‘Hold on, sunshine,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll find a ladder and come free you.’
The zombie screeches hoarsely, limited by the rope around his throat.
‘Be patient,’ I snap. ‘I won’t be long. Just give me a few minutes to go search for . . .’
I come to a stunned halt. I was turning to look for a hardware store when I spotted something, just past the corner where I cut on to this stretch. I do a double take, but when I look again it’s still there.
An artist’s easel has been set in the middle of the road, straddling a white line. A medium-sized canvas rests on it. And just behind the easel stands a man, holding a painter’s palette, gawping at me as if I’d come from another planet.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ I roar, striding towards him.
The man yelps and drops the palette. He turns and runs. I give immediate chase. He’s faster than me, but I throw myself through the air, taking long jumps, and a few seconds later I overtake him and draw to a halt, blocking his way. The man screams and turns to run back the way he’s come.
‘Don’t try it!’ I shout. ‘I don’t need to breathe, so I can chase you all day and never drop my pace.’
The man shudders, glances around desperately for a place to hide or something to defend himself with. Finding nothing, he resigns himself, straightens and turns to face me. He brushes dried flecks of paint from the sleeves of his coat and tries a shaky smile.
‘My name is Timothy Jackson,’ he squeaks, as posh as you like.
‘What are you doing here?’ I snap.
‘Painting.’ He nods at the easel and beams proudly, forgetting for a moment that he should be trembling with fear. ‘I’m an artist.’
As I stare at him, lost for words, he mistakes my gaze for one of hunger and loses his confidence as quickly as he found it. With a gulp, his arms slump by his sides and he says in a low, miserable voice, ‘Please don’t eat me.’
ELEVEN
I circle the artist warily as he stands shivering and wincing. He’s not very old, maybe early thirties. Medium height, a bit on the thin side, with a long face and dark circles round his eyes. He’s wearing yellow trousers, a pink shirt and a tweed jacket. His clothes are dirty, ruined with paint, but look like they came from a top-notch shop. He has long, untidy brown hair, but is freshly shaven, not even a hint of stubble. He stinks of strong aftershave, like he bathes in the stuff.
I squint at the canvas on which he was working. It depicts the zombie hanging from the rope. The feet look too big, out of proportion to the rest of the body, but I suspect that’s deliberate.
‘Did you stick him up there?’ I growl.
Timothy laughs nervously. ‘Hardly. I found him here a few days ago and I’ve been coming back to paint him at different times of the day, to take advantage of the changing light.’
‘He’s suffering. Zombies can’t endure the sun. He’s burnt and going blind. You never thought about letting him down?’
Timothy blinks and scratches his head. ‘To be honest, no, I didn’t. It’s not that I derive any pleasure from his pain – I feel sorry for these poor creatures – but if I’d set him free, he would have come after me and either gouged out my brain or turned me into a monster like him.’
I have to acknowledge that he’s got a point.
‘I’ll let you off this time,’ I sniff.
‘If it’s not impudent of me,’ Timothy murmurs, eyes round and filled with curiosity, ‘what on earth are you? I thought you were one of the undead when I first saw you, but then you spoke.’
‘I’m a revitalised,’ I tell him. ‘A zombie who regained its thoughts.’
‘That’s possible?’ he gasps.
‘In some cases, yeah.’
‘Does that mean there’s a cure for the rest of them?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t think so.’
Although, now that I consider it, maybe it does. Perhaps a serum could be fashioned from my blood, one that could restore thought to all of the living dead. If I get rescued on Wednesday, I’ll suggest that to the soldiers. I don’t mind being a guinea pig, not if I can help bring peace to the world. Hell, maybe I’ll end up being hailed as a hero. B Smith — saviour of mankind!
‘Enough about me,’ I grunt. ‘What the hell is an artist doing in the middle of the road in a city overrun by zombies?’
‘Capturing the apocalypse for the sake of posterity,’ he beams. ‘I’ve been doing this every day since London fell. Well, not for the first couple of weeks – it was too dangerous to venture out – but I’ve not missed a day since.’
