Afterlight

by Alex Scarrow

  She wanted to think the girl had hurt him, kneed him in the balls, jabbed his eye with a fingernail. But she knew it wasn’t that. He’d got what he came for.

  Her eavesdropping was interrupted by the sound of a key in her door. She took several quick steps from the wall and backed up into the corner of the room beside the toilet bucket.

  She knew who it was before the door swung open. It was the boy who treated her like a caged pet - his own little plaything. It was the boy who had ushered her into the camp, the short stocky runt with his one shaved eyebrow, his neck weighed down with bling, with his peaked white Nike baseball cap and that we’re-going-to-play-some-more twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘Hey, honey! Dizz-ee’s home!’ he sing-songed. ‘Sup? How’s my bitch. A’ight?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Leona through swollen lips.

  ‘Fuck off is it, eh?’ He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and locking it. ‘We’re goin’ to try again, love. An’ this time you’re going to be a good little bitch, right?’

  He was about Nathan’s age, maybe a year older - nineteen, twenty. A short little runt but surprisingly strong. Much stronger than her. She’d managed to keep him at bay last time with her nails and bared teeth, earning a livid bruise and swollen mouth for her efforts. But the time before, he’d managed to wrestle her down to the mattress and nearly managed to get inside her. But she thrashed and wriggled and slapped so much that he lost his concentration. She paid for the struggling that time with a swift hard kick to the stomach. He left her doubled over, struggling for breath and retching bile onto the floor.

  Leona had lost count how many nights she’d been in here, how many times she’d had to wrestle the evil little bastard off her. But she knew she was running out of time, running out of fight, and he knew it, too. Soon he was going to be coming in here and she was going to be like the girl next door, mutely nodding, lifting the torn rags of her shirt and letting him get what he came for.

  But not tonight, she wasn’t giving up tonight. ‘You touch me again and I’ll rip your thing right off.’

  Dizz-ee laughed. ‘Thing?’

  He stepped into the middle of the small room, removed his orange jacket and his faded Nike cap and tossed them both on to the mattress.

  ‘See now, you goin’ to give me it tonight, a’ight? You gonna cotch with me? Or do I have to break your face again?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He shook his head and tutted. ‘We got off to a bad start. You didn’t know the rules. Maybe I should’ve explained them to you instead of slappin’ you. So lemme tell you how it is before we get goin’.’

  He squatted down in front of her, wrinkling his nose for a moment at the smell coming from her bucket.

  ‘We’re all living in Medieval England now. That’s what it is. We’ve got new rules for everyone. New roles, new classes.’ He offered her a broad, friendly smile. ‘Now take me. I’m what we call a “praetorian guard”. We’re like the Chief’s bodyguard.’

  He settled down on the floor in front of her. ‘At school, know what my favourite subject was?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘History. I loved that subject. I had a great teacher. Mr Harwood, a great teacher. He sort of inspired me.’

  Leona noticed how easily the ‘street’ had slipped out of his voice.

  ‘He made history come alive for me, you know? One of the periods of history we studied with Mr Harwood was medieval history, you know? All that cool feudal stuff; barons and dukes and princes. Little kingdoms within kingdoms . . .’

  Dizz-ee’s voice drifted further away from what she’d become used to; now no longer some wannabe wigger trying to out-black everyone else, but instead . . . very different.

  ‘And there were very clear classes, right? People born into a duty they were destined to perform for the rest of their lives. Almost like . . . no . . . exactly like the social structure of an ant or termite colony. Fighter ants, worker ants, yeah?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘You see, the old world was different, wasn’t it? I remember some of it. I remember teachers telling us anybody could become anything they want if they put their mind to it.’ He laughed. ‘But that was then. A different world now.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a medieval world now, and we’re back to clear social classes.’

  Leona looked up a him. ‘You sound different.’

  Dizz-ee seemed to wince at that.

