What the devil? How was that here? He’d last seen the Ruskin sitting in that dastardly dwarf’s carriage, right before he’d driven away, horses kicking dung up into his freshly pressed uniform. Bartlett tried to hold his surprise, or any reaction at all, but then decided that doing that was also tantamount to an admittance of guilt. Was he supposed to have known it had been taken? Why were they even showing it to him? The night porter had to think quick and decided on apathy, shrugging his shoulders whilst feeling all three pairs of eyes scrutinising him for details. His scalp itched most agonisingly.
“You don’t recognise this masterpiece?” Murdoch asked, his shrewd eyes squinting.
“It’s Rose la Touche, though I can’t say I ever met her,” Bartlett laughed in an attempt to relieve the tension but it was wasted. “So?”
They remained silent, which made Bartlett even more anxious. He’d assumed the painting would be gathering dust in some East London jew’s cellar by now, yet here it was. Had Malone suffered an attack of conscience and brought it back? No, of course not, he was a rotten tinker.
For the first time, one of the constables spoke. “Mind if we take a look at your boots?”
Bartlett jerked and scratched his head, which was most relieving. “My boots? Yes, I do mind, I need them for work.”
Murdoch leaned impatiently forward. “It would do everyone good to cooperate, Mr Bartlett.”
He squirmed but removed them, which brought great discomfort to his crooked leg, and handed them over. To his dismay, one of the constables produced a large photograph and Bartlett had to readjust himself and tilt his head to see that the image was of the sawdust on the ground of the negro’s cell. The copper exchanged glances between the image and the soles of his boots, glancing up once at Bartlett as he did, then brought out another image of the smashed up door, and the bloodstained boot marks upon it.
Murdoch was likewise leaning over to scrutinise the evidence until finally, he rested back in his seat, prodding up his spectacles, folding pencil arms over his chest, and casting back a strangely satisfied accusatory glance that came down from his long nose.
“Mr Bartlett,” the constable spoke up, “it looks like you’re in rather a lot of bother.”
Bartlett felt himself sinking into the chair, his head spun and he wanted to be sick. “I … My shift is about to start … If you’d excuse me.” He made to move but a large hand forced him back down by the shoulder. “Please…I…I’ll work for half pay if you’ll just…” his head sagged as he broke.
“Anything you have to say, Mr Bartlett?” Murdoch pressed and when the mortified Bartlett was unable to respond… “As you’re probably aware, there’s been much drama and excitement about the capital today.”
Bartlett scratched his head, face, arms, neck and wondered what that had to do with anything. He’d heard there were several small mobs that had been seen to gather in places but he decided on being petulant instead. “Excitement?” He shrugged and wheezed through palpitations, “I’ve been baking cakes for the church picnic, what do I know of excitement?”
Murdoch pulled open his drawer, grabbed something and threw it down at the table. It was a copy of the London Daily Post.
Bartlett glared at the rag, almost afraid to look, yet his curiosity compelled him.
He took it from Murdoch’s desk, unfolded it and read the headline…
… And Bartlett knew at once he was in a whole world of trouble.
1
I squeezed her hand but as we rounded the corner more of them were staggering down Deansgate, clattering into lampposts and rubbish bins like blind men.
We had time though, so we took the chance to catch our breath. Neither of us were high school athletes, every second of rest counted. We needed to think, to gather our thoughts, to make a plan.
It was chaos.
And it had all happened so fast.
Nobody knew what was happening because as of this moment there were still many who didn't know. They were easy to spot because they were the ones you saw getting dragged to the floor before being consumed.
All I'd been able to do was grab who was most important and run. So I did.
Across the street, what could only be described as a deranged man chased pigeons with outstretched arms. He glared with lust at his prey, so slow and dopey he didn't stand a chance yet continued regardless. Beyond him two elderly women fought over the entrails of what appeared to be a teenage boy. Beside them a bicycle and some newspapers were discarded and I had the strange mental image of the two old women pushing the young lad off the bike to get at him.
We looked about us, trying to decide the best route to take through the city, where we should go next. Nowhere appeared safe, so it would be a matter of choosing the least dangerous option. I had to protect Alice, I owed it to her after all.
We jogged down Deansgate as distant shouting resonated above all else, like you were a mile from a packed football stadium and somebody had just hit the bar. It was loud and mixed with tyres screeching, horns blaring, the occasional crashing and it travelled long distances. Trust my luck, but when the city loses its mind, I find myself on the busiest shopping street in Manchester and all while trying to protect Alice.
A car careened into the back of a bus and the air bag exploded in the driver’s face, filling the interior of the vehicle with a white powder. I didn't have time, but I looked anyway as the driver stared back at us, his mouth moving like a fish through a gold fish bowl. He was trying to get to us. The empty unfocused glare in his eyes told us not everything was right in his world. He strained harder against the seat belt as his mouth increased in intensity, gnashing down onto air with sheer hatred. Thankfully he didn't notice he was buckled in and probably couldn't figure out how to unbuckle himself if he did.