‘And you haven’t been attacked in all that time?’ I ask sceptically.
‘Of course I have,’ he chuckles. ‘I’ve had to race for my life more times than I can count. There are tricks I’ve learnt to employ which help ward off interest – I don’t come out if it’s cloudy, I douse myself in strong cologne to mask my scent, I make as little noise as possible – but I get spotted and chased two or three times a day on average.’
I frown. ‘How come you haven’t been caught yet?’
‘A healthy mix of skill and luck,’ he says, then pauses. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Of course. I’m B Smith.’
‘And you’re not going to eat me, are you, B?’
‘Nah. You don’t look that tasty,’ I laugh.
‘You won’t snap suddenly, lose your mind and turn on me?’ he presses.
‘No.’
‘You’re a good zombie?’
I smile. ‘I probably wouldn’t go that far. But I’m not a killer.’
Timothy mulls that over, then nods to himself. ‘In that case, do you mind if we head back to my place? I don’t like talking out here in the open. Sounds carry and zombies have a keen sense of hearing.’
‘Where do you live?’ I ask.
‘Close by. I never venture too far from my studio. Come, we can chat on the way, and I’d love to show you my work. Are you interested in art at all?’
‘Not really,’ I mutter and his face falls. ‘But if it’s drawings of zombies and the city, I definitely want to have a look.’
Timothy’s smile returns full force. ‘Excellent!’ Picking up his easel and palette, he heads down Bethnal Green Road, whistling jauntily, strutting like a peacock.
TWELVE
Timothy looks like a man without a care in the world, but I note the way he casts careful glances at the buildings on either side, keeping an eye out for zombies. He’s not as reckless as he appears, although his very presence here proves that he’s something of a daredevil.
He comes to the turn for Brick Lane and pauses. ‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he says, nodding at the street which used to contain London’s most famous string of curry houses.
‘We’re not going for an Indian, are we?’ I joke.
‘Actually I’ve made use of the restaurants quite a lot,’ he says seriously. ‘I ran out of fresh food long ago, but the freezers are still working in many places. I can rustle you up an amazing chicken madras if you’re hungry.’
‘I’m a zombie,’ I remind him. ‘I only eat brains.’
He considers that. ‘If you supplied the brains, I could probably do something with them. Mix them up in a korma perhaps.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a nutjob, Jackson?’
‘Only Mother, Father, my teachers and friends.’ He sighs. ‘But they’re all dead or eaten now, so I guess I had the last laugh. All joking aside, I love to cook, so if you want . . .’
‘Thanks for the offer, but cooking might rob the brains of the nutrients I need. As far as I know, they have to be raw.’
That’s nonsense, but it satisfies Timothy and spares me the job of telling him I’d rather eat straight from a corpse’s head than risk one of his dishes.
Timothy starts walking again but doesn’t turn into Brick Lane.
‘I thought you said we were going that way.’
‘We are,’ he nods, ‘but my studio is about halfw
ay down. It’s a narrow, dark street. I’ve boarded up most of the buildings close to mine, but zombies could be lurking somewhere along the way. I always go down the main road and cut in from there. You have to be careful if you want to survive around here.’
At the end of Bethnal Green Road we cut left on to Commercial Street.
‘I adored the markets around here,’ Timothy says. ‘I often came over on a Sunday and spent the entire day milling around, sketching people, buying things I didn’t need, sampling the many local varieties of fine cuisine.’
‘Fine cuisine?’ I snort. ‘Bagels and curry?’
‘Oh, there was much more than that,’ Timothy insists. ‘Pies and falafel and jellied eels for instance.’
‘You ate jellied eels?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he blinks.
‘I didn’t have you pegged for the jellied eels sort. My gran loved them, and my dad and his mates tucked into them sometimes, but I mean, come on, they were disgusting. Cold, bony bits of eel wrapped up in slimy jelly — you wouldn’t feed that mess to a dog.’
