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

by Mark Gillespie

  “Filho da puta!” she yelled. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s gone,” he said, barely getting the words out.

  Barboza trudged through the shallow water to the edge of the river. She reached her arm up towards him on the path.

  “Help me up Walker,” she said. “Please.”

  Walker got onto his belly and reached down for her with his good arm. He pulled her up out of the water and she dropped down onto the warm concrete path beside him. Barboza was breathing frantically, but Walker was eerily still.

  She put her arms around him and squeezed tightly. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Ouch!” Walker said, feeling a hot stinging sensation in his arm.

  She let go of him.

  “Give me your arm,” she said, looking at his wound.

  Walker reluctantly raised his sore arm and Barboza took a closer look. He forced himself to take a quick glance at the damage. The fabric of the t-shirt above the wound had been torn to shreds, but there was only one laceration in the skin. It was long but it wasn’t deep. Nonetheless, it stung like a bitch.

  Barboza was looking at him. Her eyes were peculiar, almost unrecognisable. They were pleading and apologetic. He got the feeling that she was trying to say something to him, something profound that went beyond words.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry Walker.”

  Walker shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  Barboza hesitated. She appeared to be on the brink of saying something, but then stopped.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I meant – sorry for hurting your arm just there.”

  “Am I dreaming?” Walker said, looking back at her. “Or did we just see a tiger roaming around north London like it was the middle of the fucking jungle.”

  Barboza pushed a clump of damp hair away from her face. “From the zoos,” she said. “They come from the zoos.”

  Walker sat down on the path, exposing his wound to the great fiery orb in the sky.

  “You mean they escaped?” he said.

  “More likely they were let out,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” he said. “But what do I know?”

  Walker noticed that Barboza was staring at him again. Not just looking, but staring. It was uncomfortable to say the least. She seemed unaware of it but there it was, that same intense look in her eyes. Like two brown lasers penetrating his soul.

  “You saved my life Walker,” she said. “That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

  Chapter 17

  Immersion 9 – Live Chat Rooms

  Hot Topics - #MrApocalypse #Barboza #TigerAttack #StudentKBC

  * * *

  Keanu: That was seriously fucking badass!! My man Apocalypse – he just squared up to a tiger!

  Miesha P: Knew there was something special about that guy. Class act. Disappointed with Barboza’s reaction tho. Thought she was this tough chick the way she’s always talking about getting revenge on the rogues – u see her face when she saw that tiger? That bitch nearly shat out the kitchen sink!

  The Iceman: @MieshaP - To be fair, it was a TIGER!!!

  Miesha P: @TheIceman - She’s a bitch coward!

  Keanu: Great start to the day’s entertainment tho. Fuck it I’m pulling a sickie at work and staying home to watch the #studentKBC at the M25. Anyone else?

  The Iceman: I’m there brother!

  Miesha P: Yeah I’m watching at work lol! Choosing split screen so I can keep watching Mr A/Barboza and the students making tits of themselves for charity. Mr A looks like he’s in pain. Arm still bleeding. Wonder how bad?

  Keanu: Barboza looks worse – not hurt but fucked up in the head. Guess running into a tiger will do that.

  The Iceman: Here come the students! I was supposed to be there at the M25 with some of my mates from uni. Not happening tho. My folks are visiting from Manchester this week and I had to bail. Typical fucking shit luck! Could have had my name in the book of world records with this lot. Will watch ‘em online tho. Should be a giggle.

  Miesha P: Don’t forget to donate…lol!

  Chapter 18

  Walker pushed the wheelbarrow down Hampden Road. His mind raced back to the wheelbarrow races he used to take part in on school sports days. Two teammates – one playing the role of driver and the other as the wheelbarrow – racing down the football pitch accompanied by the ecstatic cheers of all the mums and dads standing on the sidelines. He recalled those sports days and how there was this one guy – Stephen Laing – who used to always win everything every year.

  Lanky, athletic Stephen Laing. The smug little prick.

  It went on for years – Laing winning everything – until one day little Mack Walker, who’d always come a close second, beat Laing in everything – the one hundred metres, the egg and spoon race, the sack race. He was on fire that year. In fact, he was well on his way to being crowned the school sports champion when the heavens opened and the rain came falling down in buckets. Everyone but Mack Walker had run for shelter. Just a few events left to go and school sports day was promptly cancelled.

  He never did get his hands on that trophy.

  But look – look how useful all that training in the wheelbarrow race had turned out to be. Look how fast I’m going now.

  Walker almost laughed out loud. The things you think about when you’ve been attacked by a tiger.

  The pain in his arm had subsided. Three red lines ran along the length of his forearm but they weren’t deep. The wound would make for an interesting scar if nothing else. He got lucky – his arm should have been hanging off in shreds.

  Whirr-click.

  Barboza kept up with Walker as he led them back through the empty streets of Tottenham. He alternated frequently between walking briskly and all-out running. He had to be ready for anything. The tiger might have followed them home, unwilling to give up on its lunch, or the rogues could have been lying in wait for them somewhere.

