thousand glittering diamonds. Another hit and the bits of shattered glass dropped out, clattering and tinkling.

  Brooke bustled to the window then jumped back with a cry.

  There were sickos outside.

  About ten of them, crowding around the coach, mothers and fathers, a couple of teenagers, in a much worse state than Greg. One of them reached up towards the broken window and took hold of the sill. He was a mess. His cheeks had either been torn through, or had rotted away so that his lower jaw dangled down, no longer attached to the upper jaw. His head tilted back and his long pink tongue poked out like he was a living Pez dispenser.

  ‘We’re trapped,’ Brooke yelled, swiping at the father’s fingers with the hammer. The other two girls crowded round her to look outside. The sickos were getting excited. They started whining and battering the sides of the coach with their fists. BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG …

  Greg came on down the aisle, dribbling, coughing, belching, arms wide.

  Matt was standing his ground in the aisle as the smaller kids surged past him. He was clutching a handful of the torn pages from his Bible.

  ‘Greg! Stop!’ he said, raising an open palm. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this. I can help you. The Lamb can cure you. He can make you better. The Lamb can –’

  Greg lashed out at him with a scything backhander. The slap took Matt full in the face and Greg’s signet ring tore a bloody gash from his eyebrow up into his hairline. Matt went flying and fell down heavily between the seats.

  Zohra, Froggie and Jibber-jabber used the distraction to run to the toilet. They wrenched the door open and darted inside, frantically scrabbling to lock the door behind them.

  Greg snarled and punched his fist through the top of the door. It stuck there, halting him for a moment. He tugged and bellowed and shook like a dog arguing over a bone. Splintered chipboard and plastic tore at his forearm as he tried to pull it free. The cries of the little kids sounded small and distant inside the toilet.