The Future of London Box Set

by Mark Gillespie

  Walker kept the axe ready at his side.

  Michael King pressed the button for the first floor. Then he stepped away from the panel and nobody spoke as the elevator hummed upwards.

  It was a short ride to the first floor.

  The elevator doors slid open and Michael King led them out into a carpeted hallway. Walker and Barboza followed him down a narrow corridor, past the doors of numerous hotel rooms. About a minute later, they stopped outside a large pair of double doors at the end of another corridor. It looked like someone had used a catapult to launch a barrage of white paint cans at the doors. The paint had run down the wall, creating a chaotic, splattered effect that reached the floor. The Bedlamites had at some point, painted something over this sloppy white background – three words printed in bold letters, using red paint:

  ‘THE SPOILS OF BATTLE’

  Walker and Barboza kept their distance.

  “What’s going on?” Walker said. He pointed his axe towards the doors. “What’s in there?”

  Michael King turned around.

  “Don’t worry my friends,” he said. “I assure you, you are in no danger here. There is something behind these doors that you should see – something you deserve to see as friends of Chester George. This is my favourite room in the entire hotel – my favourite room in the world. This is the Masonic Temple, otherwise known as the Grecian Temple when the hotel was up and running. This room is special. For years nobody knew it existed and it was only discovered by accident during a restoration when engineers noticed a few discrepancies with the blueprints. They found a forgotten chamber – a Masonic Temple, built in 1912. Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “How do you know all that stuff?” Barboza asked.

  Michael King laughed. “Travel books mostly,” he said. “Hotel guidebooks that I found in the remains of book shops and newsagents. I was curious about our new home and wanted to find out more about where we’d be living. Like if the hotel was haunted or not.”

  He laughed again, and still Walker felt uneasy.

  “It’s not important now,” he said. “Are you ready to go inside?”

  Michael King didn’t wait for an answer. He turned around and with both hands, pulled the double doors open.

  Walker and Barboza came forward, stepping inside the old Masonic Temple. Upon first glance, the room itself took Walker’s breath away. It was indeed something special – a jewel of neoclassical luxury. It must have been an incredible moment when it was discovered again. The room looked like something out of a fantasy novel; the sort of place where a king or queen might easily be sitting on a golden throne and not look out of place. The checkerboard floor and pale walls were constructed of marble, as were the numerous columns that ran along the circumference of the room. There was a long, rectangular shaped space in the middle where Walker imagined the old Mason’s table had once been. There were all sorts of other remarkable things: an organ, hand-carved chairs, and silver and bronze candelabras with clawed feet at the base. One of the most striking things of all was a blue and gold dome on the ceiling, displaying a five-pointed ‘blazed star’.

  But as lavish and eye-catching as it was, the Temple’s fancy decor wasn’t the most remarkable thing on display. Walker looked up at the ceiling and at last, he saw what they had been brought there to see.

  He almost dropped his axe on the marble floor.

  Barboza gasped.

  “What the hell?” Walker said, looking up at the ceiling.

  There was a wooden cage. It was suspended from the ceiling, hanging on by a bronze chain that was connected to a steel hook fastened onto the centre of the blue and gold dome. It was like a giant birdcage, no more than six feet tall and three feet in width.

  There was a woman inside the cage.

  She was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties or early sixties, but it was hard to tell from so far away. Her hair was lank and long, falling all the way down her back. It was so dirty and dull that it was almost colourless. The woman’s skin was greasy and covered in black grime; it looked like she’d been there, unwashed and untended for a long time.

  The woman didn’t acknowledge their entrance. She was sitting down with her back pressed up against the bars of the cage. Walker saw the thousand-yard stare on her face – her eyes blank and unfocused, pointing at the wall or something else on the other side of the room.

  A thickset Bedlamite stood guard at the back of the room. He was dressed in black biker leathers and as the visitors entered the Masonic Temple, Walker spotted his eyes briefly looking their way and then returning back out front.

  “What the fuck is this?” Walker said.

  “The spoils of battle,” Michael King said, looking up towards the cage.

  “Who is she?” Barboza said, her voice little more than a whisper. Her eyes were wide open, puzzled and frightened.

  “She’s the grand prize,” Michael King said. “Look Walker. Don’t you recognise her?”

  Michael King was grinning, but his eyes were ablaze with contempt.

  “You must remember Sadie Hobbs,” he said.

  Walker looked up at the dishevelled shape that was trapped behind the wooden bars. He felt his jaw drop open.

  “I remember,” he said.

  Sadie Hobbs. The woman who’d fought against Chester George and The Good and Honest Citizens in 2011. At the height of the London riots, she’d written anti-Chester George articles in newspapers, rallied against him on social media, and appeared several times on television speaking out against him.

  And she’d been there that day. Piccadilly. Sadie Hobbs had marched into Central London with thousands of followers, gathering on the outskirts of Piccadilly Circus. She’d stood at the head of her people, who were being contained by the armed forces and police. That was the last Walker had ever heard of Sadie Hobbs.

  Until now.

  “How did you find her?” Walker said.

