The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London)

by Mark Gillespie

  It’s time to wake up.

  But be careful, because when you wake up, they’ll want to kill you. Waking up is a threat to their big fat bank accounts, to their three holidays a year and to their luxury cars and chubby bejewelled fingers.

  They will portray us as devils. Because as devils themselves, they can’t let anyone know the truth. There is nothing more deadly than the devil in a sharp suit.

  But you and I know better. We, not them, are the real good and honest citizens.

  And so I say this to you – the good and honest citizens of London Town.

  Here is something we can do to change the world. Let there be no fear and no going back.

  If dying is the only way to save your soul, then choose to die.”

  Clip ends.

  Chapter 8

  9th August 2011

  * * *

  Sumo Dave, Tegz, and Hatchet stood on the platform, waiting for the Tube to take them on the first leg of their journey from Tottenham Hale to Croydon in South London.

  Mack held back a little, keeping his distance until he was done talking on the phone.

  “I’d prefer you at home Mack,” Isabella Walker said on the other end of the line. “Your dad and I would feel a lot better.”

  Mack pushed the phone against his ear.

  “Mum, I’m just hanging out at Sumo Dave’s place,” he said. “I won’t be out on the streets or anything like that.”

  He could just picture the scene back home. His mum sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the television on the kitchen counter as it showed more scenes from the riots. Biting her fingernails. Looking at the clock.

  “But they’re burning half the city down Mack,” Isabella said. “You should be here. With us.”

  “Mum, I’m trying to make friends. Don’t make it any harder.”

  He heard his mother sigh down the line. “Oh. I’m not sure Mack.”

  “Mum, I’m going to be playing video games and having dinner with his mum. Indoors.”

  Bullshit.

  Isabella Walker was silent. But not completely so – Mack could hear the steady, rhythmic breathing of his mother. As his dad delighted in pointing at every opportunity, it was the sound Isabella made when she was thinking. Her concentration breathing.

  “Phone me in a couple of hours,” she said. “And don’t you dare try walking home. Let us know when you’re ready and we’ll come and get you. Okay?”

  “Okay Mum. Thanks.”

  Mack heard a faint rumble in the distance. The train was coming.

  “I’d better go,” he said, before she heard this for herself. ‘I’ll speak to you later, okay?”

  “Take care son. Have a good night and don’t forget to phone me.”

  “Right. Bye Mum.”

  And with that, Mack hung up the phone and ran towards the platform. The train was just pulling in at the station as he reached the others. Sumo Dave gave him a curt nod.

  “All set?” Sumo asked.

  Mack nodded. “Aye.”

  Sumo Dave rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Good. ‘Cos this is going to blow your fucking mind.”

  They were on their way. They were going to Croydon, a place that only the previous evening had been described on the news as a ‘war-zone’.

  The four boys sat in pairs directly opposite one another. Mack and Tegz on one side and Sumo Dave and Hatchet on the other. The three boys from ‘The Farm’ were still wearing the clothes they’d looted from Tottenham High Road on the night before. And they were all carrying a rucksack each, empty now that the previous evening’s loot had been stashed in Sumo Dave’s flat.

  Mack wasn’t exactly dressed for rioting. He was wearing a pair of cream chinos and a plain black t-shirt that exposed his pale forearms, one of which displayed a striking two-inch scar near the wrist. He didn’t have a jacket or a hoodie or anything to cover his face with.

  Who goes out looting in a pair of chinos?

  He’d expressed his concern to Sumo Dave about a lack of disguise on his part. Sumo Dave told him that he’d sort it and not to worry. That was good enough for Mack.

  Sumo Dave leaned forward in his seat.

  “Where’d you tell your folks you were going?” he asked.

  Hatchet sniggered. “What a pussy,” he said.

  Sumo Dave jabbed an elbow into Hatchet’s ribs. “Shut it Hatch,” he said. “Just because your mum don’t give a shit.”

  Hatchet fell back into his seat.

