* * *
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 befitting 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 station was home to men, women and children of all ages and races. A lot of the younger men and women were dressed in black biker leathers, much like Fat Joseph and his accomplices. Walker guessed that it was some kind of uniform, even for those who didn’t ride motorbikes. The elderly residents and the children were dressed differently – in more casual attire such as t-shirts, shorts and jeans – items that looked more comfortable, if a little tattered around the edges.
As he walked further inside, Walker had the feeling that he was intruding upon a massive community meeting taking place not in a town hall, but on the concourse of Liverpool Street Station.
All eyes fell upon the visitors.
Walker ignored the muted discussions going on around them as he and Barboza were led through the station.
Fat Joseph was looking into the crowds on either side, as if searching out a particular face. When Walker saw a smile creeping onto the fat man’s face, he guessed that he’d found his man. Fat Joseph veered off the path, towards a small group of people gathered outside what had once been a newsagent.
Fat Joseph touched one of the men on the shoulder. The man, who was dressed in the ubiquitous biker uniform, turned around.
“Couple of people here to see you Michael.” Fat Joseph said.
The man turned around and Walker recognised him immediately.
Michael King was a little heavier than Walker remembered. But that wouldn’t have been hard because Michael King had been a stick insect of a young man in 2011, when he’d been in his early twenties at most. He was about thirty years old now, still lean but no longer boyish. Long black dreadlocks fell down his back. He had a thick, impenetrable beard and if not for this, Walker would have suggested there was a strong resemblance between Michael King and the great reggae singer-songwriter, Bob Marley.
Walker recalled watching the man talking on TV during the London riots. He’d been impressed by how sharp, intelligent and ar
ticulate Michael King had been. After Chester George, it was Michael King who’d been the spokesperson for the rioters. Now, nine years later, it seemed like he was the man who ruled North London.
“What do we have here?” Michael King said, approaching them.
“Special visitors,” Fat Joseph said. “This young gentleman ’ere says he has some information that might interest you.”
“Oh really?” Michael said, looking at Walker. “Have you got some information that might interest me?”
Walker nodded.
“Says he knows the name of the bastard that shot Chester George,” Fat Joseph said.
There was an uncomfortable silence. At first Walker thought his information wasn’t as valuable to Michael King as Fat Joseph had suggested it was. Maybe Michael King didn’t care after all these years about who shot Chester George. Maybe he’d moved on and Walker had nothing of value to sell. Maybe he wouldn’t get his information after all.
But then Michael King smiled. He ended that long silence with a loud greeting that almost everyone in the building could hear.
“Welcome to Liverpool Street Station,” he said. As he spoke, he raised a hand into the air, gesturing to the building around them with an outstretched finger.
“Did you know this station was built upon the original site of Bethlem Royal Hospital?” he said. “It’s quite the historical location, not that anybody cares about stuff like that anymore. Except me. As time passed, the hospital became better known as Bedlam. It was one of the oldest mental institutions in the world, built in 1247 by Christians to shelter and care for homeless people. As the years passed, its focus primarily turned to those who were considered mad. From there on, it became an infamous place, particularly for its harsh treatment of the mentally ill. What could be more appropriate?”
Fat Joseph smiled. “Now you folks know where you are,” he said. “This is Bedlam.”
“Bedlam?” Walker said. “I thought you called this place Station.”
“This is Station,” Michael King said. “Joseph is talking about the territory that you’re standing in. The entire northern half of London, everything from the river up to the M25 – that is Bedlam. That’s the name we’ve given it because this city belongs to the people now. There is no longer any east or west – only north of the river and south of the river. There’s only Bedlam and the Hole. You didn’t know?”
“We’ve been in hiding for a long time,” Barboza said.
Michael King nodded. “A wise choice.”
Walker looked at the hundreds of people who were scattered across the concourse. “Are these the Good and Honest Citizens?” he said. “From 2011?”
“We are the Bedlamites,” Michael King said. “Some of us here were once part of the Good and Honest Citizens movement. But that’s a name that we no longer use.”
“Why not?” Barboza asked.
Michael King sighed. “That name died with Chester George. It’s not 2011 anymore my friend.”
Walker nodded. He was trying to concentrate but it was damn hot under the roof of the station. He felt a single, excruciating bead of sweat running down his back. There was sweat gathering on his brow too, something that probably made him look suspicious to Michael King and Fat Joseph, who were still sizing up the newcomers.
“So what are the Bedlamites?” he asked, trying to think of something to say.
Michael King looked at him, a slightly puzzled look on his face. “You really have been in hiding, haven’t you?” he said.
“Aye,” Walker said.
“The Bedlamites are the largest gang in the north,” Michael King said. “Bedlam is our territory – everything that lives and breathes north of the river is ours – one way or another. Station is our base, our HQ. Some of us live here in the old train station itself, while others live out of the hotel next door. There are a couple of trains still on the platforms. Some people live in the carriages and there are even a few of us who like to sleep down in the underground with the spirits.”
