Children's Crusade

by Scott Andrews

  I know the sensible thing is to get these kids back to St Mark's, meet up with Lee, try and recruit help from Nottingham and put together a properly formulated plan of action. I know this. But John and Tariq are lying dead in that school, and Lee is missing. For all I know, I could be the only one left of our team, and I'm closer to the heart of this mystery than anyone's yet got.

  I can't turn back now.

  I shake my head. "Sorry Caroline. I'll give you directions to the school," I say. "If I'm not back in three days, take these kids and go."

  I lean forward and hug her tightly but she doesn't respond, shocked at my abandonment. "I'm so glad you're safe, sweetheart," I say. "I can't tell you how glad."

  Then I let her go, stand up, and walk out of the building without looking back. I don't want to see the accusation in her gaze. I take a moment to get my bearings then take off down the high street, heading for the Thames. If I walk all night, I can be there by dawn.

  It's a bitter night. Clear sky, full moon. The sun's not down for an hour before there's frost on the ground. I walk down the Thameside path in the half-light, listening to the lap of the waves as the tide drags the river down, slowly exposing the rubble of a thousand demolished warehouses and the rotting timbers of ancient wharfs and jetties.

  I went on a walking tour of the Thames once, when I was a medical student at Barts and The London. The guide was an ancient old woman, eighty if she was a day, yet sprightly and funny and with a deep booming voice that always reached me, even when I was at the edge of the crowd.

  A hundred and fifty years ago the exposed mudflats of low tide London would be swarming with mudlarks, even at this time of night, she'd told us. Children between the ages of eight and fifteen would swarm down to the edge of the retreating water, sometimes wading hip deep in mud laced with fresh effluent and the occasional bloated corpse, scavenging for lost trinkets and dropped wallets. Mostly, though, they just found lumps of coal which had fallen off the barges that passed up and down the river. They'd collect the coal in sacks and then take it to sell to a local dealer. If they were lucky, they'd earn a penny a day.

  150 years of progress, of making sure that children were protected from that kind of existence - in the West, at least - and yet five years after The Cull, I'd just left a hundred and thirty children who were living together in a crumbling building, scavenging for food and clothes, barely better off than mudlarks. Most of them would probably never go to school or university, never learn about history or geography or medicine.

  Human nature tells me that there are sweatshops in England now. Somewhere, someone will have rounded up kids to use in makeshift factories. It's inevitable. One day someone will let something slip at a market and we'll follow whispers and rumours and track them down. I know with absolute certainty that if I survive this week, one day I'll kick down the doors of an old warehouse and find a hundred emaciated, pallid children dressed in rags, making matches or shoelaces.

  And I'll free them, and feed them and clothe them and teach them.

  Right now, we are clinging to the scraps of knowledge and technique left to us by the dead, but when the last person who was over 16 during The Culling Year dies, it will be these children who inherit the ruins. It's vital we protect them. Give them a childhood and an education. If we don't, we'll be responsible for a new dark age.

  I tell myself this, examine my motives for staying at St Mark's, rehearse all the arguments I've used to justify what we're doing, all the historical precedents that have spurred me on, all the smiles I've brought to the faces of children who would be dead without my intervention. But all of it, every laugh, every smile, just wilts when I think about the man I am walking towards. My grand mission to save a generation of lost kids was discarded, forgotten and irrelevant the instant I heard that name again.

  I keep putting one foot in front of the other, forcing my way through the silent city, finally realising the true power of revenge.

  It's still dark when I reach the reconstructed Globe Theatre. I'm amazed to see it's still intact, despite a thatched roof that's practically an invitation to arson. I'm walking past when I catch an echo of a voice. Faint at first but then, as I pass the wrought iron gates, distinct. Someone is reciting Shakespeare from inside the theatre, presumably on the stage. I stand and listen for a moment, surprised by the sudden, unexpected evidence of life. It's the only sound in the cold, calm night.

