Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  The whipping wind catches the canopy and tries to drag him back into the drop. Grabbing onto a table, he holds himself firm, draws his knife and cuts himself free of the tangled, ruined parachute canopy. It falls away like a crumpled bag on the breeze, freeing him like a dog let off the leash.

  As he runs he checks what little equipment he has left, navigating between the office cubicles for the nearest stairwell.

  For Mark, Chloe and Jamie, time holds its breath. The roar of the helicopter fades like smoke on the wind: everything is still and silent, colourless and dead. Mark looks around, dumbfounded, until Chloe slaps his stomach.

  “Go, he can't hold it for long.”

  Jamie whispers, his voice strained. “I've never stopped it for other people before.”

  Mark looks at Jamie, bleeding heavily from his nose, eyes screwed shut as if enduring some horrible operation. He turns to the roof's edge and begins to run, picking up Chloe and Jamie beneath his arms. Nervous fingers grasp at one another, their bodies merging into one confused and frightened six-legged entity. Mark speeds up, leaving pieces of dirt and gravel suspended in mid-air behind them.

  The crunch of his feet on the roof seem hollow. There are no echoes. Sound does not travel here.

  Then Mark hits the edge of the roof and launches himself off, cradling Jamie and Chloe close like frightened children in the darkness. The jump carries them into the air, where Mark expects the wind to buffet him and snatch at his face – but with time at a standstill, he feels nothing. They drift through the air like a twisted circus act before falling to the next roof. The building rushes up to meet them with its flat concrete roof.

  Mark tenses his legs and tries to keep Chloe and Jamie as safe as he can: they hit the roof together and Mark curses and drops them. Jamie cries out and rolls away over the roof; time snaps back before Chloe can grab him.

  Sound and light return like an explosion, and Mark clutches his ears and falls to his knees in fright.

  “What the hell -” he starts, and then Chloe pulls Jamie to his feet. Holding his hand, she drags him towards Mark.

  “Get up, get up,” she motions for him to rise, “we haven't got time. Wait for the sound to go again.”

  Mark holds them both under his arms once more, and the silence comes quicker this time. Everything around them dies. He takes the moment to breathe in the grey stillness and runs for the roof's edge again, running and jumping for the next building.

  “Not far to go,” Mark shouts as they drift across the chasm between mountain peaks of masonry and steel. He cradles Jamie like a child as they land, bending his body around him like a protective shield. This time the world stays still.

  “Go...” Jamie groans, and then smacks Mark's chest. “Just hurry, hurry, keep going.”

  “Nearly there, Jamie, just hold on,” Mark shouts, and runs for the edge of the next roof.

  Two pale hands, one Jamie's and one Chloe's, link across Mark's chest. She holds him as though she is sitting aside him in a surgery ward.

  Jamie's heart quickens, his face turning red as though he were struggling to hold a breath. In his head, the flow of time is stronger than he has ever felt it. It batters against the walls in his head: not just his time, but the time of two others as well.

  Cracks begin to appear. Bursts of sound and light, heat and life, breaking into his frozen prison.

  Then he feels Chloe's hand squeezing his, and for a moment he is back in their flat, cooking her dinner while she lounges about in his shirt.

  Time relents, and he strengthens the walls of his mind to hold it at bay.

  Mark leaps into the air again.

  Their journey through the skies of the silent city brings them closer and closer to the ground, every jump taking them a few stories downward, until they land on a low roof detailed by a wall around the edge, a large domed skylight, and a single hatch in one corner.

  “We're here,” Mark says, and releases his hold on the couple. The life and colour returns to the world around them like the bursting of a balloon.

  Jamie clutches at his forehead and staggers away, dragging Chloe by the hand for a second before collapsing to the ground. He breaks his own fall, the palms of his hands scraping along the felt roofing. Chloe throws herself to her knees beside him, shouting his name as he rolls onto his back. Blood is clotting in his nostrils; his breathing is laboured.

  “I'm fine,” he manages between breaths, his face contorted in pain.

