The Future of London Box Set

by Mark Gillespie

  Chapter 28

  Walker and Barboza stood in the middle of Stanmore Road. They were looking towards the northern horizon, at a large plume of smoke rising towards the stratosphere, seemingly in slow motion. They’d heard the explosions. One large blast, followed by several smaller ones. At first they’d feared that the soldiers were coming back to finish the job, to erase any signs that Mr Apocalypse and Cristiane Barboza had ever existed.

  But it wasn’t for them, at least not this time.

  Walker pulled his dad’s rucksack over his shoulder. The small bag felt heavier than it looked, especially while he was outside, his skin cooking under the intense heat of the sun. Their bags were crammed with essentials, which consisted primarily of large plastic bottles of water and enough food to last them at least a few days on the road. Walker had brought the axe with the curved handle along too, which felt reassuring in his grip. The blade of the axe was still smeared with a dark red coating.

  Walker turned his face away from the rising smoke in the north. He began to consider the long road that lay ahead of them.

  “Where will we go?” Barboza asked, standing beside him.

  “South,” he said. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

  Barboza’s eyes looked sore and heavy, like every last drop of energy had been squeezed out of her. Walker knew that it was going to take a long time for her to get over what she’d just done. Maybe she’d never get over it. He knew so little about her.

  “South?” she said. “You know what’s down there don’t you?”

  “The Hole,” Walker said. “You were telling the truth about that?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Walker squeezed the handle of the axe. The tendons in his arms stood out like taut cords. He’d come to a decision, or rather that decision had been forced upon him – he could no longer afford to be afraid of the world beyond Stanmore Road. Fear could no longer be the emotion that dictated his life. But what would he do? Where was he supposed to go? He had no desire to wander aimlessly across the city of London – at least not without a reason. Not without a purpose.

  He turned back to the smoke plume in the north, still climbing above the outskirts of London. It reminded him of similar smoke plumes he’d seen during the 2011 riots.

  “Hatchet,” he said.

  “What?” Barboza said.

  “I wonder where he is now,” Walker said. “I wonder who he is now.”

  Barboza shrugged. “The guy who killed Chester George?” she said. “He’s probably dead. He could have been dead for nine years for all we know.”

  “True,” Walker said. “But I know someone that can help us figure that out.”

  “Who?” Barboza said.

  “Michael King.”

  “Michael King?”

  “Aye,” Walker said. He turned back to her, using the back of his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Didn’t you say he was based in Liverpool Street Station? That he was the top man in the north these days?”

  “Yeah,” Barboza said. She sounded a little out of it as she spoke – like someone trying to recall the details of something she once half-dreamed. “I think so.”

  Walker nodded slowly. “Michael King was the last person to see Hatchet at Piccadilly that day. At least that I know of. I figure he’d be able to tell me what happened next. Hell, he might have killed Hatchet there and then. But I’d like to know for sure.”

  Barboza sighed. “But why?” she said.

  “I’d like to catch up with an old friend,” Walker said.

  “But you told me you didn’t like each other,” Barboza said. “Even back before he did what he did, right?”

  Walker took a step closer to her. “Look,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You proved yourself back there – in the garden I mean. All the lies you told me before don’t mean a thing against what you did. But we got lucky – the army made a mistake and left two boys to kill us. Those boys weren’t ready. But I don’t think we’re going to get that lucky in London. I don’t know what’s out there and neither do you. Maybe you should stick around, talk to them when they come back – tell them it was me. Tell them I killed both soldiers. You can still go home and see your family.”

  Barboza closed her eyes, as if the thought of her family was too much to bear.

  “They already know I killed that soldier,” she said. “They were watching. They are watching. I don’t have a choice Walker. I’m coming with you.”

  Walker let his hand drop from her shoulder. Despite everything that had happened, he smiled.

  “What do I call you?” he said. “Sharon?”

  She shook her head.

  “Barboza,” she said. “In London, I’m Barboza. Besides, it sounds cooler than Sharon, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely,” he said.

  With that, Walker took one last look at Stanmore Road. He said a silent farewell to the house – to his sanctuary, the place that had protected him for nine long years. As he took the first step on the journey south, his eyes went back and forth across the old neighbourhood, still hoping for one last glimpse of Alba’s white fur poking its way out of the tall grass.

  The End

  Ghosts of London (Book 3)

  Chapter 1

  Walker felt like he was sinking into the hot surface of the road.

  He hadn’t walked that far yet, but the solid base underneath was now a sudden quicksand. It felt like the city had a mouth and that it was slowly devouring him.

  He stopped in front of a road sign, thankful for the excuse to rest.

  Walker’s eyes scanned the details of the sign, looking up and down at yesteryear’s place names and at the numbers beside them. Walker tried to make sense of it, to figure out where the hell they were and how they could get to somewhere else. As he did so, he heard Barboza catching up with him. She was walking in slow motion too, wading through the same quicksand.

