by David Moody
Two police officers who had been patrolling nearby were inside the bus before the last passengers had scrambled out. They climbed the stairs at speed, batons raised and ready. Daryl Evans threw himself at them. A single well-aimed smash of a truncheon across the side of his head knocked him out cold and he collapsed to the ground, falling just inches away from the lifeless feet of the body of the man he’d just beaten to death.
14
LIZZIE CALLED ME A bloody idiot for coming here today. She said I was mad going into town and now I’m here I have to agree. I wanted to stay at home but I had no choice. I’ve had too much time off recently. I was disciplined because of my absence record a couple of months back and now I don’t get paid if I don’t go in. They’ve threatened to kick me out if I don’t turn up for work, and no matter how much I hate this job I can’t afford to lose it. Maybe I’ll be the only one who turns up today. Maybe I should just take a chance and turn around and go back home anyway. I don’t know what’s worse—the thought of sitting through another disciplinary meeting with Barry Penny and Tina or risking getting caught up in the kind of trouble we saw here last night.
The streets are quieter today. There are still plenty of people around but it feels more like a Sunday morning than a Wednesday. Everyone is silent and subdued and hardly anyone is talking to anyone else. I understand why it’s like this. I don’t want to talk to anyone either. I don’t want to risk making any contact—even just looking at them—if there’s a chance trouble’s going to flare up. I keep my head down and my mouth shut and I guess that’s what everyone else is doing too.
This feels bizarre. Last night when we were coming home from the hospital and later when I was talking to Harry it began to feel like the world was falling apart and coming to an end. The reality this morning feels different. Despite the quiet and the lack of conversation everything appears outwardly normal. It’s hard to believe the things we’ve seen and heard about.
I cross Millennium Square to get to the office. It’s a huge expanse of block paving with a horrible modern fountain stuck right in the middle of it. It’s right in the center of town and people cross it from all directions to get to wherever it is they’re supposed to be going. It’s always busy. Between eight o’clock and nine in the morning, midday and two in the afternoon, and pretty much anytime after four o’clock right through to the early hours this place is chock-full of people. If there’s a place you’d expect something to happen, this is it. Maybe I should have avoided it today, but that would have added at least another ten minutes to my walk to work and I’m running late as it is. It looks as if the authorities are ready for trouble. There are more police officers patrolling around here than I’ve ever seen on duty before and most, if not all of them, are armed. That might be normal elsewhere in the world but not here. Jesus, seeing officers walking through the crowd with their semiautomatic weapons primed and ready to fire makes me realize just how dangerous and unpredictable the situation now is. But surely their presence will just add to the problem, not diffuse it?
My last couple of minutes of freedom before I reach the office.
What is causing this to happen? As I walk through the silent, stony-faced crowds I can’t help but wonder again what’s responsible for all this madness and hysteria. What is it that’s turning the world on its head? Has this whole situation been manufactured by the media as Lizzie’s dad believes or is there more to it? Has anything really happened at all? Are people running scared from something that doesn’t even exist? Or is there something in the water? Has something been sprayed into the air by terrorists? Are we living through some bizarre Invasion of the Body Snatchers–type scenario?
Or is it something worse than all of that?
Midday.
Less than half of the staff turned up for work today. I’ve tried to keep my head down as much as I can. Keeping busy makes the time go faster and I want today to pass as quickly as possible. I briefly spoke to Liz an hour or so ago. The school is closed again. They tried to open this morning but only half the children turned up and even fewer staff so Lizzie is spending another day stuck at home with the kids. They’re driving her crazy but I know she’s happier there. Wish I was back there too.
The lack of staff today means we’re all stretched. Jennifer Reynolds is one of the people who hasn’t turned up and that’s meant all of us taking turns to cover Reception in hour-long shifts. If ever there was a day I didn’t want to be out there it’s today. Even Tina’s had to take a turn. I’ve just finished my shift and Hilary Turner has come out to relieve me. I like Hilary. She’s a sour-faced, frosty old spinster who’s grossly overweight but she knows who does what around here and she doesn’t take any crap. Unlike most of the other people I work with she’s straight and honest. If she’s got a problem with something you’ve done then she’ll tell you to your face—none of the backstabbing bullshit you get from everyone else. She’s hard as nails and I like her all the better for it.
“It’s been quiet,” I tell her as she waddles toward me. “No one’s been in.”
“That’s the kiss of death,” she grumbles as she slumps heavily into the hot seat behind the desk, “they’ll all start dragging themselves in here now I’ve come out.”
I’m about to tell her to shut up and stop being stupid when the main door flies open. She might be right. There’s a sudden flurry of movement as a man storms into the building. He’s carrying a handful of papers which he slams down onto the desk in front of Hilary. She jumps back. This guy is furious. He’s seething with anger and suddenly I’m too scared to move. Is he one of them? Is he a Hater?
“Sort this out,” he screams. “Sort this bloody mess out now!”