  “Just try to breathe,” she says.

  He feels for her hand like a blind man and she takes it, squeezing it to block out the pain.

  “Is he ok?” Mark asks, massaging some life back into his tired legs as he walks over.

  “Did we make it?” Jamie's voice is tense and hoarse.

  “We made it,” Mark nods, patting Chloe on the shoulder. “Couldn't have done it without you mate.”

  “It's harder.” Jamie wipes his nose and uses Chloe's hand to pull himself up. “Stopping time for others. I can go longer myself, but keeping it stopped for you guys too,” he sighs and shakes his head. He looks at the blood smeared across his hand and quickly clasps it to his chest as though it were a secret.

  Chloe looks over her shoulder at Mark, frowning.

  “Let's not make him do that again.”

  “I agree,” Mark says, and offers a hand to Jamie. They look at each other for a silent moment, before Jamie clasps his palm around Mark's wrist and the janitor pulls him to his feet as though he were made of paper.

  Jamie steadies himself on Chloe's shoulder, and she laces an arm around his back to support him.

  “So where are we?”

  “The Gardens,” says Mark, motioning to the hatch in the corner. “Follow me, I'll explain everything.”

  “This is where you told that soldier to come,” Chloe bites her lip, struggling to walk under Jamie's weight.

  “Trespasser One, yeah.” Mark looks back at her. “I think that he's from Glasgow. Did you hear his accent?”

  “He didn't know about the King,” says Chloe.

  “Everybody knows about the King.” Jamie lets out a breath he had been holding. “It's just that nobody talks about it. We're all too ashamed – or frightened.”

  “I can't hear the helicopter,” says Chloe. “His idea must have worked. I hope he made it.”

  Mark notices her struggling and comes to take Jamie's other arm. Together they carry him towards the hatch whilst he hangs his head in exhaustion.

  Mark pats his grey suit trousers as they approach the hatch, laughing.

  “No keys. Looks like I'm going to have to get in the old fashioned way.”

  “What's the old fashioned -”

  Mark stamps his foot on the hinge and the hatch buckles upwards. He leans and catches it, and motions for Chloe to go in,

  “I've got Jamie, on you go. It's safe.”

  Chloe gives him a thankful look and feels about in the darkness for the ladder rungs, before descending into the shadows.

  “Right Jamie, just hold on...” Mark almost carries him down, till he feels Jamie's hand slap against his chest, stopping him.

  “I can manage.” Jamie's voice is cracked as though he's on the verge of sleep. He staggers away from Mark and fumbles for the rungs, drifting down the hatch like a ghost.

  Mark smiles and follows him.

  A brief walk down a hallway brings them to a huge, open gallery as tall and wide as the building, as though the walls outside are merely a shell. Banisters and walkways run in a spiral like a children's slide around the interior, from the lowest, circular levels to the uppermost level that they stand on.

  There must be at least twenty different doors, a few on each level, and the wide open space in the centre of the gallery is filled with the soft, sweet fragrance of flowers. The skylight allows what little sunlight there is outside to trickle in like syrup, illuminating the myriad motes of dust that dance in the light beam.

  Clutching onto the hand rail, Chloe looks over and
sees, far down at the bottom, a lush garden exploding with colour. Royal blues and cool greens soothe her eyes, and she takes a deep breath of the old air and lets out a relaxed sigh.

  This place speaks of safety and kindness.

  “What is this place?” Jamie asks, coming to his senses in their new sanctuary – though he keeps a firm grip on the banister.

  “The Gardens, like I said,” Mark tells them as he leads them down the stairs.

  As though he is remembering himself, his shoulders straighten out and he lifts his chin. They follow him like loyal servants as he strolls with regal elegance around the spiral walkway, descending the occasional steps with the grace of a prince.

  Jamie looks around, his eyes searching out the old interior like a curious explorer. It has the feel of an abandoned, ancient structure, left for so long that nature has been allowed to take over. The sounds of the chaos and fighting in the city centre are distant memories, a universe away from them in this bubble of serenity. Rain and the grey winds are forgotten in here, the building decorated with warm oaks and shades of cream.