  “It took a while,” Michael King said. “She was a real slippery little snake. But I was always looking for her. Always. Somehow I knew that she’d survived the sinking ship – I just knew it. Eventually I pinned her down in the old West End. We got word out and she was flushed out of a lovely little house in Chelsea with some of her friends.”

  “How long has she been here?” Barboza asked.

  “Five years now,” Michael said. “My Sadie. She’s my most treasured possession in the entire world. This is Hell for her you know – living alone in a cage like that. Nobody sees her, nobody hears her but us. Her thoughts and opinions don’t mean shit anymore. All that attention and everything she used to feed off? She gets none of it. She’s my little pet, and she only ever gets out to eat, piss and shit on my say-so. And that’s how it’s going to be right up until the day she drops off her perch for good.”

  Barboza’s hand was cupped over her mouth.

  “How can you do this to someone?” she said. “To anyone? Put them in a cage for five or six years!”

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Michael King said. “And it sends out a message to all the other gangs in Bedlam. To all the people who would try and hurt me or take what I have. It shows them that there’s nothing I won’t do to hurt my enemy.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Walker said, tearing his eyes away from the cage. “It’s time to go.”

  “Your supplies should be ready by now,” Michael King said. He didn’t even look at Walker as he spoke. He was still staring up at the cage, his eyes gleaming with twisted joy. “They’ll be waiting for you at the main entrance.”

  Michael King raised his hand, like he was waving goodbye.

  “You guys take off,” he said. “I’m going to stay here for a little longer. You’ll come back Walker, I hope. And tell me about Hatchet’s slow and painful death.”

  At last, Michael King turned to Walker.

  “Of course,” he said. “You could always bring him to me alive. Let me take care of him for you. And for Chester.”

  But Walker didn’t respond. He tu
rned around, as did Barboza, and they both hurried out the door of the Temple, back out into the hallway. But they didn’t stop or slow down there. They kept going until they’d reached the elevator further down the corridor. Walker – who was finding it hard to breathe – hit the button but when it didn’t ping right away, he decided to take the stairs instead.

  They ran down the stairs, rushing through the lobby. Nobody looked over their shoulder on the way out.

  Barboza eventually stopped outside the hotel door. She turned around and stared at Walker, leaning onto the wall for support. She looked like she was about to throw up all over the pavement.

  “Jesus,” she said, gasping for breath. “What was that?”

  Walker seized her gently by the arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Was he deliberately trying to frighten us?” Barboza said, ignoring Walker’s question. “Or was he actually bragging to us about having a woman trapped in a cage, hanging from the roof of his hotel?”

  “Listen Barboza,” Walker said. Now it was his turn to ignore a question. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay here after all. You know?”

  But there was a defiant look in Barboza’s eye.

  “I’m staying,” she said. “But I’m staying for Charlie, not Michael King or the fucking Bedlamites. I don’t give a shit about any of them, not if they know what he’s got up there in that hotel. His prize.”

  “Are you sure?” Walker said.

  “Maybe I can help her,” Barboza said, glancing towards the upper floors of the hotel. “It’s worth a try.”

  Walker shook his head. “You saw the look in his eyes,” he said. “The best thing you can do for Sadie Hobbs is to put her out of her misery. But if you do that, you might be the one taking her place. Leave it alone Barboza.”

  “No Walker,” she said, still with that defiant look in her eyes. “I don’t think I can.”

  Ten minutes later, Walker and Barboza were standing on Bishopsgate. After coming out of the hotel and going back into Station to pick up his supplies, Walker had come out with a change of clothes, consisting of a fresh black t-shirt and a pair of khaki hiking trousers that were a lot more comfortable to walk in than his dad’s old jeans. A large sports bag was draped over his shoulder, carrying enough supplies to get him over the Thames and into the Hole.

  His axe was hanging by his side, as always.

  Barboza was standing in front of him. She was smiling, but Walker thought he saw a hint of sadness in her dark brown eyes.

  “You’re going to make me a promise Walker,” she said.

  “Am I?” he said.

  “Yeah. You’re going to promise to come back to me. Can you do that?”

  Walker tried to think of the right thing to say. Something reassuring, that wasn’t an outright lie. “I’ll try,” he said. “I promise that much.”

  He extended his hand towards her. He’d thought about pulling her into an embrace – that’s what he wanted to do – but something inside was holding him back. How long had he known Barboza? Had it even been a week yet? The weird thing was that after Alba, his feline companion on Stanmore Road, Barboza was the closest thing to family he’d had over the past nine years.

  It was a sobering thought.

  She took his hand and they shook.

  “You be careful,” he said to her. “I’m not so sure you’re staying with the good guys after all. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Hey, what if you’re the only good guy left in London?”

  Walker broke off the handshake.

  “I killed a rogue last week Barboza,” she said. “And I can’t even remember what the filthy bastard looked like. Yesterday I killed a soldier in my mum and dad’s house – I stuck the axe in him like he was a chunk of firewood. Like he was nothing. His face is disappearing too. Does that sound like a good guy to you?”

