Last Light

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘Oh . . . G-god, no!’ she gasped.

  He smiled and looked at his knife. ‘This little blade has seen plenty of action, Kate, over the years. I’ve actually popped this little sucker into some quite important people . . . you might even have heard of one or two of them, if you read around the Sunday papers enough. So you’re going to be in good company.’

  Kate stifled a whimper.

  ‘It’s a very sharp blade. I really wouldn’t have to apply too much pressure for it to slide through the skin and gristle of that very nice nose of yours.’

  She shuddered, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Ash tenderly brushed it away. ‘I think you’re ready to tell me now, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Okay then, let’s have it.’

  ‘What w-will you d-do to my niece?’ Kate whispered.

  He decided a little white lie would keep things rolling along nicely. ‘We just want to talk to her, Kate. That’s all. It’s something to do with her daddy’s work.’

  ‘Y-you won’t h-hurt her?’

  Ash shook his head. ‘She’s just a child. What sort of person—? ’ he snapped, scowling at her. ‘Look, I have a sister her age, for Chrissakes. No, Kate, I won’t hurt her. But I need to talk to her, quickly.’

  Kate glanced again at the knife, still only a few inches away from her face.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  Ash’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Oh, you’re asking the questions now, are you?’ He laughed. She smiled anxiously, hoping that was helping her somehow.

  ‘Since you ask, I’m with the secret services, I can’t tell you which branch of course. But I’m on very important government business.’

  He knew that sounded hooky, but frightened and wanting to believe it, she might just.

  She nodded. ‘I . . . but you don’t s-sound British,’ she whispered sceptically.

  Ah well, worth a try.

  Ash smiled. ‘You’re right, I’m not. But believe me when I say I will mutilate you badly if you don’t tell me what I need to know, right now.’

  ‘Jill lives in the same street as them,’ Kate blurted quickly.

  Ash grimaced. I knew it.

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘A . . . a few doors d-down, on the o-other side.’

  You saw her, you fucking idiot. You saw her, didn’t you? Unloading that van . . . and then later on, looking out of the window of that house, looking straight at you.

  He cursed under his breath. That could have been her. On both occasions he hadn’t been close enough to get a clear look at her face, but yes, thinking back, it was the girl in the photo - a different hair colour, and maybe a little slimmer than the girl in the picture he had. He even recalled thinking there was a passing resemblance, but for crying out loud, who would be so stupid as to go into hiding a mere fifty yards from home?

  Shit.

  He could have had her already.

  Kate looked intently at him, wary of the flickering signs of distraction and anger on his face. ‘What are you g-going to do with m—?’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ he snapped irritably, swiping the blade quickly across her throat, and stepping smartly back as blood arced out in front of her and pitter-pattered on to the spotless cream carpet in front of her.

  He wiped the blade clean as she recovered from the shock and realised what had just happened. She wriggled around on the floor, trying to work her hands free. Why exactly, Ash didn’t know; holding her hands to her gaping neck wasn’t going help her much now.

  He looked down at her and offered her a smile. ‘It’s not personal, Kate. As a rule I prefer to leave bodies behind me, instead of yapping mouths.’

  She tried to gurgle something to him and then slumped forward on to her knees, her forehead pressed against the carpet. The blood splattered out as the wound across her neck opened wider.

  ‘That’s a good girl, that’ll speed things up for you.’ He stepped towards her front door. ‘I’ll let myself out then.’

  Saturday

  CHAPTER 79

  4.21 a.m. GMT Heathrow, London

  They landed at Heathrow Airport at a few minutes after four a.m.

  Andy had awoken from a deep sleep twenty minutes before they were due to land. He guessed his body had sensed the change in air pressure, or been awoken by the increase in chatter and excitement around him. Looking out of the window, as the plane made several stepped drops in altitude, he saw the same pitch-black nothing, the same absence of any sign of human activity that they’d seen earlier across Europe.

