The big man smiled. “A Scotsman, eh?”
“Aye.”
“We’ve got a few Scots with us back at Station,” the big man said. “Good people the Scots – hard workers, loyal – yeah, bet they wish they’d stayed up north, eh? Coming to London wasn’t the best move they ever made.”
Walker looked at him. “Station?”
The big man frowned. “Definitely not from around here, eh?”
“We’ve been living up north for the past nine years,” Barboza said. “Close to the M25. But in the end rogues forced us out – there were too many of ’em. We don’t know much about the rules, about what goes on down here so if we’re stepping on your territory then we’re sorry. We’re just trying to get somewhere.”
The big man raised his eyebrows. It looked like he wasn’t expecting an apology.
“They call me Fat Joseph,” he said. And then he gave his belly a few playful taps. “Can’t imagine why, eh?”
Fat Joseph then pointed to Walker’s axe. “Before we talk, I think you should give me that,” he said. “At least until we get to know each other a little better.”
Walker didn’t move. He had no intention of handing the axe to over these strangers.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me?” Fat Joseph said, leaning in a little closer. “Please, let’s not be difficult.”
“Kill him.”
The voice came from the middle of Curtain Road. It belonged to the blonde haired woman – she was still sitting on her Harley-Davidson Street Glide, glaring at Walker like he’d just murdered her entire family in cold blood.
“You’ll have to forgive Rhonda,” Fat Joseph said. “She doesn’t like strangers.”
“I don’t like anyone I don’t know who’s carrying a bloodstained axe,” she said. “Especially with that cold, murderous look in his eyes. Take it off him Joseph.”
“Why don’t you try?” Walker said, looking at Rhonda over Fat Joseph’s shoulder.
Rhonda smiled and it was a chilling, demonic grin. Was that what she’d been hoping to hear all along? At Walker’s challenge, she reached a heavily tattooed hand into her jacket pocket and pulled something out in a blur. Walker heard a brief clicking sound and then watched as a gleaming blade unfolded itself from a sleek, silver handle several times over.
Walker almost gasped. It was easily the longest switchblade that he’d ever seen, more like a thin sword than a knife.
Rhonda swung a long leg over the side of the bike, not taking her eyes off Walker.
“Hold it Rhonda,” Fat Joseph said. The big man was looking at Walker as he spoke to the young woman behind him. “I think you’d better give me that axe mate. I’ve seen what Rhonda can do to a man’s private parts with that blade. It ain’t pretty, especially if you’re planning on having any children.”
Rhonda stood in the middle of the road, glaring at Walker. The blade of the long knife was pointing at him, ready to poke a thousand holes into his skin on Fat Joseph’s command.
“Look we don’t have time for this,” Barboza said. She pushed Walker’s arm down, forcing him to lower the axe. “It’s like we said – we’re not looking for trouble. We’re looking for Michael King. That’s where we’re going – to Liverpool Street Station to see him. We’ve come a long way and we’re so close. Walker knows him – sort of.”
Fat Joseph tilted his head.
“You know Michael King?” he said to Walker.
“I was at Piccadilly,” Walker said. “Right up the front, just after Chester George was shot and killed. Michael King and I were both trying to get a hold of the same guy – the guy who killed Chester.”
Fat Joseph smiled. “Tell me about the guy who killed Chester George.”
“He lived on the same estate as Michael King and a couple of other kids I knew back then,” Walker said. “Short, black, stocky. Sort of like a miniature Mike Tyson.”
“His name?” Fat Joseph said.
“Michael King hasn’t told you his name?” Walker asked.
“Michael King doesn’t know his name,” Fat Joseph said. “Or at least, he can’t remember it. He knows that the kid lived on his estate back in 2011 but he never could pin down the name. It’s been driving him crazy for a long time. And yeah, your description sounds just like our boy.”
“I know his name,” Walker said.
“You say you know,” Fat Joseph said. “But if I take you to Michael King and you’re lying then you’ve wasted our time. And if you waste our precious time, bad things are going to happen my friend. To you. To her. You get it? There’s no playing around when it comes to the little twat who killed Chester. That’s big time baby.”
“I know him,” Walker said. “And I’ll tell Michael King his name.”
Fat Joseph looked back and forth at Walker and Barboza. Slowly, the smile returned to the big man’s face.
“Well then,” he said. “Let’s go see him.”
Chapter 4
SKAM TV - The Lunchtime News Broadcast
July 12th 2020
The news begins by showing images of a once quiet suburban street in North London.
This is Stanmore Road.
Several armoured vehicles are parked alongside the kerb. Countless troops are spilling out of the AFVs, taking up position on both sides of the street. Others are searching the neighbourhood houses, scouring the overgrown gardens in search of something or someone. At the same time, a Black Hawk helicopter descends noisily from the sky, preparing to land in the middle of the road
The camera then cuts to the news desk where thirty-five year-old Gayle Campbell, is sitting behind a large caption with the main headline – ‘MR APOCALYPSE MURDERS’ – printed in bold, red letters.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: Good afternoon. I’m Gayle Campbell and welcome to SKAM’s Lunchtime Broadcast. As reported earlier this morning, hundreds of lives were lost in a savage terrorist attack on the M25 by the Good and Honest Citizens. But there was a second event this morning, which is quickly being labelled on social media as the ‘Mr Apocalypse Murders’. If you haven’t heard, two young soldiers were brutally murdered today in North London and it’s believed that two stars of the Future of London reality TV series – Mr Apocalypse, also known as Walker, and Cristiane Barboza – are responsible. Joining me now to discuss this is one of SKAM’s resident Future of London analysts, Gordon Schultz.
