Apocalypse- Year Zero

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  * * *

  That was the first time.

  The second came two days later. She’d left work early with a killer headache and gone straight to bed when she got back to the flat, not even bothering to undress, just needing to be lying still in the dark.

  ‘Shut up you little brat.’

  The hissed words cut through her headache and her sleep and she sat bolt upright in the gloom. The room was in darkness. For a moment disorientated, a frown crumpled her face and she looked down at her clothes, before checking her watch. Six-thirty. A dull thud at the back of her skull slid reality back into its place. She’d gone to bed with a headache. That was it. What had woken her up so suddenly? Checking her mobile phone on the bedside table she saw no missed calls or texts.

  She yawned.

  ‘I said shut up!’

  And then froze.

  ‘No please Daddy, I’ll be good…’

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and flicked on the light switch, puzzled. Where was that coming from now? There were no sink or pipes in here.

  ‘Please…’

  Her head turned. The en-suite? Her tights whispered softly against the carpet as she went to the door. This had always been Michael’s bathroom and she’d avoided using it since he’d died. Her skin prickled.

  She turned the bright light on and peered cautiously inside, the ache in her heart dulled by her curiosity. She looked down. The water inside the toilet bowl was churning, the sound of words and crying bubbling up in it. She frowned again, still blurry with half-sleep. How could someone shouting and crying do that to the pipes?

  The question stayed unanswered. It was unimportant compared to the noises the pipes were carrying. Beside her, the power shower suddenly turned itself on, the water jetting out in an angry shriek of rage, carrying curses and foulness down to the drain below. It drowned out the crying child's voice coming up through the toilet. Lucy looked from one to the other, splashes of water hitting her skin and forcing her to wake up. Just what the hell was going on here? She didn’t need this. She really didn’t need this.

  Eventually, she closed the door behind her and curled up in a ball on the bed, waiting for her bathroom suite to fall quiet. After ten minutes or so, the shower turned itself off and the toilet stopped crying. All that was left was the steady ticking of her watch. She let out a hot sigh of relief.

  Despite her tiredness and the ghostly headache that still haunted the back of her head, sleep drifted away from her. She blinked in the darkness. Maybe she should send an email to the building superintendent. Surely she shouldn’t be able to hear stuff coming from other flats through the pipes? Not for the price she and Michael had paid for this place.

  The pillow rustled underneath her hair and she wondered if maybe others in the building had heard the voices. They couldn’t have done. Someone would have done something about it. Reported it to social services at least.

  What, just like you’ve done something about it?

  It wasn’t Michael’s voice that spoke the words in her head, nor her own. This was someone who sounded like her but wasn’t. There was a leathery edge to the words and the voice sounded mean. But it did have a point. Still, she thought, pulling her knees up further. She’d been through enough. She didn’t want to take on anyone else’s fight. Surely if she could hear what was going on in one of the flats then other people could deal with it. Someone would. Eventually.

  * * *

  But it didn’t seem like anyone did. The noises came again and again over the next week. Violence and fear poured through every water vent in her flat; the toilet, the taps, the sink. Everywhere.

  Angry and tired, she blocked up the plug holes and stuck a pot plant on the closed toilet seat in both bathrooms.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she whispered at the kitchen sink that wouldn’t stop crying at three o’clock one morning. ‘I can’t help you.’

  But the water still rumbled and sobbed and yelled, and when she’d shut the doors and stuffed towels into the sinks, it seemed the words just came into her head. Her clothes were getting baggy again and dark circles grew under her eyes. She moved like a zombie, but under her own apathetic exterior, a tumour of desperate worry for the child grew.

  * * *

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jimmy asked her as she phased out during lunch at All Bar One, her mind wandering into an endless sea of unanswered questions. Was the little boy okay today? What flat did he live in? Could he feel she was thinking about him?

  ‘Yeah. Yes, sorry. My mind was a million miles away.’ She smiled and took a bite of her over-expensive London sandwich.

  ‘I forget how fresh things still are for you,’ he said. ‘You going through a bit of a rough patch?’

  Lucy watched him. How would Jimmy take it if she told him about the voices in the pipes? He’d probably tell her to talk to someone and not see the irony. And how could she tell him just how loud they were and how they made the shower turn itself on and off and the sinks rattle and thud? He’d tell her she needed to go to a doctor. Things were probably ‘catching up with her.’

  ‘Yeah. I am a bit.’ She looked up, an idea coming to her. ‘Can I have tomorrow off? I just need to try and get some sleep.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Not a problem.’

  His fingers lingered a little too long on hers and Lucy felt sad that she was going to have to stop having her lunches and dinners with Jimmy. She took her hand away and he looked hurt. It was for the best though. Their moment had passed and they’d both got married. There was no going back now, and she didn’t have that kind of love to give anyone anymore.

  Chapter 7

  That night passed quietly in the flat, only the gentle sound of quiet tears running through the pipes in the walls. The sink didn’t thud and the toilet didn’t gush. Lucy slept like a baby. She got up at eight feeling refreshed and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Outside, the wind twisted the branches in the small park in the centre of the square, and the clouds overhead were heavy.

