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

by Mark Gillespie

  She’s dead. Forget it.

  The letter had probably been floating in and around Stanmore Road for months. She was dead. Undoubtedly it had been written recently and it was a tragedy, but it was too late to do anything for her. She would take her place with all the other tragedies lying in the drawer in his bedroom upstairs.

  You could go take a look. It’s only five minutes walk.

  No.

  His eyes returned to the letter. He leaned forward, skimming the passage about her attackers and in particular about the two ‘rogues’ in the suits. Just like the savage who’d attacked him two days ago. He felt his heart beating faster. Jesus Christ. What if she’d been down at the river that day before him? Perhaps the parcel he’d picked up had been the same one she’d dropped. If one of those savages or rogues had lingered in the area, then what happened to him would make sense.

  He looked over at Alba. She opened her pale blue eyes and stared across the living room at him.

  “You’ve been out there,” he said. “What’s a ‘pack’? What’s a ‘rogue’? What do these words mean?”

  Alba held his stare, but remained motionless like a cat mannequin.

  “Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not going anywhere. She’s probably been dead for months if not years. It’s nothing to do with me. You know what I need to do Alba? I need to stop reading these letters, that’s what I need to do. It’s not good for me.”

  He sat back in silence, still staring at the letter on the table.

  “No!” he yelled.

  Moments later, he jumped to his feet and shoved the piece of paper into the back pocket of his jeans.

  Rest in peace.

  He felt better with the letter out of sight and sat down again. His eyes were heavy with all that watching and waiting he’d done. It felt like a good time to sleep so he leaned over and blew out the candle. The room fell into a warm and pleasant darkness. He hadn’t slept in the living room for a long time but he didn’t feel like getting back up again.

  He closed his eyes. It didn’t take long to fall asleep.

  It was dark. He was standing on something soft and spongy. It was an unfamiliar environment, somewhere warm and wet. Immediately dangerous. There was a faint stream of light pouring in from somewhere up ahead and for a moment he thought he was standing in the middle of a short tunnel looking towards the exit and onto daylight. Instinctively he started walking towards the light. Fumbling around in the hot damp, his hands groped in front of him. He touched something that felt like teeth – giant teeth. Hard and pointed. That was all he needed – now he knew where he was. There was no doubt. He was trapped in something’s mouth. Something big. He panicked and made a dash for the exit – the faint glimmer of light that formed an odd arch-like shape up ahead. As he ran towards the light, everything became clearer. He saw four gigantic incisors going up and down in a mechanical rhythm, barely missing him as he stumbled his way towards the end of the fleshy tunnel. But it was no use. Running wasn’t working. Whatever had a hold of him, it was too strong and despite his best efforts, he felt himself being pushed further to the back of the mouth, back into darkness and towards the throat.

  He couldn’t breathe. Blackness threatened to overwhelm him.

  In the moments before plunging down towards the stomach, he saw something through the opening of the mouth. It was a television set – his television set, the same one that was located in the living room of his house. And it was working. There was something on. Somebody in a documentary was dressed in a tattered suit. They were talking directly at the camera:

  ‘A rat king is what happens when multiple rats become intertwined at the tails. This can happen when the tails become knotted but blood, shit or dirt can also cause entanglement. Rat kings aren’t like conjoined twins – they are not born physically a part of each other. Much like the rioters in our inner city communities, they grow together after birth. Most rats probably get stuck together because so many of them are gathered into one place. It just gets too crowded. Whether it was by knots, blood, shit, dirt or freezing, some of those individuals got sucked into one big super organism and now they’re consuming everyone in their path.’

  The television screen went blank. Everything went blank. He felt his skin burning up as if he was brushing up against the flames of eternal damnation itself. This was it. He was being swallowed alive. He was being consumed. It was the end of his life and there was barely time to scream.

  He awoke in the pitch black. He was breathing heavy and on the brink of yelling out for help when he realised that he was sitting in the armchair in the living room. There was no mouth. He was not being eaten alive.

  With a sigh of relief, he sat up straight in the seat. His heart was banging in his chest like a drum. The familiar sensation of his body swimming in its own sweat made him groan.

  Reaching for the coffee table, he groped around and found the candle and the box of matches. His hands were trembling and he struggled to light the match. It took a while, but eventually he found the wick and a faint orange glow washed at least some of the darkness out of the room.

  Alba was no longer on the couch.

  “I’m going crazy,” he said. “I’m going crazy girl.”

  He scratched furiously at the back of his hand. He stopped when he realised it wasn’t itchy. A moment later, unable to sit still, he got up and walked through to the kitchen and turned on the cold tap. This time he threw caution to the wind and let the water gush out at full force. He placed his open palms under the icy liquid, gathered up a small puddle and threw it at his face. Then he opened his mouth under the tap and drank as much as he could.

  When his thirst was quenched, he walked upstairs to his parents’ room. Using torchlight to guide him, he went to work, digging out a few things from the back of the wardrobe and throwing them into a plastic bag. All the while, he tried not to listen to the voices in his head telling him that what he was doing was a bad idea.

