by Chris Ward
‘Owen, get behind me,’ Paul said, shepherding his brother away from the edge of the pavement. They’d come too far out into the open; all the mob had to do was look up to see them. There was an alleyway across the street but Paul knew they’d have to run. ‘When I say, Owen . . .’
Up ahead, he saw one man toss a glass bottle at the mini-mart window. There was a loud crash and then flames burst out through the shattered glass, spitting at the approaching men who flinched back, laughing and shouting. As the flames eased, they started forward again. Several covered their faces and rushed inside. Paul heard shouts and cries and then some of the men reemerged, arms laden with canned food, bottled drinks, and over-the-counter medical supplies.
A gunshot sounded inside, followed by a cry, then another shot. Moments later two thugs dragged a man who could only be the shopkeeper out into the street. Another man was trying to wrestle something out of the shopkeeper’s hand when the gun went off again and the looter went down. He screamed as blood pooled around him.
Frozen to the spot, Paul said, ‘Owen, don’t look!’
‘They’re setting fire to him! We have to stop them!’
Paul watched as two looters held the struggling shopkeeper down while another splashed something out of a bottle over the man’s clothes. The same man pulled a small box from his pocket and lit a match.
‘No!’ Owen screamed as the man dropped the match and the shopkeeper’s clothes ignited, engulfing him in flames. The shopkeeper screamed. The two looters jumped out of the way of the body as it writhed, burned. One man laughed as he batted at a spark that had caught on his jeans.
‘Hey look!’ someone else shouted. ‘Gapers!’
One of the mob had seen Paul and Owen. The man who had shouted pointed towards them and shouted something Paul couldn’t hear over the screams of the dying man.
‘Owen, let’s go. Quickly now.’ Paul grabbed his brother’s arm and together they dashed across the street and into the alley as several of the looters gave chase. With their pursuers drunk and laden with weapons and loot, Paul knew they had a good chance of escape, but there was no telling what they might find around the next corner, or the next.
‘Where are we going? Home is the other way!’
‘Exactly!’
Owen’s school bag was slowing them down. Paul tried to keep it over his shoulder while pulling his brother with the other hand, but it kept slipping off. He wanted to jettison it, but the cost of replacing Owen’s books was more than he could afford. If he didn’t have the money, Owen couldn’t go to school. Paul didn’t know what the future held for either of them, but he was convinced Owen had far more chance with a little education.
But he was huffing. What he did at night to keep them fed and clothed was most of the exercise he got, and mostly he just closed his eyes and tried to blank things out. ‘Owen, I can’t run anymore. We have to hide.’
‘Where?’
The alley intersected with another smaller one and Paul dragged Owen down it. ‘Down here, we can hide behind those bins.’
‘Paul, no, are you stupid?’ Owen tried to protest as Paul hauled him along, deeper into the dark concrete crevasse, past upturned dustbins and piles of old furniture.
It was too late. Paul had fallen into the old alley trap. He had hoped to be out of sight before the looters spotted them, but the junk in their way had made progress too slow. They heard a couple of men run past, but another stopped and turned to follow.
It was the one who had set the shopkeeper on fire. His age was difficult to determine, his face scarred and soiled as it was. He might have been fifty or fifteen. ‘Well, look what we have here,’ he snarled, giving them a sour grin. He swayed drunkenly, a piece of metal pipe in one hand.
‘Get behind me, Owen,’ Paul said, closing on the looter, not giving the other man time to think, to formulate a plan. He wished he had his clawboard with him to use as a weapon, because even though he didn’t ride anymore he usually took it to St. Cannerwells with him as a kind of ceremonial memento, but after riding this morning he had gone home first. The others carried theirs everywhere like a badge, but Paul found the extra weight unnecessary, especially when he came to meet Owen after school.
He reached out for whatever he could find, and his hands closed over the bent wheel of an old bicycle. He pulled it in front of him like a shield, unsure how much use it would be against the looter’s pipe.
