His heart was thumping. He felt like a silly little kid. Frightened of ghosts. But he couldn’t shrug the feeling off. He’d been strung out for so long, scared for so long, not sleeping, not eating properly, it was no wonder he was on edge.
And what if there were sickos down here? What if one had got in and was hiding in the dark? Waiting to jump him? What if …?
He told himself not to be an idiot, but stayed close to the others all the same.
‘Most of this stuff’s no use to you,’ said Jordan. ‘Mostly guns without ammo, and you’d need a manual to work out how to use them. There’s some gear through this way you might like, though.’
He led them into the First World War section and shone his torch into a trench warfare cabinet whose glass had been kicked in.
‘I’d suggest you take a rifle or two,’ he said. ‘No bullets for these, but they got straps to carry over your shoulder, and if you stick them bayonets on the end you can use them like spears. I recommend the British Lee-Enfield. It’s a good solid gun.’
Ed reached in and took a rifle from the display, then found a bayonet that fitted it.
‘There’s a load more weapons in the armoury downstairs,’ Jordan explained. ‘And ammo too, but I’m keeping the best stuff for my boys, you understand.’
‘We understand,’ said Jack wearily. ‘You’re keeping the best stuff.’
Jack hadn’t quite forgiven Jordan, but he had to admit that these weapons would be very handy.
‘These are useful too,’ said Jordan, swinging his torch beam over to the case opposite that held a selection of weapons for close-up, hand-to-hand fighting in the trenches. Clubs, knives, knuckledusters, knuckleduster knives …
Ed and Bam tried some of them. Bam picked out a sturdy wooden club that was studded with bits of metal and nails. It looked completely evil and Bam grinned, taking a few practice swings. Finally he turned to one of the dummies and caved its face in with one blow.
‘This should do the trick,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’
Matt and Archie were pressed up against one of the other cases, deep in conversation.
‘What are you after?’ Bam asked them. ‘A Holy Hand Grenade?’
‘A what?’ Archie and Matt looked confused.
‘It’s in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.’
‘Monty Python?’
‘You must have heard of Monty Python,’ said Bam, as if he was talking to a couple of idiots. ‘They were like this old comedy team? They made films and everything.’
‘No.’
‘Well … I don’t suppose you ever will see any of that now. But they were very funny.’
‘Right.’
‘So what are you looking for, then?’
‘We need a banner,’ said Archie Bishop seriously. ‘There’s a lot in the texts about banners.’
‘We will be the army of the Lamb,’ said Matt. ‘Modern crusaders marching under a banner. The pages have shown us that we are fighting a new war – we are soldiers of the Lamb.’
‘Yeah.’ Bam wasn’t really listening. He was distracted by the scab on Matt’s forehead. It was going a bit yellow and gungy round the edges and looked really horrible.
‘Did you properly clean that?’ he said, nodding towards it.
‘No. It’s the mark of the Lamb. The Lamb will heal me.’
‘It looks infected. You need to be careful.’
Matt shook his head. ‘I don’t need to worry about anything. I am being carried by the Lamb. His arms are around me.’
Matt walked on in search of a suitable banner, and Bam held Archie back.
‘Listen, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘If you’re really serious about heading off to St Paul’s, just be a bit careful, yeah? You go wandering around out there singing hymns and waving flags, you’ll attract every sicko in London.’
‘Banners not flags.’
‘Same difference,’ said Bam.
‘We’ll be all right,’ said Archie.
‘You reckon?’ Bam asked, his face creased with a frown. ‘You really believe that the Lamb’s going to protect you and all that?’
Archie shrugged. ‘I might as well believe in the Lamb as anything else, Bam. None of the old gods really helped anyone much, did they? My dad was a vicar; he got sick along with all the rest. Nothing we put our trust in before stood up to much. It’s reassuring, you know, Matt being so, well, so sure of stuff. If I stick with him, I don’t have to worry about anything else.’
‘Fair enough.’ Bam smiled.
