Last Light

by Alex Scarrow

  An empty motorway.

  Such a strange and unsettling sight, she decided. At least, it was in this country. An empty motorway with weeds pushing up between the cracks in the tarmac - that was one of those iconic images of a long-dead society, a post-apocalyptic world. Well, they were halfway there, the weeds would come soon enough.

  Looking around, she could see that five or six of the dozen or so people that had converged last night on the burger van, had set off during the night. There was nothing left to plunder here; the fizzy drinks and burger buns were all gone. She decided they should make a move too.

  Paul stirred not long after Jenny.

  He stretched a little, nodded silently at her and then with a discreet jerk of his head towards the M6, he suggested they might as well make a start whilst the going was good.

  As she picked up her overnight bag, buttoned her jacket and turned up the collar against the cool morning breeze, one of the other travellers slumbering in the plastic chairs stirred.

  ‘Is it okay if I come along with you?’ she asked quietly.

  Jenny could see why the woman was keen to come along. The other people, still sleeping, were all men of varying ages. They stared at each other silently, both sharing the same thought.

  Today, and tomorrow, and for God knows how long . . . you don’t want to be a woman on your own.

  ‘Sure,’ muttered Jenny, pleased to make their number three.

  The woman, dark haired, in her early thirties Jenny guessed, wore a navy-blue business trouser-suit that was doing a reasonable job of hiding forty or fifty pounds of surplus weight. She picked up her handbag and weaved her way through the occupied plastic chairs careful not to bump the snoring, wheezing occupants.

  She put a hand out towards Jenny, ‘I’m Ruth,’ she muttered with a broad, no nonsense, tell-it-how-it-is Brummie accent.

  ‘Jenny,’ she replied, ‘and this is Paul.’

  ‘Hi,’ he grunted, with a perfunctory glance towards her.

  Jenny shook Ruth’s extended hand with a tired smile.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ said Paul, turning to go along the lay-by leading on to the motorway, heading south.

  ‘So where are you two trying to get to?’ Ruth asked Jenny, as they started after him.

  ‘London.’

  ‘I want to get to Coventry.’

  ‘Okay, well that’s on the way then.’

  They walked down the fast lane alongside the central barrier most of the time, subconsciously keeping a wary distance from the hard shoulder, and the occasional clusters of bushes and exhaust-poisoned and atrophied trees that grew along the motorway banking. The sky was clear and the morning soon warmed up as the sun breached the horizon.

  They walked in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts and worries, but also aware of how strangely silent it was. No planes, no distant rumble of traffic, nothing at all on the motorway, not even military traffic, something Jenny had thought they might see a lot of. Eventually, it was Ruth who broke the silence.

  ‘Are you two married or something?’

  Jenny stepped in quickly, ‘Oh God no! We just sort of ended up sharing a taxi that got caught up in a blockade on the M6. We’re both heading for London, made sense to travel together,’ she replied. And then added, ‘I’ve got family in London, children I have to get to.’

  ‘And I had a meeting,’ said Paul, ‘an important bloody meeting to close a deal. I had a lot of money riding on that one. I suppose that’s all fucking history now,’ he muttered. ‘Now I just want to get back to my flat before some snotty little bastards see it’s empty, break in and clear me out.’

  ‘What about you?’ Jenny asked, looking at Ruth.

  ‘I’m an account manager. I was doing my rounds when this . . . thing started. I want to get home to my hubby. He’s useless without me.’

  ‘Not so far for you then.’

  ‘Far enough on foot. This is ridiculous - closing the motorways like this. I mean what the hell was the bloody government thinking?’

  Reduce population migration from the cities. That’s what Andy would have dryly answered, thought Jenny. It was the first step in disaster management - you have to control the movement of people as quickly as possible.

  ‘I can’t believe what’s happened in the last day,’ continued Ruth. ‘You just don’t expect this sort of thing in this country. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Paul. ‘I think this isn’t as bad as it seems.’

  Jenny looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I think what’s happened is that the government panicked, they overdid the measures, and that’s what’s caused all the rioting and disorder - classic fucking overkill cock-up. I mean blocking the motorways? Stopping the trains and coaches? What the hell was that all about? Of course, doing that, it’s made everyone think the end of the world is nigh. So what does that make them do? They start panic-buying, you end up with food running out in the shops, people getting even more worked up. Christ, they couldn’t have screwed this up more if they’d tried.’

  ‘There’s been a whole load of riots, I heard that on the news earlier,’ said Ruth.

  ‘And this is going to easily last another couple of days before everyone wakes up and realises we’re not in as bad a state as we thought we were. Until then though, I’d rather get home and off the street.’

  Ruth look appalled. ‘This is England for God’s sake! Surely we can look after ourselves for a week without acting like a bunch of savages going mad?’

  ‘Who says this is going to all be over in a week?’ said Jenny.

  The other two looked at her.

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘This’ll be over in a few days, once the rioting calms down in the Middle East, and then we’ll look back at our own riots in disgust. And guess what? There’ll be a whole load of voyeuristic CCTV reality programmes showing the thuggish idiots that took part. And hopefully the bastards will be arrested.’

