Last Light

by Alex Scarrow

  Sisters, he suspected, who probably get together quite often, who share the banal little details of everyday life. He looked down at the page.

  Kate.

  Yes, he was pretty sure Kate Marsh (née Marsh?) might have an idea who ‘Jill’ was. Obviously it was someone close enough to the family that Dad would entrust his kids to them during this period of crisis; someone who must have, at one time or another, been casually mentioned by Jenny whilst nattering with Kate over coffee and biscuits.

  That was all he had to go on. Not brilliant.

  He combed through the rest of the house, finally ending up in Leona’s room.

  Although there were still posters of boy bands on the wall, and a small mountain of soft toys piled on a chair by the window, it was clearly on its way to becoming a guest room. The child that had grown up in this space was gone now; flown the coop, to use a tired aphorism.

  Standing well back from the window, away from the warm glow of the evening sun, he gazed out at the cosy suburban street below. In every house opposite he could see the flickering blue glow of television screens; most people, it seemed, glued to the news and no doubt beginning to wonder how an across-the-board fuck up like this could have been allowed to happen.

  He watched as several more cars started up and weaved their way down to the end of the avenue - no doubt in a last-minute bid to see what they could still pick up at their local supermarket - and outside, several houses up, he could see a young couple and their little boy, busily unloading bags of shopping from the boot of their white van.

  Ash shook his head, feeling something almost akin to pity for all these people so unprepared for what was lying ahead of them.

  CHAPTER 39

  10.50 p.m. local time Al-Bayji, Iraq

  Andy, Carter and the other men looked out at the market-place from the darkness of the rat-run.

  ‘That’s it, they’ve blocked us off,’ Carter groaned.

  In the middle of the market-place was a large bonfire; an oil drum, piled with broken-up wooden pallets that illuminated the whole area with a flickering amber glow. Surrounding it, enjoying the warmth and chattering animatedly were at least thirty militia. Beyond them, beyond the market-place, was the road out of town, and just visible, the bridge over the Tigris.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Andy.

  Carter was silent for a moment before replying. Andy noticed the young officer biting down on his bottom lip, a nervous gesture he’d been aware of back in the compound. But now it seemed a little more pronounced; the young man’s head shook a little too, just the slightest tic that suggested to Andy that Carter was beginning to fracture inside.

  ‘I d-don’t know. There’s a lot of those bastards out there, and a lot of distance for us to run across. Maybe if it wasn’t for that bloody bonfire, we might have been able to sneak across to the bridge. But this, this isn’t so good.’

  Andy looked down at his watch. ‘Shit, we’ve only got nine minutes left. We have to do something!’

  Carter shook his head. ‘We . . . we won’t make it through.’

  ‘Fuck it!’ Andy hissed at him. ‘We can’t stay here either. They’ll be coming up behind us in a minute. We’ve got to go—’

  They heard the throaty rumble of a vehicle approaching - it sounded like it was coming down the main road, from the centre of town, and fast, very fast.

  A moment later, Andy noticed the men out in the market-place reacting, turning towards the source of the approaching noise. They weren’t readying their guns yet, perhaps thinking the approaching vehicle was bringing more militia up to help them block off this end of town.

  And then the truck rolled into view, rumbling down the main road, flanked on either side by the rows of empty market stalls. Without warning, it slewed to a halt. And from the back of the truck Andy saw several dark forms sitting up.

  Carter’s hand went up to his earpiece. ‘Those are our boys . . . their PRR just came into range. They’re chattering like a bunch of fishwives.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Andy, ‘Westley’s lot?’

  ‘That might be Corporal Westley’s lot,’ whispered Carter, ‘or the Fijian bloke’s.’

  Andy counted the heads on the back of the truck. ‘Or maybe both.’

  The truck came to a halt, on the edge of the perimeter clearly illuminated by the bonfire. The militia-men gathered round the fire, turned to look at the truck. From their casual demeanour, Andy guessed they assumed the men on the back of the truck were theirs.