  It’s not a bad idea. It’s a fucking ridiculous idea!

  Once he’d found everything, he took a step back and caught sight of his ragged reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror. He looked pale blue, almost ghostlike in the moonlight.

  “Nobody’s going to be there,” he said to the man looking back at him in the mirror. “You’re wasting your time.”

  Chapter 8

  TFL: Calling London!

  July 7th 2020

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Good evening and welcome back to Calling London! In case you missed it, Mr Apocalypse has just stormed out of his house and is at present making his way to an unknown location. Johnny, we’ve never seen him do anything like this before have we? Especially after dark.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Wow Georgia. We’ve absolutely no idea what he’s doing tonight. This is completely out of character. (Turns to camera) Now we understand that you guys at home watching the show will also want to keep an eye on what Mr Apocalypse is doing. If that’s the case then choose the split-screen option on your TFL home page. That way you can watch Calling London! and keep an eye on Mr Apocalypse at the same time.

  Johnny Castle touches his earpiece. He turns around to face a video screen behind him on the couch, which is currently showing Mr Apocalypse making his way through a murky suburbia.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: As we can see, he’s on Langham Road at present. That’s just a short walk from his house so he hasn’t wandered too far yet. I wonder what’s in that plastic bag he’s carrying, eh?

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Lots to talk about Johnny. But we’ll come back to Mr Apocalypse in a few minutes. Before we do that, we’d like to take a moment to speak to you – the studio audience and the viewers at home. This is about something that happened on yesterday’s show.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Yes. Now you might remember the hot-tempered young man who was hurling accusations about charity donations on last night’s programme. We’ve had a lot of feedback about this and quite frankly, some people are worried that there might be some truth to what he said. W
ell, Georgia and I would like to address those concerns before we go any further. The first thing I want to say is that these accusations were made with no evidence whatsoever.

  Georgia Perkins nods. Her eyes move back and forth between Johnny Castle and the television screen behind her, which is still following Mr Apocalypse.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: We want to assure you – the general public – that every penny raised for the people of London goes to the people of London. That’s guaranteed by all of us here in the TFL family and none more so than our CEO, Rudyard Campbell.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: (Turning back to the camera) But we don’t just want to tell you how committed we are to the people of London. We want to show you as well. So tonight, Johnny and I will be doing something extra-special for your viewing pleasure. It’s something I’m dreading but as long as you lot are willing to donate money to London Aid, I’m going to do it. You got it?

  The studio audience gives a round of applause.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Yes indeed. All the staff and our audience members have agreed to make a donation of ten pounds to London Aid if Georgia and I will partake in our little venture this evening. We hope you at home are willing to do the same. After all, London gives us plenty of entertainment. Let’s give something back yeah?

  GEORGIA PERKINS: So what are we going to do? Well I’ll tell you. Do you remember the ALS Ice Bucket challenge back in 2014? Back then, random people and celebrities were doing silly things, making videos of themselves dumping buckets of ice and water over their heads to promote awareness for ALS. Remember?

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Well coming up is our London-themed version of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge – and it’s one that symbolises the violence and hunger that are such an unfortunate aspect of everyday life for the people in modern London.

  Georgia and Johnny stand up. She offers him her hand.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Let’s do this Johnny.

  The two presenters walk over to a makeshift stage area located near the audience. Upon the platform, two wooden chairs have been positioned side by side, facing the crowd. A small plastic bucket sits behind each of the two chairs while at the front, a small paper plate with a gnarled looking apple on it has been placed on the floor.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Ladies and Gentleman, we bring you the 2020 TFL Knife Bucket Challenge!

  Another round of applause.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: As we all know, knife-related violence is a big problem in London. And hunger is often the reason for this.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Well tonight we want your money boys and girls. Of course we don’t want it for nothing. These two buckets you see are filled to the brim not with ice, but knives. And we’re not talking disposable plastic knives either – these are steel table knives – this is the real deal and what we’re about to do is going to hurt like crazy. But if tipping a bucket of steel knives isn’t enough to make you donate, then don’t fret sweeties. Once that’s done we’re going to eat that piece of disgusting looking fruit you see on the plate on the floor.

  The audience responds with a unified ‘Oooooooh!’

  JOHNNY CASTLE: The rotten fruit isn’t just for decoration either. It symbolises our commitment to raising money in order to provide a better quality of food to the people of London.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: What do you say? Are you with us?

  The audience roars its approval and the studio vibrates with excitement.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Okay. Text FEED LONDON to 345 and voilà! You have donated ten pounds to a very worthy cause.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Right Johnny, you’re up first.

  Johnny Castle smiles nervously. He sits down on one of the two wooden seats and faces the studio audience. Georgia steps behind him and picks up the bucket. She tilts it towards the camera with a mischievous grin, showing that it is indeed full of silver table knives.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Bloody hell this is heavy! You ready mate?