  ‘And what happens if things don’t calm down in the Middle East? What happens if we continue into a second week, or a third week without oil and regular shipments of food from all over the world?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Oh, Paul’s right. It’ll sort itself out before then, I’m sure,’ said Ruth.

  ‘But what if it doesn’t? This is the third day. Already with my own eyes I’ve seen someone killed! What am I going to see on day five? Or day seven? Let alone in two or three weeks?’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Paul, ‘things have a way of being anti-climactic in this country. Remember the SARS scare, the bird flu scare? There were experts all over the TV telling us how millions would die and the economy would spiral out of control. This’ll pass.’

  •

  They walked along the motorway until mid-morning, spotting no one except one group of people on the opposite side of the motorway heading north. As they passed each other, there was no exchange of news, just a politely exchanged ‘good morning’.

  Shortly after they saw a sign advertising Beauford Motorway Services five miles ahead, and as it turned midday they veered off the motorway on to the slip-road leading up to it.

  They were all very thirsty. Paul had a notion that the facilities would most probably be closed up and the staff sent home until this unrest had played itself out. They could help themselves to a few bottles of water and a few sandwiches; even if they did end up being recorded on CCTV. He said he was thirsty and hungry enough to accept the risk of getting a rap on the knuckles and a fine several months from now.

  They walked across the car-park, which was empty except for a small area reserved for staff, where a solitary car was parked snugly beside a delivery truck. The service station consisted of a Chevco petrol station, a glass-fronted pavilion with a billboard announcing that inside they’d find a Burger King, a KFC, an amusement arcade, a TQ Sports outlet, a Dillon’s Newsagent and toilets.

  Jenny looked at the pavilion, and through t
he smoky-brown tinted glass she could see movement. There were people inside, looking warily out at them.

  ‘It’s not empty,’ she said.

  ‘I know, I see them too,’ Paul replied. ‘Well, I’ve got some money on me. I’ll buy us some water and sandwiches.’

  They crossed the car-park, and as they approached the wide revolving glass door at the entrance, a lean man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline and small metal-rimmed glasses emerged from the gloom inside. He pushed against a glass panel of the motionless, revolving door, heaving it sluggishly round until he stood outside, in front of them.

  He planted his legs firmly apart, straightened up, and produced a child’s cricket bat, which he swung casually from side to side. It looked like his best attempt to appear threatening. His slight, marathon runner’s frame, narrow shoulders, and nerdy shortsleeved office shirt topped with a lawn-green tie and matching green plastic name-tag weren’t helping him.

  ‘We’re closed,’ he announced curtly, slapping the cricket bat into the palm of one bony hand for effect. ‘We’ve had enough trouble already this morning.’

  Jenny noticed some cracks for the first time, scrapes and scuff marks on the thick, reinforced glass at the front of the services pavilion, and scattered across the deserted parking lot; dislodged paving tiles, broken - presumably picked up and dropped - to produce handy fist-sized projectiles. Clearly there had been something going on.

  ‘Bloody pack of yobs were here last night, trying to break in and help themselves,’ the man continued.

  ‘Look,’ said Jenny, ‘we’ve been walking since yesterday lunchtime. We’re thirsty and hungry. We’ve got money. We just wanted to buy a bottle or two of water, and maybe a few sandwiches.’

  The man shook his head disdainfully. ‘Money? Money doesn’t mean anything right now.’

  Jenny could see he was nervous, twitchy.

  ‘Are you in charge here?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m the shift manager,’ he replied.

  ‘And the others?’

  He cast a glance over his shoulder at the people inside, looking warily out through the smoky glass to see how their boss was handling the situation.

  ‘What’s left of yesterday’s shift,’ he replied. ‘They’re the ones who get the bus in. Those who had cars buggered off, leaving these poor sods behind. They’re mostly immigrants, speak very little English and they’re frightened and confused by what’s going on.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re better off here with me, whilst things are like this. And anyway, we’ve got power here - an auxiliary generator.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And they’re helping guard the stock,’ he added. ‘We had some little bastards tried to force their way in last night, before we’d managed to lock up the front entrance. They beat up Julia, my deputy shift manager, when she tried to stop them.’

  ‘Little bastards? Do you mean kids?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Kids - no. Most of them were teenagers. You know the kind, townies, hoodies, chavs, pikies, neds . . . I’m sure you know the type I mean.’

  Townies. Jenny knew what those were. That was the term Leona used to describe the sort of mouthy little buggers who gathered in surly, hooded groups on street corners.

  Ruth craned her neck around the manager to look at his staff peering out through the glass. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Of course she’s not. They broke her arm, and her face is a mess.’

  ‘I’m a nurse, let me have a look at her,’ said Ruth.

  Jenny and Paul turned to look at her. ‘You said you were a—’

  ‘I was a nurse first.’

  The manager looked at Ruth. ‘Oh blimey, would you? I just don’t know what to do for her. She’s in a lot of pain. She’s been screaming, crying all morning, disturbing the other members of staff.’

  ‘Can we all come in?’ asked Paul.

  The manager looked them over quickly. ‘Well I suppose so.’