  She sighed, her heart sinking at the sight. She’d hoped for a mild day, but it didn’t look like she had much of a chance of that. It seemed like rain in London was always only a thought away since Christmas, all the newspapers and forecasters cheerfully declaring it one of the wettest winters on record. Still, it was only weather, and she felt good to have a plan. She was finally taking some action. Not that all the noises were admittedly leaving her much choice, but she needed to put faces to the terrible voices that were haunting her. She pulled on a thin jumper and then a thicker one over the top to ward off the elements and then went into her own bathroom to brush her teeth. It stayed mercifully quiet.

  In the kitchen she drank a coffee and ate some cereal before filling a flask with tea and making a stack of sandwiches. She shoved them in a bag and added a Kit Kat and a packet of crisps from the cupboard, before grabbing two paperbacks from the sitting room. She hadn’t read anything since Michael died, and she still didn’t feel the urge, but sitting out in the cold all day she was going to need something to distract her. She found her ski jacket in the back of her wardrobe and then she was ready. The front door clicked shut.

  She checked her mailbox and then looked at the names that were printed in neat tags on the others. There were no clues to be found on them. Not even a Mr or Mrs or Mr and Mrs; just the surname written in blue capital letters. There were thirty-two flats but four didn’t have any names on them at all so she figured they must be empty. That still left a lot of people. She hoped not too many of them had children.

  The square in the middle of the blocks of flats wasn’t really a park as it wasn’t big enough to play football on and didn’t have any slides or swings. In the winter it was pretty much abandoned, only the gardeners spending any time there to tidy it up and check the flower beds weren’t damaged or frost-bitten. In the summer days, residents would sit out on the grass and read or eat a picnic lunch or just chat with their friends, but between October and May it was dead.

  The
re was a small wooden gazebo in the centre and Lucy set herself up inside, happy that the bare wood protected her from the strong wind that whipped and whistled around it. She could also see the entrance to her block of flats from where she sat on the narrow inside bench. She stared at the doors. She potentially had a whole day of watching ahead of her - hopefully less. The top of her bag hanging slightly open, she looked inside and thought about reading one of the books she’d brought, but left it there. Maybe later. There was something vaguely comforting about just sitting and doing nothing. She stared at the front door and it stared back. She refused to feel intimidated.

  Lucy had been through some long days in the aftermath of the wave and Michael’s death. Those had been days that had felt like they would never end and she’d had to drag herself kicking and screaming through every minute of each one.

  The day sitting outside the flat was equally interminable, but without the constant breaking of her heart cutting strips out of her with each moment passed. This was just the slow movement of time through syrup; each hour unending until it finally dripped into the next.

  The first half of the morning wasn’t too bad, but then it started raining and the temperature dropped. Lucy sipped hot tea and zipped her jacket right up, disappointed to see it was only eleven o’clock. Her buttocks were getting numb against the wooden seat and she could feel it digging into her bones. Too thin; that’s what Michael would say. Not enough padding. She smiled a little at that.

  Two or three people entered and left the building but no men and little boys. Not even any women and little boys. She must have missed the morning school run, which, she realised with a thud of disappointment meant that she’d probably have to wait until about three. She bit into a sandwich that she wasn’t even hungry for, simply to pass the time. The bread had dried in the cold making it difficult to chew, but she persevered. It was that or just listening to time passing too slowly as she froze her butt off.

  By one o’clock in the afternoon she’d had to jog a little on the spot to stop her toes numbing. Her breath warmed her face slightly as it panted past her cheeks before disappearing into the park. What had possessed her to do this? There must have been easier ways to find out who lived in the building. This was ridiculous. She probably looked like some kind of stalker. She paused her jogging, and standing still twisting her torso round at the waist, forcing the blood there to shift and warm her.

  She had to admit though, finally eating the last finger of Kit Kat, there had been some interesting moments. A man had arrived an hour or so previously and then her neighbour’s wife had emerged with the stranger and scurried into a taxi, leaning in to kiss each other as the door shut. It made her heart hurt a little though. She missed Michael with a sharp pang.

  At two-thirty, just when she’d completely lost all sense of humour and her lungs felt as if they’d iced up, her luck changed. She stood up and moved closer to the fence, watching through narrowed eyes. A man walked briskly towards the flats dragging a small child behind him. It was them. She knew it. Her heart thumped.

  All numbness forgotten, she trotted across the road and followed them into the glorious warmth of the building, its breath stinging the cold red of her nose. Stood beside the man, she checked her mail box just as he was doing. She peered sideways. He was over six foot tall and thin. His shoulders hunched over slightly in his duffel coat and greasy hair hung lank over his collar. She glanced down at the brown tips of his nicotine fingers. He wasn’t what she’d been expecting. He seemed too pathetic. The voice that had taunted and raged and hated hinted at a different kind of man; one that was big and healthy and strong, not someone so weak.

  The little boy at his side had a padded jacket and bobble hat on to protect him against the cold. Lucy stared and wondered what bruises lay beneath the layers of clothing. Her heart ached.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘It’s really cold, isn’t it? I wish I had a hat like yours to keep me warm.’ The boy didn’t look up, but stared at the wall ahead.