  “I told them I was at your place,” Mack said to Sumo Dave. “Sampling some of your old dear’s Jamaican home cooking.”

  Sumo Dave let out a high-pitched shriek of laughter. At this, some of the other people sitting in the carriage looked their way.

  “What the fuck mate?” Sumo Dave said in between giggles. “My mum can’t even do a slice of toast without setting the room on fire. You might as well jump in front of a train and have done with it. Be a quicker death than eating something that woman had made.”

  Tegz was laughing as he scrolled down the screen of his new iPhone.

  “Nice one Sumo,” he said.

  “I’m serious Dave,” Mack said. His face was like stone. “If you ever talk to my parents - ”

  Sumo Dave let out another shriek-laugh, bouncing up and down as if he was having a seizure.

  “Sumo,” Mack said. “Fuck sake mate.”

  Sumo Dave held up his hands. Gradually, he pulled himself together. “Alright Mack,” he said. “It’s cool. It’s just the thought of my mum in the kitchen making a civilised meal. Before he left, my dad used to say she’d need a map to find the bloody kitchen.”

  He wiped a tear from his eyes.

  Mack leaned back in his seat. He looked around the rest of the train. Despite the fact that it was almost rush hour, the train was practically empty. There were a few bodies scattered throughout the carriage, but not what you’d expect at this time on a working weekday.

  “Can we stop talking about his fucking parents?” Hatchet said. “You sound like a bunch of fucking babies.”

  Mack shook his head. But he said nothing.

  Sumo Dave gave Hatchet another nudge. “Ooooh! Somebody’s grumpy, eh? Time of the month is it love?”

  Tegz grinned. “He’s got a sore vagina, bless him.”

  “Fuck off,” Hatchet said.

  The journey took longer than Mack expected. All in all, it was just short of an hour from Tottenham to Croydon. From Tottenham Hale, they travelled on the Victoria line for about twenty minutes to Victoria Station. And after a brief wait on the Victoria platform above ground, it was another twenty minutes on the East Grinstead route to East Croydon.

  Outside East Croydon station, the first thing Mack noticed was the number of young men loitering on the streets.

  The four teenagers from Tottenham walked in a westerly direction along George Street. Considering the trouble that had occurred in Croydon on the night before, the streets were surprisingly calm. The shadowy figures hovering on the sidelines however, suggested that this mood wouldn’t last. But at that moment, as the boys walked towards the town centre, there were no visible plumes of smoke on the horizon and cars still filled the roads.

  Darkness bled slowly over Croydon. A thick blanket of grey settled in the skies above the town. The road gradually emptied of car headlights and the surrounding buildings seemed to have switched off entirely, perhaps trying to make themselves invisible in the night.

  As the boys walked towards the town centre, Sumo Dave, Tegz, and Hatchet, began wrapping bandanas around their faces. And when that was done, they pulled up the hoods of their tops over their head, finishing the job.

  Now they were ready.

  Mack felt exposed under the orange glare of the streetlights. Not only was he about to go looting in the most intense area of London, but he was letting the world get a good look at his face while doing it. He envisioned watching the news with his parents later that week - Archie and Isabella tut-tutting at the masked men
and women running riot and the destruction they were heaping upon the great city. And then it would happen - Mack would pop up on the CCTV. Perhaps he’d be walking out of a burning building with a couple of boxes under his arm. No mask, no hood, no nothing. Just him, waving at the camera like the gormless idiot he was.

  But Sumo Dave was on the case. He turned towards Mack, while pulling open the rucksack he was carrying on his shoulder. He tugged at the zip, reached in and dragged out a spare black baseball cap.

  “It’s my old one,” he said, handing it to Mack. “It’s all I’ve got mate. Just pull it down over your face. You’ll be alright, eh?”

  Mack grabbed the hat, put it on and pulled it over his face. He couldn’t see too well past the visor and some of his tawny hair still poked out at the sides and back. But it was better than nothing.

  Deep breaths.