Walker looked around. “Did everyone come here after Piccadilly?”
“Far from everyone,” Michael King said. “Most people with their wits still intact tried to get out the city when they heard about the super barriers that were being built. But those of us who were too late – who realised we were trapped, well we got organised. We founded this refuge on the site of the old hospital and over time it’s become home to a lot of people. Not everyone, but a lot. We’ve grown to become a large, functioning family. I much prefer that word – family.”
A little boy was standing behind Michael King, having crept up quietly while the Bedlamite was speaking to Walker and Barboza. He must have been about eight or nine years old at most and his wide eyes were almost buried beneath a mop of floppy brown hair that wasn’t far from being a bowl cut. He was using Michael King’s body as a barrier, tucking himself behind the man’s legs, peering out at Walker and Barboza. His eyes were glued in particular, to the axe in Walker’s hand.
“Charlie!” a woman’s voice called out, from further down the station.
Walker looked behind the boy and saw a forty-something woman running down the pathway towards them. Her short brown hair, which was slightly greying at the sides, bounced gently at the sides as she ran. The woman – dressed in a dark t-shirt and black jeans – crept up behind the boy, glanced at Walker and Barboza shyly, then wrapped her arms around his waist and planted a kiss on his cheek.
The boy turned around and greeted her with a smile. Then he turned his attention back to Walker’s axe.
“Don’t sneak up on people like that Charlie,” the woman said, speaking softly into his ear. “This conversation is between Michael and the visitors. It’s got nothing to do with us, okay? Eavesdropping is bad.”
Michael King turned around, greeting woman and child with an affectionate smile.
“It’s okay Carol,” he said. “Children are curious creatures. And who are we to interfere with the nature of a child?”
Carol smiled. She stood up straight, took Charlie by the hand and led him back down the path in the centre of the concourse. As they walked away, the boy turned his head back several times, looking at Walker and Barboza as if they were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen.
“I envy the children,” Michael King said, watching them go. “The ones who were born after Piccadilly. They have nothing else to remember.”
“Aye,” Walker said. “I can’t help but feel sorry for them myself.”
“Carol is Charlie’s guardian,” Michael King said. “Carol has been with us a long time, almost since the beginning. Charlie is a more recent addition, but he’s definitely part of the family now. Both their lives have been difficult – but they’re much better off having found each other.”
Michael King looked at Walker. “So you were at Piccadilly?” he asked.
Walker nodded. “Front row seats.”
Michael King took a slow, deep breath. It was like he was meditating standing up. “You know his name?”
“I do,” Walker said. “And I know that you caught up with him by the fountain that day. Right after he shot Chester George.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because he was about to shoot me,” Walker said. “Don’t you remember? He was pointing a gun at my face just before you caught up with him. Lucky for me, that gun was empty or I wouldn’t be standing here today.”
Michael King closed his eyes for a second.
“Yes,” he said. “I saw him pointing a gun at someone. You?”
“Aye,” Walker said. “I knew him, just for a short while. He lived on your estate. But you don’t remember his name?”
“Like you say,” Michael King said. “He was a kid on our estate. I knew his face but that was all. Moody little man, built like an ox. Never could remember what they called him. God knows I’ve tried, especially in the first few years after it happened. But I never could remember.”
“Hatchet,” Walker said.
Michael King’s face lit up, as if someone had just handed him a map to lost treasure.
“Of course,” he said.
“I’m looking for him,” Walker said. “That’s another reason we came out of hiding. But I had to come here first. I had to make sure you didn’t kill him that day.”
“If Hatchet is dead,” Michael King said. “It wasn’t by my hand. More’s the pity.”
“What happened that day?” Walker said.
“We fought by the fountain,” Michael King said. “I was going to kill him no matter the cost to myself. I didn’t care about the crowds or the chaos. Killing him – that was going to be the last thing I ever did and it’d be the best thing I ever did. And I got a hold of him but the fight didn’t last long. There were too many people – it was like we were lying in the middle of a stampede as the world lost its mind. We could have been – should have been – crushed to death. But it wasn’t to be – he managed to wriggle out of my grasp. He was strong. I saw him disappearing into the crowd and tried to go after him but there were too many people blocking the way. It was only after I lost sight of him that my self-preservation instincts turned back on. Suddenly I didn’t want to die so like everyone else, I tried to get out of there.”
“I’m going to find him,” Walker said. “I’m going to make him pay for it. For everything.”
“You think he’s in the Hole?” Michael King said.
Their conversation was interrupted by a child’s voice.
“Anybody want a sandwich?”
Walker looked to his left. It was the little boy, Charlie. He’d returned and this time, he was carrying a plate of sandwiches in both hands – an assortment of white and brown bread cut diagonally – the same way that Walker’s mother used to cut sandwiches. Just the way he liked them.
Carol was a few paces behind the boy. She was carrying a tray with two glasses of something that looked like orange juice.
Walker’s body ached with thirst and hunger.
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 43