  On the final approach to Heathrow he finally spotted a string of lights marking out the landing strip, and, in the sky, the strobing navigation lights of a dozen other planes that were either coming in to land, or had recently taken off.

  There were no announcements from the airliner’s captain. It had been an oddly silent trip. They landed heavily with a bump and a bounce, and taxied swiftly off the main runway, following the tail of a military truck instead of the usual CAA follow-me buggy.

  At last, as the plane rolled towards its slot amidst a mixed assortment of military planes, C130 Hercules transports, Tristars and various passenger jets, Andy heard the pilot speak for the first time.

  ‘Uh . . . this is your pilot speaking. My name’s Captain Andrew Melton. And this is a GoJet plane flying under military jurisdiction right now. So, we’re home again, back in the United Kingdom,’ his tired voice announced over the cabin-speakers. There was a muted cheer from some of the soldiers up and down the cabin.

  ‘But . . . uh . . . as you may have guessed, things have changed a lot back here in the UK over the last week. I’ve just been told by air traffic control that Heathrow Airport is under military control at the moment, and has been for the last two days.’

  Through the window Andy watched passengers emerge from a neighbouring plane, an EasyJet A320. They looked to be mostly military personnel, but he thought he spotted amongst them some civilians, a few women and one or two children.

  Very, very lucky holidaymakers.

  The order of priority for getting British nationals home had been military first. That’s what this huge effort had been all about, not for civilians stranded abroad whilst on holiday, but to get troops back home. Given the state of things right now, Andy could see that made perfect sense.

  ‘I’ve been told that all military passengers aboard are going to be processed off this plane first. Then the civilian passengers will be processed,’ said the captain. ‘I’m not really sure what they mean by “processed” folks, but that’s the word they’re asking me to use.’

  Westley gave Andy a nod. ‘Looks like this is where we part company, like.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They both stared out of the window at the floodlit scene. They could see lines of people from recently arrived planes, snaking across the tarmac towards the terminal ahead. Watching over them, directing the disembarked passengers, were armed soldiers looking to all intents and purposes like prison guards overseeing a shuffling chain-gang.

  The pilot came on again. ‘I’m not sure how much you people are aware of. Since this crisis started on Monday an emergency authority has taken over control and we are effectively under some sort of martial law. I’m not sure what that means in terms of what we can and can’t do, but obviously things are different . . . uh . . . one second.’

  The cabin-speakers clicked as the pilot switched channels and now all they could hear was a hiss.

  ‘Right,’ the pilot’s voice returned over the speakers. ‘There’s a stairway locking on now. When the doors open, can we have military personnel disembarking first please?’

  Andy could hear the mobile stairs as they gently nudged the plane. A moment later the plane’s hatches opened with a clunk. Immediately the noise from outside roared in; the whine of jet engines from the planes parked either side, the distant roar of a jet getting ready to take off, and the rumble of another touching down.

  Westley unbuckled his belt
and stood up in the central aisle between the rows of seats, stretching tiredly and looking down at the few remaining members of his platoon.

  ‘Shake a leg lads,’ he said. ‘Hey, Derry, wake up you soft lad.’

  The aisle filled with soldiers, most of them stripped down to their olive T-shirts, their desert camouflage shirts tied around their waists or slung over one arm. Andy looked around, there were about twenty people still seated - civilians, contractors like himself, mostly.

  At the front of the plane an officer appeared in the aisle. ‘All right lads, let’s go. Down the stairs, there’s a truck waiting for you,’ he called out loudly.

  Westley turned to Andy and held out a hand. ‘This is it then,’ he said.

  Andy grabbed his hand. ‘Yup. You look after yourself, okay? We’ve been through way too much shit for you to get knocked over by a baggage trolley now.’

  Westley laughed. ‘Right-o, sir.’

  ‘You know what? I might even let you call me Andy instead of “Sir”.’

  The lance corporal smiled. ‘Sorry, force of habit.’

