‘No-one wants this war,’ I shout. The sound booms out across the square and it’s great. ‘No-one wants this war, but in three days’ time London’s going to be flattened. The whole city’s going to be destroyed.’ The crowd’s gone quieter now, there’s even a few jeers. ‘Yesterday’s tremor was just the start. There’s much worse coming. Much, much worse. We need to get out of London. We need to get out by New Year’s
Day.’
There are more jeers now, and booing.
‘Keep yourselves safe. Keep your families safe. Get out of London. Go today. Go now.’
All around me people are trying to shout me down.
‘No!’
‘Get lost!’
‘No war!’
Baldy tries to grab the megaphone, but I’m holding on tight.
‘People are going to die here. Save yourselves. Save your families. Get out of London.’
There’s other people jostling me now. Someone prises the megaphone out of my fingers and I throw a punch. They’re crowding in on me so I don’t know who I’m hitting, but they’re giving as good as they’re getting, feet and hands flying at me. I hold my arms up around my face but that leaves my body open and someone catches me in the stomach. The air’s punched out of my lungs and I slump forward.
The violence is rippling through the crowd now. People are pushing forward to get to me then being pushed back and there’s panic in the air. I try to keep on my feet. I’ve got to get out. I put my head down and charge through. It’s difficult ’cause we’re packed in so tight, and people are grabbing at me, but in a few minutes I make it to the edge.
In front of me there’s a row of polished boots. I unbend a bit and look up, into a wall of riot shields.
‘Let me out!’ I shout. ‘I’ve got to get out before they kill me!’ The wall doesn’t move. ‘Let me out! Let me out!’
I step forward and hammer a fist onto one of the shields. The shield next to it moves towards me. Great, a gap, I’m going to get out of here. A baton crunches down on my shoulder. One hit and I’m on the ground. They don’t follow up – they don’t need to. The guy steps back and the wall’s solid again. My face scrapes into the concrete, and for a few seconds I don’t know what’s happening, where I am, whether I’m alive or dead. I should move, I should get on my feet, but it’s beyond me. I don’t even know which way is up.
The people behind me, the ones that were punching and kicking me, they’ve changed their tune now. They’re shouting their heads off, roaring and raging at the police.
‘Civil liberties!’
‘Police brutality!’
‘Fascists! Take their pictures! Get their numbers!’
There’s hands all over me again, not pulling and pinching like before, but holding me, reassuring me.
‘You all right, mate? Can you hear me?’
I open my eyes slowly. At least half a dozen lenses are pointed at me, with a mass of faces behind them, a jumble of numbers.
‘We got it all on film, mate. They won’t get away with it. What’s your name? How old are you? We’ll get it on the lunchtime news.’
I don’t want all the fuss. I want to get out of here, get home to Nan, but slowly their words filter through. All on film. Lunchtime news. And I remember why I’m here.
‘The first of January,’ I say, looking straight into the nearest camera. ‘Get out of London. It’s all going up on New Year’s Day.’
People start trying to shush me. It’s not what they want to hear, but I keep going.
‘London’s in danger. Yesterday was just the start. It will be worse than that. Ten times worse. A hundred times worse. People are going to die here. Get out. Get out of London.’
The cameras are trained on me as I’m helped to my feet. People are firing questions at me. Who hit me? How many times? I don’t answer them, I stick to my own script. Blood trickles from my face into my mouth, but I don’t stop. This is my chance. This is my moment. I’m broadcasting to the nation. Pray to God the nation listens.
They keep us in the square for six hours. They don’t let nobody in or out. You have to pee where you stand. Women crouch down, while their friends make a barrier round them. We ask for water: they don’t bring it. We ask to be allowed to leave, quietly, without any fuss: they tell us we’re being kept here for our own safety.
From time to time, someone loses it. They start arguing, or try and barge their way out through the wall of shields. They get the same treatment as me – sticks and boots coming at them till they’re down – and then the wall’s back in place.