‘Think about it, Bam,’ Archie went on. ‘You’re going to have to do something sooner or later. We’re all going to have to try and work out how we’re going to survive.’ Archie looked around the museum. ‘This is all right, I suppose, but it’s not real life. You’ve got to have a plan, or you’ll go crazy.’
‘Good point.’
‘I mean, how long are you planning to stay here?’
‘I’m trying not to think more than about twenty seconds ahead, Archie. Never have. It’s got me this far all right.’
Jack had wandered away from the others, unsatisfied. He didn’t know what he was looking for but he hadn’t seen it yet. The knife he’d picked out wasn’t enough. He wanted something that when he held it in his hand he’d feel invincible. Feel its strength and power flowing into him.
He wished there were bullets for the various pistols on display; a handgun would have been perfect. He wondered whether he could persuade Jordan to let him see what was in the armoury. But thought probably not. He’d got off to a bad start with Jordan. Misjudged him. The guy was hard and cold, but at least he was reasonable. Nothing he did was because of any twisted emotions. In a way Jack respected him. But he didn’t want to push his luck.
He wandered past the displays, impressed and appalled at man’s ingenuity, the endless ways he’d found to kill other people. He stopped and reached into a broken cabinet to pick out a Russian Second World War helmet. It fitted perfectly and he kept it on.
‘Come on, Jack. We’re going.’ Ed’s voice. ‘You got what you need?’
‘Yeah, nearly,’ Jack replied. ‘I’m coming.’
Jack headed back towards the entrance, flicking his beam from side to side, angry at himself for not choosing something, and then a flash of bright sky blue caught his eye. It was a uniform. He went over for a closer look. It was in a cabinet of outfits from another era, a time before camouflage and khaki and dull olive-green. They looked so old-fashioned they might have been worn at the battle of Waterloo, but they were from just before the First World War, when soldiers still wore brightly coloured uniforms to stand out on the battlefield and impress the enemy. They were Officers’ uniforms, covered in braid and gold buttons and fancy details.
And there, neatly displayed, a sturdy-looking naval officer’s sword. It looked to be a good length and was probably well made. Jack smashed the glass with the handle of his knife. The noise sounded like an explosion going off in the silent gloom of the gallery.
‘What was that?’ Ed’s voice again. He was probably bricking it.
‘It’s all right. It’s only me. I found something.’
Jack lifted out the sword. It was clean and gleaming, the edge still sharp. The curators at the museum had obviously looked after everything very well. He smiled. The blade was perfectly balanced in his hand, a good weight. He sliced a long curve through the air.
Perfect.
‘Jack?’
He took the scabbard and belt from the dummy torso they were fixed to and fastened them round his waist. It was a good fit. The scabbard hung well.
‘You coming, Jack?’
‘Yeah. I’m ready.’
33
It was perhaps a five-year-old child’s idea of a feast, but it was a feast all the same. Crisps and biscuits and Coke. Perhaps a five-year-old would have turned up his nose at the cans of cold sausages and beans, but to the hungry kids in the museum it was the best food they’d ever tasted.
Jack, Ed and Bam had
done a mad dash to the coach and grabbed as much food as they could carry before Ed spotted a group of sickos approaching along the road. They’d made it back without having to use any of their new weapons and were welcomed as returning heroes. The only bad moment had been when they’d spotted what they’d thought was a discarded pair of dirty trousers in the road. Ed had gone over to check them out and realized there were legs inside, with black shoes on the feet. And at the waist was a ragged tangle of guts and a stub of white spine.
It was all that was left of Piers.
They’d thought about rationing the food and trying to make it last a couple of days, but in the end they decided what the hell, they might as well scoff the lot and have a proper look for some decent food in the morning.
The Brains Trust and the girls had made an effort to tidy up the café and make it feel a little more welcoming. The tables had been wiped, the rubbish collected and they’d put candles about the place that helped to give the impression that the room was warmer than it was. Even Frédérique had perked up and joined in. It had helped her having something to do. Stopped her from sitting by herself and staring into space. She’d bustled about and chatted to the other girls and now she was sitting at a table with Jack, Ed, Bam and Brooke, and was even laughing as Brooke told a funny story about eating too much chocolate at Courtney’s tenth birthday party.
