Last Light

by Alex Scarrow

  Jenny slowed the truck right down, gently rolling forward until the cab, and the trailer behind it - carrying a freight container - more or less covered the entire front wall of the pavilion. She then jabbed the brakes which spat and hissed loudly like a giant serpent. She swung open the driver-side door.

  It thudded heavily against the front of the pavilion, scuffing the perspex and only half-opening - not quite enough to squeeze through.

  Oh great.

  She realised she’d done too bloody good a job of parking snugly against the front of the pavilion.

  CHAPTER 60

  6.11 p.m. GMT Beauford Service Station

  Jenny turned round to look over her shoulder, out through the passenger-side window at the car-park. Those people were coming this way; many of them walking swiftly, some jogging. She sensed there was some confusion amongst them over whether the truck had managed to knock a hole through, or was preparing to reverse and try again . . . or something else. Either way, people were gravitating towards it, curious to see what was going on.

  They were going to be upon her in less than a minute, perhaps that tattoo man would be amongst the first to arrive, and she was sure he’d be mighty pissed off with her, when he sussed her intention had been to blockade the front with the articulated truck.

  She guessed there was just about enough time to climb out of the passenger-side door, run around the front of the truck, squeeze into the narrow two or three foot gap between the side of the truck and the front wall, and hope to God the revolving door - which protruded a little - wasn’t blocked, or obstructed by the truck in any way.

  You’ve got to immobilise the truck.

  Shit, yes she had to. It was a fair bet there was someone out there who’d know how to get this thing going without the need of the ignition key.

  The approaching crowd was converging. Many of them now jogging towards her, perhaps hoping she’d broken through. She could see still more people emerging from the distant tree line around the edge of the car-park, and coming down the slip-road. It was as if some jungle drums, playing on a frequency beyond her hearing, was summoning the thirsty and the hungry for miles around.

  Oh Jesus . . . get a move on girl!

  She grabbed the steering-wheel lock-bar off the passenger seat and fumbled with it, trying to work out how it fitted on to the steering-wheel. She looked up again.

  They were running, sprinting towards her now - only forty or fifty yards away. She spotted the tattooed man leading the charge. Clearly he had twigged that she’d fooled him, that she was one of those bastards inside . . . one of the selfish bastards.

  He was going to beat the crap out of her for sure.

  ‘Oh shit! Come on!’

  Jenny had used a locking-bar on her little Peugeot many years ago; a dinky little bar that, to be honest, could have been jimmied loose and opened with a two pence piece and a little patience. It looked nothing like this heavy-duty thing that looked like it belonged in a gym. But, she could see a groove cut into the thick side of the bar, where obviously it was designed to rest across the wheel. Placing the groove against the steering-wheel, everything quickly fell into place, and she could see how it closed and locked. With a reassuring click, the bar secured around it, and protruded two feet out, preventing the wheel turning more than halfway round. One might be able to turn the truck around with many backward and forward steps, with this lock still attached but it would have to do.

  She clambered across both seats, cursing her calf-length cotton skirt as it caught momentarily on the gear stick, and then, pushed open the passenger-side door, just as the first of those people - the tattooed man amongst them - were bearing down on her, no more than a dozen yards away. His face was stony, rigid with anger, she thought she could hear him calling her all sorts. Jenny knew she was in big trouble if they got a hold of her.

  She jumped down to the ground and immediately dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl under the truck; it seemed the quickest way. Behind her she could hear the thud of trainers against tarmac, and the frustrated bellow of a winded voice.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’

  As she crawled on her belly beneath the lumpy grime and oil-encrusted chassis, she felt her ankle suddenly being squeezed by a vice. Looking back down, she could see a hand wrapped around it and the start of a tanned and muscular forearm. Then his face dipped down into view; tattoo-man.

  ‘Fucking cow! You’re with those bastards inside,’ he snarled as he pulled hard on her leg. She felt the coarse pebbly paving slabs grate painfully against her stomach and chest as she was being dragged out roughly from beneath the truck.

  ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No please!’

  Jenny wrapped her forearm around a support strut on the side of the chassis and held as tightly as she could. The man tightened his grip on her leg and redoubled his effort to pull her out.

  ‘Come on out, bitch!’

  Jenny could now see several pairs of legs had joined those of Mr Tattoo. She felt another pair of hands on her shin, and as they settled into a rhythmic jerking action, she felt her grip weakening with each successive pull.

  ‘No, please!’ she screamed pointlessly.

  Another hard pull and Jenny found her armlock on the strut had been broken. She flailed around for something else to grab, once again feeling the rough paving slabs scrape away at her skin as her body was being pulled out into the open.

  And then he was standing over her, flanked on one side by a short squat man who looked to be ten years older, and on the other, by a woman, perhaps the same age as Jenny, her platinum-blonde hair pulled back tightly away from a hard, lean, humourless face, into a ponytail.

  Tattoo shook his head. ‘Fuckin’ selfish bastards like you always seem to do all right when things turn to shit,’ he muttered angrily.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Jenny whimpered, ‘I was just—’

  ‘Yeah. I thought you was talking a load of pony. Bloody truck driver, my arse.’

  Jenny tried again, ‘I was just—’

  ‘Yeah, we know what you was just doing, love,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve got three fuckin’ kids and a baby at home all crying because I can’t find anything to fuckin’ feed them. And there’s you, you stuck-up bitch, making sure you and those selfish bastards in there get to keep it all for yourselves.’

  Oh God, they’re really going to hurt me.

  ‘Fuckin’ do this bitch, Tom,’ said the platinum blonde. ‘I can’t stand stuck-up cows like this - think they’re better than everyone else.’

  Tattoo looked down at her. ‘I bet people like you are doin’ all right. People like you who got the spare money to have extra food hidden away, to make sure you come out all right. Whilst us poor bastards are left on our own to fuckin’ starve.’

  ‘It’s only been a couple of d-days,’ Jenny muttered, her voice wobbling, ‘n-nobody’s s-starving yet.’

  ‘Yeah? You think? My kids are!’ screamed the blonde. ‘There’s nothin’ where we live . . . nothin’. And no one’s come to fuckin’ help us.’

  I’ve got to keep them talking.

  ‘But they will,’ replied Jenny. ‘It’s j-just like that New Orleans thing. Help will arrive. The p-police will be back.’

  The woman leaned down and slapped Jenny across the face. ‘Just shut up! SHUT UP!’

  Tattoo shook his head. ‘Police aren’t fuckin’ coming, ’cause they’re too busy guarding important shit. It’s just us. And we’ve got to look after ourselves.’

  Jenny wiped the blood from her lip. ‘You’re right, we need to work tog—’

  The blonde slapped her again. ‘SHUT IT!’ she screamed.

  ‘Let’s do her!’ said the woman, ‘Show those bastards inside that we mean business.’

  Tattoo looked around at the growing pack of people. There was a knot of perhaps twenty or thirty gathered around Jenny looking down at her, and more were joining the crowd with every second. She could see they were all emotionally strung out - frightened, hung
ry, thirsty - desperate for someone to take the lead and point the way forward. She could see there were some who just wanted a share of what was inside - no violence please - just a fair share.

  And there were some who wanted to rip her to shreds.

  She knew it was those of the latter kind who tended to make the biggest noise, the hidden sociopaths, the ones who cried loudest and longest for a lynching when some paedophile, benefit-defrauding immigrant, or disgraced minor celebrity was being outed by the red-top press.

  The witch burners.

  ‘Pull her out where those shits inside can see her. Then let’s do her!’ goaded the blonde again. Voices in the crowd shouted approval at that.

  Tattoo-man perhaps hadn’t intended to take things that far, but Jenny could see him looking around at the crowd, the blonde bitch was baying for blood, and that was swaying the crowd.

  ‘Okay!’ he shouted above the noise. ‘We’ll do her where they can see!’

