End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  Now Aamna had to pick her way over the rubble in the road. There were chunks of brick and panelling, roof tiles and who knew what else. She listened for the sounds of anyone alive who might be trapped under the wreckage. There was nothing. Just the distant roar of fire—and the sea.

  She made her way to the end of the street and out onto the harbour, a wide open space of concrete, covered in debris. Thick smoke reaching almost to the ground made it hard to see where the concrete ended and the sea began. Wait—she could see waves crashing against what had once been the smooth line of the harbour wall. Great chunks had been torn from the concrete.

  What could have done this? Her first thought was some kind of bomb. It would have had to be pretty big to create such devastation. Perhaps the pirates had all been killed in the blast. But then, if you had such a weapon, why use it on a defenceless target like this? Perhaps it had been an accident. A ship, carrying a weapon, smashed into shore by the storm...

  She had to know one way or the other. Up on the hill, her view of the harbour had been obscured by a large, wrecked building, billowing black smoke from a huge rent down one entire wall. She still couldn’t see beyond it and would have to go round.

  Aamna looked around herself as she made her way over the treacherous ground, feeling exposed. Her eyes and nose were streaming. Suddenly there was a pain like a fist in her stomach and she doubled over.

  But she hadn’t been shot; she needed to be sick. Half-digested pie spattered her boots. “Fuck,” she muttered, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. She prayed no one was watching.

  A few more steps and she had to stop again to retch up bile. She felt dizzy and shivery, not fit for battle with pirates. But surely the smoke would affect anyone else just the same? She’d be evenly matched, unless the pirates had protective suits...

  The thought sent a chill through her. She’d seen people in protective suits before. The Rangers who’d been sent down to assess Salisbury Plain, five years after the bomb had gone off there. One man, his suit hadn’t been quite right and Aamna had heard the ghoulish tales about how the poisoned air had got him. Vomiting and shitting blood, purple sores all over his body.

  Fuck.

  But it couldn’t be, not here. There wasn’t an Army base anywhere for miles, and this wasn’t the kind of place to keep a nuclear bomb. She turned to look at the huge building that billowed smoke. Was it her imagination, or was the fire inside it throbbing amber, perfectly in time with the beating inside her own head? Then her eye caught something else: the remains of a chain-link fence, now warped and twisted. The wind buffeted something fixed to it, a panel—no, a sign, black letters on yellow so the words would be clear from a distance:

  THIS IS A LICENSED NUCLEAR SITE

  Slowly, stiffly, Aamna walked away from the fire and the sea, back the way she’d come. She didn’t feel shocked or sad or angry. Her only thought was to stop the other Rangers from ever getting this far.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE REMAINS OF a man hung in a gibbet over Magdalen Bridge. Doleful sockets stared down at the snaking queue of people hoping to get into Oxford, but by and large no one spared the dead man a glance. They were mostly traders and local farmers, the regular ebb and flow through the gates of the city, and apparently well used to bodies in cages hanging at the gate. Yet one woman in the queue couldn’t tear her eyes from the grim spectacle.

  “It’s fucking barbaric,” said Jane Crowther. She was a lean, muscular woman in her mid thirties, with close-cropped hair that showed her many scars. The top of one ear was missing.

  “Language,” said her companion. Jack Bedford was twenty-three, cursed with acne and terrible, greasy hair that meant people often overlooked his piercing, watchful eyes. “Besides, we don’t know what he did.”

  “And what would justify that?”

  “Murder,” said Jack. “Public drunkenness. Carrying arms within the city walls. It goes on.” He nodded to the sign on the wall beside the gate, listing Capital Offences. “Look,” he said. “Wilful damage to books.”

  “Well,” said Jane, after a moment. “I can understand that one.”

  They had been in the queue for more than two hours. It started to rain, but they didn’t move any more quickly. Now they were wet as well as cold and weary, and soon it would be dark. They’d been warned that the gates shut at nightfall.

  “You sure you don’t want to say something?” said Jane. “The Council said it was urgent.”

  Jack shook his head. “We’re no more important than anyone else.”

  “But you’re the—” She was about to say King of England, but a look from Jack cut her short. Instead she mouthed, “the you-know-what.”

  “Maybe. But we play it cool.”

  She snorted.

  “You know what I mean,” he went on. “Casual. Easy. I’m just an ordinary bloke.”

  “They asked you here by name. They used your title.”

  “Then why not offer us an escort? Anything could have happened to us on the way here.”

  Jane nodded. Since leaving the safety of St Mark’s, they’d had run-ins with bandits on the road—but it could have been much worse. “Then what are they playing at?”

  Jack smiled. “Politics.”

  At last the group in front of them reached the table, where a bored-looking guard took his time going through their papers. There were endless questions, and then the group were turned away. One large man started to argue and Jack thought there would be a fight. But another member of the group took the man’s arm and led him off. It clearly didn’t do to argue.

  “Come,” said the long-suffering man at the table and Jack and Jane presented their papers, and the invitation bearing the coat of arms. The man looked it over indifferently and then handed it back. He said nothing, and for a moment Jack thought that they were not being let through either, but then Jane was leading him by the wrist through the high wooden gate.