"Don't worry, just stay close. I won't let anybody hurt you.”
"This is getting really scary now." Alice said and I had to admit, I was pretty damned scared too.
"Looks like we'll have to get to my house on foot, can't risk taking the buses."
As soon as I said that, screams rang from inside the same bus the car had just slammed into. Two men attempted to bust their way out through the rear window using briefcases. One of the men was yanked viciously backwards by a pair of hands and we ran down the side of the bus to see what was happening. It looked to me like the driver had sealed the doors and he, along with several passengers were attacking their fellow commuters at random, who had huddled together for safety at the back.
Just what the hell was going on?
"We really need to get out of here.” I gave her hand a squeeze to let her know she was safe and we ran.
It was risky ahead. That thought was confirmed when a naked man walked by, chewing on an arm with his colon dragging along the floor behind him. How was that possible?
We stopped again. We would have to take a chance, no option was safe, everywhere there was only chaos.
A fully grown man stumbled by, crying, closely followed by a group of teens shouting.
People were losing their heads.
Alice's hand shook within my own, a tear ran down her face.
I had only really got to know Alice two weeks before. But during that time she’d changed my world. It had been the most magical two weeks of my sixteen years.
2
I had always been an easy target. I was short, I was fat and I was quiet. I kept myself to myself, just trying to get through each day without being bullied. I was always bullied, but I didn't make a big deal out of it. Then my father died in a car accident and I retreated even further into myself.
The other kids at school all went easier on me after that, not wanting to make my life any harder than it really needed to be. I was happy for that and secretly grateful to them.
I kept my head down. I studied hard. I ate my school meals, then I went to the library on my breaks to study alone while all the other kids played football or cricket against the stumps that were painted on the wall. Occas
ionally I'd head to the computer labs where there was never any pressure to talk to the other kids. They seemed a lot more like me than most of the other boys at school. I was good with computers and it felt like I could have a reasonably good career in that area.
So when I arrived home every night, I would learn how to create my own computer programmes while the other kids would head round to their friends or to the park to play football.
My mother took care of me, it was just the two of us. I tried not to let her know just how bad my life was at school. I didn't want to upset her. Sure, it was a lonely existence, but it worked for me and I suppose I was kind of happy.
Then the new term began. The school had agreed to take on a group of inner city black kids who’d been expelled from their previous school. I guess the school must have received some money to take them on or something.
Of course I stayed out of their way, just like I stayed out of everybody’s way. Then one time in history class they sat behind me.
"Hey, fatty," one of them called, “what's the answer to question three?"
I ignored them. How was I supposed to explain what the catalyst for world war one had been without getting told off by the teacher?
Then I felt a coin hit my head. It hurt.
The teacher sent Jerome out of the class and he nudged me as he walked by. That had been my first encounter with them.
Over the weeks that followed, I was to have many more encounters with those three black boys.
The next time I saw them, I was all alone eating my lunch in the dinner hall. They set their trays next to mine and sat down. The tall one in the yellow baseball cap took my milk and began drinking it. The one I knew as Jerome sat to my left whilst the more submissive of the three sat one space further down.
"You disrespect me in class?" Jerome asked.
“Um, no.”
"Hey yo, I think this white boy disrespect me in class," Jerome said to his friends while they looked on and laughed.
I felt enclosed, threatened and had lost my appetite. Why were they picking on me? Suddenly, it was just like old times again. "I don't know you." I squeaked, wanting nothing more than to leave. Perhaps I could go to the computer labs. "I'm going now, you can have my milk."
Later on in the week, they waited for me by the computer labs. There were few people around by that part of the school during lunch. Then I froze as Jerome pulled a knife and held it against my face. He said he'd cut me if I didn't give him my money, so I did.
One time between lessons, they cornered me and gave me a black eye. I arrived in geography with the bruise.
"What happened to you, Tom?" Mrs Carter asked.
"I got hit in the face by a rugby ball in games class." I would later tell the same lie to my mother. I couldn't have her know the hard time I was living through, it would have been very hard on her.
The thing is that people weren’t stupid. They knew what was going on. They knew I was being singled out and bullied, they could see it. Yet nobody did anything. Not a single teacher or any of the kids. I thought it was because I was seen as a loner and that I didn't matter to anybody. But I was determined to just knuckle down and get through it all. Besides, there were only a few months left until exams and I'd be in the sixth form next year. I found it hard to believe my tormentors would achieve the necessary grades to advance into the sixth form.
Looking back, I might have tried talking to them and to ask them nicely to leave me alone. But I don't think I ever had that kind of confidence and I doubted very much it would have had much effect on the bullies anyway.
Then in history class, Jerome asked for the answer to question five.
By this time I’d had enough of them and had a moment of insanity. "Mr Watkins?" I shouted out to the teacher. "Jerome has just asked me for the answer to question five."
Laughter.