  ‘Take care of yourself Westley.’

  He shrugged. ‘Ahh, we’ve been through the worst of it, eh? Can’t be any bloody worse here.’

  Andy nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’

  ‘When things get better, we’ll meet up, yeah?’

  ‘Beers are on me; you and the platoon,’ said Andy.

  Westley laughed. ‘You’ll probably regret that.’ He let go of his hand. ‘Take care Sutherland.’

  ‘You too.’

  Westley nodded and smiled and then shuffled awkwardly. They’d said all that needed to be said. He then turned to face his men. ‘Come on lads, let’s do as the officer says, and get a move on!’ he barked. The lads of the platoon shuffled past Westley, each nodding a goodbye towards Andy as they went.

  ‘Good luck lads,’ said Andy, watching them make their way down towards the front of the plane.

  Westley was about to follow on after them but he stopped and turned round, and leant forward over the seat in front of Andy. ‘Oh, by the way, I left you a pressie,’ he whispered, ‘you might need it.’ He winked at Andy and then turned to join his men. Andy watched him go before looking down at the seat to his right; there was nothing he could see there. He then looked at the pouch on the back of the seat in front and saw that the sick-bag bulged with something.

  Andy could guess what it was. He let the last of the soldiers squeeze past in the narrow aisle before pulling the paper bag out of the pouch and looking inside it.

  Yup.

  He took the service pistol and the two spare clips out and tucked them into the thigh pocket of his shorts.

  CHAPTER 80

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

  Leona stirred in the complete darkness. For a second she wondered where she was, and then remembered. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they were numb, and when she did finally manage to coax some movement out of them, she felt an explosion of pins and needles in all four limbs.

  She pushed the hatch open, and a pale morning glow flooded into their hidey-hole. She realised she must have actually managed to fall asleep in there.

  ‘C’mon Jakey,’ she said to her little brother. He stirred quickly, his yawn no more than a tired squeak.

  She climbed out, helped Jacob scramble out, and then, wary that there might still be members of the gang hanging around, they stepped lightly across the room to the hallway.

  She glanced into each room. There was no one. The rooms had all been ransacked, of course.

  They tiptoed down the stairs and quickly came across the results of last night’s ruckus on the ground floor.

  The lounge, the kitchen, Jill’s study, were completely trashed. It looked like the entire house had been gently lifted a couple of yards off the ground, and then dropped. She noticed a row of shallow craters along the lounge wall, and realised they were bullet-holes. And she noticed a fair amount of blood splattered along the skirting-boards, and smeared across the smooth parquet floor of the entrance hall, as if a body had been dragged, or someone badly hurt had tried to drag himself away.

  The barricade built from the stacked kitchen chairs, table, and a couple of heavy chests had been pushed to one side and the front door was dangling from one last screw holding the top hinge to the door-frame. It swung with a gentle creak.

  She found two bodies in the kitchen. They both looked younger than her, perhaps fifteen, sixteen; smooth, young, porcelain faces, eyes closed as if sleeping - they looked almost angelic lying side by side amidst a dark, almost black pool of blood that had spread during the night across most of the kitchen floor. Several of the MDF kitchen units sported jagged splintered bullet-holes. Under foot, shards of glass crackled and popped against the tile floor.

  Jacob wandered in before she could stop him.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘Jake, out . . . go on.’

  Jacob didn’t budge, fascinated by the two corpses, ‘They’re dead aren’t they?’ a hint of awe in his voice.

  ‘Yes, Jake, they’re dead.’

  ‘Did someone shoot them?’

  ‘Yup.’ She counted a dozen jagged holes around the kitchen. Someone had fired off a lot of bullets in here. One of the dead boys was clutching a kitchen knife, beside the other one she spotted a baseball bat.

  Hardly an even fight.

  She recognised both of them as being members of the gang that had been preying on the avenue these last few nights. She had guessed that the fight last night must have been between the Bad Boys and some other group - perhaps a rival gang from White City.

