“I saw one of them yesterday,” he said. “A rogue I mean – by the New River. He was wearing a suit just like the one outside your house tonight.”
“What happened?” Barboza said.
“He jumped me,” Walker said. “I had to kill him.”
Barboza smiled. “Good job,” she said. “So that’s what happened to number five. The motherfucker.”
“Aye.”
She drank slowly from her second glass of water.
“Anyway you’ve read my story,” she said. “What’s yours? And how come you know so little about what’s going on out there in London?”
Walker winced. Alba never asked him this many questions, even when he imagined that she could speak like another human being.
“2020,” he said. “Is that right? Is that what year it is?”
“For sure,” she said. “I count every single day in a journal. I put a tiny little ink notch on the paper for each day. You know – like you see prisoners do on the wall of their cells in the movies. It’s the first thing I do in the morning. It’s a one-year journal from 2011 but I’ve managed to make it last for nine years by doing it that way. I even know the exact date, I think.”
Walker listened in fascination. “What is it?” he asked.
She smiled. “It’s the 7th July,” she said. “And today is a Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” he said. It had been a long time since he’d put a name to any of the long days and nights. And yet still, it was somehow good to know.
“So what’s your story?” Barboza said. “Or are you deliberately avoiding the question?” She ran a hand through her jet-black hair. It was gleaming with sweat in the candlelight.
“I exist,” Walker said. “That’s about all there is to tell.”
Barboza looked at him. She rolled her eyes, unsatisfied with the response.
“Have you been here since Piccadilly?” she said.
Walker gave her a curt nod.
“You didn’t try and make a run for it?”
“I came here first,” Walker said. “To look for my parents.”
She nodded and then put her glass on the floor. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
“And did you find them? Your parents?”
He hesitated. “They were gone.”
“But where were you?” Barboza asked.
Walker took another sip of water. “I was at Piccadilly.”
Barboza’s jaw dropped. “You were there? September 2011?”
He nodded.
“You know I’ve never seen the M25,” he said. “And I only live about ten miles below it. When it happened in 2011, I heard people talking about an emergency barrier going up around London. Rumours, I thought. Something to contain the violence temporarily – to keep it in check. I doubt everybody tried to get out of London because they thought it was only going to be a short-term thing. It’d be gone in a week once everything had calmed down – that’s what they were saying I bet. That’s what my parents were probably thinking. That’s why I don’t think they went north after it happened. I think they came looking for me because they knew where I was. They must have been worried sick.”
Barboza leaned forward. “You saw it happen? Chester George?”
“I had front row seats,” Walker said.
Her eyes were wide with excitement. “Who killed him? Was it the government?”
“It was one person, acting alone.”
At that moment, Alba walked into the living room. The little white cat stopped in the middle of the floor, sat down and gave Barboza the hard stare.
Walker smiled. “You’re sitting in her spot.”
Barboza shifted along the couch. “I’m sorry kitty,” she said, tapping the edge of the leather armrest. “You wanna come up?”
Alba just sat there, ignoring her. She looked at Barboza for another ten seconds before swaggering back out of the living room. Walker heard the light tapping of her footsteps on the stairs, the gentle rhythmic thud, and knew that he’d find her asleep on his bed later.
“She’s your cat?” Barboza asked.
“I’m her human,” Walker said.
“You were saying? About Chester George. It was one person that killed him?”
“Aye,” Walker said. “It was.”
“I’d like to know who it was,” Barboza said. “Is that okay?”
Walker sighed.
“He was waiting on the memorial fountain,” he said. “You remember? That was where Chester George gave his final speech. As soon as Chester George started talking about Phase Three – and that’s what everyone was waiting to hear – that’s when the killer ran up the stairs and shot him, once in the head.”
“Who?” Barboza asked. “Who was it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Walker said. “It wasn’t the government. And it wasn’t anybody from the other side, Sadie Hobbs, all that lot. Chester George was killed by a nobody.”
“You knew him?” Barboza said. “The killer?”
Walker nodded, feeling ashamed at the connection. This was the first time he’d ever spoken about it, although it was always there – a whisper at the back of his mind, taunting him.
“They called him Hatchet,” he said. “He was the friend of a guy that I’d just met. I was new to London in 2011.”
Barboza gasped softly. “So this Hatchet was a friend of yours?”
Walker shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “We hung around together for a few days. There were four of us. He didn’t like me and I didn’t like him, and that’s putting it mildly. Guess my instincts were right in the end, eh? This mess, everything. It’s down to that motherfucker. There’s rarely a day goes by when I don’t wish a slow and painful death upon him, wherever he is.”
“Yeah,” Barboza said. “Hey. Did you know that there are people in London who think that Chester George is alive? They walk the streets of the city looking for him. They’re convinced that he’s alive and hiding out somewhere. They think he’s the only one who can save them from all this – that by initiating Phase Three he can change things. Bring down the superwalls and start the revolution all over again.”