I think the whole class was surprised I’d spoken out in front of everybody, even the teacher couldn't quite believe it. If it had been anybody else then the teacher, I'm sure would have simply told the child to stop telling tales on his fellow classmates. However, the response I received from Mr Watkins was quite different.
He sent Jerome out of the class.
I immediately regretted what I’d done. Payback would be harsh. I also knew nobody would be around to help me. The rest of history class went by slowly, but still too fast.
English class was next and I made my way there with trepidation. I headed straight there, no toilet breaks, nothing. Just English class.
Jerome's two friends followed me but that didn't matter, they were not in my English class. As long as I didn't pass by Jerome, I would make it.
I was pulled down from behind by my neck. Before I even knew what was happening, I was lying on the ground.
Jerome stood over me with his friends. "What did I tell you about not disrespecting me, white boy?"
I managed to shuffle myself over to the lockers in an attempt to protect my back, but then Jerome started to throttle me from the front. Next his friends kicked me from both sides. Up to this point the beating hadn't really hurt me. The fact my back was covered meant I could use both arms to protect my front, although my arms and legs were taking a pounding and they would get bruised for sure.
The hallway was crowded with other kids shouting encouragement. They gathered into an arc and watched enthralled, yet nobody intervened to try and push these guys away from me, not one. Was I really that bad a person that I deserved no help when I was having the life beaten out of me?
Jerome wielded his knife and I knew this was the end for me. I thought of my mother and how she’d be all alone from now on. I prayed she would be ok and that the inevitable pain wouldn't destroy her.
Light reflected from the blade’s steel. His two friends backed up, even they couldn’t believe what Jerome was about to do.
Jerome pulled his arm back in preparation for the forward thrust, the blade pointed at my throat.
Something flew at Jerome and he was barged to the side.
When I looked up, it had been a girl who put herself in harm’s way.
She stood between Jerome and myself. It seemed for a few seconds like time stopped. Her hands were bleeding and I knew she must have cut herself on the blade.
Jerome regained his composure, not quite able to believe a girl had disrespected him and then he levelled the knife at her. I wanted to charge him, something, anything but my legs were in too much pain from all the kicks I'd sustained.
Then, finally the crowd sensed that a great wrong was about to occur. A dozen boys landed on Jerome from several directions, pinning him to the floor.
I beamed at the girl who’d saved my life.
It was Alice from art class.
I’d never before paid her any attention.
But now she had my full attention.
3
We arrived at Piccadilly train station with the grisly carnage we’d witnessed on the busses still fresh in our mids. Would, by some miracle, the trains be unaffected by the madness?
Many others had the same idea as us and had dashed to the station to get out of the city. People were running around, smashing into one another, having evidently forgotten human decency and compassion after only a few minutes of madness. Their facial expressions said it all.
A station manager stood on a raised platform in the centre of the concourse as people gathered around him. He had to raise his voice, shouting at everyone to remain calm, that the trains were all running on schedule and would take them home.
This turned out not to be true.
The schedule on the monitors displayed several cancellations. The trains from the larger cities had been cancelled for various reasons. The arrival from Liverpool had track problems. The train from Birmingham was running behind schedule. The train from Nottingham just showed ‘XXXX’ next to its entry. Even as we watched, the train from London changed from ‘On Time’ to ‘Cancelled.’
Panic levels grew as more and more people f
illed the Piccadilly concourse from outside the station.
Most of the traders began closing their shutters. The guy selling mobile phone cases wheeled his trolley away but the crowds were just too thick and the whole stall was carried away in the human tide. Uppercrust had closed and I saw the employees running from the doors, discarding their uniforms. The manager of Starbucks screamed for his customers to leave.
It was falling apart.
"The trains to the smaller towns don't seem effected."
"We need to get on the first one that leaves, Tom."
I nodded and looked again to the monitors, "There's a train leaving for York in five minutes, pray it doesn't get cancelled."
We didn't live in York, in fact York was nowhere near where we lived but it was away from Manchester and we assumed it would be much safer than here.
A bloodied man, held up by two other men was carried in front of us. He was unconscious. When he neared I saw the hole in his throat and shielded Alice’s eyes.
A line of police in stab proof vests tried to look menacing with their assault rifles as they blocked the main entrance to the station. They were pitifully out of their depth because they, like us, couldn’t possibly yet know what was happening here. Everything had happened so fast it seemed like they just had to be out on the streets, to be seen if nothing else, to prove they were doing something even if they had no real plan.
A surge of frightened people arrived from outside, screaming and shouting. Many were bloodied and were obviously running from something. If we wanted to run for the outside now, we were cut off by this fresh surge and by the police who had to make a quick decision on whether or not to allow them past. Confusion followed, the cops looking to each other for ideas and then one panicky officer pulled the trigger, not at the people, but up, at the glass roof.
It shattered and we turned away from the screams as glass rained down on the crowds.
Zombie Revolution Page 28