He slams his fist down on the counter again. His face is flushed red and he’s breathing heavily. He’s over six foot tall and he’s built like a bloody rugby player. I should say something to him but I can’t. I’m silently willing Hilary to speak (she’s usually good at dealing with this sort of thing) but she’s struck dumb too.
“You fucking people have clamped my car,” he yells. “There were no signs and no markings. This is an absolute fucking disgrace. I’ve missed a meeting because of you people . . .”
I still can’t move. He’s still shouting but I’ve stopped listening to what he’s saying. I stare into his face and slowly shuffle farther back until I’m pressed up against the wall. Is this man really a Hater? Oh Christ, is he about to explode and kill us both? What the hell do I do? Do I just run? The man looks at Hilary and then at me. I try not to make eye contact but I can’t help it. I can see Hilary out of the corner of my eye. She’s shaking like a leaf. She’s usually rock hard but she’s as frightened as I am. I have to do something.
“Look . . .” I start to say, my voice quiet and unsteady.
“Don’t give me any bullshit,” he snaps, his voice no quieter or calmer, “I don’t want any bullshit. Just get this sorted out and do it now. I need to get back to my office. I’m at the end of my fucking tether here and if I don’t get . . .”
He leans forward again and we both physically recoil.
“Please . . .” Hilary mumbles meekly. She starts to sob. Under the desk she presses the personal attack alarm. I can hear the high-pitched screech of the alert ringing out in the main office.
The man stops. His expression changes. He hears the sound too. He looks from me to Hilary and back again once more. His eyes are suddenly wide with shock and panic. What the hell’s he got to be afraid of? He’s the one who came in here and . . .
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, taking a couple of steps back away from the desk. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
Realization dawns.
His voice is now at a fraction of its previous volume. Hilary and I stand there, just waiting for him to explode again. Instead he crumbles. He realizes that we’re scared and now he’s the one who’s frightened that we’re going to react.
“I’m not one of them,” he says, pleading with us to believe him.
He looks like he has tears in his eyes. “Honest I’m not. The parking ticket made me mad and I just overreacted, that’s all. I’m not a Hater. I don’t want to fight. I’m not going to hurt anyone . . .”
I still can’t do anything. I’m frozen to the spot. This whole situation feels alien and bizarre. It’s an uneasy standoff which ends as quickly as it began. The man seems to be about to say something else but he doesn’t. Instead he turns and walks out of the building, still clutching his parking ticket.
15
LUNCHTIME. IT’S A COUPLE of hours later than I’d originally planned to take my break. It would have been more sensible and probably safer to stay in the office but I’ve had to come outside. I had another call from Lizzie. Her day trapped at home with the kids is getting worse. We need bread and milk but they’re acting up and she can’t face taking them anywhere. I said I’d get some while I was here. I was going to wait until after work but I’m glad I didn’t. The supermarket shelves were almost empty. There won’t be anything left tonight.
Without thinking I find myself back in Millennium Square again. It’s still not as busy as it normally is but there are plenty of people here and . . .
What the hell was that?
I’m standing in the middle of the square by the fountain and everything has just gone crazy. Everyone drops to the ground and I do the same. There was a noise—a single loud crack like a gunshot. But it couldn’t have been, could it? I slowly lift my head from the ground. People are starting to get up. Some are already running in all directions and it’s impossible to see what’s happened. Others like me remain unmoving, trying to work out what’s going on and where the danger is. I have to move. I have to get out of here. I get up and start to run back in the direction of the office but it’s difficult to get through with so many people suddenly zigzagging all around me. I stop and crouch when I hear the sound again. It was a gunshot. It can’t have been anything else.
Just to my left a group of people are screaming and yelling in panic. On the ground, right in the middle of them, is a body. I’m not close enough to see any detail but I can see that there’s a quickly spreading puddle of blood around the top of the person’s head. People start to move again, tripping and stepping over the corpse. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s over now. Maybe that’s the body of the Hater lying dead on the ground and things will start to . . .
What now? People are running past me. Have they seen something that I haven’t? I’ve got to get out of here before I get myself . . . too late—there’s a third gunshot which comes from my left and which sends the crowd scattering in the opposite direction like frightened pigeons. I have to keep moving but my legs feel as heavy as lead. I’m disoriented. I look up at the buildings around the edges of the square, trying to get my bearings and work out which way to run. When I think I finally know which way to go I take a few quick steps forward, weave around another few frightened people, and then stop dead in my tracks.
The crowd has cleared ahead of me. No more than ten meters in front of me now stands a police officer, armed like those I saw here this morning. He’s scanning the square, moving his head slowly from side to side. Now he’s stopped and he’s lifting his rifle again. Fuck, he’s pointing it in my direction. Fucking hell, he’s aiming at me! I look straight into his face and he stares back into mine. Do I drop to the ground again? Do I turn and run or . . . ?
Fourth gunshot.