  “What are the Gardens, then?” Jamie tries.

  “I'll show you once you're ready,” says Mark, and then raises a hand to the next door. “This is room sixteen, the living quarters. I imagine you could use a rest.”

  He grasps the handle of the heavy wooden door and twists it left, then right, then pulls it outwards and pushes it in again. The door unlocks with a click, and he turns and smiles,

  “Keyless entry, means that nobody has anything to be stolen by others.”

  Chloe almost begins asking questions, but she falls silent as Mark opens the door and leads them into the living quarters. He steps aside and spreads his arms wide,

  “The living quarters,” he announces.

  They take in the sight: a long, thin room lined with bunk beds on either side. Each bed is made; Jamie guesses there must be at least forty in this room alone. Between some beds are sinks coupled with hand pumps, and a few radios. Two telephones are attached to the walls at either end of the room, beside two green first aid kits.

  “What is this place, Mark? Some kind of bunk house, or...?”

  “This is my project, Jamie. Five years of my life,” Mark turns, his eyes filled with unspoken stories as he mentally tears the scabs off old wounds. He takes a deep breath. “This is what ruined me – this, and the King.”

  His voice trails off as his eyes look into the past. Mark snaps back like elastic as he turns with a smile.

  “Would you like to rest for a while, catch your breath? Or shall I give you the tour first?”

  “I think I want the tour,” says Jamie. “I'm curious.”

  “Then follow me,” Mark tells them as he leads them out of the dormitories. “There's a lot to see. How much do you know about Glasgow's homeless?”

  They follow him out of the door and it clicks shut behind them as he leads them down the stairs to the next door. Jamie and Chloe look at one another, exchanging a look filled with apprehension. Jamie gives her a trusting nod.

  “A lot,” he says, his eyes still on Chloe. “We spent a long time on the streets.”

  Mark stops, turning on them with concern written across his face.

  “What?”

  “We were homeless. That's what led to me meeting the King, actually. He targets the desperate.”

  “Yes.” Mark gives them a solemn nod. “Yes he does. This will be of great interest to you both, then.” He leads them down the stairs and begins opening the next door. “The Gardens were created with Glasgow's poor and vulnerable in mind.”

  Chloe takes Jamie's hand as Mark leads them into the next room, and squeezes it as the memories of those nights on the streets begin to come back – but the memories are of things gone past. Times already behind them. For now, she reminds herself, they are safe. Nobody saw them come here. Nobody knows where they are.

  They're safe in the Gardens, whatever the Gardens are, for the time being.

  “Before I forget,” says Mark, talking to himself. He lifts his elbow and finds the camouflaged tracker-patch, and depresses it with a thumb. A faint vibration tells him that is turned on, and he continues to lead them down the stairs.

  Episode 9

  The Gardens

  Glistening machines stand at attention, lining the walls like soldiers huddled beneath the weight of their polythene wrapping. Fluorescent lights illuminate the thin film of dust coating everything. The air itself is suffocating, as though the room had been holding in a single stale breath this entire time, and when it lets it out they all reel at the stench of ammonia.

  “What's that smell?”

  “Chemicals, most likely,” Mark leads them in, waving the air away from his nose. “Ah hell, they've been leaking.”

  “It smells like the dentist's,” Chloe screws her nose up. “I hate dentists.”

  Jamie nudges her. “You've only been twice.”

  She slaps his nudging elbow away.“Well that's because I hate them, Jamie.”

  “So why all the machines?” Jamie runs a hand over the plastic covering protecting the chrome. “Is this a workshop, or...”

  “They're used for a mixture of things,” Mark explains as they follow him down the long hallway of machines and large, metallic baths and drums of chemicals.

  “Oh,” Jamie stops in his tracks, grabbing Chloe's hand. “Oh, oh ok I get it. I know what this is.”

  Mark turns, his innocent eyes narrowed.

  “You do?”

  “Meth lab. Or heroin. Something. You're making drugs.”