  CHAPTER 44

  11.31 a.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London

  Leona looked out of the lounge window, across Jill’s small front garden, on to the leafy avenue outside, lined with parked cars, mostly very nice ones. Last night she had sat up in bed, terrified, unable to sleep, listening to the noises outside.

  Several groups of kids, mostly lads judging by their voices, had been up and down the street in their cars, the bass from their music systems pounding so loud the bedroom window had rattled. She heard them running around kicking over bins, having a lot of fun by the sound of it.

  They were drunk. She heard the clinking of carrier-bags full of booty, and the shatter of empty bottles casually tossed on to the pavement. Leona guessed they had been to Ashid’s Off-licence at the top of their road, and swept the shelves clean. They were making the most of it, celebrating the total black-out, and the total absence of police.

  What she found most disturbing was the sense of ownership these lads - there’d been teenagers and young men among them too - had of the street. It was all their playground now that it was clear the police weren’t likely to come calling any time soon.

  Leona wondered how long the novelty of messing around up and down the narrow avenue would last, though. She wondered when they’d decide that the houses on either side of it were a part of their playground too. She shuddered at the thought that the only reason they hadn’t broken into any of the houses along St Stephen’s Avenue last night was that the idea simply hadn’t occurred to them yet.

  They’d been having too much fun drag-racing up and down, messing around with the wheelie bins, smashing up some of the sillier garden ornaments and uprooting someone’s willow saplings.

  They hadn’t worked out yet that in fact they could do anything they wanted right now.

  Anything.

  Until, that is, the police got a grip on things again - whenever that was likely to happen.

  Leona noticed Daniel had managed to sleep beside her through most of it. But then he was a little more used to this kind of ruckus, coming as he had, from various foster homes in Southend, overlooking the sea, and the parking strip used most nights by joyriders showing off their PlayStation-honed driving skills.

  Jake had somehow managed to get some sleep as well.

  The noises had continued until the first grey rays of dawn had stained the sky, and then it had gradually quietened down, and the last thing she’d heard - as her watch showed half past five - was one of them, left behind by the others, heaving up his guts in someone’s garden and groaning loudly, several dozen yards up the street.

  At about nine, both Daniel and Jacob rose tiredly and padded barefoot downstairs to join her in the kitchen. Leona had found a wind-up radio in Jill’s study, and had quickly found several stations still busily broadcasting.

  ‘Is the power back on?’ asked Daniel hopefully as he entered.

  Leona shook her head and held up the radio for him to see. ‘You wind it up for power.’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, disappointed.

  Jacob looked around. ‘I want some cereal.’

  ‘There’s the BBC World Service still doing its thing. And Capital FM, and one or two others.’

  Daniel offered her a hopeful shrug, ‘So maybe it’s not so bad out there then?’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Listen to it Dan, it’s horrible . . . the things that are happening.’

  ‘Can I have some cereal?’ piped Jacob again.

  Leona turned irritably on him. ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no milk in the fridge. If you want cereal, you’ll just have to have it dry, without milk.’

  ‘I want milk on it,’ Jacob answered.

  She turned the radio up. ‘Just listen to it, Dan. God, we’re in a real mess.’

  ‘. . . burning across the city. It looks like Beirut, or no, more like Baghdad the day after the fall of Saddam’s regime. I’ve never seen anything like this in Britain, the riots last night, the total lawlessness. I have heard there were isolated areas o
f order, and in some smaller towns we’ve heard the fire service was still functioning, and the police were seen, although largely unable to intervene. There has been no further comment from the Prime Minister or any senior government representatives; however, the provisional crisis authority, “Cobra”, has continued to broadcast a general call for calm . . .’

  ‘Can I have some toast then, Lee?’

  ‘. . . amongst the population, reassuring everyone that measures have been taken to ensure order will be returned during the course of the day. Last night’s widespread power-outs across the country, which helped fuel the panic and the riots, were described as a transitory event, with authority for the distribution and allocation of power being switched from the utility companies to regional emergency authorities. A spokesman for Cobra confirmed that, for the next few days, there was going to be a lot less power available with France no longer able to export a surplus, and Russia temporarily suspending exports of natural gas whilst the crisis is ongoing. A rationed system of distribution is being put into effect with most regions, we’ve been assured, receiving power for a short period every day. In addition, we’re being told that supplies of food and bottled water have been secured and stockpiled and a rationing system will be announced shortly. Meanwhile, I’ve been hearing broadcasts from other countries in Europe and across the world. This has hit everyone equally badly it seems. In France, rioting in the southern . . .’

  ‘Leona, can I have some toas—’

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped Leona. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to listen?’

  ‘But I’m hungry. I want some toast!’

  ‘And how the fuck am I supposed to make you some toast, Jacob? Hmmm?’

  Jacob’s mouth hung open. ‘You said the “F” word.’

  ‘Yes I did, didn’t I?’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jacob shrugged, ‘S’okay, I won’t tell Mum or Dad, or anything. ’

  Leona felt a pang of guilt for lashing out at him like that. She knelt down beside him. ‘No, I’m really sorry for shouting at you monkey-boy. It’s just that things are . . . well, I just can’t make any toast right now.’