  The streets might have been empty but they were still full of danger.

  A terrible silence had swept across the neighbourhood. Neither one of them had said a word since leaving the New River. The only thing Walker could hear apart from the constant whirring and clicking was the sound of their heavy breathing. Even the birds had stopped singing, or so it seemed. The day’s normal rhythms had stopped to let them pass.

  Whirr-click.

  Finally they returned to Stanmore Road. Walker saw the house – his sanctuary – and pushed the wheelbarrow towards it but as he staggered forward, he wobbled from side to side like a drunk trying to walk in a straight line. His legs had turned to jelly and he was forced to stop in the middle of the road. As he paused, he let go of the wheelbarrow with the wheel still turning. The wheelbarrow ran away from him, driverless, before tipping over and landing on the hot concrete with a solid thud.

  Walker dropped to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, which were damp with sweat.

  Whirr-click.

  He heard Barboza’s footsteps running up behind him. He felt her hand on his shoulder.

  “Walker?” she said. “What is it? Is it your arm?”

  Walker removed his hands from his face. He looked up at her. She was at that moment, a giant blur standing over him with the burning sun at her shoulder.

  “Don’t you hear it?” Walker said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I can’t get away from it. Here, down by the river – I’m hearing it in the house too. You can’t hear that noise?”

  Barboza didn’t answer.

  “It’s me, isn’t?” Walker said. “This thing. I keep thinking it’s a tumour or something. That it’s some weird form of tinnitus – is that even the right word? What do you call it when you’re hearing things all the time? I don’t know – I never got a chance to learn this stuff. I was only sixteen for Christ’s sake. I don’t know anything about tinnitus or if it’s you know, some kind of mental illness. This is all I know �
� living in this street, or not living in this street. I don’t know.”

  Barboza’s voice was trembling. “Walker we need to go into the house now okay?” she said. “We need to clean your arm.”

  “But you don’t hear it?” he said.

  She tightened her grip on his shoulder.

  “Get up Walker,” Barboza said. “That’s an order. Get up. Let’s go into the house, put the supplies in the fridge and let me clean that wound. Can you do that for me?”

  Despite the sun pressing down on him, Walker managed to climb back to his feet. He took a couple of steps towards the wheelbarrow. It lay toppled over on its side and the brown parcel with its crucial life-giving contents had slipped onto the road. But Walker ignored the wheelbarrow and the parcel and walked towards the house. He unlocked the door and went into the living room. It was cooler there. Inside, he sat down in the leather armchair and closed his eyes.

  Whirr-click.

  God forbid his parents were still alive in this hellhole. Living amongst the packs, rogues, and escaped zoo predators – it didn’t bear thinking about and they were better off dead. Their faces were disappearing further from his mind’s eye. He didn’t even have any photos of them lying around the house to remember them by. Back in 2011, the Walker family had travelled down to London by car and to save room, a large chunk of their personal belongings had remained behind in Edinburgh, to be transported down later. All that later stuff had included the photo albums, the ones with the old pictures of his parents with their dodgy hairstyles getting married in Edinburgh back in the early 1980s. They still existed somewhere, but here in London there was nothing left of them. He had their wardrobes to remind him of what clothes they’d worn and only the faintest trace of their odour – a whiff of perfume, skin cream or aftershave – remained on their clothing.

  Unless he was imagining that too.

  He heard Barboza at the front door. She walked into the house and her soft footsteps went towards the kitchen. For the next few minutes, Walker listened to her as she opened up the supply parcel and put the most urgent items into the fridge-freezer, which now stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

  Then she appeared at the living room door. Her hair, which had been soaking wet after her fall into the New River, was now bone dry and she had tied it back into a ponytail.

  “Walker?” she said. “Maybe we should clean your wound, no?”

  Walker looked at his arm. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less about what happened – let it get infected, turn green and fall off at the elbow. One less part of him for the cannibals and tigers of London to eat.

  “It’s just a couple of scratches,” he said.

  She walked over to the chair. Leaning down, she ran a finger over the wound and nodded gently, which suggested to Walker that she agreed with his evaluation that the cuts weren’t going to be a problem.

  “You’re not crazy Walker,” she said, still looking at his arm. “About the noises I mean. Whatever else you do you’ve got to stop thinking like that. Okay?”

  Walker shook his head.

  “I’ve been hearing that shit for months,” he said. “Thinking it might have been something real. And then you came along and told me there’s nothing there. Game over. Fuck it, I lose.”

  Barboza wiped a tear from her eye.

  “Christ Barboza,” Walker snapped. “What are you getting so emotional about? You’ve crawled through the shit out there and survived. You’re the tough one – the one who wants to go after the rogues and crack their heads open. I’ve just been hiding out here like a coward for nine years, avoiding everything and look at us – you’re the one that’s crying and I’m the one who doesn’t feel a fucking thing. Maybe that’s one of the advantages of going nuts. Not giving a fuck.”