The officer fires and Jesus Christ, I can almost feel the shot whistle past the side of my face. I slowly look over my shoulder and see another body on the ground not far behind me, a bloody gaping hole in its face where its cheekbone used to be. Shaking, I turn and run. I’m going in the opposite direction from where I want to go but it doesn’t matter. I just have to get out of here. What if it’s me next? What if he’s aiming for me now? Any second and I could hear the crack of the next shot and I could be down with a bullet in my back. I don’t have a fucking chance. Just got to keep moving and hope that someone else gets between me and the gunman. Move faster. Move faster I keep telling myself. Keep running. Get yourself out of range. Keep going until . . .
Fifth shot.
Nothing. Didn’t hit me.
Sixth, seventh, and eighth shots in quick succession. They sounded like they came from a different direction this time. I glance back into the middle of the square.
The armed police officer is down. Another officer stands over him and unloads shots nine, ten, and eleven into the twitching body of his former colleague.
I keep running. As I move a single devastating thought crosses my mind. Was that police officer a Hater? Christ, if there are people in the police force who are capable of this kind of cold-blooded, emotionless violence then what the hell are we supposed to do? The implications are vast and terrifying. Who’s going to keep control? What the hell happens now?
I have to get home. Fuck work. Forget about the job. I change direction and run as fast as I can toward the station. I have to get back to Lizzie and the kids.
16
THANK GOD THE TRAINS are running today. It took hours to get home yesterday and I don’t want to be out on the streets any longer than I have to be tonight. It only took a few minutes to get from the square to the station and I didn’t have to wait long for a train. Christ knows what Tina’s going to say to me tomorrow if I go back to work. I could call her from my cell phone now and explain what’s happened but I don’t want to. I don’t want to speak to anyone. I just want to get home.
There are just three carriages on this train. There can’t be any more than twenty people on board. I’ve found myself a seat as far away from everyone else as possible. This is literally the last seat on the train, right at the very back of the third carriage. There are two other people in here with me. They’re both nearer the front, one on either side of the aisle. I find myself trying to watch them constantly, scared that one of them might turn because as long as the train is moving I’m trapped in here with them. Now and then I see one of them look around. They’re as anxious as I am. My stomach is churning and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I don’t know whether it’s the movement of the train or nerves that’s making me feel sick.
We’re pulling into the last station before home. Christ, I hope no one gets on here. I’ve got my cell phone in my hand and I have since I got on. I want to call Lizzie and tell her I’m on my way back but I can’t bring myself to do it. How stupid is that? I don’t want to talk out loud because I don’t want to attract any attention to myself. I don’t want to do anything that’s going to give the other passengers any reason to even look at me.
The train slows down and stops. I look out onto the platform (trying not to make it obvious that I’m staring) and watch as a handful of people shuffle quietly toward the train doors. One person from this carriage gets up and gets off and another passenger arrives. It’s a man in a long gray trench coat with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. I do everything I can to avoid making eye contact with him but I have to keep watching. I have to see where he’s going. Is he coming this way? Shit, he is. I quickly look down at the floor now, desperate not to let him know that I was watching. Is he still coming toward me? Is he getting closer?
He’s stopped. I’m sure he must have stopped and I can’t believe how relieved I suddenly feel. Christ, this is stupid. Am I paranoid? Am I the only one acting this way? I can’t believe I am. Very, very carefully and moving very, very slowly I allow myself to look up and around again. The train judders and jolts as it shunts out of the station and I cautiously pull myself up using the back of the seat in front of me for support. The newly arrived passenger is sitting halfway down the carriage on the other side of the aisle. He looks like he’s deliberately put as much distance between me and the third passenger as he can. Thank God.
I press my head against the window and watch the familiar sights and landmarks rush by. It all looks the same but everything feels different this afternoon.
Not far now. Almost home.
17
NO MORE BULLSHIT. IT’S just gone nine and the kids are finally in bed. Now we can drop the pretense. Now we can forget the happy voices and the smiles and laughs we’ve put on just for their sake. Now Liz and I can sit down together and try and get our heads around what’s going on here. There’s no point involving the children in any of this. What good would it do? If we can’t work it out, what chance have they got? Better that they remain ignorant and happy. Ed’s starting to suspect something’s wrong but the little two are blissfully unaware. I wish I was.
We’ve been sitting watching the headlines go round on a loop for about twenty minutes.
“This is different tonight,” she says. “It’s changed.”
“What’s changed?”
“The news. They’ve stopped telling us what’s happened. You keep watching and you’ll see what I mean. All they’re doing now is trying to tell us how to deal with things.”
She’s right. There’s been a definite shift in the focus of the TV news channel we’re watching tonight and I hadn’t picked up on it until Liz pointed it out. Until now there’s been a steady stream of reports about individual attacks and major incidents but all of that has now stopped. Now all that’s been broadcast is little more than a series of instructions. They’re not telling us anything we haven’t already heard—stay away from people you don’t know, stay at home if possible, watch out for erratic and irrational behavior, and alert the authorities if trouble breaks out, that sort of thing. It’s all straightforward, common-sense stuff.
“Probably not worth wasting time reporting on everything that’s happening,” she says. “One fight in the street’s pretty much the same as the next.”
“I know,” I agree. “There’s still something else missing though, isn’t there?”