  “I know some of these faces over there,” Hatchet said. He was pointing to some of the people who’d gathered on the other side of the street. “All from different parts of London and look at ’em standing side by side. No gang beefs today. It’s everyone against the law.”

  Hatchet nodded his approval.

  “Keep moving,” Sumo Dave said.

  They walked towards the town centre. With every step, it felt to Mack like Croydon was getting darker. And that something was waiting for them in that darkness.

  The closer they got to the town centre, the more people in hoods and masks they saw filling up the streets. Many hadn’t bothered to cover their faces. White face, black faces, brown faces – different accents, male and female.

  Truly it was a multicultural riot.

  Sumo Dave led the way towards the town centre. Mack remained constantly alert. This was like nothing he’d ever encountered before – it had all the appearance of a street carnival, and one organised by the lowest members of society.

  To their left, a small crowd of masked youths had gathered outside an electronics store. They were attempting to break the windows and kick in the doors. Ear-piercing screams contested with the sound of feet slamming against the door. There was a dull thud as the windows repeatedly came under attack.

  Sumo Dave kept them moving. Like so many others, the four teenagers from Tottenham pulled over bins and attacked cars that had been abandoned on the street - several of which were already burned out wrecks. There was a contagious violence in the air and Mack succumbed willingly to its advances.

  Soon after, they encountered a single decker bus on George Road, which had been abandoned at some point. The automatic loudspeaker on the bus was still playing:

  ‘This bus is under attack. Please dial 999.’

  In the distance somebody laughed. Or screamed.

  They followed the tramlines on George Street and onto Church Street. The road veered off to the left, but the boys continued in a straight line towards the shops and town centre. Dark shapes surrounded them - clusters of people and loud voices yelling back and forth at each other.

  Sirens blared in the distance.

  Mack stole a glance at the flats located above the shops. He hoped that there was nobody still in there, no families cowering in the dark while the world went mad for another night. Mack recalled the picture that had been on the front page of most of the newspapers that day: a woman jumping out of her first-floor window to escape the flames of the shops below.

  Hadn’t that been in Croydon?

  He quickly caught up with the others.

  Hatchet pointed at something up ahead.

  “Is that Reeves Corner?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Sumo Dave said. “That was on TV. C’mon, I want to see that.”

  They picked up the pace, running further west along Church Road. Mack felt a surge of adrenaline pushing him forwards. His arms felt like wings, lifting him off the crude earth and into the night sky.

  The area up ahead, known as Reeves Corner, was cordoned off with tape. Suddenly Mack recognised where they were. Up ahead was the historic House of Reeves furniture store, which had been all over the news last night. It was a burned out shell. He recalled the words of the newsreader – about how the building had stood there for over a hundred and fifty years old. And how it had survived Hitler’s bombs.

  “Shit,” he said.

  It was just a wreck on the street corner now. That great building - whatever its history – was a forgotten corpse on the battleground. And like a dead body strewn across a field alongside countless others, there was nothing left to do but look briefly and move on.

  Hatchet looked at the building for some time, his eyes gleaming in the dark. Mack couldn’t see the rest of Hatchet’s face under the mask, but somehow he knew, he just knew, the other boy was grinning.

  Countless shops had already been set on fire. The fires spread quickly, latching onto other buildings, which themselves were soon engulfed in flames. Yelps of delight filled the night as the inferno spread across Croydon town centre.

  Sirens continued to blare up ahead. Fire crews or the police – it was hard to tell who it was.

  Tegz and Hatchet stopped in every shop along the way. Most places had already been emptied the night before, but that didn’t stop them from running in and having a look. Sumo Dave was more selective in his choice of looting. Mack followed Sumo into a pawnbroker, which after a quick check, they realised had already been stripped of cash and jewellery. But Sumo Dave took whatever he could find lying around – old CDs, DVDs, computer games, anything that hadn’t already been taken.

  Mack went further into the shop and underneath an upturned chair at the rear of the building, found a small stash of Xbox games. With his heart pumping furiously, he pulled the zip on Sumo Dave’s rucksack and put them in. As he did so, he anticipated a large hand upon his shoulder.