  His father looked over at her and their gazes met. Lucy shivered. His eyes were mean. Tired and bloodshot and mean. He locked his mailbox, a fistful of bills crushed in his hand, and gave her a thin stretched smile. Lucy could read that expression clearly enough. Fuck off, it said. I don’t care about your problems. I don’t care that your husband is dead. I’ve got my own worries and I can take them out on you too, if you want.

  Lucy shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold air outside that she’d sat in all day and everything to do with the hate oozing out of this contained man. She watched them disappear up the stairs, the father not slowing his pace so that the little boy could keep up. At least she had their flat number.

  They were in number six. She looked at the mailbox. Number six: CRAWLEY. Her eyes moved to her own. Number Twenty-four: MILLER. Her heart beat faster and for a split-second she heard the ocean. They were two floors apart. Surely that was too far for noise to carry without others hearing it too? She looked at the names from number seven up to twenty-three, and sniffed, the sudden warmth after the cold making her nose run. Maybe they did hear it. Maybe they just didn’t want to do anything about it.

  White rage filled her head and she bit the inside of her mouth. She had been going to call the social. That had been her plan. Get a name. Get a flat number. Get someone else to deal with it. She climbed the stairs, and for a moment stared down the first corridor before carrying on up to her own apartment. She thought of that smile and the little boy that wouldn’t look up from staring at the wall. Maybe she would call the social eventually. But right now she wanted to deal with this herself.

  * * *

  She didn’t have to wait long. At one o’clock the next morning the symphony of sink and toilet and pipes roared into life. Her heart thumped loudly in time with it as she pushed the covers away and tumbled to her feet.

  She was wearing a pair of Michael’s pyjamas and catching sight of her reflection in the mirror as she went out to the kitchen she thought she looked like a little girl dressed up. Not a widow at twenty-five. Looks could be deceptive. The noise was louder in the kitchen and the tap dripped and shook in time with each soft slap and angry hiss from the man.

  ‘I told you. Don’t do it again! You’re not a fucking baby!’

  Behind her, in the main bathroom, the toilet seat rattled. For a moment she stood perfectly still. For once, she didn’t want to hide under the pillow until it stopped. This time she was going to make it stop. Anger punched through her own heart. The kitchen fell silent and she tilted her head. So the man downstairs had vented his temper and was done. Well, it was time for her to vent hers now, and she’d see just how much he liked that.

  The whirs and clicks inside her paused; her body on hold for a moment before settling into a different rhythm. Lucy was the Amazon again. Her shoulders straightened and her back was stiff and tall. She didn’t look for panthers under the breakfast bar. She knew where the monster was. Two floors down. Cool calm washed over her and her eyes darkened. The tougher Lucy, the new Lucy was in command now.

  Barefoot, she padded down the two flights of stairs. The corridors were silent and no light slipped under the doorways as she passed them. That puzzled her. Surely with all the noise someone would have got up to get a drink or just curse and swear at being woken up again? She leaned in against a couple of them on the first floor but she couldn’t hear anything. Only silence. It was strange. Maybe different flats shared different pipes. Maybe that was it. Maybe flats 24 and 6 were on the same circuit or whatever it would be in plumbing terms.

  She moved on. How she was hearing it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that she was damn well going to let Crawley know that someone was hearing what he was doing, and enough was enough.

  Number six wasn’t silent. Standing in front of the door she could hear music playing. It was nothing she recognised; some seventies heavy rock screeching guitars and drums out from the speakers. Yellow light crept out from the bottom. She took
a deep breath before balling her hand into a fist and banging three times. She waited. No one answered. She hammered on it again, loud beats that couldn’t be ignored. The long seconds ticked by. It seemed Mr. Crawley didn’t want to be disturbed. Well, too bad. Her frustration steadily danced with her anger as she stared at the wood, and it built and built inside her until her teeth were gritted tightly together. She would not walk away. She would not. A drop of sweat formed on her hairline. She didn’t notice as she reached forward and touched the wood.

  The man’s dark rage tingled on her fingers as if seeping through from the other side. There was nothing good there, and crazy as it might be, the wood felt tainted by his bitterness, the once live material soaking up whatever residue of existence it could. Her fingers tickled with power and for a moment she wanted to stretch her arms out as she’d longed to on the water’s edge, the same exhilaration filling her now as then.

  Lucy’s heart thumped faster and faster until it seemed that she couldn’t distinguish between the beats that pulsed in her ears. Her heart was a roar of the ocean, the rush of the rivers, and the tinkle of the streams. It was all of it; everything. The murky depths of the Thames and the powerful clean waterfalls of Africa. She could feel every drop of liquid in her body and she commanded it.

  Her hand gripped the locked door handle. Her palm was sweating. She vaguely felt dampness in her hair and down the back of her pyjama top. Her palm was more than sweating. It was leaking, the water escaping her more and more until the liquid oozed from under her nails and dripped down the door, sliding into the lock.

  In her head she heard the tumult of the ocean. The black endless wall of water was with her. She could see it behind her eyes. She stood in the centre of the wave.