The camera cuts to a thirty-nine year-old man sitting next to Gayle. Gordon Schultz, a professional sociologist at the University of Cambridge, is dressed in a three-button Yorkshire Tweed jacket and his face sports about a day’s growth of dark stubble.
GORDON SCHULTZ: Thank you Gayle.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: What a terrible day it’s been so far Gordon. Now we’ve got these Mr Apocalypse murders on top of what happened at the M25. It’s just horrendous, isn’t it? It’s believed that the two young soldiers were assisting a routine maintenance task in North London when Mr Apocalypse and Barboza ambushed them. The details so far are sketchy but grim. Apparently one of the soldiers had his throat cut and early reports also say that several fingers were hacked off one of his hands. The other soldier was apparently bludgeoned to death with an axe inside Mr Apocalypse’s house. This really is shocking, isn’t it Gordon?
GORDON SCHULTZ: Yes Gayle it is. It’s particularly tragic when you consider that these two innocent young men were only in London in the first place trying to help these people. I believe at the time, they were assisting with a small electrical fire in the Stanmore Road area.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: Another important thing to consider Gordon – just before the electrical fire caused havoc with the Future of London’s cameras, we witnessed Cristiane Barboza having a mental breakdown in Mr Apocalypse’s house. She was hysterical and even claimed to be an actress at one point. Now a lot of people – quite rightly – jumped all over this but these initial concerns died down quickly as it became clear that Barboza was not literally claiming to be a professional actress. Is that correct?
GORDON SCHULTZ: T
hat’s correct Gayle. I believe that the stress of staying alive in such a harsh environment has caused Barboza to feel that she is playing a role. That is, she’s playing the role of the survivor and that comes with a lot of pressure that people on the outside can’t understand. It’s also possible that Barboza has developed Dissociative Identity Disorder – that is she’s created multiple personalities to help her cope with the stress of the situation she’s in. That would certainly explain why we’ve heard her speaking with both a Brazilian and English accent.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: And perhaps something like Dissociative Identity Disorder, that would explain her ability to commit such horrific crimes like these murders. If the act of murder could be blamed on someone else – a different personality for example – then it’s easier to live with. Yes?
GORDON SCHULTZ: Absolutely Gayle. It must be hard for people like Barboza who’ve lived in London for so long to understand what’s real anymore. This is not to justify these brutal murders, but we must try and make some kind of effort to understand the minds of those who committed the act.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: This certainly addresses the ongoing debate about rehabilitation, doesn’t it? The RELEASE versus PRESERVE argument.
GORDON SCHULTZ: Yes and as you know Gayle, I’m a longstanding advocate of PRESERVE – that is, to keep things as they are. What happened in Stanmore Road today should put all ideas of rehabilitation to bed once and for all. We cannot let these people back into our society.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: There’s no hope for them?
GORDON SCHULTZ: They’re no longer like us Gayle – it’s that simple. They’ve been dehumanised through a tragic series of circumstances. It’s terrible but we cannot trust these people around the rest of society – would you leave your children with one of them? Those who advocate RELEASE have to accept the hard facts – the people of London are not safe for us to be around.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: And to think, Mr Apocalypse had become such a hit with the viewers lately. For many of us who watched – myself included – it felt like we were watching a friend.
GORDON SCHULTZ: (Nodding) Sometimes we think we have a connection with an animal through the bars of a cage. We make eye contact. We feel something and believe that it’s real. But there is no connection except the one we invent for ourselves. We cannot open the cage door because all of our lives are at risk around dangerous animals. Today’s murders are another piece of sledgehammer evidence, showing us why we can’t pull down the M25. These people are unstable – we saw that with the Lovebirds earlier this year and now with Mr Apocalypse and Barboza.
GAYLE CAMPBELL: Thank you Gordon Schultz. (Turning back to camera) Well, discussions are already underway between the military and police about how to bring the two murderers to justice. As of now however, both Mr Apocalypse and Barboza remain at large somewhere in the city.
Chapter 5
Immersion 9 – Live Chat Forums
#GhostsofLondon #MrApocalypseMurders
Ziggy Sawdust: LOL! Did you see Campbell’s announcement today?
The Vegan Butcher: Yeah.
Ziggy Sawdust: The Ghosts are coming!!
The Vegan Butcher: How long since they were last out?
Mr Blue Sky: Not long enough. Don’t think I can stomach watching that all over again. Why are FOL broadcasting this vile shit to the public?
Ziggy Sawdust: People pay for 24/7 access. They can’t cut it.