  Walker got to his feet. He was about to walk out of the room when Barboza leapt to her feet and grabbed his shirt. She pulled his head towards her face. He felt her hot, dry lips pressing down upon his mouth. Biting softly, pulling at his flesh – she was frantic and tasted like a gust of hot fire.

  Walker didn’t know what to do. Some part of him wanted to surrender to her advances. God knows, he was overdue some human affection. Why not just give in? What did he have to lose by letting go?

  But it was Barboza who pulled away.

  “Fuck,” she said, walking away from him, towards the couch. “I can’t do this Walker! I can’t do it anymore.”

  Walker felt a sudden burst of rage spilling over inside him. He was embarrassed and furious and God knows what else was bubbling up in there. He stormed across the room and slammed Barboza’s back up against the wall. Her body thudded against the hard surface and Walker kept her there by seizing both her arms. Walker was still aroused, but this arousal was giving way to something else. Anger. Hatred. Something worse than that. Not specifically aimed at Barboza but at everything that had gone wrong in his life. She just happened to be there – a manifestation of London itself.

  As he pinned her up against the wall, Barboza looked at him. There was a silent acceptance in her eyes, as if whatever he was about to do was justified.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” he yelled. “One minute you’re the toughest bitch in town, then you’re crying, and then you’re horny? What the fuck?”

  He let go of her arms. Barboza slid down the wall, doubled over and buried her face in her hands.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, sobbing into her hands.

  Walker noticed her eyes looking up, wandering across the room – to the wall, to the ceiling. Looking for something.

  “I quit,” Barboza said. “I won’t do it anymore.”

  Walker took a backwards step away from her. He heard it now, crystal clear. It was something obvious that he’d missed during the initial shock of seeing her fall apart.

  The Brazilian accent was gone.

  Barboza climbed slowly back to her feet. She was still staring up at the ceiling and the walls. It was as if she was convinced that someone was hiding up there, living in between the cracks. Walker noticed it and felt sick to his stomach.

  “What happened to your accent?” Walker said.

  Her eyes came back to him. She shook her head.

  “You saved my life Walker,” she said. “For real this time. And I can’t keep lying to you like this. I can’t.”

  Walker backed away further. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Barboza’s eyes were tired and sore.

  “You’re a good man Walker,” she said. He couldn’t believe it – she was speaking in an English accent. It wasn’t quite a London accent by the sounds of it, but it was most definitely not a Brazilian accent. Not even close. “You were just a job you know?” she said. “And this – you and me – it was all manufactured to entertain millions of people who we don’t even know. It’s a lie, and I can’t do that to you. Not now that I’ve been here. Now that I’ve seen it for myself.”

  “What the fuck?” Walker said. “What is this?”

  “My name is Sharon,” she said. Her voice was calm. Her eyes were bright and clear. Walker sensed that she’d just relieved herself of a heavy burden. “I’m an actress,” she said. “And yeah, I’m English. I’ve never been to Brazil in my life. I’m so sorry Walker.”

  Walker couldn’t speak. The questions were stuck in the back of his throat, like cars on a gridlocked motorway.

  “Listen to me,” she said, taking a step towards him. “Of course I can hear the same noises as you. You’re not crazy Walker. It’s real – everything that you’ve been hearing is real. They’re cameras. They’re everywhere in this city. Millions of ‘em. You’re on television mate. I’m sorry. You’ve been on television every minute of every day for the past six months.”

  Chapter 19

  TFL Announcement

  Mr Apocalypse is currently unavailable.

  * * *

  We apologise for this break in service and will resume scheduled programming as soon as possible.

&n
bsp; * * *

  In the meantime, please choose another option from the Home Menu.

  * * *

  Thank you for watching The Future of London.

  Chapter 20

  Immersion 9 – Live Chat Room

  Hot Topics - #MrApocalypse #Barboza

  * * *

  Sally Cinnamon: Get the fuck outta here!!

  Emperor X: An actress? Did I hear that right?

  Sally Cinnamon: C’mon, Mr Apocalypse is down? Tagging TFL. Technical glitches are non-existent these days. You’ve just given us access inside the house and now you’re taking it away? Let us watch! Don’t fuck about! WTF did we just hear?

  Look Skywalker: Talk 2 us TFL

  Emperor X: TFL – is she fake? Makes sense those eh? I was wondering why the cameras had never picked Barboza up before the rogues laid siege to her house. They said it’s because she rarely left the house, took secret routes to the New River, travelled at weird times and the producers/viewers didn’t notice – it’s all bullshit! She was never there. She’s fake!

  The Big Tasty Grill: (SPONSORED) Hey guys. While you’re waiting for Mr Apocalypse to return, why not treat yourself to a bucket of delicious fried chicken from The Big Tasty Grill. Click here for an incredible one-off 80% discount AND free delivery on orders made within the next hour.

  Look Skywalker: Answer the question TFL!

  Sally Cinammon: 80% discount?

  TFL Official: Thank you for your interest in TFL. We regret that Mr Apocalypse is unavailable for the time being. To answer your question, we believe Barboza’s reference to an actress was metaphorical. Please be assured we are dealing with an emergency situation at the site now. More information to follow.