Once the cameras move away from me, I try talking to people, just one or two at a time. The thing is I like them. Before I’d have taken no notice or scoffed at them – longhaired hippies, thinking they can change the world. But listening to them, I realise they think about things, the big things – the future of the planet, people in other countries going hungry, being oppressed. They care. Makes me feel like I’ve gone through my whole life with my eyes shut.
A lot of them are the first of January. I tell them they need to get out. I walk through the crowd, having the same conversation, over and over again.
‘Get out? We can’t even get out of Grosvenor Square.’
‘Yeah, but after today. Go home and pack some things and just go.’
‘Why are you saying this?’
‘I can see it. I can see the future, man.’
They don’t know how to take me. Some of them are kind – they think I’m crazy, and if they’re nice to me, I’ll go away. Others just shake their heads and wait for me to move on.
‘Promise me,’ I say, ‘promise me you’ll get out of London.’ A few people do. I’ve spooked them, I suppose, or they’re humouring me. But as I work my way from person to person, I can predict who will say they’ll go – and none of them are twenty-sevens. I start to get a bit obsessed. I’ve got to get one twenty-seven to say they’ll leave. But however hard I try, I can’t do it. It’s getting frustrating and I suppose I’m getting agitated. I can tell I’m starting to get people’s backs up, but I can’t stop. In the end, someone stops me.
I’m talking to a woman. She’s pretty, in her twenties and she’s got just over a week to live.
‘Come on,’ I’m saying. ‘You’ve got to promise me you’ll go. There’s only days left now. You’ve got to get yourself safe. A lot of people are going to die here, you know?’
She doesn’t want to make eye contact, keeps looking away from me into the crowd, and then someone steps in, a big bloke, several inches taller than me, not a hair on his head.
‘She don’t want to talk to you, okay? Leave her alone. You’re frightening her. It’s bad enough here as it is without you bothering everyone. Why don’t you keep your mouth shut for a bit and give everyone a break?’
Another day, somewhere else, I might have taken him on. But I’ve been battered enough today.
‘It’s life and death, that’s all,’ I say, holding both hands up in surrender. ‘I’m trying to save lives.’ Then I turn away from them both, and look through the crowd towards the shields keeping us in.
It’s a long wait until they let us go. People start to sit down, even though they know that the dampness on the ground is piss, not water. The talking slowly tails off, ‘til hundreds of us, maybe a couple of thousand even, are sitting there in silence and waiting.
In the end there’s no great drama. A few minutes after it’s got properly dark, the police just walk away. No announcement, no instructions. One minute they’re there, the next they’re filing down the side-streets and getting into their vans.
I look around me. People are getting wearily to their feet. They’re angry about the way they’ve been treated, but they’re too tired and uncomfortable to go on about it apart from muttering under their breath. My legs are beyond stiff. When I stand up they feel like they’ll give way. I shift my weight from one to the other, trying to get the blood flowing again, while pins and needles shoot up from the soles of my feet.
r />
I shamble out of the square and head for the bus stop. It’s only when the queue starts filing on to the bus and I’m two from the front I reach into my pocket and realise it’s completely empty – no wallet, no Oystercard. Sometime over the last six hours, one of that nice, moral, save-the-world lot has cleaned me out. I’ve still got my phone and about twenty-five cents. But who would I ring? Nan? She can’t get me home from here – I’m going to have to walk.
I work through my other pockets, but there’s nothing useful and I’m holding up the queue. People are starting to tut and tsk behind me. Then someone just barges past and I’m pushed out of the way. I can’t be bothered to lash out this time. It’d be pointless and I haven’t got the energy. Everyone’s tired. It’s been a long day and they want to get home. So do I. I move away from the bus stop, and start walking. It’s miles home, but I don’t even think about it. I just put one foot in front of the other, head down, through streets and garden squares and shopping parades. All I see is paving slabs and concrete, feet and legs. Which is how I nearly miss it. A miracle, the only thing that could put a smile on my face at the end of this long, long day.