  But these other ones had guns.

  She led Jacob out of the kitchen, literally dragging him away from the bodies, which he studied with an intense fascination.

  And then she saw him, through the open front door, lying amongst the weeds in Jill’s front garden; caught the slightest movement.

  ‘Go into the lounge and stay there,’ she commanded Jacob.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m just going to take a peek outside.’

  Jake nodded. ‘Be careful, Lee,’ he whispered as he padded across the hallway and sat down in front of the shattered screen of Jill’s extravagant TV set and stared at it, willing it to come on.

  She stepped out of the house, cautiously advancing on the body writhing slowly on the ground.

  She recognised him.

  50 Cent.

  Closer now, she could see he’d been shot in the shoulder, his crisp white Nike shirt was almost entirely coloured a rich, dark sepia, and he lay on a bed of pebbles now glued together by a sticky bond of drying blood. He looked weak, he had lost too much blood during the night to last for very much longer. She would have thought the underlings in his gang would have returned for their leader.

  Apparently not.

  So much for the notion of gang loyalty - not so much this lifelong brotherly bond, as she’d heard many a rapper say of his homies - instead, more like a group of feral creatures, cooperating under the intimidating gaze of the pack alpha. When it came to it, they’d all scurried off, leaving the little shit bleeding out on the gravel.

  In one hand he held a pistol, which he tried desperately to raise off the ground and aim at her, but he had only the strength to shuffle it around on the ground.

  He looked up at her, recognised her face and smiled. ‘My honey,’ he grunted with some effort. ‘Help me.’

  Leona knelt down beside him and reached out for the gun. He hung on to it, but she managed to prise it loose from his fingers with little effort.

  ‘I need help,’ he said again, his voice was no more than a gummy rattle.

  This was probably an opportune moment.

  ‘You recognised me last night, didn’t you? You were the one who asked me for a fag up at the mall.’

  The boy said nothing.

  ‘What did you do to my boyfriend?’

  50 Cent shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘He ran.
’

  And then she noticed the ankh pendant nestling amongst the stained folds of his T-shirt.

  Dan’s pendant.

  Leona knew right then that she didn’t need to hear the lie in his voice to know what had happened to Dan. With a movement so swift that there was no room for any internal debate, she aimed the gun at his head, closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

  There was an overpowering stench that hung in the warm midday air; a mixture of rotting cabbage and burning rubber. She noticed several thin wispy columns of dark smoke on the horizon. London wasn’t exactly ablaze, just smouldering in one or two far-off places. But that burning smell certainly carried. After a while, Leona decided she’d rather breathe just through her mouth.

  They walked up Uxbridge Road, which was even more cluttered with detritus than it had been on Wednesday, the last time she had been out. She noticed one or two bundles of clothing amongst the piles of rubbish that turned out to be bodies. She made a point of distracting Jacob as they walked past the closest of them. He didn’t need to see any more stuff like that, not so up-close anyway. They walked past Shepherd’s Bush Green, over the large roundabout, which was normally surrounded by a moat of stationary cars, vans and trucks beeping, honking, getting nowhere fast, but was now just an isolated island of grass with a large, pointless, blue thermometer sculpture in the middle. On the top of it, a row of crows patiently sat and watched them.

  Where did all the pigeons go?

  She wondered whether the bird world mirrored the human world. The crows were the gangs, and the pigeons were nervously hiding away somewhere else.

  ‘I’m scared,’ muttered Jacob.

  ‘Don’t be, we’ve got this now,’ she replied calmly, lifting her shirt an inch or two to reveal the gun stuffed into the waist of her jeans.

  ‘Can I fire it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had a go,’ he complained.

  ‘It went off when I picked it up,’ she lied, feeling the slightest unpleasant twinge; the thin end of something she knew was going to inhabit her dreams for years to come.