‘I puked me guts up!’ she boasted. ‘It was like a fire extinguisher going off. Kersploosh! It went everywhere. All over the cake, all over Courtney, all over Courtney’s mum, all over her presents … Sorry if I’m putting you off your dinner, Fred.’
Frédérique couldn’t stop laughing. It was a slightly hysterical, out-of-control laugh that was just a little unnerving. She’d taken a gulp of water and the puking part of the story had taken her by surprise. She was now mainly laughing at the fact that she was laughing, and choking and dribbling and about to spit water everywhere. Somehow she managed to swallow it, but that caused her to start coughing and spluttering, which made the others laugh, which made her laugh …
It hadn’t been lost on Ed that Brooke wasn’t sitting with her two girlfriends, who were at a table with the Brains Trust, enjoying playing mother for a bit with the younger kids.
Brooke had made a point of sitting right next to him, and she kept directing her conversation at him, and touching his arm and making eye contact. He found it quite flattering, but, to be honest, Brooke scared him. She was so loud and confident and unforgiving. She was one of those girls who used her friendship like a weapon, giving it and taking it away to reward or punish people.
He was just glad she was on his side for the time being. Maybe since Jordan Hordern had put him in charge she wanted to make sure she was at the top table.
Jack was making an effort with Frédérique. Trying to keep her spirits up and not let her slip back into her dark mood. But he reckoned he was fighting a losing battle. She seemed exhausted after her laughing fit, and the more Brooke talked about the past the quieter Frédérique became. Slowly the haunted look came back into her eyes and she retreated into herself.
‘Hey,’ he said when he noticed that she was crying again. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow there will be no more food and you will go and I don’t know what I will do.’
‘I’m not going to abandon anyone,’ said Jack, and he caught Ed looking at him. ‘OK? I’m not just going to leave you. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go out and we’ll find some food and, when I’m sure you’re all going to be fine, I’ll go home. But not before.’
‘OK.’ Frédérique nodded.
‘There’s nothing to be frightened of any more. Greg’s gone. We’ve got good weapons. The sickos don’t stand a chance, eh?’
Jack immediately wished he hadn’t bothered. As soon as he said the word ‘sickos’, Frédérique let out a huge sob and the floodgates opened. The crying set her off coughing again. Jack whacked her on her back.
‘Don’t talk about them,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, Fred. I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Greg is one of them now.’
‘Yeah, I guess, or else he’s dead. Good riddance, I say. He was an arsehole.’
‘But he said he would not get sick.’
‘Yeah, well, he could have said he could fly – we didn’t have to believe him, did we? He thought he could cheat nature. He couldn’t. Basically, if you’re over fourteen, forget it.’
Before Frédérique could say anything else Justin the nerd came over to their table, looking embarrassed and secretive. He tucked in behind Jack’s chair and leant over to speak quietly into his ear.
‘Can I talk to you?’ he said.
‘Yeah, of course, Just’. What’s up?’
‘Did you bring Greg’s cool box back from the bus?’
‘The cooler? Yeah. Why? You want something from it?’
‘No. Have you … Have you eaten anything out of it?’
‘Nope.’ Jack shook his head. ‘We thought we’d save it for breakfast. As a kind of treat. There’s proper food in there.’
‘Only … Don’t eat the smoked meat.’
‘Why not?’
Justin shuffled about nervously. ‘We’ve been talking …’ He glanced back at his table where the Brains Trust was watching him. ‘About something Liam said before he, you know, died … About the meat.’
‘Is there something wrong with it?’
Justin looked at the other kids sitting around the table, not sure how to say the next bit. Not sure if he should.
‘Can we talk in, you know, private?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Justin and Jack went over to the food counter where nobody could hear them. The kids in the Brains Trust were still staring at them.
