The Future of London Box Set

by Mark Gillespie

  “Back to the good guys,” Walker repeated.

  “And then what do we do?” Barboza said. “You and me.”

  Walker shrugged. “We go south,” he said. “The plan remains the same.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “But that’s where they came from,” Barboza said. “You still want to go down there? After everything you saw last night?”

  Walker scratched his chin, his fingernails working through the coarse stubble.

  “Nothing’s changed,” he said.

  Barboza looked at him. Occasional pockets of bronze skin shone through the dirt that clung to her face.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Hatchet did this,” Walker said. “He did all of it. He made the Ghosts, the rogues, the M25 and everything else in this city. He killed Charlie’s mum, he locked you up in here with us, and he stole my parents from me. He destroyed Sumo Dave too – the person I knew. He has to pay for it all. He has to.”

  Walker looked at her.

  “It’s not your fight though,” he said. “You can stay here, you know that. In Bedlam.”

  “Sure I can,” Barboza whispered. “I’m the one who ruined your life. You were forced out of your home because of what I pretended to be. What kind of person would I be if I ditched you on the side of the road?”

  “The smart kind,” Walker said. “It wasn’t you who forced me out of my home.”

  “Maybe,” Barboza said. “Maybe not.”

  “Is there any water?” Walker asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “There’s a sink in that little house on the left.”

  Barboza pointed towards a small Georgian style house that was neatly tucked into the side of the large courtyard.

  “We ran the tap and the water’s still good,” she said. “I think people have been stopping here, you know? Using this place like a hotel.”

  “Aye,” Walker said. “Just like us.”

  “How you feeling anyway?” she asked. “No broken bones?”

  Walker slowly got back to his feet.

  “No broken bones,” he said, starting towards the house.

  Charlie stood up at the same time as Walker. Just as Walker felt older than his years that morning, Charlie looked like he’d abandoned the last pretence of childhood overnight. Walker saw a hardness forming in the boy’s eyes. It would be the same for all other children behind the M25, who would be forced into premature adulthood.

  “I want to go home,” he said.

  Charlie walked towards the gate. He didn’t bother to check if Walker or Barboza were following.

  They travelled south, towards Station.

  Throughout the short journey, they kept to a steady if sluggish pace. All around them, the city was asleep and they were creeping past, trying not to wake her.

  There was no one lingering on the street corners, no scratching man, and no man in the hat. The screeching tires and revving engines of the meat wagons were gone.

  It was about fifteen minutes before they were back on Bishopsgate.

  Just before they arrived at Station, a small convoy of five leather-clad riders rode out on Harley Davidsons to greet them. The motorbikes came roaring down the road in single file and as they came closer, the leader of the pack lifted his hand in the air, signalling something to the riders behind him.

  The leader pulled into the side of the road. Upon seeing the signal, the bikers did likewise.

  The leader – instantly recognisable as Fat Joseph – dismounted his bike and hurried over to the returning trio. There was a huge grin on his face. Behind Fat Joseph, Rhonda and some of the others remained sitting on their bikes at kerbside, but watching events with interest. Walker even thought he saw a glimmer of relief in Rhonda’s eyes.

  “What the bloody hell?” Fat Joseph called over to them. “You’re alive?”

  But when he got closer, Fat Joseph looked over their shoulders. He was quite clearly searching for the other person who’d been due to return with Charlie last night. Walker saw dismay creeping into the big man’s eyes.

  “Carol?” Fat Joseph said.

  For a moment, nobody spoke. It was Charlie who broke the silence in the end.

  “She’s gone,” he said. That was all he had to say.

  Fat Joseph looked at the boy. His bottom lip trembled slightly and although he looked like he wanted to speak, he couldn’t get the words out.

  “We were trapped in Bunhill Fields,” Barboza said. “We got split up from one another trying to get away from them, but the Ghosts caught up with Carol and Charlie. She gave herself up so that Charlie would have a chance of getting away. Walker and I found him and after that, we took refuge in Wesley’s Chapel across the street. But it was too late to do anything for Carol. They were already gone.”

  Fat Joseph lifted a massive, chubby-fingered hand and he put it on Charlie’s shoulder.

  “C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you lot back to Station.”

  It was only a few minutes walk back to the old Liverpool Street Station. The bikes led the way, cruising down the middle of a road. Walker, Barboza and Charlie followed at the rear. Upon arrival, Fat Joseph and the others parked their bikes on Bishopsgate. Then they led Walker, Barboza and Charlie through the entrance of Station and downstairs onto the concourse.

  Station was packed with people, more so than the day before. These were the north Londoners who had taken up Michael King’s offer of refuge. There were people everywhere – lying on mats, sleeping bags, coats and anything else that might have passed for a bed. He saw entire families huddled up together, and others sitting at the plastic tables and chairs, talking in small groups over light refreshments. It reminded Walker of photographs that he’d seen years ago in school – black and white images of people sitting on the platform of the London underground, which had been turned into temporary air raid shelters during World War Two.