‘You boys got any money?’ the looter said, voice slurring a little. He smacked the pipe into his palm. ‘That looks like a school bag you’ve got there. Hand it over and I won’t fuck you up too bad.’
Paul heard the sounds of sirens in the distance. ‘Back off,’ he said. ‘The police are coming, and probably the DCA. They’ll get you.’
‘Those fucking idiots? No chance. Not before you and your gay little brother here bite it.’
Paul could feel his heart thumping. The bicycle wheel shook in his hands. He wasn’t much of a fighter; he had other means he used to get out of most trouble. He had no idea what to do if the man came for him, but so long as Owen got away . . .
Something grey flew past his face. The triangle of broken tarmac hit the looter’s shoulder, throwing him off balance. He grunted and swung the pipe at Paul, who managed to half block it with the bicycle wheel. He stumbled sideways against the alley wall and the bicycle wheel fell out of his hands. He started to raise his hands in a useless gesture of defense, but then Owen was beside him, something metallic in his hands. His brother screamed a war cry and jabbed his weapon at the looter’s stomach. There was a meaty squelch. The looter gasped and stumbled, then Owen was stabbing him again. Paul grabbed the man’s metal pipe and landed a weak punch on the man’s cheek. The looter went down. His hands clutched at the screwdriver handle that protruded at an odd angle from a wet hole in his t-shirt.
Owen wasn’t done. While Paul watched with something like horror, his brother grabbed the discarded metal pipe and slammed it down on the man’s nose. Blood sprayed across Paul’s shoes and he jerked back out of the way. ‘Jesus Christ, Owen –’
‘Come on!’ Owen shouted. ‘We’ve got to get out of here! The pigs are coming!’ He kicked the looter square in the face, and Paul was dismayed and partly relieved to see a couple of the man’s teeth fall loose. ‘Fuck you, man!’ Owen shouted and aimed to kick the looter again but Paul dragged him backwards.
‘Owen, what did you do . . .?’
‘Nothing he didn’t deserve. Now let’s get out of here.’
Owen tugged on his arm and Paul let himself be dragged away. Behind them, the looter groaned, trying to pull the screwdriver free. Something, Paul was sure, would only cause the flow of more blood, speeding up his fate.
His brother had effectively just killed a man. Paul could hardly believe it.
They dashed out of the alley, crossed the street and slipped through a small city park, overgrown with weeds and with pulled-up swings lying on their sides across the path. On the other side of the park they slipped down a quieter residential street, then another, and finally the sirens and the shouts of the looters were gone or too distant to fear.
Paul stopped and grabbed his brother’s arm. He swung Owen round to face him. While he knew his brother had maybe saved them both, he was angry.
‘What did you do back there, Owen? Is that what mum or dad would want from you?’
‘Someone had to do something,’ Owen looked at his shoes, a kid again.
‘That man might die because of what you did!’
‘No, Paul. He’ll probably die. I say fuck him. Eye for an eye, Paul,’ Owen said, looking up, his eyes defiant.
Paul flicked his ear. ‘Don’t get cocky with me! I know what he did, but that doesn’t excuse you. Look at the mess this country’s in! Perhaps if people just stopped hurting each other –’
‘The government wouldn’t have to worry. They could just continue to fuck with us as much as they want.’
‘Where did you get that screwdriver from? We
don’t even have one in the house!’
‘School.’
‘You stole it?’
‘They gave it to me.’ Owen matched his brother’s stare. ‘Yeah, that’s right. The teachers at my school gave me, and everyone else, a screwdriver. Said to use them to protect ourselves if necessary. Said they were sorry they couldn’t give us anything better, but that’s all they could get.’
‘Seriously? What the hell kind of school is that?’
‘They’re teaching us to survive. They said to twist it as you shove it in because it causes more internal damage and is harder to pull out. We practice in Lifeskills class on old armchairs.’
Paul was flabbergasted. ‘Your school is allowed to teach that?’
Owen shook his head. ‘Not all of the teachers know. Only one or two. But we trust them, because they look out for us. Like you do for me. Like you try to do.’
