Was he going to open the door?
If only he knew more about what was out there.
But it was the thought of his parents – of seeing his long-lost parents again that tipped him over the edge. If it was a maintenance crew then this was his ticket beyond the M25.
The sound of the engine was receding into the distance.
Without another second’s hesitation, his fingers pushed down on the metal handle. He ran out of the house and took off down the garden path at full speed. He almost gagged as the stench of death spilled out the door behind him like a pungent mist.
When he reached the middle of the road, he stopped and looked both ways. Empty. There was nothing there. Stanmore Road was the same concrete desert it had been for the last nine years. No car, no truck – there was nothing.
“Stop!” he yelled, looking both ways. “Please. Please stop. I’m here, I’m here!”
He started running down the street like a sprinter out the blocks. Whatever it was, whoever it had been – they couldn’t have gone far. He ran about a hundred metres in one direction, fully aware that he was probably going the wrong way. But it was a fifty-fifty chance and doing something was better than doing nothing.
The heat pressed down on him. He was blowing hard and fighting hard to get enough oxygen into his lungs. But it was too hot. His legs were tired and realising that he was slowing down and getting nowhere fast, he dropped to his knees in the middle of the street.
Whirr-Click.
He looked up towards the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun. That noise again. And then a troubling thought occurred to him – what if there was no car? What if it had been a fantasy in his head – a reaction to the sight of the dead family, an overload of sensory information that had caused his fragile mind to create an audible illusion? And if so, he’d created it in the form of an escape route.
No, there was a car. He was sure of it.
“Fuck!” he said, breathing heavy. It felt like his insides were shrivelling up and turning black. He needed water.
He pushed himself up off the road. It was time to go home, pull the curtains and crash on the bed for a while. Let the warm day pass and think about things when it was cooler.
He started the short, laborious walk back to his house. It felt like an invisible hand was weighing him down in both body and mind. Thank God he could see his house up ahead.
Then he saw something else – something lying underneath the hedge of one of the houses to his right. It was a white, rectangular sheet of paper. It was another envelope.
“No,” he hissed. It was like he was a vampire who’d just caught sight of a silver crucifix.
He understood the pain already. He’d read enough of those godforsaken letters to get it – times were hard in the city of London after Piccadilly. He didn’t need to keep reading these fucking whiny letters to know that all the people who wrote them were long dead and that their bones were out there somewhere, picked clean by the local insect population and denied a proper send-off. They were dead. He didn’t want to get to know them through their last words. They had died in horrific circumstances and that’s all there was to know.
He tried to ignore the envelope. To keep walking. Let a gust of wind come along and blow it into somebody else’s hand. But as always, curiosity or loneliness got the better of him. Without trying to talk himself out of it any further, he walked over to the wooden gate, scooped up the letter and tucked it into his back pocket.
Then he straightened up and looked around. He wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, but he was still hoping to see the faintest glimpse of a car receding into the distance.
Chapter 6
TFL: Calling London!
Georgia Perkins and Johnny Castle are hosting a ten-minute segment of questions taken from the studio audience. This is a regular part of the show and it takes place after the day’s top stories, discussions and special features have been concluded.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Right you lot! Let me see some hands in the air. (Turning to camera) Don’t forget if you guys at home have a question, leave a comment on our I-9 page using the hashtag #CallingLondonQ&A
Georgia points to a young woman in the front row with her hand raised.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Yes mate. Fire away.
YOUNG WOMAN: Hello. I want to ask a question about the Lovebirds. I know that Mr Apocalypse is a big deal these days but it seems like everyone’s forgotten about the Lovebirds, haven’t they? I mean they were at one point the most watched thing on TFL, but after what happened it’s like no one’s talking about them anymore. Know what I mean?
JOHNNY CASTLE: Oooh, I loved the Lovebirds sweetie.
YOUNG WOMAN: Me too. They were such a beautiful couple. I used to stay up all night watching them as they walked across London. They were good people for sure – we saw them give food to strangers, we listened in on their most intimate conversations and let’s be honest – none of us turned away that time they had sex in Hyde Park, did we?
GEORGIA PERKINS: Great telly wasn’t it?
YOUNG WOMAN: It was. Right until the moment he strangled her on live TV. But my point is this – nobody’s talking about the Lovebirds anymore. Why? It’s all about Mr Apocalypse today. But Mr Apocalypse is just flavour of the month and no one will remember him when the next thing catches on. I can’t believe that we’ve forgotten the Lovebirds so soon, can you? She died in such terrible circumstances. I was gutted. I’m still gutted by what happened. I thought he loved her.
JOHNNY CASTLE: It was a terrible thing.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Such a cute couple weren’t they? And young too. A real tragedy but what’s your question again mate?
YOUNG WOMAN: We’ve got to draw a line. Don’t you think we should draw a line somewhere? Yeah it’s great TV and all that, but I don’t want to see people being murdered. Especially people I’ve grown so attached to.
JOHNNY CASTLE: You’re right – the camera didn’t cut away from the act of murder. But you still watched it didn’t you?