  ‘Us praetorians’re like King Arthur’s knights. There’s trouble? If there’s bad guys come into the neighbourhood threatening an’ shit? Then we’re the ones gonna go out protect you. And, we’re not scared of any shit. Trust me. We’ll die for the King. Die for his people if need be.’ He nodded at her. ‘Die for a skanky little bitch like you, even. That’s what makes us knights . . . special, see. We the first and last line of defence for the Zee.’

  Leona laughed at him. ‘You sound so stupid.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘When you pretend to be some kind of gangster.’

  ‘What?’ He slapped her face hard. ‘Fuck you!’

  She curled up on the floor, protecting her bruised face from another blow.

  ‘Say that shit again and I will fuckin’ kill you! Do you understand?’

  It was quiet for a moment. She could hear him breathing, hear footfall across the ceiling, hear the muted sound of the girl next door acquiescing to another boy.

  ‘That was my old life,’ said Dizz-ee after a while. ‘Fucking grammar school shit. Now I’m a soldier. A fucking knight.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘So, like I was saying . . . in this medieval world of ours, we got the workers - the serfs, them old people who work out in the field and grow our food. They feed us an’ stuff, keep us goin’ in exchange for us protectin’ and watchin’ out for ’em.’

  She could hear the middle-class white boy was gone from his voice.

  ‘Now you . . . well see, you got a special place. You’re sort of in between knights and serfs. You can’t be no knight ’cause you can’t fight, but you can be better than the serfs and get some of the privileges an’ shit that we get. You get to have the nice food outta the tins from down below, you know? You get to have the grog, the dope, all the smokes you want. What you are, girl, is a girlfriend. An’ all you really got to do is play along. You know? Just open up like a good girl every once in a while. The more you do for the knights, the more treats you gonna get. It’s that simple.’

  He shuffled a little further forward, leaning over her. ‘Other girls in the cattle shed see the sense in that. They don’t want to go back to being with the serfs. That would be kinda stupid, right? ‘Cause they get nothing. No privileges. See how it works?’

  He stretched a hand out towards her. ‘So why don’t we try it again tonight . . . and this time it’ll be cool. No need for me to smack you like last time. No need for you to get all scratchy and bitey like you did. What do you say?’

  His hand rested lightly on one of her knees, pushing it gently apart from the other. ‘Shit, you might even enjoy having a piece of me in you.’

  Angry. She told herself. Not frightened, Leona, don’t sound frightened. Be fucking angry.

  She reached out for his hand and twisted his thumb back sharply. ‘I’m not your bitch or your “ho”’ . . . So FUCK OFF!!’

  He recoiled slightly, looking bemused by her outburst, as her voice echoed off the hard walls.

  ‘You’re so pathetic,’ she added under her breath. ‘You know that?’

  ‘I said don’t—!’

  ‘Why . . . why do you even talk like that? Trying to talk like a gangsta? You’re not even black.’ She sneered. ‘We used to laugh at wannabes like you. All that bling, the swagger, the stupid fake American accent—’

  ‘PISS OFF!!’

  All of a sudden she was seeing stars and feeling her cheek throb warmly before she realised he’d just backhanded her again. Much harder this time. Her eyes back on him, she could see he was done explaining himself to her.
He was peeling his tracksuit bottoms off, past his bare knees and preparing to roll them over his large white trainers.

  Instinctively she reached for the toilet bucket beside her and hurled its contents - a cloudy mixture of faecal matter and urine - at him.

  He froze for a second, his eyes closed, lips clamped as the rancid slurry dribbled down his face, and dripped onto his bare thighs. He retched, a thin stream of vomit on to the black mat, then dry heaved once more.

  ‘You are so fucking dead!’ he hissed, pulling his tracksuit bottoms up and backing towards the door. ‘Fucking dead!’ he said again, wiping the muck from his face and reaching for the handle of the door behind him.