The Vegan Butcher: @MrBlueSky Oooooh! Too much for you is it mate? Look at these bloody savages we made, eh? LOL! Even Mr Apocalypse is a cold-blooded killer!!! Wow! What’s up? Can’t handle FOL anymore?
Mr Blue Sky: @TheVeganButcher Idiot! Mr A and Barboza were set up and everyone with half a brain knows it. Guess that excludes you though.
The Vegan Butcher: @MrBlueSky Cold-blooded killers mate, the pair of them. Him and the bitch should be strung up in public.
Mr Blue Sky: @TheVeganButcher How’s that work then? The Londoners were shut out and yet you’re still judging them by our laws? The soldiers were pissing about in their territory! Might as well put a shark on trial for killing a surfer.
The Vegan Butcher: @MrBlueSky I hope the Ghosts get ’em.
Chapter 6
The bikers led Walker and Barboza towards Liverpool Street Station.
Walker and Barboza travelled behind the small convoy on foot. Despite their heavy legs, they did their best to keep up with the steady, mechanical hum that beckoned them forwards to their meeting with Michael King.
From Shoreditch, the convoy travelled south onto a major road that was known as Bishopsgate. This massive road formed part of the A10, which in its time had been one of the main thoroughfares through the city of London.
Tall office buildings towered above them on either side of the street; abandoned places of commerce and enterprise that had in the last nine years, become five hundred foot tall gravestones growing out of cracks in the concrete.
About ten minutes later, they arrived at Liverpool Street Station.
Fat Joseph revved his motorcycle on the final approach, riding slightly ahead of the others. The others didn’t let him get too far ahead. They quickly followed suit and broke ranks one at a time, riding towards the entrance of the station. Walker saw the bikes taking a sharp right turn off Bishopsgate, before pulling up next to the main entrance.
Walker and Barboza came up behind them, just as the bikers were dismounting from their motorcycles.
They’d made it. Liverpool Street Station.
Walker thought it looked more like a Gothic cathedral than a train station, with its soaring arches and two towers that flanked the main entrance. He’d heard a little about Liverpool Street Station during history lessons at school – World War Two lessons. He knew that it had been open since the late nineteenth century and in the intervening years had suffered significant wartime damage due to air raids. But what Walker remembered most of all was that the station had temporarily acted as a terminus for child refugees arriving in London prior to the Second World War. It was part of something known as the Kindertransport rescue mission. That was when Britain took in ten thousand predominantly Jewish children from Germany and surrounding countries that were threatened by Nazi persecution. And they’d arrived here, at Liverpool Street Station. Somewhere nearby, Walker knew there was a bronze memorial – a statue of five children, looking around wide-eyed at their surroundings. He’d seen pictures of it.
Walker wondered if it was still there. He hoped so.
He unwrapped the hot, damp T-shirt from his head. Then he wrung it out, watching the sweat fall onto the road in slow, steady drips. After putting it back into his rucksack, he wiped a thin layer of sweat from his forehead. He tried to dry his hand on the side of his jeans, which felt like they were stuck to his legs with hot glue. As he did this, Walker felt the scratches on his left forearm sting.
“What are we doing here Walker?” Barboza said. She was standing beside him, looking at the five bikers standing outside the station like a police line-up, waiting to escort the visitors inside. The bikers were in turn, looking back at Walker and Barboza, perhaps wondering why they were taking so long to come forward.
“Why didn’t we just cross the river?” she asked.
“I need to know,” Walker said. “I need to know what happened to Hatchet that day at Piccadilly, after he shot Chester George.”
Walker approached the entrance, moving past a row of bollards, up a few concrete steps. He didn’t even looking at the bikers as he passed them. There was an unexpected confidence in his stride now and as he walked, he heard Barboza catching up with him in a hurry.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said.
“We get the information and come straight back out again,” Walker said. “Okay?”
Barboza didn’t answer.
Fat Joseph caught up with them. Then, with the rest of the bikers taking up the rear, he led Walker and Barboza through the main entrance of Liverpool Street Station. It was a massive place befit
ting of what had once been London’s third busiest train station. It was everything Walker had hoped it would be. Walking down a set of stairs towards the concourse, he was struck by the old-fashioned beauty of the place, which effortlessly intermingled with the modern. The interior of the station was a stunning blend of contemporary and Victorian architecture. The roof was striking, built of iron and glass and it spanned multiple platforms, resulting in a Gothic feel that permeated the highest level of the building. Underneath the roof however, the station belonged firmly in the twenty-first century. On either side of the wide concourse, were dozens of spaces that had once housed a variety of retail units. There was also a selection of Ticket Xpress machines still scattered across the floor, designed for people who had needed to buy a ticket in a hurry.
The station’s concourse was full of people, much as it would have been in 2011. But rather than being a busy transport hub, this was now a home. There were people everywhere, sitting at plastic chairs and tables, sitting on blankets or sleeping beds on the floor, Many of them were tucked into the old shop fronts that had once been part of the station – a card shop, clothes shop, flowers shop, a Burger King – amongst others. Along the middle of the concourse, a narrow path ran through the station like a river through a city. The pathway was free of any obstacles, allowing access from one end of the building to the other.
The Future of London Box Set Page 41