‘Why all the mystery, Just’?’
‘I don’t want to, you know, upset anyone,’ said Justin. ‘That French girl seems pretty freaked out by all this. I wasn’t sure …’
Jack laughed. ‘You’re not really a nerd, are you, Justin?’
Justin looked surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A real nerd wouldn’t care about hurting anyone’s feelings.’
‘Oh, well …’ Justin blushed and Jack laughed again.
‘So, come on, then, Mr Sensitive, tell me – what’s wrong with the meat?’
‘We think it’s human meat.’
‘You what?’
‘We think Greg butchered a boy down on that farm in Kent he was always going on about. We think that’s what he was eating.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Jack looked appalled. ‘So he was already sick?’
‘In a way, maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to survive. He said the livestock on the farm got ill, so he … you know …’
Jack sighed and rubbed his eyes. Half of him wanted to laugh. The other half wanted to throw up.
‘Thanks for letting us know,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll chuck it out. Thank God we didn’t eat any of it. And you were right, mate. Let’s not tell anyone else about this. We’ll stick to our sausages and beans.’
‘Mind you,’ said Justin. ‘The crap they put in those tinned sausages, you never know what you’re eating. For all we know they’ve been putting human meat in them for years.’
‘You are still a bit of a nerd, aren’t you, Justin?’
34
The 1940s house was a full-size replica of a mock-Tudor suburban house complete with green-painted front door, sloping tiled roof, Union Jack and empty milk bottles on the doorstep. It was set up in a corner of the exhibition space to show children what life had been like during wartime when the German bombs had rained down on London. There was a little kitchen, a dining room, a living room and a couple of bedrooms, all equipped and furnished as they would have been during the Second World War. There were already a few beds in here but Jordan Hordern’s boys had dragged in some extra mattresses and sleeping bags and had lent the kids a small paraffin heater so that it was cosy and warm. They’d
lit tea lights in glass jars that gave a twinkling glow to the place and for a while all the problems of the outside world were forgotten. The kids felt safe and excited at the same time, as if they were having a giant sleepover.
There was even a Morrison shelter in one room, like a big steel cage. During the Blitz families would have slept in one of these; now it was the perfect place for Frédérique’s cat, Dior, to come out of her box and spend the night.
Lying nearby on his mattress on the floor, Ed could hear her scrabbling about. He couldn’t get to sleep. It wasn’t just the noise of the cat and the grunts and snores and gurgling bellies of the other kids. He couldn’t stop his mind from going over and over the events of the last two days.
He felt like he had failed. He could have done more. Sure, they were safe here for now, but how many friends had he lost along the way?
‘You not asleep?’
It was Jack’s voice. He was lying on a mattress on top of the Morrison shelter.
‘No,’ Ed whispered. ‘You either?’
‘No. Been looking at this poster on the wall. Wartime advice from the government. “Make Do and Mend. Save Fuel for Battle. Save Kitchen Scraps to Feed the Pigs. Don’t Waste Water. Dig for Victory. Holiday at Home. Eat Greens for Health. Keep Calm and Carry On.”’
‘Very good advice,’ said Ed. ‘Especially now.’
‘Is that where Keep Calm and Carry On comes from, then?’ Jack asked quietly.
‘I guess so. It was a wartime thing. The Blitz. Bombs falling all about.’
‘There was a real craze for that slogan recently, wasn’t there?’ said Jack. ‘People had it on posters and mugs and things.’
‘My mum gave me a T-shirt with it on last Christmas.’ Ed smiled at the memory. ‘Wish I still had it. All I had to get stressed about before was GCSEs.’
‘She didn’t give you a T-shirt that said Save Kitchen Scraps to Feed the Pigs, then?’
‘No.’ Ed smiled.
‘Do you suppose in the war, in the Blitz, people thought it would go on forever?’ Jack asked. ‘That it was the end of the world?’
‘You mean like now?’ Ed shrugged. ‘Probably a few did, but I bet most just wanted to try and carry on as if things were normal.’