  His urge to rape her had evaporated. Now all he seemed to want to do was beat a retreat. ‘I’m fuckin’ done with you, bitch. Gonna’ put you out for the rest of da boys to ’ave.’ He unlocked the door and opened it. ‘They’ll gang-bang your ass to pieces.’ He slammed the door shut behind him, the noise reverberating endlessly off the hard walls, making the small room sound like a cavern.

  Leona sat perfectly still with her hand on her cheek, already feeling it begin to swell along the jawline. She heard voices through the wall again; the compliant mumble of the girl, followed moments later by the rhythmic grunting of a youth. She wondered if the girl was really there out of choice - because she got treated to a little alcohol, a little dope every now and then. Or spreading her legs, simply because the fight had been beaten out of her.

  From another room, further along, she faintly heard another female voice, whimpering painfully.

  Her eyes drifted to the soup of rancid faeces splashed across the floor, and up at the cold blue bar of the fizzing strip light in the ceiling and realised, if she had a decent enough sharp edge to work with, she could do far better than a few aborted scratches right now.

  Chapter 53

  10 years AC

  O2 Arena - ‘Safety Zone 4’, London

  Snoop watched the boys working over the man. The fool had been caught red-handed this morning trying to steal some canned fruit from one of the boys’ tents in the central arena. How the fuck he’d managed to get in was a conversation he needed to have later on with SouljaBoy; the stupid little idiot must have walked off from his post on the entrance turnstile.

  They were whipping him with bike chains; digging bloody divots out of his skin, but not breaking any bones. They needed him working again as soon as possible, not laid up in the infirmary for months in a cast. Just enough of a lesson learned that he wasn’t going to try it again any time soon.

  Snoop watched not because there was any sport in it, but because those boys could get a little out of hand if he didn’t. They didn’t need a cadaver, just someone whupped enough to know better and pass that on.

  The sun was setting out here, settling across the river. Snoop liked it out the back; the rear entrance to the dome. Quieter. Away from the shuffling workers, the clack of spades on soil. He settled back in the deckchair, silently watching the lashing chains for another minute before he raised a hand.

  ‘A’ight! That’s all!’

  Three of them stopped, Ceebay carried on lashing out another couple of times.

  ‘Shit, I said stop!’ barked Snoop. The boy relented after another swift kick.

  ‘Now take him to the infirmary. Get him seen to.’

  The four boys carried the man back across the quay and into the dome, leaving Snoop alone with his sunset. He listened to the sound of the barges bumping and nuzzling the quayside. Barges they’d not used for a while; not since they’d last tried foraging up and down the Thames.

  He sighed. Ceebay, just like Dizz-ee, just like Notor-ius; all hotheads that needed watching. Mind you, at their age he remembered himself being no different; wanting to prove himself to be the hardest, meanest. Prove that he could be much more than just a runner, or a spotter; that he could be a top-fucking-dog and run a den.

  Old days, those . . . back when there was a business, when money actually meant something.

  He was top dog now, right? No longer a foot soldier but a general.

  True.

  Ten years ago, being a general would’ve meant controlling most of the corners of a postcode; would have meant a thirty per cent cut on the takings. Not bad. But here, now, it was a very different kind of power to, say, having money. It was absolute fucking power.

  Maxwell had set things up well here; a rigid hierarchy that worked efficiently. The workers kept safe and fed, the girls in the cattle shed with their extra privileges as long as they played along, the praetorians keeping an eye on things, then of course Snoop as top dog . . . and Maxwell, the Chief, at the very top. Everyone with a role, everyone with a place and absolutely no misunderstandings.

  The system had worked just fine for the last three years, since the boys had kicked out those soldiers. Everybody got something out of it . . . all right, some more than others. And it would carry on working for as long as there was food for everyone to eat, and treats for the boys.

  But there’s the thing, a’ight?

  Snoop knew just as well as Maxwell that all the shit they had down below in storage wasn’t going to last them for ever.

  Whilst the Chief was an arrogant pale-ass fucker, all suit and bullshit, he was smart. Very smart. The man knew his history, had taught a little to Snoop and the other boys. Made them see how everyone from Roman emperors to Anglo-Saxon kings, even East African warlords, all kept house the same way: a warrior elite at the top of the pile kept sweet and well-paid.

