The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London)

by Mark Gillespie

  He was in Liverpool Street Station.

  A woman was screaming – she was somewhere out there on the concourse. It sounded like it was coming from the front entrance of Station, the one near Bishopsgate. Why was she screaming? What was happening? There didn’t seem to be anything unusual going on outside the little shop space that they were staying in.

  Barboza was standing at the entrance, looking further along the concourse.

  “What’s happening?” Walker asked. His voice sounded thick and groggy, like an old punch-drunk prizefighter.

  “Dunno,” she said, not taking her eyes off the concourse. “There’s a crowd gathering down at the front of the station. Somebody’s hysterical but I can’t see who it is.”

  Walker glanced up at the arched windows. He squinted his eyes as sunlight poured into the station through the elegant windowpanes. So it was still daylight outside, but then again it was summer and the days were long.

  “How long were we asleep?” Walker asked.

  “Not that long,” she said. “It’s late afternoon or early evening at most.

  “Aye,” Walker said. “It’s not as warm as it was.”

  “I think we should go down there,” she said. “Whatever’s going on, maybe we can help.”

  Walker shook his head. “It’s none of our business Barboza,” he said. “We’re just passing through, remember?”

  “Yeah I remember,” Barboza said. “But they’ve given us a place to stay for the night. They’ve also given us food and drink. I think we ought to show a little concern.”

  But Walker had already dropped back down onto the blankets.

  “Or we’d just be getting in the way,” he said.

  But Barboza didn’t move. Walker looked at her, shaking his head. He felt a genuine concern for Barboza and her prospects inside the M25. She had a sensitive heart and somewhere down the road it was going to choke the life out of her. Or rather the city would be the one doing the choking and her heart wouldn’t be able to stand up to it. She’d already blown her cover as an actress because she couldn’t stand to deceive Walker. Now she was telling him that defending her life against the soldiers that morning was murder. Bullshit. Walker considered it an act of self-preservation.

  Walker looked at her. She was wearing clean clothes now, which had been provided for her after their arrival at Station. That meant at least she’d been able to get rid of the bloodstain on the other t-shirt. Now she was dressed in a simple white t-shirt and a pair of tattered, bell-bottom blue jeans that fit perfectly. Her long black hair was bone dry and hung loose over her back.

  “Get up Walker,” she said. “Oh shit, you need to get over here. Fast.”

  Walker heard the panic in her voice. He threw the blankets off and rushed back to his feet.

  “What?” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Look,” Barboza said, pointing towards the stairs near the station entrance.

  Walker looked down the concourse. A large group of people – perhaps fifty or sixty were huddled close together. Elsewhere, the other Bedlamites were nearby, standing at shop fronts or further back on the pathway. Like Walker and Barboza, they were all watching the drama unfolding before their eyes with some concern. Walker noticed too that there were more people in Station now than when they’d first arrived – like it had been filling up while he’d slept.

  “What is it?” Walker said. “What’s everyone looking at down there?”

  “It’s Carol,” Barboza said. Her voice was shaking. “Don’t you see Carol? She’s standing in the middle of that crowd down there. She’s the one who’s been crying.”

  Walker saw Michael King, standing in the thick of the crowd. He had an arm around Carol, who was standing next to him. She had her face buried in her hands, like she’d just been given the worst news of her life. Michael King was talking to the people in the crowd, trying to deal with the situation – whatever it was. Fat Joseph was there too, doing likewise. It was hard to hear anything that was being said clearly. It was just a bunch of loud voices, all talking over one another.

  Barboza grabbed hold of Walker’s arm and dragged him towards the concourse.

  “What are you doing?” Walker said.

  “We’re going down there,” she said.

  He didn’t resist.

  “Charlie’s foster mum is crying her eyes out,” Barboza said. “Do you see Charlie anywhere? They were going out for a walk, remember?”