  They found themselves in a smaller courtyard with a second gate and another snaking queue. Another bored guard inspected their papers and made them sign a pledge that they would abide by the city’s regulations.

  “And if you breach the contract...” said the guard, but didn’t finish the sentence. He just nodded towards another three gibbets hanging from the inner wall.

  Jack and Jane surrendered their various weapons in exchange for a receipt, emptied their packs for inspection and allowed a wild-eyed man to poke and prod them to check for signs of disease. He squinted at Jack’s prosthetic leg, but they assured him it was lost to injury rather than sickness. Finally, they were allowed through the second gate, across another bridge and through a third gate—where a nervous woman in uniform stood waiting.

  “Ms Crowther, Mr Bedford. I’m Constable Ahaiwe. I’m afraid your meeting has been unavoidably delayed.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Jane, making Ahaiwe flinch.

  “What my colleague means,” said Jack, amiably, “is that we’ve had quite a journey and that’s rather a disappointment. Can you give us any idea how long we’ll have to wait?”

  Ahaiwe managed to smile. “I’m afraid certain matters need going into and they have to take precedence.”

  “Of course. By ‘certain matters,’ you mean...?”

  The constable was taken aback. “I’m not at liberty to go into it.”

  “No, of course not,” said Jack. “Well, it can’t be helped. I suppose we should find some accommodation.”

  “That’s already been seen to,” said Ahaiwe. “You might be here some days. We are, of course, sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “Oh, you’re fucking sorry, are you?” muttered Jane, quite distinctly.

  “Now, now,” Jack told her. “You only came in the first place so you could look round the library. And now we’ll have time to do that.” He turned to Ahaiwe. “I assume that can be arranged. Given the inconvenience.”

  “It’s really not my role to—” she began, then caught Jane’s expression. “I’ll se
e what I can do.”

  “As long as it’s no trouble,” said Jack.

  Ahaiwe was actually shaking. “Of course not,” she said. “Now, if you’ll follow me, we can find you a rick.”

  “RICKS” TURNED OUT to be rickshaws, pulled by strong, gangly teenagers Jack assumed must be students. He and Jane shared a single rick, clinging to their luggage as they made their bumpy way. It didn’t do much for Jane’s mood.

  Jack, who’d never been to Oxford before, sat back in his seat contentedly, drinking it all in. The ancient spires and buildings, the students in their gowns. Bookshops and market-stalls and pubs, all from another era.

  There were also the gun installations and masked patrols with assault rifles. He could see it in the faces of the people, too: a pinched, over-earnestness you never got at St Mark’s. People living in fear of the rules, of the gibbet—and whatever else was happening. Whatever Jack had been called here to discuss.

  They ducked through an archway and found themselves in the courtyard of one of the colleges. Jack had a sudden flashback to his time at Harrow, and a life and identity he’d long put behind him. What if someone here recognised him from that time? Well, he’d deal with that as and when.

  They pulled up at one end of the quadrangle, where a line of small children wearing suits waited to carry their bags.

  “I can—” Jack started to protest, but the children looked so aggrieved that he let them get on with it. As they followed the children inside, he saw Jane brush her hand against her hip, reaching for the gun that wasn’t there.

  “Want me to go first?” he asked—and she pushed past him.

  It was warm and homely inside the college, but so much quieter than St Mark’s. Children—in waistcoats and tails—were not allowed to chat or run. There was something rather sad about them as they passed. The children with the luggage led Jack and Jane through a warren of corridors, eventually stopping at a door like all the others.

  “This is you,” said the boy lugging Jack’s bags, showing them into a simple, square room with adjacent single beds. There was a folded pink slip of paper on each pillow. “No food in your dorm at any time,” he continued, “and no alcohol in college buildings. You share the loo with the rest of the corridor, but married quarters have a sink and running water.”

  “We’re not—” Jane began.

  “—used to such luxury,” said Jack. He tried to give the boys a coin each as a tip, but again they looked affronted.

  “Why do we have to be married?” said Jane, after the children had gone.

  “Don’t want to risk losing a top room like this,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said, starting to unpack. “Just don’t get any ideas.”

  “You should be so lucky.”

  “I could do better than you.”

  “Yeah, bit of make-up, a frock, do something with your hair, you’d almost pass.”

  She ignored him.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “No,” said Jane. “I don’t like being kept waiting. And I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. That woman at the gate.”

  “Constable Ahaiwe.”

  “She knows more than she let on. She was clearly terrified—of what?”

  “You looked in a mirror recently?”

  “Ha, ha—but it’s not us. We’re clearly not important, or there wouldn’t be this delay.”

  “Oh, there’s another explanation for that. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Jane sighed. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  Jack grinned. “Well, it’s a classic power play, isn’t it? Call us here urgently, then make us wait. Put us in our place.”

  “It’s almost as if they don’t know you’re the rightful King of England,” said Jane. Then understanding dawned. “Or they do, and they don’t like it. You suspected, didn’t you? What you said about them not sending an escort.”

