Last Light

by Alex Scarrow

  He almost stopped.

  Five yards . . . just a little bit closer.

  The policeman studied Ash, sobbing uncontrollably in front of him. ‘There’s nothing I can do right now, sir. I can call it in, but the service is stretched as it is. What’s wrong with her?’

  Ash took another tentative step forward.

  Good enough.

  ‘Stay where you are!’

  Ash produced his thin blade and lunged forward, sliding into the policeman’s stomach as he fumbled for his gun. He tugged it upwards with a sawing action the way you’d fillet a fish, knowing the catastrophic damage the blade was doing inside. With his other hand he grabbed one of the policeman’s wrists and held it firmly. The policeman’s unrestrained hand reached around to where the blade had gone in, fumbling and slapping ineffectually at it, trying to pull it out.

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Ash. ‘Easy does it,’ he whispered, his face close to the man’s, almost intimate. ‘It’ll all be over in a second my friend.’ Ash lifted him off the motorbike and laid him gently down on the pavement, his mouth flapping open and closed, producing only an unhappy gurgling sound.

  Ash climbed on to the bike. A few of the people nearby seemed to have noticed and stared slack-jawed at him as he kick-started the bike.

  Guildford.

  He’d spent last night by candle-light, studying the Sutherlands’ London A to Z. Provided the roads were clear and there weren’t any roadblocks, he estimated he could find his way there sometime this afternoon. And hopefully find this sister, Kate, was in.

  He spun the bike round, heading around the Hammersmith circular, and turning south, down Fulham Palace Road. Most of the shop windows were gone along this road as well.

  He was surprised at how little it had taken to rip apart the veneer of law and order; at least within central London. No one was starving yet, probably not even hungry. But the mere mention of food rationing by that moronic Prime Minister had driven them all into a state of panic, further exacerbated by the hysterical way the media had responded and then the nationwide power-out last night - sudden, without any warning.

  He smiled.

  They had handled that very well over here, perfectly in fact; orchestrated complete disintegration within a couple of days.

  CHAPTER 48

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

  Leona led the way another hundred yards up Uxbridge Road. It was only as they crossed the debris-strewn road that they noticed someone else, the first sign of life so far. She could see about five people, an Asian family, picking through the mess of a jewellery shop, making a tentative start at clearing the mess up. She felt encouraged by that. It seemed like a good sign.

  Ahead of them was a small shopping precinct, above it a multi-storey car-park. Normally, night and day, the precinct was awash with neon lights, backlit billboards, and thousands of little shopping mall spotlights embedded in the precinct’s relatively low ceiling. Right now, despite being a sunny afternoon, it looked quite dark inside.

  ‘The supermarket’s just a little way inside,’ said Leona. She might have turned back at this point, but seeing that family not so far away, making a start on fixing up their shop, there was a pervading sense that the worst of this might actually be over.

  ‘Can’t see any police down there,’ said Dan.

  ‘Let’s take a quick look. And if there’s no police inside, we might be able to pick up a few extra supplies in the supermarket. ’

  Dan didn’t look so keen.

  ‘A quick look, then we’ll come out again.’

  She led the way, heading into the precinct.

  Out of the sunlight it felt cooler. Their footfall against the smooth, well-polished floor, echoed loudly inside. She was taken aback at how lifeless it looked, so used to the place always being busy and noisy with the sound of shopping muzak, squealing packs of teeny-boppers, and the clatter of heels and shopping trolleys and mums pushing baby buggies.

  Every store-front window had been smashed.

  At the far end of the precinct she could see the long and wide windows of the supermarket. From where they were, it was clear it had been looted; windows were smashed, shopping trolleys and hand baskets were tangled everywhere and the ground was covered with discarded packaging, cardboard boxes, spilled, crushed and spoiled food.

  They approached a smashed window and looked inside. It was dark. No power. The shelves were uniformly empty, the floor space between littered with more debris from the orgy of looting that must have happened here yesterday afternoon and evening.