Paul had a sudden moment of realization. Owen was right. It had been the looter or them, and they had won. He smiled, and the tension was broken. ‘You know, I was only two seconds away from sticking that guy myself.’
‘Oh, really. What with? That bicycle wheel?’
‘Yeah, I was going to ram it over his head. Then I was going to pickpocket your screwdriver and stick him with it.’
Owen laughed, a comforting sound. ‘You’d never get able to get me like you do all those rich people.’
Paul smiled, forced it to look convincing. Picking pockets was what he said he did down around Piccadilly, Westminster and Charing Cross at night. That’s where he said their money came from. Owen didn’t need to know any different, didn’t need to know the truth.
‘Can we get dinner now?’ Owen asked.
‘Sure.’
Paul put an arm around his brother’s shoulders, surprised at just how tall Owen was getting now. Maybe it wasn’t so unusual for Owen to protect him anymore. He certainly had better survival skills than Paul had.
As he led his brother away, he only hoped that the fish n’ chips shop hadn’t been looted by a different mob. He was starving.
Chapter Five
Dreggo
Dan pulled the cap off the cola bottle and took a long swig, coughing right after. He retched, spitting bile on the ground. The cola was long gone and Dan had filled the bottle with rum instead, using the soft drink bottle as cover to keep away any alcoholics or drunks more desperate than he was. Alcohol was difficult to procure, and hard liquor had a high price. Dan, who earned enough to stay alive by selling marijuana and black-market cigarettes in the dark recesses outside major train stations, had taken himself to a new level with the rum. In the aftermath of breaking his association with the Tube Riders, he needed something to reaffirm himself.
Now, with the black fuel burning inside of him, he was searching for a new association.
In Mega Britain, where families and friendships were torn apart faster than a storm scattered newspapers, gangs were everything. Gangs were comradeship and protection. Allowed into the circle of the Tube Riders, Dan had felt whole again, the meandering of his wasted life from one mistake to another forgotten for a while. The gang had given him purpose, and he had wanted to be one of them so much.
Now, cast out, the only thing he could think of was to destroy them.
Paul . . . they were friends but Dan had never trusted him much. They hung around the same regrettable places at night, and while Dan knew what Paul did, he had seemed like a cool guy otherwise. Paul had said he knew some guys who hung out, asked Dan to come along. Said they were straight up, and Dan had taken a chance. Simon, he’d thought was cool. A bit feminine, but cool. And Marta . . . Dan had taken to her immediately. With near-black hair that was a mixture of braid and dread framing that cute, pale little face, those bright, smart eyes that saw everything . . . and with her body tight from all that tube riding, he had been pretty hopeful they would get it on. God knew he needed something to keep him warm at night, and while she might have been a little more Goth than he’d have liked, yeah, he could have handled a piece of that no problem. She would have done nicely.
Yeah, Simon was cool, and Marta was hot. And Paul, well, he was okay.
That mutilated bastard Switch, though, him with the swagger and the look-how-fucking-good-I-am attitude, Dan would happily see him go under a train. Would do the pushing himself if chance allowed it.
He knew that by coming here he might get the others hurt. He didn’t really want that but they came together, and if they had to fall together, then so be it. Dan wanted the final word; no one would mock him again. No one would laugh at him; no one would ever imply he wasn’t good enough, just because he slipped.
‘Fuck you, you fucked-eye bastard,’ he muttered, swigging on the rum, seeing the entrance to the old London Underground station coming up ahead of him.
Bartholomew Road had been closed for fourteen years, but now he saw the metal gate – once bolted shut to keep out tramps – stood open, a space there wide enough for a man to pass through. With the last of the rum clutched close to his chest, Dan breathed deeply as he squeezed through and headed down the stairs.
The smell was the same as St. Cannerwells; the scent of decomposing takeout mingling with eau de unwashed tramp. There was less litter here, a sign of more frequent passing.
Bartholomew Road was the third station he had tried today. Wapping Road and Coldharbour Avenue had both been quiet and empty with no sign of any habitation. There were more than thirty abandoned Underground stations across London GUA; he had known his search might only lead him as far as the rum lasted. But here, as he passed through the dusty, broken ticket gates, he heard the sound of voices up ahead.