  Fat Joseph walked along the pathway that cut through the middle of Station. Many of the Bedlamites saw Charlie and cried out in delight. Others rushed over and embraced the boy as if he’d been gone for weeks. Walker saw them – every one of them – looking for Carol and he saw the heartbreak in their eyes, just like he’d seen it with Fat Joseph.

  But nobody said anything.

  There were smiles and handshakes aplenty for Walker and Barboza. But Walker knew and no doubt Barboza did too, that they’d failed in their task. They’d brought Charlie back safely but at the cost of another life. Walker felt dizzy with all the attention. Despite being exhausted, all he wanted to do was get out of Station and get back on the road.

  By now, Fat Joseph had caught up with Michael King. After a brief discussion further along the path, Michael King approached Walker and the others.

  “Thank God,” he said, grabbing Walker by the hand and shaking it warmly. He did the same with Barboza. “You’re okay.”

  “Carol’s dead,” Charlie said, looking up at the Bedlamite leader.

  “Yes,” Michael King said, kneeling down beside the boy. “Joseph told me she died saving your life. As your guardian, Carol would take great pride in knowing that she’d kept you from harm. Nobody will ever forget her Charlie. I promise.”

  “We’re sorry,” Barboza said. “There was nothing we could do.”

  Michael King gave Charlie a playful tap on the arm. Then he stood up straight, his leather trousers squeaking as they stretched.

  “There’s no need to apologise my friends,” he said to Barboza. “I know what it’s like out there when the Ghosts pay us a visit. You did what you have to do to survive. Carol would have understood that better than most and she knew the risks when she decided to accompany you to Old Street. Isn’t that right Joseph?”

  Fat Joseph sighed. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” Michael King asked.

  “A little,” Walker said.

  “The hotel next door is at your disposal. Sleep, eat, recover. We’ll bring you food, drink – whatever y
ou need. You brought Charlie back to us and we’re in your debt.”

  “Thanks,” Walker said. “We’ll take you up on the offer of some food. But we should be heading south while it’s still quiet out there.”

  “Are you sure?” Michael King said. “You’re more than welcome to stay here in Station for as long as you want. Both of you. I mean it, we’re in your debt.”

  “But it was my fault Charlie ran off,” Barboza said.

  “You were only trying to be kind to a broken-hearted little boy,” Michael King said. “Nobody should be punished for that. Right Charlie?”

  Charlie nodded. By now, the boy’s eyes were almost shut. It looked like he was he was dead on his feet.

  “Come on little man,” Fat Joseph said, putting his shovel-like hands on Charlie’s shoulders. “Let’s get you cleaned up and get some food into you, yeah? Then you can sleep all day in the hotel.” He looked at Walker and Barboza. “We’ll be down there in the old chemist. Right hand side off the path. Come down if you change your mind about leaving. We’ll get you some food and a room next door like Michael says.”

  Walker nodded. “Thanks Joseph.”

  “Cheers,” Barboza said.

  They watched as Fat Joseph led Charlie away. A moment later however, Charlie stopped and turned around. He looked back towards his new companions.

  “Barboza?” he called out. “Walker. Are you coming with me?”

  Barboza smiled, giving him a brief thumbs-up.

  “See you in a bit,” she said. “Go with Joseph.”

  The boy seemed satisfied. He grinned before being led away again by Fat Joseph.

  Michael King watched them go.

  “I hope Carol is dead,” he said. There was no emotion in his voice. “The other possibilities don’t bear thinking about. Tell me something my friends – was she alive when they took her?”

  Barboza nodded. “She was.”

  Michael King cursed quietly to himself. Then he shook his head and smiled.

  “I cannot thank you enough for bringing Charlie back to us,” he said. “He’s a good boy.”

  “You’re welcome,” Barboza said. “It was the least we could do.”

  Barboza looked at Walker. There was a strained look in her eyes, and he had the feeling she wanted to tell him something.

  “Can you give us a moment please?” she said, turning to Michael King. “I just want to have a quick word with Walker.”

  Michael King nodded. “Of course,” he said.

  The Bedlamite retreated to an old shop space about ten feet back. No sooner had he arrived there than at least six or seven asylum seekers rushed over, eager to talk with him about something.

  Barboza turned back to Walker. He was surprised and a little embarrassed when she lifted his hand into her own.

  “I’m going to stay here,” she said. “I’m going to stay with Charlie – I think he needs me more than you do.”

  Walker’s heart sank a little at the news, even though deep down he’d been expecting it. And regardless of his feelings, it was the right thing to do. He’d seen the close bond that had developed between Barboza and Charlie in such a short space of time. Carol was gone, and there was an important role that needed to be filled.

  It would get her off the streets too, away from the killing. Maybe she needed that most of all.

  “Aye,” Walker said, looking her straight in the eye. “I thought you might say that, sooner or later.”

  “I’m sorry Walker,” she said. “I’m letting you down aren’t I? I’m bailing out on you to stay here with the good guys. To stay safe. Guess that makes me a coward and disloyal, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re a good soul Barboza,” Walker said. “You don’t belong out there.”

  “It’s too real,” Barboza said. “Soldiers and gangs trying to kill me. I’m just an actress for God’s sake – not even that good an actress, not really. I came here to work, not to die.”