Walker shook his head. “I saw his head explode,” he said.
Barboza fell back into the soft leather couch.
“You wouldn’t recognise the city now,” she said. “South London is the worst of it. God. Most people call it The Hole. You’ve got murder, rape, cannibalism and all kinds of things going on down there. I’m talking about a real post-apocalyptic wasteland man – everything burned to shit.”
“What about the rest of the city?” Walker said.
“There are four zones,” she said. “The Hole is the South. The East and West are smaller, not really important and there are less people, but the North is the safest place to be. I don’t know - I suppose there are only two zones that matter. North and South. You did the right thing by staying here Walker. At least up here they’ve got someone who keeps all the gangs under control.”
Walker sat forward, sliding towards the edge of his seat. “Up here?”
Barboza nodded. “Michael King. He was a friend of Chester George back in 2011.”
Walker almost smiled. It had been a long time since he’d heard that name. He remembered a tall, wiry black man speaking eloquently on television and defending the rioters of 2011. Most of all, he recalled seeing Michael King at Piccadilly that day – before and after the killing of Chester George. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one back then.
“Where is he?” Walker asked.
“His organisation is based out of Liverpool Street Station,” Barboza said. “Close to the river. That way they can deal with the raids that come out of The Hole. You get all sorts of shit man – rogues crossing the river, sometimes try to swarm into the north. Sometimes the gangs try their luck breaking into northern territory. There’s constant tension between North and South London. Don’t get me wrong, Michael King and the gangs aren’t perfect by a l
ong shot, but they’re a lot better than the filth that crawls out of The Hole.”
Walker stood up and went over to the window. Pulling the curtains back an inch, he peered outside onto the darkness of Stanmore Road. His meagre existence living alone on the streets of North London seemed smaller now. Much smaller.
“It’s sick,” he said, looking north. “Why don’t they just send a cloud of poisonous gas over the city? Put us out of our misery?”
Barboza shrugged. “Beats me Walker.”
Walker kept his eyes on the street. Waiting for something.
“You know Hatchet tried to kill me,” Walker said. “Right after he killed Chester George. He probably knew that I’d seen him do it. It didn’t matter – he hated me anyway and why not get me out of the way at the same time? Who’d notice another dead teenager with all the shit that was going on that day?”
He let go of the curtain, turned around and looked at Barboza.
“He held the gun to my face,” Walker said. “It was almost touching me. He was smiling because he knew that I was about to die.”
“Jesus,” Barboza said.
“He pulled the trigger,” Walker said. “But the gun was empty. He must have shot his way off the fountain and lost track of how many bullets he’d used up. It was Michael King who ran over and jumped Hatchet after that. I saw them crashing to the ground together. Fighting. And that was the last I saw of either one of them. There were so many people going crazy. So much noise, you wouldn’t believe it if you weren’t there. I had to get out of there. It took me a couple of days before I got back to North London, but eventually I came here. And I’ve never left since.”
Walker closed his eyes.
“You should get some sleep,” he said to Barboza.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s a good idea.”
He walked over to the door. “I’ll make up the spare bed. Everything’s clean. I keep the sheets sealed up in a bag, you know?”
Barboza’s eyes were already closing and she might have missed that last part. Still, she managed a brief smile before pushing herself up off the couch. She walked towards him, offering her outstretched hand.
“Obrigado Walker,” she said. “Thank you for saving my life.”
Chapter 12
Walker slept with both eyes open that night.
He could hear her in the house. She kept getting up and moving about – in his house. It was the sound of another person’s footsteps downstairs. Jesus Christ, it was unnerving. She must have been dehydrated because he heard her running the tap in the kitchen at least ten times. She didn’t hold back with the water either – he could hear it gushing out and it felt like the house was vibrating under the pressure.
Walker lay on top of the sheets, his skin soaked with perspiration. Another hot night and yet Alba was curled into a ball, sleeping soundly at the bottom of the bed like she always did.
He thought about getting up. Talk to her – was that the right thing to do? No, he thought. It was probably best to back off and give her some space. She needed time to process the last couple of days and all the crazy shit that happened to her. And to appreciate the fact that she was still alive – if being alive was still something to be appreciated.
After some time, he heard Barboza coming back upstairs. Her footsteps came creeping along the hallway and as they did so, his hands reached for the kitchen knife that he kept on the bedside table. But she continued to walk quietly past his door. The floorboards creaked. The bedroom door opened and closed again and he could hear her climbing into bed.
Walker breathed a sigh of relief. But he kept the knife close and went back to staring at the ceiling.
He dozed on and off until sunrise. Mostly off. Eventually he got up and did some push-ups on the bedroom floor, hoping that the exercise would rejuvenate him a little. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his face and body, and brushed his teeth. After getting dressed in a pair of jeans and black t-shirt, he crept downstairs towards the front door, stopping into the kitchen for some water.
While he was in there, he checked the apples from the last supply drop and noticed hints of brown mould on the skin of the fruit.