I come to a place where the feet aren’t moving. A crowd’s gathering on the pavement. I have to look up to find my way through, and then I see what’s stopped them. There’s a message flashing on the public information screen above a row of shops: “URGENT: EVACUATE LONDON NOW.” Then another: “LEAVE LONDON NOW. MAJOR INCIDENT WARNING: EVACUATE LONDON.”
‘Oh my God, he’s done it!’ I want to punch the air, but instead I look around the faces in the crowd. They’re puzzled. They’re scared.
Then the phone in my pocket starts vibrating. A text. I take it out, and it’s the same thing. The messages on the screen are being texted to my phone. It’s happening to everyone else here too. All the way down the street, people are looking at their phones and then looking at the screens.
I dial Nelson’s number, but all I get is his voicemail. The excitement’s fizzing through my voice as I leave my message.
‘Nelson, you beauty. You done it. I don’t know how, but you done it. Thanks, man. Keep safe.’
People are starting to leave now. Some of them are breaking into a run, pushing other people out of the way. I was knackered when I left Grosvenor Square, but now I’m firing on all cylinders again. I break into a run myself. I’m going to get home and I’m going to pack my things and me and Nan are out of here tonight.
Chapter 52: Sarah
I was stupid to dump my coat. So stupid. I’ll freeze to death out here. Part of me doesn’t even care. I’ve got nothing left to live for. They’ve got her now – they won’t give her back. She’ll be tucked up somewhere in a nice, clean cot in a nice, clean house, with a foster mum and a foster dad, drinking formula from a bottle.
It’s the last bit that gets me. Of course I want Mia to be warm and safe and looked after. She should be with me, but if she isn’t then I want her to have the best. But the thought of her drinking milk from a bottle kills me. I’ve fed her from the start. It’s our thing, it’s what we do. Now that link, that connection’s gone.
How could they do that? How could they take her away when we physically need each other? It’s the cruellest thing.
I slide off the sleepers and onto the ground, curling up in a ball, hugging my knees into me. I’m shivering violently, but I hardly notice. The pain in my body doesn’t count. It’s the pain in my head that will kill me – her loss, her absence, her not being here, is worse than anything I’ve ever felt before.
I get so cold, I stop shivering. My body’s still and stiff. I should move, go somewhere else, anywhere that might be more sheltered and offer a little warmth. Or I should walk through the night, get my arms and legs moving, keep my blood circulating. But I’ve gone past it now, that moment when I might have used some common sense, made myself get up – the cold has sapped it out of me – and now I’m stuck here.
My arms are folded up into my chest. One of my hands is resting against my neck. I can feel a pulse there but it’s faint and slow. I should move: I can’t. I should sit up: the ground won’t let me. I should call out for help: my throat is dry and full of dust. The pulse beneath my fingers is getting slower, and slower. If I can count it, it’s still there, but I can’t remember the names of the numbers any more. I can’t remember …
Chapter 53: Adam
It’s quicker going along the canal. More direct and there are no people, not at this time of night. I’ve jogged all the way, the adrenalin’s still pumping. You can see some parts of the path in the lights from the buildings alongside, but most of it’s dark, so I can only see a few metres ahead.
I’m on a darker stretch now, getting near the alley that goes through to the main road and home. There’s something on the ground, up ahead, a heap of clothes maybe. Then I make out a foot and a few centimetres of pale leg between a shoe and the bottom of some trousers. My stomach turns over. What is it? A dummy, most likely, something out of a shop window, dumped by the side of the canal. God, that’s creepy.
I realise I’ve stopped running. I’ve stopped altogether. I don’t want to go near this thing. It’s freaking me out.
Don’t be so stupid, I tell myself. It’s plastic, a doll, that’s all.
I make myself walk on. But it’s so lifelike. As I get nearer I can see the arms and the head. One hand’s resting on the jaw, hiding part of the face. It’s only got a T-shirt on, so you can see nearly all the arms. The plastic’s pale and smooth, almost white.