  It's a man, young by the sound of it, and he's not following any play that I know. He skips from this to that - a comic monologue, a Hamlet soliloquy, a sonnet. After a few minutes, I sit on a bench and give myself over to this improbable voice. Was he an actor? If I enter the theatre, will I recognise him? "Oh you played whatshisname, on The Bill!" Or is he a young man who'd just been accepted to RADA and was about to begin a career that would make him a star, standing alone on a dark stage in the middle of dead city, dreaming of a world where the sex lives of actors were the talk of every sitting room in the land?

  He's good. Emotive. Strong, clear voice. I feel a sudden ache in my chest, and I stifle a sob that seems to have come from nowhere. I sit and listen to King Lear's death speech with tears pouring down my face. I have no idea why I'm crying, but I can't help it. The tears just flow out of me.

  And as his medley of Shakespeare's greatest hits continues, this suddenly echoes from inside the wattle and daub walls:

  "How couldst thou drain the lifeblood of the child,

  To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

  And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?

  Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

  Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

  Bid'st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish.

  Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will.

  For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

  And when the rage allays the rain begins.

  These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,

  And every drop cries vengeance for his death."

  I have no idea what play it's from, but I hold my breath, transfixed, until it's finished. The tears turn to ice on my cheeks. When the final syllable fades I release a long, slow breath and rise from my seat.

  I walk on, gun in hand, leaving the anonymous actor behind to conjure the spirits of the dead in an empty auditorium.

  I have a job to do.

  Lambeth Bridge is gone. There's just a spur of stone sticking out over the river, like a huge jagged diving board. I walk to the edge and look down into the water, rising now that the tide has turned, swirling and bubbling with the strength of the current. Fall in there, you wouldn't last long.

  A corpse floats past, face down.

  The sun is just edging over the horizon as I walk past Victoria Tower Gardens and reach the Palace of Westminster, the seat of British democracy. I stand and gaze in astonishment for a moment at the gun towers and fences, the thin strip of what looks like bare earth between the wire enclosures, and the sign that says 'minefield'.

  On the grass at the centre of Parliament Square stand three crosses, with rotting corpses nailed to them. Some wag has scrawled INRI on the central spar of the middle crucifix. The victims hang there staring at the Houses of Parliament which now sport a huge red circle painted across the stonework.

  The wrought iron fence that encloses the Big Ben end of the building has had gibbets attached to the stone corner posts. Only one is currently occupied, by what looks like a young girl. She is curled into a ball, naked and frozen. There are five heads stuck on to spikes along the length of the fence.

  A bullet pings off the tarmac at my feet and I hear a high pitched laugh.

  "You only get on warning shot, darling," shouts the gunman who's just appeared in the nearest watchtower. "And that's just coz you're pretty. Normally I just shoot people dead. Saving bullets, you see. Every slug gotta kill. Waste not, want not and all that."

  "I want to talk to your boss," I shout back.

  "You want t
o die?"

  "My name," I yell, "is Doctor Kate Booker." That name feels strange in my mouth again after so long. "I know Spider from before The Cull. Tell him I'd like a word."

  I look down at the red dot that's dancing around my sternum. "Trust me, he'll see me."

  The laser sight disappears and I stand there waiting for fifteen minutes or so. Eventually, the large metal gate swings open and the man from the gun tower stands there, waving for me to approach.

  I walk over to him slowly, full of confidence. I feel totally calm, but I know the nerves are going to hit soon and I'm trying to be ready for that.

  "Follow me," he says, and he leads me across the lawn and into a cavernous hall, its walls made of huge blocks of stone and its massive wooden ceiling so big that it bleeds into shadow. Our footsteps echo as we cross the immense floor, passing plaques that tell us this is where Winston Churchill lay in state, and there is where William Wallace was condemned to death.