  She saw a flicker of metal, a penknife in someone’s hand.

  Oh no, please no.

  Jenny flushed cold, and her bladder loosened. She closed her eyes with shame.

  She heard a younger man shout, ‘Hey! She’s pissed herself! Look!’

  And then she felt hands all over her, on her arms and legs, and where they didn’t need to be . . . pulling her roughly off the ground.

  The fear of the knife she had seen pushed every other thought out of her mind.

  Don’t cut me, don’t cut me, don’t cut me.

  CHAPTER 61

  6.15 p.m. GMT Beauford Service Station

  ‘STOP RIGHT NOW!’

  It was such a loud voice.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE FLIPPIN’ WELL DOING?’

  A deafening, parade-ground loud voice that cut over the jeering and shouting of the crowd like a gunshot. Tattoo-man, the hard-faced platinum blonde and the dozen or so other people who were manhandling Jenny, stopped. They didn’t put her down mind, but for the moment they hesitated.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’

  It was Ruth’s voice Jenny could hear; that no crap taken, tell it how I see it, call a spade a spade, Birmingham accent.

  ‘IS THIS HOW GROWN-UPS ARE MEANT TO BEHAVE?’ Ruth continued like a secondary school teacher chastising a classroom of unruly teenagers.

  Jenny felt some of the hands that were holding her, begin to loosen, temporarily shamed. She was lowered back down to the ground. She looked up, squinting at the setting sun, melting against the horizon. Ruth stood beside the front of the truck, standing firmly with her legs planted apart, her hands held behind her back. In her dark business trouser-suit, she looked a little like a policewoman, a prison guard perhaps.

  ‘That’s right, put her down!’ she barked again, a little less deafening, now the crowd had quietened down. ‘What the bloody hell were you people thinking of?’

  Tattoo-man was the first to regain his voice. ‘Fuckin’ bitch is with those bastards inside!’

  Jenny looked across at Ruth, and realised.

  They think Ruth’s one of them?

  Perhaps in the confusion they hadn’t seen her emerge from behind the truck? Jenny made eye contact with her, and Ruth seemed to nod back, almost imperceptibly.

  She’s picked up on that too.

  ‘Yeah? Well maybe she is, but this is no bloody way to behave! Absolutely disgraceful. We’re not a bunch of flippin’ savages are we?’

  Ruth’s chastising approach seemed to be working for now. Maybe somehow at an instinctive level she was tapping into that inner-child thing everyone has. The baying mob right now looked like a class of thirteen year olds being read the riot act by their deputy head.

  ‘But those selfish bastards inside are sitting on all that food, and we’re all fuckin’ hungry!’ replied the platinum blonde, still holding Jenny’s arm in a tight, painful grip.

  ‘We’re thirsty too. There’s no running water,’ someone in the crowd called out.

  Ruth took a few tentative steps forward towards Jenny. ‘Well that’s as maybe. I’ll talk to them,’ she announced. ‘I’ll make ’em see reason. But right now, let this poor young lady go,’ she looked pointedly at the platinum blonde, ‘there’s a good girl.’

  The mood of the crowd of people around Jenny seemed uncertain, wavering. She sensed even more than water or food, they wanted someone to step forward and be in charge, and this sturdy-looking lady with a foghorn voice and a reassuring line of common sense seemed to be filling that void.

  Oh my God . . . she’s going to get me out of this!

  Tattoo-man loosened his grip on Jenny.

  But platinum blonde still had one sinewy hand wrapped tightly around Jenny’s upper arm, her long nails digging painfully into her skin.

  Ruth now focused her stern gaze solely on the blonde.

  ‘Listen love,’ said Ruth taking another couple of steps forward until she was a mere yard away, and staring powerfully down at the whippet-thin woman. Ruth’s generous figure, not inconsiderable height, and that dark business suit - all those subtle things were helping to sway the delicate situation in her favour.

  ‘I’ll talk to them, just as soon as you’ve let her go. We’re Brits for Christ’s sake! We are NOT going to behave like a bunch of flippin’ Third-World savages. Do you understand, love?’