  ‘I think they’re waiting for us,’ he whispered to Carter. ‘They’ve slowed down for us, but they can’t stay for long.’

  Lieutenant Carter nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  Carter studied the edge of the market-place.

  ‘No sign of Zulu then.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘None.’

  Carter cursed under his breath.

  Andy looked out at the market-place. ‘We’ve got to go!’

  ‘They’ll see us the moment we step out.’

  Andy looked back down the rat-run. Bolton’s gun had stopped chattering a minute ago, and he could see the flashlight beams bobbing towards them. ‘We can’t bloody stay!’

  Derry and Peters looked uncertainly at their CO. ‘Sir?’

  Carter shook his head. ‘It’s too open, too far.’

  Andy grabbed the officer’s arm. ‘Fuck it. This is it. This is our last chance. I’m going.’

  He pulled himself to his feet, crouched low, ready to sprint out into the open.

  ‘All right,’ said Carter, ‘we all go. Fire and manoeuvre in twos. Okay?’

  Westley spotted them as soon as they emerged from the shadowy mouth of a small alleyway - four of them moving in pairs into the open. The first two dropped to the ground and started firing into the crowd of militia gathered around the fire, the second two taking advantage of the confusion and sprinting towards the truck.

  ‘Friendlies coming in from our left lads! Give the bastards some covering fire!’

  Almost immediately the dozen men on the back of the truck let rip, firing into the scattering shapes of the militia. The short volley took down about a dozen men and was initially uncontested as they scrambled for positions, but very quickly return fire forced the men on the truck to duck back down.

  Westley waited a few seconds before sticking his head up to scan the situation. All the militia had gone to ground. There was a paucity of cover for them; the meagre planks and rusty tube-metal frames of the empty market stalls weren’t going to stop anything. Some were firing back towards the truck, and the occasional rattle and spark against the thick side of the truck’s bed was a testament to the fact that some of them had recovered from the surprise opening volley to be aiming their shots well.

  ‘. . . we go. Got to move now!’ Tajican’s voice crackled over the radio, half the sentence lost amidst white noise and a whining, piercing feedback.

  The incoming fire was intensifying now that the militia had recovered their senses. Not for the first time, Westley acknowledged that amongst the mob, there were definitely men who knew how to fight.

  ‘Okay, but slow . . . we’ve got friendlies coming in!’

  The truck began to roll forward with a roar of complaint from the diesel engine and a cloud of acrid smoke that burst out of the exhaust pipe and billowed around the back of the truck.

  Westley watched as the four men came in closer, racing recklessly past the prone militia towards the truck - the fire and manoeuvre routine now already abandoned. They sprinted the last fifty yards towards the truck like children chasing desperately after an ice-cream van on a hot day.

  ‘Come on move it, you wankers!’ he shouted getting up and climbing over the back of the truck, leaning out and standing precariously on the rear bumper.

  The truck was moving along a little too quickly.

  ‘Taj, you got to slow down for ’em.’

  There was no answer, just a popping and hissing. Maybe Tajican had heard and was replying, maybe he h
adn’t. The PRR was playing up on them.

  The men were successfully closing the distance to thirty . . . twenty yards. But the truck was beginning to pick up speed and he could see they were beginning to flag.

  ‘For fuck’s sake Taj . . . slow down!’ he shouted into his radio.

  Shit. Taj isn’t hearing me.

  Westley tossed his SA80 up into the truck and then leant out towards the running men, stretching his arm out towards them. It was then that, catching a glimpse of their faces he registered who the four were.

  Lieutenant Carter, Derry, Peters . . . and that civilian . . . Andy.

  Sergeant Bolton’s gone then. Shit.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted.

  The nearest was Peters. He grabbed Westley’s hand, then quickly got a hold of the tailgate and pulled himself up. Derry was next, with the truck beginning to find some pace after grinding into second gear. Westley had to give his arm a viciously hard tug to pull him close enough that he could make a grab for the back of the truck. With a grunt of complete exhaustion he managed to get himself up and roll over the lip on to the rough bed, where he gasped like an asthmatic.