  Walker adjusted the black t-shirt that was wrapped around his shaved head to keep the sun off. He tightened the knot that he’d made using the two arms of the hot, soaking garment. And thank God for it. The early afternoon sunlight was vicious; it was pushing down on his head and elsewhere, his arms were getting red and prickly.

  “So where are we?” Barboza asked, stopping beside him. “Any ideas?”

  Walker shrugged.

  “You know London better than I do,” he said. “Does any of this make sense?”

  “Not sure,” she said.

  As Barboza looked at the sign, she pulled at the blue sleeveless t-shirt that was sticking to her body. Walker looked at her and for the first time, noticed a small, dark stain at the waist of the shirt. It was a bloodstain – a grisly reminder of what had just happened back on Stanmore Road.

  He wondered if she’d noticed yet.

  “It says here we’re on the A105,” Barboza said. “So we’re probably not much further than Harringay.” She sighed. “We haven’t made much progress have we? Feels like we’ve been walking for ages.”

  “It’s hot,” Walker said.

  Barboza pushed several damp strands of black hair off her face, tucking it behind the ears on both sides.

  “It’s five miles to the city centre,” she said. “So it’s about the same to Liverpool Street Station. We’re five miles away Walker, give or take a little.”

  Walker nodded. Five miles. It was a long way, and with the hot sun on their backs it would feel even longer. And that wasn’t all they were carrying with them on the journey. They were still burdened by the weight of what had just happened on Stanmore Road.

  Walker glanced at the bloodstain on Barboza’s t-shirt. The killing of the two soldiers was fresh in his mind and it was coming with them, no matter how many miles they put between themselves and the place where it happened.

  Barboza had been quiet since leaving Stanmore Road. Once or twice, Walker had tried to distract her by saying something – anything – but she wasn’t interested.

  Walker didn’t mind the
silence. He wasn’t much of a talker anyway, having spent the last nine years living on his own without any interaction with other people. Besides, trivial conversation was a distraction they could ill afford. He wanted to keep his attention on the road because God knows what might be creeping up on them from behind. But he was surprised that – so far at least – the streets were empty. Where was everyone in this godforsaken city? He was experiencing that same desolate feeling that he’d felt on his regular excursions to the New River to pick up his Drop Parcel. It was the same but different. So many things, while clearly neglected, looked intact. There were the houses with their overgrown gardens, the abandoned cars sitting on the side of the road – there was still some hint of civilisation in these forgotten things.

  But there were no people.

  The birds were still singing. The bright chitter-chatter coming from the skies was as incessant as it had always been. It was ceaseless and thank God. What sort of world would it be without birdsong?

  Walker and Barboza continued walking south along the A105.

  “Are you okay?” Walker asked Barboza. He still felt the need to check in with her occasionally.

  “I’m alright,” she said. “You?”

  “Aye,” Walker said. “I’m boiling but you can’t stop the sun being a cruel prick. And where the hell is everyone? I expected to see someone by now. Didn’t you? I thought it’d be safer for people to move around the city by day.”

  “We haven’t been walking that long,” Barboza said. “And besides, we don’t really want to bump into anyone, remember? Not in this place.”

  “But it’s too quiet,” Walker said. “Gives me the creeps.”

  Barboza shrugged. “Who knows?” she said. “Maybe they’re sleeping through the heat.”

  “Aye,” Walker said.

  “I’ll take the creepy silence,” Barboza said. “We’ve still got a good two hours walk ahead of us. Let’s just hope the rest of it is as uneventful.”

  Walker pulled the rucksack off his shoulder and unzipped it at the front.

  “You want some water?” he asked.

  “No I’m good.”

  Walker took out a small plastic bottle. He unscrewed the lid and tossed the cool liquid down his throat. A few drops dribbled down his chin and he wiped them off with the back of his hand. He was careful not to drink too much in case he put a serious dent in their water supply. That one bottle was supposed to be enough to get him to Liverpool Street Station. He didn’t want to have to ask Barboza for any of her water, even though she wasn’t drinking as much as she should have been.

  As Walker drank, Barboza looked at the black t-shirt that he was wearing and at the other one wrapped around his head.

  “You know black’s not the best colour to wear in the sun, right?” she said.

  “Aye,” he said, screwing the lid back on the bottle. “I know that.”

  “What is it with you and black?” she said. “You’ve been wearing a black t-shirt ever since I met you.”

  “Not the same one,” Walker said. As if that made a difference. “I have three. There’s an extra one in the bag. I’ll put the fresh one on when we get there. Hey, is it sad that I’m actually looking forward to that? To putting on dry clothes.”

  “A bit,” she said, almost smiling. “But why black?”