My stomach flips again. A dummy can’t hunch up like that. It can’t make that shape. My guts twist into a knot. It’s a body. I’ve found a dead body. Shit! I take another step so that I’m level with it. Half the head is shaved and there’s a bristly line running over the top.
‘Sarah!’ I gag on the word as it comes out of my throat.
This thing, it’s Sarah. She’s on her own, in this dark, cold place. There’s no sign of Mia.
She can’t be dead. Her number is 2572075. Numbers don’t change. Or do they? Is she the proof they can?
I crouch down next to her and touch her hand. It’s icy cold. I take it away from her face, cradle it in both of mine, then bring it up to my mouth. I kiss her fingers.
‘Sarah. Sarah.’ I say her name, over and over again. My breath’s like smoke in the dark air, threading through her fingers. I stare at her face – with her eyes closed she looks so young. I stare and stare until my eyes start to lose it. I’m brimming up with tears and her mouth goes blurry. I blink and the tears spill down my face so I can see clearly, but her mouth is still hazy, like there’s a mist round it.
There is a mist! Shit! I put her hand down gently and lean forward. I hold my fingers close to her lips and I can feel the warm breath coming from them. I rip off my jacket and drape it over her. I fumble for the phone in my pocket and dial 999. Nothing happens, then I see that the low battery sign’s flashing and it cuts off altogether, the screen blank and useless. I can’t leave her here while I go to get help – she’s only just alive now. I put my arm under her back and lift her so I can get my jacket on her properly, pushing her arms into the sleeves like I’m dressing a child. Then I hold her as close to me as I can, rubbing her arms, rubbing her back, trying to pass the warmth from my body into hers.
‘Sarah! Sarah! Come back. Come back to me.’
Her eyes are still closed, and I’m getting cold now. I’ve only been here a few minutes and I’m shivering. How long has she been here?
I stick one arm behind her back and the other one under her legs and heave her onto my lap. Then I put one leg forward and stagger onto my feet. We sway wildly for a few seconds before I get my balance. I’m desperately aware the water’s only a step or two away. She’s a dead weight in my arms, with her head flopping down. I hitch her up so her neck’s resting on my arm and her head’s tucked into my shoulder, then I set off as fast as I can.
I find the alleyway and soon I’m up to the High Road and half walki
ng, half running along the pavement. People look, but no-one offers to help. No-one tries to stop me. They just turn away and carry on with their business. When I get back to Carlton Villas, the gate’s open and the door’s on the latch. I edge through the door and into the front room. Nan’s there.
‘Good God, Adam, what’s this?’
‘Just get out the way. Let me put her down.’
She shifts so that I can lay Sarah down on the sofa.
‘Oh my God, look at ’er.’
‘I know. Get some blankets.’
Nan rushes upstairs and fetches the duvet from my bed. She tucks it round Sarah, making sure her arms are underneath.
‘You’d better get something on too,’ she says. ‘Wait here.’
She brings me a thick hoodie.
‘I’ll get the kettle on,’ she says. ‘Sit over there, near the fire.’
I do as I’m told. The telly’s playing in the background, but it takes me a while to realise that the pictures they’re showing are from Grosvenor Square. Even then it don’t really sink in ’til a face comes onto the screen – a mad-eyed boy with blood on his face is shouting something at the camera.
‘People are going to die here. Get out. Get out of London!’
‘You’ve been on the box all day.’ Nan puts a mug of tea in my hands. ‘Careful, it’s hot. I been sitting here, watching you, wondering when the hell I’m going to see you again. Those bastards had you penned in there all day. Pigs!’
It’s all on screen; the rally, me getting whacked with a baton and falling to the ground. I know it’s me and I know it happened, but it’s the weirdest thing watching it on Nan’s TV. For a start, I’m a sight, a proper sight. Face messed up, staring eyes. And the stuff I’m saying – I sound like a nutter. I put my mug down on the floor next to me and lean forward with my head in my hands, groaning.