  ‘It’s been totally cleared out,’ said Dan quietly. ‘This is so-o-o like that New Orleans Katrina thing. I remember that on the news. It just . . . just looked like this.’

  Leona nodded. ‘I know. You just don’t think that would happen here, you know, until it does.’

  ‘We should head back now,’ he said, ‘we’ve left Jake long enough.’

  Leona smiled and reached for his hand, ‘You’d make a good older brother.’

  They heard the scrape of a foot on glass shards behind them and both spun round.

  ‘You got a fag, mate?’

  CHAPTER 49

  5 p.m. local time Northern Iraq

  Andy watched Tajican, Westley and Derry as they busily worked on siphoning the fuel from the damaged vehicles across the road - three Humvees and a truck. The small convoy had quite clearly been halted by an explosive device by the side of the road; the first Hummer was little more than a blackened and twisted carcass. Behind it, the other three vehicles were pockmarked with bullet-holes. Clearly, the halted convoy had subsequently been ambushed by gunmen from the cover of the sand berms either side of the road. Brass bullet-cases littered the ground around the vehicles, there had obviously been a sustained fire-fight, and from the dark smudges in the sand, and on the seared tarmac of the road, it was clear there had been a number of casualties.

  There were bodies, barely recognisable as such, in the first vehicle, and a dozen more to be found in a ditch several dozen yards away from the road. The bodies were all those of American soldiers. To Andy it looked as if they had made their last stand here; fire coming from all sides, their vehicles providing inadequate cover, they must have bailed out and beat a retreat across the road towards the ditch, and the fight had finished there.

  Whilst they were siphoning fuel out of the vehicles, Andy had asked Westley to post some look-outs. Four of the platoon, with Peters in charge, were a hundred yards up the road keeping a look-out, another four men under Benford, were back down the road keeping tabs on the other direction. It was another two or three hours before sundown and as far as Andy was concerned the cover of darkness couldn’t come soon enough.

  Mike studied the bodies in the ditch. ‘Those boys were engineers, not frontline combat,’ his voice rumbled angrily.

  ‘Looks like this went down sometime on Monday,’ said Andy, ‘you know . . . judging by the state of the bodies.’

  Mike nodded. ‘Poor bastards.’ He turned to Farid. ‘These boys were probably on their way to repair or build something for your people, when this shit happened.’

  Farid met his gaze. ‘It is unfortunate.’

  Mike laughed dryly and shook his head. ‘Yeah see, I just don’t get you people. Why? I mean why the fuck do you people not want your bridges fixed, your water treatment plants repaired? Why the hell don’t you want this friggin’ country repaired?’

  Farid shrugged. ‘Iraqi people want water, want bridges, Mike. We just not want America made here in this country.’

  ‘We’re not trying to rebuild America here, we’re just trying to fix up your goddamn infrastructure—’

  ‘Which I believe was intact and working just fine before we arrived,’ said Andy. ‘I think it’s probably worth mentioning that.’

  Mike stopped, and then to his credit nodded. ‘Just pisses me off though. We get rid of your dictator, who I’m sure your people all agree, was a nasty piece of shit, and then give you the chance to
create a fair and democratic nation here—’

  ‘We not want that,’ said Farid calmly. ‘We tell you this, many times. But America not listens. We not want this democracy, it is rule of man by man. We want for rule of man by Allah.’

  ‘I don’t get that,’ replied Mike.

  ‘I’ve got to say I don’t get that either, Farid,’ said Andy. ‘At least with the ability to vote, to decide who gets to run things, you can kick out the guys at the top if they turn out to be bad. What’s so wrong with that?’

  Farid shook his head. ‘This put man in charge. It mean man decide things. Look what happen in your country when it is men in charge. They steal money, they make huge wars, they lie to people. And then, you have vote . . . yes? Then you have new man in your . . . White House, and then he steal money too, and make the same wars. No difference. Shari’ah law is God’s law. It not be changed or . . . inter—’

  ‘Interpreted?’