  “You’re under arrest son…”

  But it didn’t happen.

  The two boys ran out of the shop. Nobody else on the streets gave them a second glance.

  Mack’s legs felt as light as feathers. His hands were visibly shaking and for a second or two, as the smoky air infested his lungs, he was convinced that he was on the brink of passing out.

  But he stayed on his feet, following Sumo Dave over to where Tegz and Hatchet were waiting. With their masks on and bulging rucksacks thrown over their shoulders, the pair looked like bank robbers making off with fresh loot.

  “You’ll get us lifted!” Sumo Dave said. He was pointing at their rucksacks. “We’ve got to get back on the train with these bags. Look at ‘em. They’re about to burst!”

  Hatchet shook his head. “Cops have got enough on their plates,” he said. “I’m just a bloke carrying a rucksack. On my way home from the gym, eh?”

  “You could stash them somewhere,” Mack said. “Then come back for it when the heat dies down. It’s probably safer than travelling back with them.”

  “Listen to the man,” Sumo Dave said.

  “You could hide them somewhere nobody would think to look,” Mack said. “Like a graveyard or something. Every town’s got one of those and nobody’s going looting in there, are they?”

  “Fucking graveyard?” Hatchet said. He was looking at Mack as if he’d just sprouted another head.

  “Listen boys,” Tegz said. He was looking around, his limbs flailing and full of nervous energy. “This bag’s coming home with me. If I leave it somewhere - anywhere - it ain’t going to be there when I get back. Yeah?”

  “Me too,” Hatchet said. “Fucking graveyard.”

  “Well you’ll be sitting on the other side of the train from me,” Sumo Dave said. “That’s for sure. Right pair of dodgy looking fuckers you are.”

  The town centre was under siege.

  Mobs of youths smashed their way through shop windows. Mack lifted the visor of his cap for a better look at what was unfolding around him. It was like watching a school of piranhas in the midst of a feeding frenzy, tearing the flesh off a large animal in a matter of minutes. It was something terrible, something fascinating, but something you c
ouldn’t help but watch. The looters moved fast, fuelled by adrenaline and bravado. And there were no consequences to their actions.

  “Let’s show these rich cunts!” somebody yelled.

  A gang of about eight people hurled a barrage of bricks at a shop window. Mack watched as the four boys were passing by. It was a butcher’s shop, one that billed itself as providing ‘Fresh Meat For All The Family’. The bricks smashed through the glass at the first attempt.

  Sumo Dave cheered the gang on as they stormed inside. Tegz and Hatchet did likewise. Mack found himself cheering too, despite the fact that to most people there, he probably was one of those ‘rich cunts’.

  Mack gave up on the idea of finding a Blackberry. The town centre had already been looted the night before and most of the good stuff was gone.

  But still, just to be there - to see this.

  It was surreal. Seeing it on TV was one thing, but there’s always crazy shit going on inside a TV. And usually crazy shit happens somewhere else. But seeing it for real – knowing that it was actually happening outside the safety of the living room window – it was a wake-up call like no other.

  He saw a gang of looters storming into a bike shop, dragging an assortment of bikes out onto the street and pushing them or cycling them away down the road.

  He turned to his right and saw a trio of teenage female rioters. They were dressed in hoodies or jackets with hoods, but none of them had bothered to pull the actual hood up over their head. They were running out of a newsagent with plastic carrier bags, bulging with soft drinks, sweets and crisps. Mack watched them as they ran past him, taking off down the street in the direction of the train station. All the while, they were laughing and screaming with joy, as if they’d just looted Fort Knox.

  The random beatings were the worst thing Mack saw that night. He watched, a sick feeling rising in the pit of his stomach, as three men kicked another man who was covering up on the ground in the doorway of a restaurant. The victim had rolled into the foetal position, his hands over his head as he tried to protect himself from the constant blows from above. The victim - a young man in his twenties who was well dressed in a dark suit - screamed and begged for his attackers to stop.