  Barboza looked away. “I’ll never forget the face of the one I killed,” she said.

  “I know,” Walker said. “And that’s why you’re staying here.”

  Barboza smiled. She leaned forward and stole a kiss on Walker’s cheek. Like her handshake, the kiss was warm and soft against his skin. Then she turned back towards Station and walked over to the entrance like she was in a hurry to be gone.

  “Remember your promise Walker,” she called back to him. “Come back to me.”

  He watched her disappear through the entrance of the old Liverpool Street Station, leaving him standing alone on the sun-drenched road.

  “Aye,” he said.

  The End

  Sleeping Giants (Book 4)

  “Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.”

  Paul Gauguin

  Chapter 1

  It was a hard winter morning in the ruins of London.

  Walker stood in silence in the empty playground. He kept his chin up in defiance of the icy sensation that was currently shooting up and down his body like a runaway pinball. He heard the voice in the back of his head – the flimsy, pleading one that would see him yield to easy temptation and go back to bed. And once there, then what? He would hide under the warm blankets and he wouldn’t move again, not until this monstrosity of a winter had passed him by. Not until the first hint of spring had returned, bringing warmth and colour back to the freezing, dungeon city.

  But Walker ignored that voice.

  He’d be okay after he’d warmed up a little and got the blood flowing. With axe in hand, he moved his feet, bouncing up and down on the concrete, circling the invisible opponent in front of him like he was shadowboxing. He moved to his right, extending the axe towards his imaginary opponent’s left. And he was always thinking. How long in an average fight would he have to figure out whether his opponent was naturally right-handed or southpaw? Five seconds? Three? If his opponent turned out to be a southpaw, he’d have to make a quick adjustment and circle the other way, towards his left, onto their weaker side.

  Details. They would keep him alive.

  Walker shivered, like he was having a sudden fit. He blew a gust of hot breath onto the reddening fingers of his right hand, which were locked around the curved wooden handle of the axe.

  Silently, he cursed the morning and its cruelty. The long hot summer nights of earlier that year were a distant dream. At that moment, the touch of the sun had never felt so far from his skin.

  Walker looked across the playground towards the building that he called home, at least for now. It had once been the St Thomas Becket Catholic Primary School – an unspectacular building made up of a two-storey block of brown brick. The playground that Walker now stood in had once been a concrete basketball court. On either side, both nets were still in place, fixed to long metal poles that had once been painted blue. The white markings on the court were still visible.

  Across the street, the dark outline of a long row of houses stood silent. It was likely that the families who’d once lived in those buildings had sent their children to this same school.

  But that was a long time ago.

  The sound of footsteps interrupted Walker’s thoughts.

  He turned back towards the school.

  A man was approaching him. He was of medium height and build, similar to Walker, and his stride was slow and purposeful. There was a loud crunching noise as the man’s feet landed on the slippery concrete that sparkled with morning frost. His long black hair trailed behind him as he strode with the swagger of a rock star making his way onto the stage at a music festival. He was dressed in the same black, cloak-length coat as Walker. This Gothic style coat, which featured a large hood at the back of the neck, trailed down to his knees where it met a pair of tight black jeans, which ran down to a pair of matching-coloured boots.

  The man carried a short sword in his right hand. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, which lit up his pale brown, oriental features.

  He stopped a few feet away from Walker, bowing his head.

  “Good morning Walker,” he said, the breath blowing out of his mouth in a light mist. “You
beat me again. It looks like I have my work cut out trying to be the first one out here in the mornings.”

  “Good morning Kojiro,” Walker said, bowing his head in return.

  Zander Kojiro stood with his chin raised high in the air. He was a well-spoken man who obviously came from a privileged background. To Walker, he sounded like a former private schoolboy, someone from the outside who’d dropped into this grotesque version of London to talk to the inhabitants and offer them some financial advice.

  Kojiro was a few years older than Walker – about thirty – and he was by far the most impressive member of the low-ranking gang that Walker had recently taken up with in the Hole. The Sleeping Giants were based out of Croydon, although nobody referred to it by that name anymore. It was just another part of the Hole.

  “Why do you keep getting up so early?” Kojiro asked.

  “I’m a self-improver,” Walker said. “Like you.”

  Kojiro smiled, as if the answer pleased him. He turned away from Walker and began to move his body, stretching his limbs out in a variety of rigorous poses to make himself more flexible. He was bouncing on his feet like a man who couldn’t wait to get going. With sword still in hand, Kojiro pushed out twenty full squats. Then he stepped back, his face glowing in the half-light of dawn.

  He pointed the sword at Walker.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  Walker glanced at the silver blade that was coming after him. It was a double-edged, single-handed sword – a thing of ancient beauty that would have been a fitting weapon for a great swordsman in any period of history. The leaf-shaped blade was made of iron and was no more than fifty centimetres in length. The hilt was also made of iron. The other six members of the Sleeping Giants all carried the same weapon, which Kojiro had picked up from an anonymous supplier.

  “It’s a xiphos,” Kojiro said, observing Walker’s interest. “Ancient Greek. This is a replica of course, but it’s a high-quality replica.”