  We ascend a wide stone staircase then turn left down a long corridor lined with epic pre-Raphaelite paintings. We emerge into a huge circular chamber with an unlit chandelier hanging above us. I remember this space from television, watching MPs stand here justifying themselves to the press. Four white statues stand silent in the gloom as we turn right and walk down another long corridor to two wooden doors.

  The building passes in a blur of murals, stained glass, intricate mosaics and elaborately designed floor tiles. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping the lid tight closed on the terror that threatens to bubble up and engulf me. This whole place seems exactly as I would have imagined it pre-Cull. There is no evidence of this being the headquarters of a cult. They've kept the place pristine.

  We pass through another chamber and walk past a statue of Churchill, sticking his big round tummy out at me as if it were a challenge. Then we pass through a gothic stone arch that seems shattered and wrecked, walk through some big doors and I find myself standing at the far end of the House of Commons. A very faint hint of orange dawn light seeps through the grimy row of tiny windows that provide the only illumination. Tiers of green leather benches rise to my left and right. Serried wooden balconies loom over the room, lending it the air of an arena, which I suppose it always was.

  The doors close behind me, the loud bang as they shut jolts me. I spin around but my guide has gone. I am alone.

  The room is totally silent, the backbenches deep in shadow. I walk forward on the lush green carpet, towards the table over which the party leaders used to squabble. I'm sure it has some pompous name - the Debating Oak or something - but I've no idea what it is. There are ornate wooden boxes on either side of the table, and I know these are called the dispatch boxes. Or are they? Weren't they the red cases they used to carry?

  Oh, who cares.

  It's smaller than I imagined, functional and unimpressive but I still feel as if I've wandered on to a film set. That this room should have survived The Culling Year completely intact is hard to fathom. I know there were riots and mobs, mass burnings and massacres on the streets near here. But I suppose the security forces managed to hold the line long enough for attention to focus elsewhere. I know at least one guy who thinks the Government are still here, hiding in air tight bunkers under the ground, waiting for a cure. But the air in here is dead. This is a museum. No-one will ever argue about defence funding in here again. Thank God.

  I hear a faint rustle at the end of the hall ahead of me. A rat maybe? I stare into the shadows. A shape leans forward out of the darkness and - dammit - makes me jump and give a little squeal of surprise. Like a fucking schoolgirl.

  It's a figure, dressed entirely in a black robe, hood down, sitting in the tall wooden Speaker's Chair. His face is hidden in the darkness, but I know it's him.

  Spider.

  I stand there, paralysed.

  I'd pictured myself surrounded by his loyal troops, pulling out my gun and shooting him, then being instantly cut down, dying there but not minding.

  Or I'd pictured myself being frisked at the gate, handcuffed, brought before him on my knees, forced to beg for mercy. But making my pitch well, securing a position as his official doctor, working my way into his trust and then striking the first time he dropped his guard, just a little.

  Or I'd pictured myself held down as he raped me then slit my throat.

  But this. Alone. Unwatched. Armed.

  I reach down and pull out my gun, aiming it straight at the black space where I know his head is.

  Neither of us speaks for a long moment.

  But he doesn't move. Doesn't ring an alarm or shout for help. Doesn't raise a gun in my direction.

  Instead, he laughs. Softly, genuinely. Then he leans back into the shadows, resting his head against the padded chair, waiting for me to make my move.

  I step sideways, edging my way towards the gap between the table and the front bench.

  "Remember me?" I say. I want to scream in his face, but there's no need to shout. Every whisper carries crystal clear.

  No response. I reach the corner of the table and begin walking towards him, gun still aimed true.

  "Remember Manchester?" Halfway, now. The outlines of his cloak emerging as I approach and the sunlight strengthens from above.

  "Remember my brother?" And, oh, yes, I yelled that. And here comes the anger and the terror and the nerves. My stomach floods with acid, my veins race with adrenalin. My hands shake with the force of it.

  But I keep walking.

  There's a step at the end, just in front of the chair, and I mount it, shoving the gun under the fold of his hood into the black space.