  Jack nodded. “I think we’re being tested—or played.”

  She sighed. “Politics. I should have listened when you told me not to come.”

  “I’d be dead if you’d hadn’t. And hey, I got you into the library, didn’t I?”

  “You think? Now Constable Thing knows that’s what I want, they can use it against us. Keep us in our place.”

  Jack looked stung. “I’m counting on psychology. I put it on their honour.”

  “And there’s a lot of that around. Fuck, we’ve come all this way. I abandoned Lee! And now, if they don’t let us in...”

  “Then we find someone who works there who can look the stuff up for you. We need to do that anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “So when you’re back home, you can send letters back and forth. What, weren’t you thinking long term? Besides, Lee is happy being babysat by Caroline. He’s got her round his finger.”

  “You make it all sound simple.”

  “I do, don’t I? But you’re right: this is important. The medical books they have here can save a lot of lives.”

  “Or give us tips so we don’t do so much harm. Then there’s their botanical garden. We could be making new medicines!” She shook her head. “It can’t be that easy, can it?”

  “Probably not.” There was an awkward silence, and Jack picked up the pink piece of paper on his bed. It was a free ticket for the Ashmolean Museum. He showed it to Jane. “Fancy this, then?” he asked her. “It’s a bit late today, but they might just let us in. It’s your sort of thing.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see it. But it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Another power-play. We go where they tell us, we do what they want. More putting us in our place.”

  “Sure, but what can we do about it?”

  “Not much until we know what they’re all so scared of. But meanwhile, we don’t go where they tell us.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “The pub.”

  DOWN A NARROW alley they found a centuries-old pub with low ceilings. Regulars argued points of philosophy and discussed the books they’d just read. Feeling out of place, Jack and Jane moved to a wooden table outside in the gloom. A sign to one side of them proclaimed that they were sitting where Bill Clinton had famously not inhaled. Jack needed the reference explained to him, and then Jane teased him about heads of state who could never escape their own history, no matter how embarrassing or awkward. He let her take the piss: it had been a long time since he’d heard her laughing.

  “But you do want to be King,” she said at length.

  “I am the King.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He took a deep breath. “All right. I think we need a leader. Someone to unify all the different factions—the Rangers, the Cleaners, the Steamies, whoever.”

  “Make us one happy family.”

  “They fight,” said Jack, “because they all want to be in charge. If there was someone else in charge, but who only had nominal power...”

  “A constitutional monarchy,” said Jane. “With what, the Rangers and Steamies as kind of political parties?”

  “We’d need to work out the system,” said Jack. “But yeah, that’s my idea.”

  “And why should it be you? It could be anyone.”

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “But you don’t want someone who’s grasping for power. You want someone who’ll serve.”

  Jane watched him for a moment. “That’s why you made us queue, and were so charming to the constable. Make them think you’re a team player, a public servant.”

  “I am a team player.”

  “A good man in a crisis. A steady pair of hands. And not out for yourself. You don’t tell them you want to be King. You let them come to their own conclusion that they want you on the throne.”

  “If it’s what the country wants.”

  She smiled. “You’ve read that book on Napoleon that props up the shelf in the loo.”

  “It gave me some ideas. Think it could work?”

  “I can think of a hund
red reasons why it won’t. But we’re out of beer. Same again?”

  She went to get the pints in, leaving Jack alone in the dark. He needed her to approve. That’s why he’d risked sharing his ambitions with her now, when he’d not told anyone else. Jane was well respected. With her on his side, the rest of St Mark’s would support him.

  But as he waited for her to return from the bar, he picked over what she’d said—about heads of states and their pasts catching up with them. Was she right? Surely things were different since The Cull; it was more difficult to unearth people’s secrets. His whole plan, his whole future, depended on that fact. Because while a select few knew Jack was the King of England, he alone knew the truth: that there’d been a mix-up. He was a nobody called Ben Wyman, and the real Jack Bedford was dead.

  Where had Jane got to? Jack—he even thought of himself as Jack now—stood up to look in through the window, but couldn’t see her at the bar. No, there she was, with a group of four young men. The men were thick-set and muscular, and none of them were smiling. Great.

  He hurried in, slouching a bit and pretending to be more drunk than he was. “Darling,” he said. “We’re going to be awfully late. Constable Ahaiwe will be waiting.” By the men’s reactions, they recognised the name.

  “Right,” said Jane, staring one of the men down—though he was a full head taller than she was. Jack took Jane’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, gents,” he said, dragging Jane with him. “Another time, perhaps.” They went out into the alley. “Chatting you up?” he whispered as he marched her on.

  “Not exactly,” said Jane. “Wanted to buy me a drink. I said no, nicely, and they started to insist. I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I’m not going to say anything!”

  “Well, I’ll say what you’re thinking. Why me? There were other women around. Young and pretty ones who don’t have faces like thunder.”

  “You’re pretty on the inside.”

  They were almost out of the alley and on to the main street when a figure stepped in front of them, blocking the way.