  “I don’t have much choice,” Walker said. His fingers probed at the knots on the improvised headgear, checking for any signs that it was coming loose. “My dad’s taste in clothes was shocking to say the least. Come to think of it, I’m sure he had at least two bright orange shirts hanging in the wardrobe in their bedroom. When the other soldiers come back to the house, they’re welcome to them.”

  Walker smiled, lost in the memory of his dad’s wardrobe. And how he and his mum had cringed at some of the things the old man had come back with after a clothes-buying binge. It was like he was deliberately trying to shock them. Or maybe he was just trying to make them laugh.

  Archie Walker.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Some of the clothes he bought. I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing them, not even in a shithole like this. But you can’t go wrong with a black t-shirt Barboza. Nice and…”

  Barboza’s arm landed on his chest with a thud.

  “Walker,” she said. As she spoke, she kept her hand pinned against his chest.

  Her voice was trembling.

  Walker looked at Barboza. Her eyes were focused on something on the road, something that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

  There was a man. And he was watching them.

  The man was standing on the faded white lines that divided the road into traffic lanes. Along with the shock of seeing the man, Walker couldn’t believe how overdressed he was in this heat. The man was wearing a long, brown leather coat, over an elegant, matching suit that looked unwrinkled and brand new. The leather coat stretched far beyond the man’s knees, down towards a pair of suede brown shoes. A dark fedora hat sat on his head, pulled low so that the eyes were as good as hidden. Walker couldn’t see any hair spilling out of the hat onto the man’s ivory white neck.

  The stranger in the middle of the road stood perfectly still. From a distance, he was a human scarecrow, warning strangers about the dangers of travelling further south.

  “You feel better now?” Barboza said. “We’re not alone anymore.”

  Walker ran his index finger along the curved blade of the axe in his hand. The axe hadn’t left his hand since they’d departed Stanmore Road. The tip was still coated in the young soldier’s blood, although the stain was drying fast, turning into a dark red smear that would be hard to wash off.

  “Who’s that?” Walker asked. “And why’s he just standing there in the middle of the road like that? It’s like he’s been expecting us.”

  Barboza shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “What do we do?”

  “He obviously wants something.” Walker said. “Let’s go see what he wants.”

  They approached the man cautiously. Walker felt his axe hand trembling and he struggled to keep it under control. What were they walking into here? He had to be ready to explode into action if things went south quickly. Had they been so stupid as to think they could get away with murder? Of course it wasn’t murder. It was self-defence, but who would care?

  Certainly not the man in the hat.

  As they got closer, Walker noticed that the man was smiling at them. He was probably about fifty years old, maybe even a little older. His teeth were a dazzling white. Walker could see two microscopic slits peering out at them from underneath a small pair of round lens glasses. Those tiny eyes didn’t blink.

  “Greetings my young assassins,” the man said. He spoke in a high-pitched, nasally voice. If Walker had been talking to this guy on a phone, he would have sworn that the speaker was pinching his nose as he talked.

  Walker and Barboza stopped about five metres away from the man.

  “Well,” said the man in the hat, rubbing his hands together. “Here we are.”

  “We?” Barboza asked. “Who’s that then?”

  “It’s been quite a day,” the man in the hat said. “So much has happened and it’s barely even lunchtime.”

  He laughed, as if some private joke was contained within his words.

  “Who are you?” Walker said.

  “My young friends,” the man said. “I represent the SKAM television network. And in particular – their flagship operation – the Future of London channel.”

  He looked at Walker and winked – a slow, repulsive manoeuvre.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” he said. “Don’t you Mr Apocalypse?”

  Walker shook his head. “Do I?” he said. “And what do you know? Sounds like you don’t even know my real name.”

  The man in the hat kept grinning.

  “I know that Sharon Freeman – the actress we employed to take part in a romantic narrative with you – has told you everything. I’ve seen the footage. The general public hasn’t
, but I have.”

  Barboza took a step closer to the man. Walker saw that both her hands were curled up into tightly clenched fists. “Fuck you,” she said. “And fuck your Future of London friends. Bunch of evil bastards, that’s what you are.”

  The stranger’s grin slowly faded. “As you wish, Sharon. But you were the one who was supposed to be doing the fucking, remember?” The man in the hat pointed at Walker. “You were supposed to fuck him.”

  “I remember,” Barboza said. “And I’m glad I didn’t do it. I’m not the network’s whore after all, eh?”

  The stranger gave a curt nod.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “You are both wanted for the murders of two corporals in His Majesty’s Armed Forces. Two boys, twenty-one years old and nineteen years old – brutally murdered at your hands earlier today.”

  He pointed at Walker’s axe. “I imagine you want to use that on me.”

  Walker didn’t answer.

  “Two boys?” Barboza said. Her voice was cracking with rage or fear, or both. “Boys that were there to kill us. Sent in by your people, right? Walker and I know the truth about this city and that’s a very dangerous thing for you. Of course you want us dead.”