“Shit,” he said.
He had to get a fridge sorted. It was getting so hot both inside and outside that the fruit was bound to go off sooner. And it wasn’t just the apples that were the problem. The wafer thin meat slices were beginning to reek a little.
“Damn it.”
He took one of the sickly looking apples into the front garden. Walking down the path, he sat on the kerb and lifted his face towards the morning sun. Another clear blue sky. Another hot one. How long had it been since the last rainfall?
He chewed nonchalantly on the apple, which tasted faintly of chemicals.
No wonder people are eating one another.
He heard movement behind him from the house. A moment later, Barboza opened the front door and he listened as her footsteps – the same footsteps he’d spent most of the night listening to – came walking down the garden path towards where he sat on the kerb.
“Good morning Walker,” she said.
“Morning,” Walker said, turning around.
He almost gasped out loud.
Barboza was wearing a fresh white vest top, like the one she’d worn yesterday. But to Walker’s surprise, only her underwear was covering her modesty from the waist down. He could feel his eyes being pulled towards her body like a magnet. It had been so long since he’d been around a woman of any sorts, let alone such an attractive one who went around half-naked. And she was impressive too – her brown thighs were thick and solid, and her calves muscular. She had the legs of a professional athlete, and he recalled reading something about martial arts in her letter.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, turning quickly back towards the street.
“It’s all good,” she said. “I was a little restless last night.”
Barboza laughed.
“Can you believe it – I even thought about going back to my house at one point,” she said. “I wanted to find those rogue bastards. What do you think? Between the two of us we could wipe the floor with them, no? That’s what they deserve.”
Walker shook his head. “I’d just as soon never see them again.”
“Well I hope I see them,” she said. “I want them to know what it feels like to be hunted for a change. Those chickenshit bastards.”
Walker put the apple down on the pavement, half-eaten.
“That’s what you were doing last night?” he said. “Plotting revenge against the rogues?”
“I was just thinking,” she said. “About everything you were telling me too – about Piccadilly and the murder of Chester George. About this Hatchet guy.”
She sat down beside him on the kerb. They were so close that their bodies were almost touching. Walker sat up straight. Was it just his imagination or was she flirting with him? Maybe she was just lonely. Maybe he was thinking too much.
“Can I get you something to eat?” he said quickly. “There’s not much but I could make you a passable sandwich. There are a couple of ready meals in there too. The microwave is old but it works.”
He looked at the apple on the pavement and shoved it away with the flat of his shoe. It rolled slowly towards the middle of the road before coming to a gradual stop.
“Don’t eat the fruit,” he said. “It’s minging.”
She turned towards him and smiled. Her brown eyes were soft. Her teeth were in good shape too – pearl white, small and perfectly straight. She’d obviously taken care of herself in the past nine years.
Walker felt himself blushing and looked away.
“Take anything you want,” he said. “From the kitchen I mean. Help yourself.”
“Obrigado Walker,” she said. “But I’m not hungry yet. I’m still thirsty though – can’t seem to quench my thirst.”
“Yeah I heard you last night. You sounded thirsty.”
“I’m sorry Walker,” Barboza s
aid. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He shook his head. “It’s too hot to sleep anyway.”
“You’re from Scotland?” she said. “Aren’t you?”
He felt Barboza edging closer to him on the kerb.
Walker kept his focus on the street and on the houses opposite. “What gave it away?” he said. “Was it my pale blue skin?”
She laughed and slapped him gently on the knee. He almost yelped.
“It was your accent dummy,” she said. “I knew some Scottish people at university.” Barboza sighed and closed her eyes, as if remembering the past. Revisiting old faces and places – Walker had done the same thing many times.
“I always liked Scottish people,” Barboza said. “But I never got the chance to go there. It was always on my list you know?”
“There’s some history between the two nations of Scotland and Brazil,” Walker said. “Football history at least. You know, the English are always quick to claim they invented football and that they spread it worldwide and all that. But it was us – the Scots who took the game to Brazil. A man called Thomas Donohoe, a Glaswegian, organised the first football game in Rio in 1894. And then Charlie Miller, whose dad was a Scot, came along and he organised a team and set up the first football league in Brazil. So there you go, you learn something new every day.”
Barboza raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t know that.”
“I memorised it,” Walker said. “When I moved to England in 2011, I was going to wipe the floor with all the English kids who said otherwise. That was bound to win me some friends in the playground, eh?”
She laughed again.
Walker felt dizzy, as if he’d just waken up in a strange room after being drugged by rhinoceros tranquilisers. She was sitting too close. He hadn’t been this close to another person in a long time. She might as well have been smothering him with a pillow.
“Well I’d better crack on,” he said, getting to his feet. “Things to do, eh?”
“Things to do?” she said, looking up at him. She was shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “What is there to do in the world anymore? Have you got a job waiting somewhere?”
The Future of London Box Set Page 29