YOUNG WOMAN: (Nodding) Yes I did. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and by the time it had sunk in it was all over. That poor girl was dead. And now nobody’s talking about it anymore. Everyone’s moved onto Mr Apocalypse – this mysterious loner dude in the north. Why aren’t we asking questions about the Lovebirds? Does nobody want to know why this young man did what he did?
JOHNNY CASTLE: Of course we do. And it’s understandable that you’re shocked by what happened. We all are. But as you know, TFL is a television show unlike any other in history. These are real people living in extraordinary circumstances. Maybe he did it out of some sense of warped nobility – to protect her from the ugliness of the world. Maybe he just snapped. Who knows? We are witnessing fascinating sociological developments behind the M25, but if you don’t like it – you can stop watching at anytime.
The audience gives Johnny Castle a round of applause.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Okay, very interesting points made there. Moving on, uhh yes you, the chap with the red t-shirt on.
A young black man with long dreadlocks and a dyed blond goatee gets to his feet. There is a yellowish glimmer in his eyes as he looks down upon the two hosts sitting on the couch.
YOUNG MAN: I have a question. It has nothing to do with what happened in London today because I don’t and never will subscribe to TFL.
GEORGIA PERKINS: (Laughs nervously) Uh-oh. We’ve got a live one here Johnny.
YOUNG MAN: Yeah. There are many charities out there raising funds to provide a better quality of life for people trapped in London. What I would like to know is this - why is the vast majority of money being raised by these charities not getting past the M25?
JOHNNY CASTLE: (Shaking his head) Look we don’t have time to discuss conspiracy theories mate. That’s Internet speculation isn’t it? I’ve heard this before but nobody ever seems to have any evidence, do they? Do you?
YOUNG MAN: Conspiracy theories? People are starving. Why are they starving? There’
s cannibalism and cases of clinical vampirism in London for God’s sake. People are eating human flesh and drinking blood. And it’s clearly born out of starvation and madness because these people aren’t being provided for.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Calm down a bit mate, yeah? No need to use that tone…
YOUNG MAN: It costs people one hundred pounds a month to watch the Londoners starve, right? To watch them go mad and turn into monsters. That’s a lot of money, innit? Combined with what charities like London Aid are raising, that should be more than enough to provide food and supplies and make life bearable. Yeah?
Georgia Perkins and Johnny Castle exchange nervous glances.
JOHNNY CASTLE: Look mate, there are other costs to consider you know? For example, do you have any idea how expensive it is to maintain the TFL set?
The young man with the blond goatee laughs.
YOUNG MAN: Set? Is that what we’re calling London now? A television set?
JOHNNY CASTLE: You have the purchase price of technology to consider. You have the upkeep of that technology, not to mention the military presence and the maintenance of other things such as a constant supply of electricity and clean water – these things are costly beyond comprehension. I don’t think a hundred pounds a month is that steep when you take all these things into consideration.
The audience applauds, but the young man raises his voice and talks above them.
YOUNG MAN: What absolute rubbish! Charities aren’t raising money for these things – they raise money to provide food for hungry people. They’re not supposed to be paying for any more surveillance equipment. I remember six months ago when this abomination was launched – Rudyard Campbell and the Prime Minister told us that TFL was there to help people find their loved ones. I haven’t heard of a single person being relocated from there to here. Have you?
JOHNNY CASTLE: Well it’s hardly Rudyard Campbell’s fault that nobody’s spotted anyone they know, is it?
YOUNG MAN: You’re a liar. And this is a travesty. But I’m telling you this – all of you. The Good and Honest Citizens will return and clean up this mess. We’re gonna finish what Chester George started in 2011. Just you wait and see.
The young man barges past the others sitting in the row alongside him and storms towards the exit. At the same time, two security guards move in and shadow his movements.
GEORGIA PERKINS: (Smiling at the camera) Well, well, well. I don’t know about you Johnny, but I do love a good conspiracy theory, eh?
Chapter 7
He pressed his face against the glass. He’d been unable to tear his eyes away from the bedroom window for most of the day. If that was a car he’d heard in the neighbourhood yesterday, then it might go past again. Maybe it was doing the rounds, day and night, looking for signs of life in the old neighbourhoods of Tottenham.
It was a plausible scenario.
But nothing happened. No one came, no engines growled down on the street. Perhaps it was true – there had never been a car out there in the first place. After all, he was hearing things on a regular basis now.
Still, he stayed by the bedroom window. Another five minutes – that’s what he’d been telling himself for the last few hours.
Eventually he did give up. It was getting dark outside and he drew the curtains. He decided to go downstairs into the living room for a while. A change of scenery – live it up a little in the new London. Inside the living room he pulled the curtains and brought out one of the rustic pillar candles that came in the supply packs every other week. Apparently light bulbs were too fragile to survive the impact on Drop Day.
It didn’t matter. He liked these candles. There was something comforting about the faint glow of candlelight. Not to mention it was safer as the light was bright enough, but not too bright that it could be seen from outside. He made a point of checking this with every new candle that came in a supply parcel. He couldn’t risk showing any signs of life in the house.