  An uneasy silence hangs like a condemned criminal between the two men, before Mark's laugh makes Jamie flinch away.

  “No, no, Jamie.” Mark waves a hand at him, turning to continue his stroll towards the lights at the bottom of the hall. “Don't be ridiculous. Though you probably could use some of the kit in here to make something, but no... this is much fancier than drugs.”

  Chloe squeezes his arm, and gives him a look that says more than she's willing to say out loud.

  It says: I trust him, so should you.

  Mark guides them to the bottom of the room, crates and boxes scattered beneath the white wall.

  “Ah good,” he says to himself, “at least these are still in one piece.”

  “What are they?” asks Chloe.

  “Boxes,” he grins.

  Jamie tries to clap some of the sarcasm out of his hands, and Mark laughs.

  “Patience, Jamie”

  They watch him search like a curious animal around the boxes, before he stops and looks into space.

  “Why am I looking for a crowbar?” he asks nobody in particular.

  Mark turns to the heavy wooden crates, each half as tall as he is, and jams his fingers under the lid, ripping it off with a faint grunt. It tears away with a dry rip, throwing dust, splinters and bent nails into the air.

  Jamie and Chloe flinch back as the dust clears and the lid clatters to the floor.

  “Sorry about that,” says Mark, leaning over and peering into the crates. He reaches in and pulls out bulky yellow plastic bags, grabbing them in clusters.

  Jamie catches one of the bags as it is thrown to him, holding the spongy, dense package in his hands.

  “What am I holding?” he asks.

  “Military ration packs,” says Mark, tossing another over which Chloe snatches out of the air. “Open them, look inside.”

  Jamie tears the packet open and finds it filled with bars, liquid pouches and assorted chunks of something that isn't quite food yet.

  “I don't get it,” says Jamie.

  “I do,” says Chloe, and tears open a protein bar.

  “Eat up,”says Mark. “You guys must be starving. Sorry it's not something fancier, but -”

  “No, no, ration packs are fine.” Jamie rips open and chugs down a few gulps of chemical-flavoured thin milkshake, wincing at the burning in his throat. “Why do you have crates of them?”

  Mark almost answers,
and then shrugs.

  “They were cheap,” he says. “Now, the tour?”

  “Tour,” mumbles Chloe, her cheeks stuffed like a hamster.

  “Tour it is,” says Mark. “Bring your food, follow me.”

  He leads them back out towards the door.

  “I thought you said you're a janitor,” says Jamie as he falls in behind Mark's swaggering figure.

  “I am,” Mark says without turning. “Was, rather.”

  “For this place?”

  “No, for a school. This was my project.” He holds the door to the stairwell open and turns around to face them. “It still is.”

  He leads them out into the stairs and begins the ascent.

  “Glasgow,” says Mark as they climb the stairs, “particularly in the poorer areas, was once home to a strange phenomenon: voluntary incarceration. The hungry, the homeless, the vulnerable: these people would smash a window and sit beside it, waiting for the police to turn up.”

  “Yeah,” says Jamie. “Because in prison you get a bed, clean water, a shower, three meals a day, hell you even get an education if you want one.”

  “Exactly,” says Mark. “It was a good way for the vulnerable to have their basic needs met. Not how the system is supposed to work, but at least those people were relatively safe.”

  “That hasn't been an option for about six years,” says Chloe. “Trust us, we know.”

  Mark reaches a door and rattles it until it swings open – rather than enter, he turns and looks Chloe and Jamie in the eyes.

  “That sounds like the voice of experience,” he says.

  “It is,” says Jamie, tearing a chunk out of his protein bar and motioning for Mark to lead them into the next room.

  “Then this won't be a surprise to you: the King ensured that it wasn't an option. I'm assuming you guys know as much about him as I do,” says Mark, flicking the lights on in a room full of workbenches and tool racks. “He got the police force under his thumb; made his own laws. Nowadays, if you try to free-load in a prison, the police will follow the King's orders and break your jaw before they dump you in an alley somewhere to starve.”