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Ready!

  The audience counts them down. 3-2-1…

  JOHNNY CASTLE: (Grimacing) I’m doing this for you London!

  Georgia tips the bucket over Johnny’s head. There is a fierce clanging as the knives crash land onto Johnny’s well-groomed head. He winces in pain while the audience howls with delight at the spectacle. Johnny keeps his head down until the last knife has fallen. When it’s over he looks towards the camera and gives a weary looking thumbs-up. Then taking a deep breath, he picks up the paper plate and bites into flesh of the rotten apple. He eats most of it in less than a minute, screwing his face up like he’s just been force fed a fresh rat turd.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: You’re not allowed to be sick Johnny! Or you’ll have to do it all over again. Them the rules mate.

  Johnny looks up at the camera again. Although he looks a little worse for wear after eating the apple, he smiles and gives another thumbs-up sign. This earns him a tremendous round of applause.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Oooh that apple, oh my God – I feel like I just bit into some fat bloke’s sweaty testicles!

  Georgia Perkins doubles over with laughter.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: I don’t know what you’re laughing at. You’re up next Georgia.

  Georgia nods. She hurries into her seat, keeping her eyes closed all the way.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Do it! Do it quickly Johnny.

  Johnny picks up the bucket and tries to hoist it aloft.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Bloody hell, this weighs a ton. You must be stronger than I am Georgia. You ready for this sweetie?

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Do it!

  He gently tips the bucket of knives over Georgia’s head. She screams as they come crashing down on top of her. When it’s done, she doesn’t hesitate to start the second part of the challenge. She wolfs down the apple as quickly as she can, gagging a couple of times in the process.

  The audience howls with laughter.

  She hurries back to her feet, running a hand through her spiky blonde hair.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Am I cut? Oh my God! Them bloody knives mate!

  JOHNNY CASTLE: You made it darling – safe and sound. I can’t see any blood.

  GEORGIA CASTLE: (Turning to camera) Woo-hoo! We did it. Right, now pay up you lot. Text FEED LONDON to 345. Ten pounds from each and every one of you will make a massive difference to the people living behind the M25.

  Johnny Castle fidgets with his earpiece again.

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Hold on! I’m getting word about Mr Apocalypse.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: What? Is he still outside?

  JOHNNY CASTLE: (Listening to the voice in his ear) He’s still outside yeah.

  GEORGIA PERKINS: Well what is it? What’s he doing?

  JOHNNY CASTLE: Let’s go and sit down Georgia. I think we’d better take a closer look at this.

  Chapter 9

  He walked along Langham Road. It was such a strange sensation to be out at that time. He felt like a man taking his first steps on the moon – an explorer embarking upon a journey within some terrifying and fantastic virgin territory. Every couple of seconds he’d glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone or something standing behind him.

  He kept to the middle of the road as he walked. There was less chance of anyone taking him by surprise if he stayed out in the open. Had he chosen to walk on the sidelines, an assailant could easily leap out at him from behind a hedge or closed gate of one of the many houses that lined both sides of the street. The ambush by the New River had forced him into being extra vigilant. Like he’d been back in the early days before getting complacent. He had to be aware of all possibilities if he wanted to stay alive.

  With one hand, he clutched at the handle of a plastic carrier bag. The other hand held onto a large kitchen knife, which he held out in front of him, like the jabbing arm of a boxer trying to keep the opponent at bay.

  It didn’t matter that he was only five minutes from his house – he’d never felt so exposed in all his life. This was an alien suburbia. It was another world and it was strange and frightening. All he wanted to do was turn aro
und and go home. He didn’t even know what he was doing out there. But something forced him to keep going forwards. Some faint voice in the back of his head resisted the urge to go back.

  The streetlights cast a pale glow over the neighbourhood. On either side of the street, the houses were dark and foreboding shapes with windows like eyes that watched him go past. Were they empty buildings? He could feel someone or something watching him. He was sure of it. Or was that just his imagination again? Another sign of his slow descent into madness.

  90, 88, 86…

  He counted down the houses as he walked past.

  Soon he arrived at the intersection between Langham Road and Belmont Road. The path forwards began to narrow so much so that it looked more like a lane than a street up ahead. The abandoned houses, the fences, the hedges and garden gates – they were all bearing down closer now.

  A thunderous roar from the sky came out of nowhere. He screamed. Quickly he dropped into a crouching position, pointing the knife blindly towards the darkness above him. About thirty seconds passed and nothing happened. Finally he dared to look up and saw the flashing lights of an aeroplane soaring across the night sky.

  He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sitting down in the middle of the road, he stared up at the green and red lights in the sky. For a moment, he was lost in the colours. The rhythmic blinking of the plane was strangely soothing.

  He wondered where the aeroplane had come from. Was Heathrow Airport still open anymore? He couldn’t recall whether Heathrow had been located inside the M25 or not. Had Gatwick become the major airport in its place? Or was Gatwick gone too? Was there still any need for an airport in the London area?