He sat down on the leather armchair. A small part of him was still listening for the sound of an engine outside on the street. Just in case. He tried to switch off but what else was there to do except think? He looked around the living room. Like all the rooms in the house, he knew the layout better than the back of his hand. Alba was curled up in a ball on the end of the wrinkled leather couch. The TV was where it had always been, sitting on the other side of the room. What a pity it no longer picked up a signal these days. He’d enjoyed watching television and would have given anything to be able to kick back and watch his favourite shows again, especially the great comedies such as Red Dwarf and The Office.
Back in 2011, he’d spent a lot of time watching news reports about the early days of the London riots. He recalled the shocked reaction of his parents who’d sat on the couch where Alba now slept. They’d watched the documentaries with all the experts and talking heads, listening to a variety of sociological theories – feeble attempts made by academia to understand the root cause of the riots. He remembered one expert in particular who’d compared the contagious fervour of the rioters to a rat king – a strange phenomenon in nature in which multiple rats become intertwined at the tails, like a super organism glued together by blood, dirt and shit. He always remembered that theory because it sounded so stupid – like something out of a horror film.
He looked down at the coffee table. The letter was lying there, still waiting to be opened. The words ‘PLEASE HELP’ had been written across the front in large blue ink letters. Most of the letters he found had something similar written on the front – a headline crying for attention – but there was something about this envelope that made it different. He’d noticed it almost immediately after bringing it home. It was so well preserved. All the others had been tattered, faded and ravaged by the weather and years. Not this one. The white colour of the envelope was still pristine white and to look at it, you could believe that it had been purchased in a shop that same day. Not to mention the blue ink on the front was bright and clear.
That aroused his curiosity. But it was still with some reluctance that he tore the envelope open. What fresh horrors awaited him now? He pulled out a folded piece of A4 paper from within and unravelled it. There was handwriting on both sides of the sheet and his first impression was that it was remarkably neat. He looked at the left-slanting, wide penmanship and instinctively thought it belonged to a woman’s hand.
Across the room, Alba stood up briefly and stretched her legs. Without fully opening her eyes, she did a full turn, rearranged her sleeping position and went immediately back to sleep.
He looked towards the window. No cars, only silence. Returning his thoughts indoors, he gave his full attention to the letter.
Please help me. I’m running out of time.
I’m in Tottenham, North London. If my numbers are right then the year is 2020.
I’m trapped. They’ve got me surrounded outside the house and I’m writing this letter while they’re quiet. Perhaps the night breeze might carry it to someone who will help me. I have to try.
Whoever you are – help me please. I’m trapped upstairs in 15a Langham Road, Tottenham N15. My name is Cristiane Barboza and I’m probably 28 years old. I can’t go outside anymore. Four men have been laying siege outside my house for two days. I think they’re rogues who have broken away from a pack and are now scavenging the area for food. So far I’ve been able to fight them off, but there’s too many of them and they keep coming back. They’ve broken all the lower windows at the front of the house but I’ve got a knife and have cut them when they try to get close. I got one of them good in the arm. They’re wary and it’s bought me time but that won’t last.
Help me please.
I’ve been living here for about two months on my own. Quite happily until now. I came up from the hellhole that is South London. Unlike so many others I survived the journey and I thought I’d found a quiet place here in the north, somewhere I could live in peace and within reach of a regular supply drop. And it was peaceful for a while. But
then a couple of days back – on the last Drop Day at the New River – they saw me. Five of them - wild-looking men - two of them dressed in tattered suits. I dropped the sack and ran back here. They chased after me. Four of them made it back. I don’t know what happened to number five.
I don’t have much food left. Running back to the kitchen to refill my water supply is getting too dangerous. I can’t let them out of my sight for too long.
I can’t stop thinking about my family back in Brazil. I came to London to study in 2010 and thought I was going to something better. Last I heard back in 2011, my mother was ill. They must have given me up for dead by now – I mean, what chance does anyone have on their own out here?
I’m sorry to ramble on. But I can’t stop thinking that this piece of paper might be the last trace of me that ever exists. I won’t have a headstone and I want to leave something of myself behind. I studied music at university. I practiced the martial art of capoeira from my beloved Brazil. I have had four boyfriends in my life. I believed that I was going to be happy in London.
I must eat something. I need to stay awake, but I know this stand off is coming to an end. What would be the kindest thing for myself? To end it before those flesh-eating brutes get near me? I won’t risk the terrible sensation of their teeth biting into me.
Please God.
You will come for me, won’t you?
Cristiane Barboza.
15a Langham Road.
He put the letter down on the table. Immediately his eyes returned to the top of the page and specifically to the number that she’d written there.
2020.
Was that this year? Had nine years passed since the events of 2011? And if so, how old was this letter?
He knew Langham Road. It was about five minutes walk from where he lived. If this letter was recent, then somebody else had been living in the same area for the past two months. That was a shocking possibility. Granted, he never travelled anywhere near Langham Road and if she’d been trying to lay low then he would never have heard or seen anything. But like him, she’d been going to the New River on Drop Day – had she been taking the second parcel from him all this time? His mind was filled with questions. But the most important question remained – was it 2020? And was this letter brand new?
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 27