‘It was authentic East London,’ Timothy protests.
‘I’m authentic East London,’ I tell him, ‘and I wouldn’t touch jellied eels with a bargepole.’
‘Well, to each their own,’ he says with a shrug.
We turn into a street lined with beautiful old houses. It feeds into Brick Lane and we come to a huge building, the old Truman Brewery. Timothy looks around to make sure no one – no thing – is watching, then fishes a key out of a pocket and hurries to a large, steel door. He opens it quickly and slips inside. I get an uneasy feeling – maybe this is a trap and I’m not the first revitalised he’s lured back – but then I recall his yellow trousers and chuckle weakly. What sort of a bad guy would wear yellow pants?
Maybe it’s just because I’m lonely, but I decide to trust my new-found friend. Putting my doubts behind me, I step into the gloom of the building and try not to show any signs of unease as Timothy gently swings the oversized door shut and cuts us off from the outside world.
THIRTEEN
Timothy throws a switch and lights flicker on all over the place. We’re in a spacious room, the sort you might find in a warehouse. The windows have all been boarded over to keep in the light and keep out the zombies.
‘Most of that was done before I came,’ Timothy says, nodding at the planks nailed over the glass. ‘There were five other people sheltering here then, including a security guard who was on duty when the zombies attacked.’
‘What happened to them?’ I ask.
‘Two were captured by zombies over the following weeks. The others decided to make a break for freedom. The last I saw of them, they were heading for the river to search for a boat.’
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
He looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘I told you, I’m a painter. I stayed behind to paint.’
Timothy leads me up a short set of stairs and into an even larger room. There are canvases everywhere, most of them blank, along with brushes, tins of paint, easels and all sorts of artistic bits and bobs.
‘I loved the East End art scene,’ Timothy says as we stride through the room. ‘It felt natural that I come here once London fell. I originally meant to make camp in an ordinary house, but when I strolled up Brick Lane and realised this amazing space was occupied by humans and secure, I knew it was fate.’
We climb another set of stairs and come to a massive room. The windows have been boarded over here too, though some cracks have been left between the planks to let light through.
‘Why the boards?’ I ask. ‘Surely you don’t need them this high up.’
Timothy squints at me. ‘Are you sure you’re a zombie?’
I point to the hole in my chest.
‘Good answer. But then why do you know so little about your kind?’
‘I was locked up,’ I tell him. ‘I only broke free a few weeks ago and I’ve laid low most nights since then.’
‘Well,’ Timothy chuckles, ‘the good news is that if you like climbing, you’re in for a treat. Those bones sticking out of your fingers are extraordinarily durable. They’ll dig into wood, brick, all sorts of substances. Determined zombies can scale the walls of old buildings like this.’
The room is crammed with canvases, but unlike those downstairs, these have been worked on. A few are hanging, but most stand on the floor, propped against the walls. In some places they’re stacked twelve deep.
‘When I first moved in, I thought I’d have all the space I’d ever need,’ Timothy says as we slowly circle the room, studying the paintings. ‘But I didn’t anticipate my muse calling to me so strongly. As you can see, I’ve been prolific.’
The paintings are dark, ominous, creepy, full of zombies, corpses, deserted streets, spooky sunsets. Even though I’m no art expert, they instantly give me a sense of pain, suffering and loss. It’s like stepping into a gallery of Hell.
‘Do you like them?’ Timothy asks, chewing a nail, trying to act as if he doesn’t care about my answer.
‘They’re unbelievable,’ I sigh and his face lights up.
‘They are rather good, aren’t they?’ he chirps, picking up one of the canvases and beaming at it. It’s a painting of a young girl, her head cracked open, brains spilling on to the pavement, face smeared with blood. But the way he gazes at it, it could be a painting of a bunch of flowers.
‘To be honest, I was never the most skilled of artists,’ Timothy admits. ‘But then the zombies rose up, everyone fled or was killed, I was left here virtually alone, and something changed. It was like I woke up one morning with a new gift.’