  “Not that good an actress?” Walker said. “You could have fooled me. You did fool me.”

  She smiled.

  “When you’re outside the M25,” she said. “When you see London on TV every day and you know it’s horrible, but it’s okay ’cos it’s not your problem. It’s okay because you can switch the TV off if it all gets a little too real. You can close the laptop and put your phone in your pocket and forget about it. Until next time. And if you do that, London goes away. But it’s not going away, not now. Not ever. I killed a man yesterday Walker.”

  Walker gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be fine here,” he said. “Stay.”

  “But I owe you,” Barboza said.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Walker said. “Remember? Hatchet owes me – he’s the only one who does.”

  He let go of her hand. Then he looked over towards Michael King, who was being hounded by the asylum seekers. Walker caught his eye immediately. The Bedlamite winked at him, then said a few words, excusing himself to the people around him.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Walker said. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Oh,” Michael King said, smiling. “My fan club? They just want to say thank you for letting them stay here last night. So they say it, over and over again.”

  He turned around and waved at the asylum seekers, all of who waved back.

  “Look if it’s still okay,” Barboza said. “I’d like to take you up on your offer of staying here. I’d like to help Charlie, now that…well you know? He needs a guardian and we get on really well.”

  Michael King smiled as he offered an outstretched hand.

  Barboza shook it.

  “Charlie’s very fond of you,” Michael King said. “I can see it in his eyes. But what about your trip to the Hole? What about Hatchet?”

  “I’ll go on alone,” Walker said.

  “Supplies are being prepared for you my friend,” Michael King said, turning to Walker. “Food, water, clean clothes and other things you might find useful.”

  “Thanks,” Walker said. “I’ll be heading off then.”

  “Yes of course,” Michael King said. “But it’ll take a short while to get these things together and to bring them down onto the concourse. We have ten minutes to spare at least. And that’s good. Because there’s something that I’d like you to see before you go. Something that you deserve to see, considering what you’ve been through.”

  Michael King looked at Barboza. “You should see this too, especially if you’re going to be living here with us. ”

  Walker and Barboza exchanged confused glances.

  “What is it?” Walker said. “What’s this thing?”

  Michael King smiled and it left Walker feeling uneasy.

  “Come this way,” Michael King said, gesturing towards the other end of the station. “Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.”

  Chapter 21

  Michael King led them down the concourse.

  They walked past hundreds of people, lying or sitting scattered around the old shops on either side of the station. At the end of the concourse, Michael King took a sharp right, passing an old WH Smith that temporarily housed about fifty people, half of them sitting on the floor playing cards, using marbles instead of money prizes.

  They travelled down a set of stairs, underneath a large sign that said ‘Way Out’. At the bottom of the stairs, a long corridor led them to one of the station’s other exits.

  They stepped into the morning sunlight.

  Walker saw they were on a small side street, about a minute’s walk off Bishopsgate.

  Michael King hadn’t spoken during their short journey through Station. Now he led them back towards the main road, specifically to a massive red brick Victorian building that stood next to the train station. The lower section of the building was notably different than the rest of its red exterior – it was pale, stucco and stone with a design that looked classically inspired.

  “Is this the hotel?” Walker asked. “Your hot
el?”

  “The same,” Michael King said. It was a relief to hear him speak again after such a long silence. “This my friends, is casa de Bedlamites. If you like, think of Station as the office and this old place as home. Well, that’s how I see it. C’mon, follow me.”

  They walked inside the building. Walker was immediately struck by the elegance of the interior and how well it had been preserved despite the passage of time. It was like stepping into a hip temple of serenity – something apart from the disaster that had befallen the rest of the city. It was clean and everything looked to be in order – so much so that Walker might very well have been setting foot inside a functional hotel beyond the M25. The lobby itself was quirky and stylish. There didn’t seem to be any reception desk located in the foyer, just a variety of different items of trendy furniture – brown leather sofas, multi-coloured tables with stools. It looked like the perfect place for lounging.

  But Michael King was in a hurry. He marched straight through the lobby, leading Walker and Barboza towards an elevator further inside the building.

  “This was originally the Great Eastern Hotel,” he said. “It opened back in 1884 and it was also built over the old Bethlem madhouse. In more recent times, the hotel was known as the Andaz – this was just a few years before the London riots took place. There are exactly 267 rooms in our hotel. We fit several people into most rooms although some of us – myself included – have a room to ourselves. A little reward we allow ourselves for the extra responsibilities we take on.”

  “And the lift still works?” Walker said. He was looking at the silver elevator doors up ahead.

  “Yeah it does,” Michael King said. “The Bedlamites are fortunate enough to have a lot of skilled people in our midst. We still have a few of ’em who understand things like electrical motors, braking system, cables – and who can ensure our safety in using such old-school technological wonders. Nothing to be afraid of here.”

  Michael King pushed the round button on the wall with the arrow pointing upwards. Then he turned back to look at Walker and Barboza, a wicked smile on his lips. Moments later, the elevator pinged and the doors slid silently open. Walker felt increasingly uncomfortable but he followed Barboza, who stepped inside the lift behind Michael King.