  And there I stand, unsure what to do. He's just sitting there, waiting for death. Where's the catch? What does he know that I don't?

  I stand there for nearly a minute, the only sound is our breathing - mine hard and ragged, his soft and calm.

  Then he murmurs: "I remember, Kate. I remember it all."

  That voice. I feel faint at the sound of it. My arm drops for an instant as I go weak. My knees try to buckle, but I force them to lock again. Raise the gun level.

  Then he slowly lifts up his hood and pulls it back, revealing his face.

  And suddenly it's eight years ago, I'm a completely different person, and the Chianti is warm on the back of my throat.

  Part Two

  Kate gently lowered herself into the near boiling water, letting her skin adjust to the heat in tiny increments, her lips pursed with the pleasure of pain.

  When she was fully submerged, only her head poking up through the bubbles, she lay there for minute or two with her eyes closed and focused on her breathing. She took long, slow, deep breaths and pictured the cares and stresses of her day dissolving out of her into the bathwater. Then, her heart rate slow, her head clear, she stretched out a languid hand for the glass of red wine perched on the windowsill above her. She took a sip and moaned softly in blissful contentment.

  It had been an awful, wonderful day. Her first shift at A&E. She'd trained for years in preparation, and had some training yet to complete. But all that study, that sacrifice, the sleepless nights and double shifts, the practical exams and psychological probes, the stuck up consultants, insolent orderlies and endless, endless paperwork, had led her to this day; an afternoon spent dressing a huge abscess on the back of a homeless alcoholic who smelt like he slept in a supermarket skip full of rotting meat.

  She was going to have to scrub herself raw to get the stench out. The smoke from her joss stick merged with the steam from the bath. It smelt the way she imagined a hookah pipe would, and it made her feel exotic and elsewhere. Plus, it masked the rank odour that still haunted her nostrils.

  The flat was silent. The students upstairs, for all their exuberance, rarely partied until 4am. They were asleep, as was her flat mate Jill, a plain, bookish girl who kept herself to herself, liked early nights and slept with earplugs in. Kate liked being awake when everyone else was asleep. It made her feel secure, confident that n
o-one was watching or expecting anything of her.

  The world was asleep, and Kate felt free as a bird.

  When she heard the gentle knock at the front door, she initially thought she must be imagining it. But no, there it was again, louder this time. Her hard-won calm evaporated, but she decided to ignore the intrusive noise. It was probably just some pissed up student who'd got the wrong flat. Just ignore it, she told herself. They'll go away.

  The knocking got louder and more insistent. Kate muttered: "La, la, la can't hear you." Then she heard the rattle of the letterbox and her name being whispered through it.

  "Kit," said the voice. "Kit, I know you're in there. Open up."

  Kate sighed. "For fuck's sake," she cursed under her breath as she lifted herself out of the foam. "What now?" She towelled herself down and pulled on her bathrobe, the moth eaten old silk one with the holes in it, and went to let in her brother, James.

  "What bloody time do you..." Her half-angry diatribe died in her throat as she pulled the front door open and saw the woman.

  "Thank God," said James. "Help me get her inside."

  Kate's brother was not tall - about five foot seven - and the woman dwarfed him. He stood in the cold hallway, holding her up. Her head lolled on his shoulder and her feet dragged across the threshold as he and Kate manhandled the unconscious woman into the flat. James kicked the door closed behind him.

  "Bedroom," said Kate.

  They gently lowered the unconscious woman onto Kate's bed. Just for a moment, Kate hesitated. She looked at the woman's face in the light and was suddenly taken aback. Despite her height, this was the face of a child. Kate mentally re-categorised her - this wasn't a woman, not quite yet. If she was eighteen, it was only barely. This was a girl; a girl wearing white stilettos, stockings and suspenders, a red basque torn open to reveal her left breast, and nothing else. She had been severely beaten. Her hair was long and blonde, her cheekbones high and her lips full. Kate thought she looked Eastern European.