Timothy sets down the painting and moves on, looking at the canvases in much the same way that a zombie looks at human skulls.
‘We’re living in tragic, terrible times. I believe that I’ve been spared and given extra talent so that I can document the troubles. A higher force guides me, empowers me, protects me when I’m on the streets. I shouldn’t have survived this long. The fact that I have . . .’
He falls silent and stares at the dark paintings. I can see that they mean everything to him.
‘Do you believe in God?’ Timothy asks me.
I shuffle uneasily. ‘I dunno. I don’t not believe, but I’m not sure.’
‘I used to be uncertain too,’ he says, then waves an arm around at the atrocities captured on the canvases. ‘But who else could have done this to the world? Only the Almighty could have judged mankind and razed it to the ground in such brute, total fashion.
‘I don’t know why a loving God would do this to us,’ he whispers. ‘But if I keep on painting, and study that which I’ve created for long enough, I think I can find out.’
He steps up to one of the paintings, carefully lays his fingers on it and says softly, ‘This isn’t really the work of Timothy Jackson. These were fashioned by the hand of God.’
FOURTEEN
I think Timothy’s a nutter, but I say nothing. If he wants to believe that God is working through him, I don’t mind. As long as he doesn’t try to convert me, he can believe whatever the hell he likes.
Timothy shows me round the rest of the building. His sleeping quarters are basic, just blankets and pillows laid on the floor in one corner of a small room. He has a larder full of canned goods and bottles of water, some wine and champagne too. Several small freezers full of bread, meat and other perishables.
He keeps a radio, but only turns it on once or twice a week to catch up with any major breaking news.
‘My greatest worry is that they’ll bomb London,’ he says. ‘There was talk of it in the early days. Zombies are everywhere, but they’re especially prevalent in the big cities. According to some reporters, the army chiefs discussed levelling the likes of London and New York. Wiser heads prevailed, but if the rumours are to be believed, the suggestion is still on the table. If they ever go ahead with that, I want to get my paintings out of here. I don’t mind if I get blown to pieces, but if the world lost my
work, it would be an absolute tragedy.’
As impressive as the paintings are, I don’t think their loss could be classed as a global disaster. But I don’t share that opinion with Timothy.
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ I ask as we sit in the main room and Timothy tucks into a corned beef sandwich.
‘Why should I?’ he counters, nodding at the paintings. ‘I have those for company. I work all the time when I’m awake and I only sleep for five, maybe six, hours at night. Although I must admit I’ve often felt exposed. It’s dangerous for me out there on the streets, no one to help if I run into trouble. Maybe that’s why you’ve been sent to me.’
‘What do you mean?’ I frown.
He smiles crookedly. ‘I don’t think we met by coincidence. It was fate. God wants you to become my bodyguard, to ensure my work can continue.’
As I stare at him, his smile widens. ‘You can stay with me. I’ll share all that I have, help you find brains, be company for you. We’ll be a team, Jackson and Smith, doing the work of the Lord. Neither one of us need ever be alone again.’
That sounds both tempting and creepy at the same time.
‘Did you have a partner before all this?’ I ask, to change the subject.
He nods, his smile fading. ‘Alan. He was a sculptor. He could create the most lifelike hands.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He became one of them,’ Timothy says emotionlessly. ‘I went looking for him in his studio, but he’d already been infected. He chased me. Almost killed me. I had to fight for my life. I managed to drive one of his chisels through his head.’
Timothy lays down his sandwich and stares ahead at nothing.
‘That was when I created my first painting,’ he says softly. ‘I mixed Alan’s blood with the paint, careful to don gloves before touching it. I painted him as he was, lying there, teeth bared in a death snarl, the handle of the chisel sticking out of his skull. I wept as I painted, knowing it was beautiful, yet hating it at the same time. Part of me – the part that loves, cherishes, cares – died that day. It was a part that needed to die. It would have got in the way of my work.’