  It was just Lieutenant Carter now and Andy, the Kiwi bloke. He could see both of them had blown whatever strength they had left in them whilst sprinting the last thirty yards, and were just about managing to keep pace, but that wasn’t going to last for much longer. It was sheer terror that was keeping these two poor bastards swinging their spent legs now, nothing less.

  Westley leant out as far as he could, stretching his hand so that his gloved fingers almost seemed to brush their faces.

  Grab it! For fuck’s sake, grab it!

  He heard the truck clatter and complain loudly as Tajican slammed it up another gear. He turned round and shouted to one of the men near the back of the truck to go forward, bang on the roof of the cab and get Tajican’s attention . . . and slow the fuck down. But his hoarse shout was lost against the rumble of the truck, and the staccato of the final retaliatory shots being fired out the back towards the militia in the market-place, who had now got to their feet and were pursuing en masse.

  And then he felt his hand being grabbed.

  One of them had done it; found enough left over to make a final lunge for his hand. The other? The other just wasn’t going to make it. The truck was now picking up speed.

  He spun round to see who it was - who was probably going to be the last man up.

  CHAPTER 40

  7.52 p.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London

  Leona looked out of the lounge window at St Stephen’s Avenue. Diagonally opposite, one house up, was the DiMarcios’ house. She could see the silhouette of their heads through the lounge window, both staring at their TV. In the house directly opposite, was another couple with a baby; she could see activity in their lounge, the woman striding up and down, feeding her baby, the man standing, watching TV as well.

  Leona craned her neck, looking through the venetian blind to see her house, number 25. She could just about see it through the foliage of the stunted birch tree opposite.

  Dark, still, lifeless.

  Like Jacob, she’d much rather be settled in over there, amongst familiar surroundings, amongst her things.

  She looked up at her bedroom window - and thought she saw something tall and dark against the back wall of her room. Motionless, like her, studying the gathering madness outside . . . the shape of a person.

  ‘What . . .?’ she mouthed silently.

  A gentle breeze caused the birch to sway slightly and she lost sight of her bedroom window amidst the swirling of leaves. A few seconds passed, the breeze lapsed, the tree settled once more. For a long minute she struggled to peer into the gathering gloom of her bedroom, but it was made difficult with the fading evening light and the sheen of a reflected golden sun balancing on the rooftops.

  She could see nothing now.

  Don’t go home.

  Leona shuddered and turned away from the window to join Daniel sitting on the sofa in front of Jill’s luxurious plasma screen TV, like everyone else in the world, watching the news. They sat in silence, whilst Jacob lay on the floor in front of them, sorting meticulously through his Yu-Gi-Oh cards.

  ‘. . . spreading across the country, in every city. In most cases the flash point of each riot has been centred around the big supermarkets, the larger petrol stations. In many of the bigger cities, there simply isn’t any sense of order or control. The police have been armed, and the armed forces have been mobilised and stationed around key government installations and supply depots, but beyond that, there simply are no uniforms to be seen . . .’

  The reporter on screen had a face that Leona recognised; he usually reported on business things, from the City. But now here he was on the rooftop or balcony of some building looking down on a street thick with black smoke from a burning car, and people running erratically. His usually well-groomed appearance, the smartly side-parted hair, the navy-blue suit and tie had been replaced with the look of someone who had been roused from sleep after an all-night vigil.

  ‘Law and order has apparently vanished from the streets of this country in the last six hours, since the Prime Minister’s disastrous lunchtime press conference. Amongst the chaos down there, below us, we have distinctly heard the sound of gunfire several times in the last few minutes,’ the reporter continued, gazing down on the smoky scene below.

  Leona, shuddered anxiously.

  My God, he’s really frightened.