  Ruth took another step forward and reached a hand out for Jenny, the other hand still tucked behind her back.

  The blonde eyed her suspiciously, tightening her grasp on Jenny’s arm. ‘Yeah? And how you gonna get them to share out that food? Huh? And anyway, who fuckin’ well put you in charge?’

  Ruth’s face hardened, she pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed. ‘You re-e-e-ally don’t want to tangle with someone like me darlin’, you really don’t. I eat little slappers like you for breakfast.’

  Oh God, thought Jenny, sensing she was nearly home and dry . . . she’s truly terrifying.

  The blonde studied Ruth silently for a moment. ‘Hang on, you’re not from our fuckin’ estate anyway. I know everyone’s face. I don’t know yours.’

  Jenny’s eyes flickered towards Ruth.

  You’ve been rumbled.

  ‘So flippin’ what? I come from Burnside, fucking toughest estate in Birmingham. Doesn’t mean shit really does it?’

  Jenny heard it. That meant everyone else had heard it too; a slight wavering in Ruth’s voice.

  The blonde smiled, knowing the tide was swaying her way again.

  ‘You’re one of ’em wankers from inside aren’t cha?’ She turned to address the crowd. ‘She’s not from our estate, she’s not one of us!’

  There was a moment’s lag. Clearly they would have preferred Ruth as a leader, but the unspoken agreement was that their neighbourhood was their tribe. They had to stick together, because it looked like no one else was going to come and help them out. When things turn to shit, you stick with your own.

  Ruth took advantage of the moment.

  With surprising speed for her size, she whipped her other hand out from behind her back and held it inches away from the face of the blonde. Jenny could see she was holding something small and blue, a can of something.

  It hissed and sprayed something into her face.

  The blonde screamed in agony and dropped to the floor where she clawed at her face with her hands. Ruth roughly jerked Jenny forward.

  ‘RUN!’ she bellowed, pointing towards the front of the truck. ‘There’s space to squeeze round!’

  Jenny staggered forward, rushing past Ruth.

  Ruth held her ground a moment longer, keeping her arm aloft.

  ‘It’s mace! Take a step closer and I’ll flippin’ well burn your face off with this stuff!’ she yelled at the crowd of people in front of her.

  As Jenny rounded the front of the truck, she spotted the squeeze-gap between the truck and the pavilion’s perspex front. She shot a glance back at Ruth, who was now backing up one step at a time, with the can of mace held in front of her like a gun.


  Some of the crowd were keeping pace with her, some more had spread out either side. Jenny could see Ruth’s steady retreat was in danger of being cut off by some of these people. She needed to turn and run right now.

  ‘Ruth!’ she cried, ‘Come on!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ Ruth called back, not daring to look away from the people in front of her. She took another couple of retreating steps, and then she began to turn.

  But something lanced through the air towards her; a brick, a piece of loose paving . . . it hit her on the back of the head and she lost her footing and tumbled to the ground.

  ‘Ruth!’ Jenny screamed.

  The crowd from the estate were upon her almost immediately and before the mob closed around Ruth’s prone form, Jenny spotted the platinum blonde kneeling down over her, tears streaming from bloodshot eyes, punching Ruth’s face repeatedly with a balled, bony fist.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she whispered, rooted to the spot.

  ‘Jenny. For fuck’s sake come inside!’ hissed Paul, standing in the space between the truck and the pavilion.

  She turned to look at him. ‘We’ve got to help her! They’ll kill her!’

  Jenny turned back to look at the crowd. There seemed to be some amongst them who were reluctant to take part, there were even some who were desperately trying to pull others back off Ruth.

  ‘Come on, inside!’ Paul grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the gap. ‘There’s nothing we can do for Ruth now.’ He led her to the revolving door, pushed her ahead into the open segment and leant hard against the plastic door to turn it - looking anxiously over his shoulder, as the door slowly moved.

  Without power turning it, he had to work hard to budge it.