  They hurried by a flock of onlookers, none of who paid them any attention as they moved towards the front of the station. Walker saw the large group of people down there getting bigger and he had the feeling that he was walking towards the scene of a tragedy. Like he was closing in on the site of a plane crash, one still freshly ablaze.

  They hovered on the outskirts of the large crowd. It was hard to breathe because the air was still a little muggy in the station. But Barboza wasn’t satisfied waiting there on the fringes of the crowd. Walker groaned as he watched her squeezing her way through the crowds, battling towards the centre. She no longer seemed to care whether he was following her or not.

  Walker groaned. Then he started squeezing his way through the crowd too, working towards the eye of the storm.

  Michael King still had an arm locked around Carol’s shoulder. Walker took a closer look at the woman who’d been introduced to them earlier as Charlie’s guardian. Her eyes were sore and red and it looked like she’d been crying for a long time. Michael King whispered something into her ear. Walker saw Carol shake her head, her chest rising and falling as she took quick, shallow gulps of air.

  “What is it?” Barboza asked. She was yelling through the crowd, as if demanding to be heard above all the others. “Has something happened to Charlie?”

  Carol looked at Barboza and then buried her face in her hands again. Michael King pulled her close, allowing her to rest her head on his neck.

  “It’s okay,” he said to Carol. “It’s okay.”

  “What’s happened?” Barboza said. “Please tell me.”

  “It’s Charlie,” Michael King said looking at Barboza. As the Bedlamite spoke, Walker came up slowly behind them, creeping through the crowd and stopping only when he was standing next to Barboza.

  “What about Charlie?” Barboza asked.

  The crowd around them quietened a little, as if curious to find out why the two visitors were so concerned about the situation.

  “He’s run off somewhere,” Michael King said.

  Barboza gasped. “Run off?” she said. “Why? Where?”

  Carol lifted her head off Michael King’s neck. She wiped both of her eyes with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. Then she looked at Barboza, her eyes tortured and glistening.

  “The little bugger,” she said, her voice cracking. “Just gave me the slip. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’d do that to me – today of all days.”

  “Why?” Barboza said. “Do you know why?”

  Carol shrugged. “It was just a normal walk,” she said. “We didn’t stray too far. We went up Bishopsgate and then onto Curtain Road. Nothing out of the ordinary. When we reached Curtain Road, I wanted to turn back like we always do. But this time, Charlie wanted to go further.”

  “Further?” Barboza said.

  Carol nodded. “Further north.”

  “Why?” asked an elderly man, standing behind Walker. “Did he say anything? What the bloody hell was the boy thinking?”

  “He was talking about his mum a lot,” Carol said. “But he does that sometimes. They lived up that way didn’t they? Before we found him. But he’s never wanted to go back up there, not really.”

  Walker looked at Barboza. He saw the terror spreading in her eyes, raging like a forest fire. He knew exactly what she was thinking in that moment.

  He was thinking the same thing.

  “I went after him,” Carol said. “But there’s no sign of him anywhere. I’ve been running around the streets for the past two hours, looking for h
im, calling his name over and over again.”

  “We’ve been out on the bikes,” Michael King said. “The boy’s vanished.”

  “He’s been taken,” Carol said. “I know it. A rogue or the Ghosts – something got him.”

  “Still too early for the Ghosts,” Michael King said.

  “Well it’s a rogue then,” Carol said. “Or another gang has picked him up. I mean, a little boy wandering them streets all alone. What chance has he got?”

  Michael King put both hands on Carol’s shoulders. He turned her towards him so that they were standing face to face.

  “We’re going to find him,” he said. “We’re going back out now and this time we’re going to find the little man. I promise.”

  He nodded at Fat Joseph, who was standing nearby.

  “Ready when you are Michael,” Fat Joseph said. “The bikes are out front, engines running.”

  “No,” somebody yelled in the crowd. “You can’t do that.”

  Michael King looked into the swarm of bodies. His dark brow creased in confusion.

  “What?” he said.