Had he been more sober he might have taken more care, but with the rum sloshing around inside of him, Dan stumbled down the stairs and out on to the platform as though he were rushing to catch the last train. At first he didn’t see the cluster of people further down the platform, and at first they didn’t see him.
He staggered closer as a familiar roar built up in the tunnel behind him. He glanced back, and saw those terrifying, demonic eyes rushing forwards. Drunk, his hands flexed, feeling for the clawboard he’d tossed away, while ahead of him, a row of people bent down towards the platform, bracing themselves like sprinters at the start of a race.
Dan slipped behind a support pillar and leaned out to watch the Cross Jumpers in action. As the train rushed out of the tunnel they set off, sprinting towards the platform’s edge, moving in a staggered line, the nearest to him starting first, with each following jumper starting a fraction after the previous in an unfolding human fan.
At the far end, one or two other people had started off far earlier than the others, their run-ups longer. Dan recognised them for what they were, because he’d been one amongst the Tube Riders: practicing novices, trying to become good enough to gain acceptance from the rest of the group.
The train roared along the platform. Dan winced as the Cross Jumpers seemed to disappear in front of it like flies swatted by a battering ram. He listened for the sound of their impact, expecting a blunt thud as their bodies broke apart against the train’s flat nose.
But he heard nothing at all until there at the end, barely perceptible, a hard knock, like someone’s hand on a wooden door.
As the train vanished into the far tunnel, Dan saw the Cross Jumpers standing on the opposite platform. One or two lay on the ground, others stood around, brushing themselves off. Near the far end, a group had clustered around the platform edge, looking down. There were curses, gasps of shock, and someone, a girl, crying.
‘Garth broke twenty-five feet!’ Someone nearby shouted. ‘That’s a medal there!’
And further away, the voice higher, verging on panic: ‘Petey missed! Petey didn’t make it!’
Other people not active in the jump jogged towards the far end of the platform.
‘Oh fuck,’ someone shouted. ‘What do we do with him? Dreggo? Dreggo!’
Dan arched his neck, trying to see their leader.
Then something struck him hard in the back, and he stumbled out from his hiding place, dropping the bottle on the ground.
‘Look what I found here!’ someone said behind him. ‘I got us a spy!’
Dan looked round to see a muscular, shaven-head man with a black tattoo of a hawk to the side of his left eye. Sober, Dan would have put up a decent fight, but drunk he had no chance. He grunted as a fist slammed into his face and he sprawled forward on to the ground.
‘Pick him up, Maul.’
‘He just watched Petey die, Dreggo. Want me to throw him under the next one?’
‘I said, pick him up.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Strong hands pulled Dan to his feet. His face ached under his right eye, but as he went to rub it he found his arms clamped to his side.
A young woman of no more than eighteen or twenty stepped in front of him. She was slim, with long hair that framed her face, and a hawk tattoo beside both eyes. If they were a sign of authority then Maul was merely a henchman.
She smiled and reached up to cup Dan’s face. Her skin was smooth but icy cold.
‘You just watched one of our group die,’ the girl said, in a soothing, serpentine voice. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t have Maul do as he suggested.’
‘I didn’t –’
Dreggo’s other hand came across hard, and Dan recoiled from the shock of the blow, the rum doing little to mask the pain. He’d swear she hit harder than the goon did.
‘Don’t waste time lying to me.’ The hand holding Dan’s chin squeezed tighter. ‘Answer my question.’
‘I want to join you.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yeah. And –’
‘And what?’
‘And I want you to help me.’
With a flick of her hair Dreggo laughed. It was cold, like her hands. ‘Um, why? Give me one reason. This really is your last chance. It doesn’t bother me if you live or die.’
‘I’m a Tube Rider.’
Dan felt Maul’s hands tighten on his shoulders and begin to pull him away. In front of him, Dreggo’s eyes thinned, her face going hard.