  ‘There have been unconfirmed reports of military personnel guarding key locations, using live rounds on civilians. There have been hundreds of eye-witness reports describing fights over food, killings in many cases. This is a truly horrifying scenario, Sean, being played out on every street in every major town and city in the country . . .’

  The image cut back to the studio.

  ‘Diarmid, is there no sign at all of the police or the army out there? I mean, we’re looking at Oxford Street right now, aren’t we?’

  ‘That’s right, Sean. Wholly unrecognisable right now, but yes, this is Oxford Street. This particular disturbance began at about three in the afternoon around a Metro-Stop supermarket, when the staff attempted to close the store and pull down the shutters. This triggered a riot, which quickly led to the store being rushed and the stock completely looted. I saw people emerging from it hours ago pushing trolleys full of food, and then several fights breaking out on the street as other people attempted to lift goods from these trolleys. This particular riot then spread to the other stores up and down the street, with people, quite unbelievably, storming a sports clothes retailer nearby, and next to that, an electrical goods store. Looking down on this now Sean, one is reminded of some of the scenes we saw during the LA riots in 1992, and also in the aftermath of Katrina in New Orleans. But to answer your question Sean, I have seen absolutely no police or army since we arrived here.’

  The image on screen cut back to the studio.

  ‘Thank you for that report, Diarmid,’ Sean said, looking down at a sheaf of papers in his hands. ‘Those scenes of the rioting currently going on in central London.’

  Sean Tillman took a long steadying breath, and then looked up again to camera; the trademark early morning smile that Leona found irritating, but frankly would have loved to have seen now, replaced with a chilling portrayal of grim resignation.

  ‘There has still been no further comment from the Government since the lunchtime press conference. We have been informed though that the emergency committee, code-named “Cobra”, with full legal authority, is in effect now governing the country. Whether the Prime Minister is steering that committee, or some other minister is, as yet, unclear.’

  Leona turned to Daniel. ‘Oh God, Dan, this is so scary,’ she whispered.

  Daniel nodded silently.

  ‘Reports have been coming in from foreign correspondents throughout the afternoon. A similar pattern of events seems to be occurring in many other countries. In Paris, unrest that started
in the suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois, has spread across the city, with many buildings now on fire, and reports of many hundreds of deaths amongst the rioters. In New York, the announcement of a city-wide emergency food rationing ordinance was met with demonstrations on the streets that quickly escalated to a full-scale riot.’

  Daniel got up. ‘Can I use your phone? I want to try my foster parents again.’

  Leona nodded. ‘Sure.’

  As he headed out of the lounge to the hall phone table, Jacob stirred. ‘Lee, are we having a big war?’ he asked casually.

  ‘What? No, of course not!’ she snapped at him irritably. And then noticed from the worried scowl on his small face that even Jake was aware that all was not well with the world. ‘No Jake, we’re not having a war. But things have gone . . . wrong, and people are getting a bit panicky.’

  Jacob nodded as he digested that, and then looked up at her again. ‘I want Mum. Where is she?’

  Leona smiled, she hoped reassuringly.

  I want Mum too.

  Daniel returned. ‘There’s no tone on the telephone line. It’s, like, dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Who’s dead?’ asked Jake, his lips were beginning to quiver unhappily.

  Leona could do without him whimpering right now. ‘No one Jake. No one’s dead. Just play with your cards right now, okay?’

  Jacob nodded, but instead of returning to his cards and continuing to sort them into monster and spell decks, he looked up at the TV and watched the flickering montage of flaming cars, and smoke-smudged skylines. He listened to the words, with cocked head, not entirely understanding what was being said, but instinctively knowing that none of it was good.

  ‘You want to use my mobile?’ asked Leona.

  ‘Yeah, please,’ replied Daniel.

  ‘. . . in Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Afghanistan particularly. From what we know, the evacuation of troops from the region is continuing apace, with a steady procession of Hercules transport planes depositing troops at several RAF bases, including . . .’