  Farid nodded. ‘Because man always will change things to suit his need. Always this happen.’

  ‘You’re saying Shari’ah law is incorruptible,’ prompted Andy.

  ‘Yes, that is what I try and say. Is incorruptible. Never change.’

  ‘That’s a load of crap,’ muttered Mike. ‘The men at the top, the imams, they play fast and loose with Islam. They make it say whatever they damn well want.’

  ‘Those who do this are not good Muslims,’ cautioned the old man. ‘Saddam say he was a good Muslim. He was not.’

  Andy could see his point. Perhaps, in theory, the simple laws of God, as defined in the Qur’an were a viable way for a society to live. Like communism, it worked on paper, but once you introduced a few self-serving bastards into the equation, it began to come unravelled. Perhaps though, there was something to be said for the simple code of Islam; the egalitarianism, the strong emphasis on charity, on family. If they could strip out the God bit, and the lopsided take on the woman’s role in life, he wondered if it was something he could possibly embrace.

  ‘Answer me this Farid,’ said Mike, ‘and I want you to be honest.’

  The old man looked at him.

  ‘What is it that you guys really want?’

  Farid smiled disarmingly. ‘You know what every good Muslim want?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Islamic world. All of us, brothers together.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘See that’s what I always suspected. There’s no room for infidels like me, like Andy, like Israel. Secretly - and most of the time you guys are real careful what you say in public - secretly, you want us gone, you want us wiped—’

  ‘No!’ Farid cut in angrily. ‘No! I want world of Islam with all my heart. But, I would not agree to the death of even one person, one infidel to do this.’

  Mike studied him silently.

  ‘Jihad not mean war, Mike. Jihad mean . . . struggle. I wish for you to accept Allah into heart. You as well, Andy. That is my struggle, my Jihad. But Allah can only be accepted . . . you understand? Not with gun, or bomb, or fear. He can only be accepted.’

  Andy turned to the old man. ‘You know something Farid, I’m never going to believe in a God. You know that, don’t you? I consider religion, all of it, to be little more than mindless superstition.’

  Mike shrugged. ‘Me neither. Christian, Jewish or Islamic, ain’t gonna happen. And I’ll probably burn in hell for saying that.’

  Farid offered them a broad smile. ‘God accept in Heaven, believer and non-believer. If you are good man, there is room.’

  ‘It’s only the real assholes he doesn’t let in?’ said Andy.

  Farid laughed and nodded. ‘That is right.’

  Mike nodded. ‘I guess I can go with that.’

  CHAPTER 50

  2.30 p.m. GMT Cabinet Office Briefing Room A (COBRA), London

  The Prime Minister had buckled under pressure as Malcolm thought he might. Charles was exhibiting the signs of an approaching nervous breakdown. Which was understandable really. His appalling naivety yesterday, in attempting to appeal to some nebulous notion of a nascent Dunkirk spirit, had successfully thrown the country into a premature state of chaos. Making the job of mobilising the army and police to secure key assets around the country a hell of a lot easier.

  Charles’ well-intentioned gamble to try and get everyone on-side and pulling together had, in fact, worked wonderfully well for them. Certainly in Britain, it was all going to schedule. Social collapse had occurred far more quickly than they had predicted - all credit to Charles’ contribution. Now, with all the key assets under guard, and a steady flow of troops coming back home to bolster their hold on things, the situation was pretty much manageable, and measurable.

  Malcolm and his colleagues had firm control of COBRA, the civil contingencies authority. There were eight in this ruling committee, five of them were insiders - members of the One Hundred and Sixty. And now as it appeared that all the little pieces were sliding into the right places, it was time to carefully apply the pressure - to nudge the process along, little by little.

  And they needed to do this very carefully.

  Nearly a decade ago, when the need for an event like this was first discussed, there were those who had cautioned that it could spiral out of their control. Malcolm had been amongst them. Which was why this thing needed to be handled here in this country, and everywhere else, with surgical precision.