  The Chief was shrewd and he knew, despite all the stuff they were growing out front, that their supplies were running out. He had a plan. He must have a plan. Snoop was sure the wily old bastard was sitting on something clever. Because the alternative - fun though it was for the boys - was what? To sit right here until it all ran out?

  Then what?

  He watched the Thames glistening calmly, the gentle slap and murmur of water against the base of the quay. The Chief had some kind of long game going. He was certain of it.

  Jacob lurched in his cot and his eyes snapped open. He found himself staring up at the tangle of their camouflage netting, and beyond that at the pale canopy of the dome’s canvas.

  It was still dark.

  In the cot beside his own he could hear Nathan’s deep and easy breathing, fast asleep and untroubled . . . as he always seemed to be. Nathan never appeared to be anything other than untroubled, it was his default demeanour. His unflappable cruise control. Mr Laid-back calmly accepting the whatever-comes-next that life throws at you like some good-natured diner casually awaiting the next course of a mystery banquet.

  Jacob so envied that about him.

  The last few weeks had seen them pulling long hours outside amongst the workers; learning a whole new way of life, new rules. Then that all changed again when Mr Maxwell said they could grab their belongings and move up into the central arena. Nathan accepted both vastly differing regimes with an effortless shrug of his shoulders.

  They now slept on immeasurably more comfortable beds than those mattresses outside. They had their own tent of sorts - a camouflage net draped across an ‘A’ frame of metal rods. It was perched on a stretch of terrace between two large sections of arena seating. Other tents, similar to theirs, were clustered in groups around the vast stadium, in spaces where rows of plastic bucket seats had been pulled out.

  They’d only been awarded this privileged level of comfort and privacy a few days ago, after Maxwell had said they could join the praetorians. So far the nights had been noisier than outside with the boys trash-talking each other, calling out crude exchanges across the cavernous stadium from one tent to another. All good natured, and usually things quietened down when the night lights were dimmed.

  Tonight, though, he’d been awoken by something going on.

  Noises had percolated into his sleep and become part of his dream - the one he often had. Too often. Him and Leona in a dark house at night, lit up by the flames of a burning car ou
tside. The shifting silhouettes of intoxicated teenage boys larking around, jeering and laughing at the families hiding in their homes down St Stephen’s Avenue.

  ‘Oooo are ya? Oooo are ya?’ several of them chanting like supporters at a football match.

  ‘Weeee comin’ to part-eeeee!!’ another voice sing-songing over the top.

  Jacob shook away the last tendrils of sleep and the nightmare. He could feel the coolness of sweat drying on his bare skin. Another stuffy night inside. Even though the dome’s roof was an opaque canvas, when the sun was shining much of its energy permeated through and built up inside throughout the day.

  He heard the noises again. Voices in the distance; voices that had taken part in his dream. He sat up and looked out through the drape of netting. Between the gaps in the webbing, down across the endless sloping rows of bucket chairs, on the arena’s stage, he could see a couple of torch beams flickering around amongst the dark and silent outlines of the arcade machines. Some of the praetorians were down there, messing about.

  He could hear their banter, hee-hawing laughter as several of them pretended the NASCAR machines were switched on and that they were mid-race. They sat in bucket seats and yanked their steering wheels one way then the other as they stared up at the large blank screens in front of them. A scuffle broke out between a couple of boys watching, both wanting to sit in the same booth. It was no more than pushing, shoving and posturing and snarled words exchanged. Jacob settled back in his cot, once more looking up at the webbing and the distant dark pall of the dome’s canvas, and found himself wondering whether he could really fit in as one of them; they all seemed so aggressive and intimidating.

  Tough talk. That’s what Snoop called it. Because the boys were so young, they had to appear to be tougher, meaner, than they were for the adult workers to accept them being in charge.