  One foot on the accelerator . . . and one foot hovering just above the brakes.

  There was a target, a goal to aim for. The danger would be in overshooting that, letting this whole process build up its own uncontrollable momentum and run away from them.

  Malcolm looked down at the executive orders he had drafted ready to put in front of his fellow COBRA attendees. Four of the committee would pass these orders without even a murmur. They knew exactly why these things had to be done. The other three would no doubt blanch with horror and ask why the distribution of power was being so ruthlessly limited, why water supplies to large areas of the country were to be turned off.

  And Malcolm would calmly justify it to them. Something along the lines of: ‘This crisis could last for months, gentlemen. We have entered into an unknown, unpredictable and dangerously unstable period. The free flow of oil is the one thing, the ONE thing that sustains this interconnected, interdependent world. It’s the scaffolding that holds this global house of cards up, and somebody, somewhere, God knows why, decided to pull it away. We’re an island of sixty-five million people and very limited resources. It’s our duty to ensure we preserve a pool of supplies that will sustain, if not the entire population, then at least a significant portion of it, through this period, through the aftershock, and through the recovery. Power, water and food are the three things we must now take complete responsibility for controlling, rationing and distributing . . .’

  And if those three members didn’t go along with that line of hogwash, so be it, it really didn’t matter. Five votes to three would sideline their opinion anyway.

  Malcolm sighed. How tempting it would be to just come right out into the open and explain what he and his colleagues were up to. They would see the sense of it, he was sure. They would see the bigger picture. They would see that this needed to be done for everyone’s benefit. They would see what would one day happen, the frightening future scenarios, if something as unpleasant as this wasn’t orchestrated now.

  But to do that, to talk openly of the goal to these three uninitiated committee members, would mean to hint at the controlling hand behind these events, the One Hundred and Sixty and the Twelve.

  And, knowing of these things, they would, of course, have to die.

  CHAPTER 51

  3 p.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London

  Leona turned round to see three of them standing right behind them. She was surprised that they had managed to get so close without making a sound.

  Unless they were trying to, of course.

  ‘You got a fag mate?’ said the one in the middle, who was black, shorter t
han the other two; a scrawnier version of 50 Cent. He was flanked on either side by two taller lads, both lean, white, wearing baggy tracksuit trousers that hung like full nappies. They called students that dressed like that ‘wiggers’ at uni - morons who pretended they were gangsters, homeboys; white kids who desperately yearned to be black, and did their faltering best to sound like they’d been brought up on the bad streets of LA She hated the term, almost as much as the one it was derived from, but it did a good job of summing them up.

  ‘Uh, I don’t smoke, mate,’ replied Dan with a friendly but uncertain smile. ‘Well I sort of do a little stuff, at parties and . . . and . . . but no, right now I don’t have any smokes on me.’

  The kid who looked like 50 Cent turned to address Leona. ‘What about you, love?’

  Leona already knew this wasn’t about scrounging a cigarette. ‘I don’t smoke either. But I bet you’ll find hundreds of cartons inside there,’ she replied, pointing through the broken window behind them.

  ‘Shit, yeah . . . maybe looksee,’ replied 50 Cent, shooting a glance at the window, then back to her. ‘You wanna go flicc with us, girl?’

  Leona shook her head. She was pretty sure ‘flicc’ meant ‘hang around’ and not something worse, but she could guess that might be where this was headed, what he was thinking about.

  ‘No thanks, I’m going home now with my boyfriend.’

  Dan nodded. ‘Yeah, we’re all done here . . . just . . . just heading back home now.’

  ‘It’s jungle time now, not urban jungle no more,’ said 50 Cent. ‘Police are gone away. It’s fuckin’ mad out here.’

  One of his two wingmen, his wigger homeboys, laughed and nodded. Leona guessed he must have been about seventeen, his baby-smooth skin pockmarked with spots around his eyebrows - one of which was shaved into little dashes.

  ‘Yeah, we noticed,’ said Dan. ‘So, we’re gonna make tracks—’