  “Those murderous bastards will be here soon,” the voice yelled. It was a woman’s voice. “The sun will be going down soon,” she said. “You can’t go out there on the streets Michael. We can’t risk you getting caught on the hop by the Ghosts.”

  “What do you expect us to do?” Michael King said to the woman. “Leave Charlie out there on the streets by himself?”

  Barboza jumped in.

  “Where did you search?” she asked. “What areas did you search?”

  Michael King looked at her. “Bishopsgate. Kingsland Road. Curtain Road. Then we went up into his old neighbourhood – every corner of every street…”

  Barboza shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to find him standing in the middle of the street,” she said.

  “Of course,” Michael said. “I understand that. But we have to start somewhere…”

  Barboza nodded. “I know where he is,” she said. “At least I think I do.”

  Everything went silent after that.

  Walker stood behind Barboza, feeling more than a little nervous. He knew what was coming and it wasn’t going to be pretty. It was that good heart of Barboza again, coming back to haunt them both.

  Carol was staring at the younger woman with a puzzled expression on her face.

  “Where?” Carol said. “How would you know where he is?”

  Barboza hesitated. “Because it’s my fault,” she said. “I think Charlie ran off because of something I said to him earlier today.”

  Carol screwed up her face. The wrinkles there dug deep grooves on her forehead as rage and bewilderment battled to seize control of her.

  “What?” she said. “What did you say?”

  It sounded like the entire population of Station was quiet now.

  “He came to see us earlier,” Barboza said. “We ended up talking about his mum. He told us about what happened to her and I…I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to give him some hope but I didn’t think…”

  Carol walked towards Barboza. Walker saw a furious, manic glint in the older woman’s eye and in that moment, he placed a hand on Barboza’s back, a supportive gesture to remind her she wasn’t alone.

  “What did you do?” Carol said, stopping a few feet away. “What the hell did you do?”

  “I told him there was a chance,” Barboza said. She sounded like she was on the brink of tears as she spoke. “Just a chance – that his mum might still be alive somewhere.”

  Carol’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Oh you stupid bitch.”

  And then she lunged at Barboza, swinging with wild punches that were well out of range.

  There were a few shrieks in the crowd as Michael King rushed over and grabbed a hold of Carol’s arms. He pulled her back towards him, wrapping an arm around her waist and pinning her close to him. Carol struggled, but couldn’t break free.

  Walker also put an arm around Barboza, gently guiding her back a couple of steps. A little space between the two women was clearly required.

  “You fucking bitch!” Carol screamed at Barboza. “You’ve killed him! Why? You better tell me.”

  Barboza struggled to speak, like the words were caught in the back of her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “You bitch!” Carol yelled at her.

  “Quiet,” Michael King said in a firm voice. He pulled Carol back, keeping his arm locked around her. “This doesn’t solve the immediate problem of finding Charlie. The more we talk, the more time we waste. Now the bottom line is this – the Ghosts are coming soon and Charlie is still out there.”

  He looked at Barboza.

  “You know where he is?” Michael King said. “Tell me. We’ll go and get him right now.”

  “Old Street Station,” Barboza said. “I’m sure of it. Didn’t anyone check in there?”

  Michael King shook his head. “We passed it several times,” he said. “But we didn’t go all the way inside the station. There was simply too much ground to cover and not enough time. But if he was in there, he would have heard us calling out to him. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re assuming he wants to be found,” Walker said.

  “Yeah.” Michael King said. “Exactly.”

  “His mum’s been dead for two years!” Carol screamed. She was staring at Barboza with cold hate in her eyes. “Two fucking years! And now thanks to you, he thinks she’s still out there. We don’t lie to our children about things like that.”

  Michael King let go of Carol. He then took a short step forward, placing himself in between her and Barboza, like a boxing referee at the pre-fight instructions. “Enough of this,” he said. “It’s not the time for blame. Let’s go Joseph. We know where we need to be.”

  But when Michael King turned around, another voice called out after him, stopping the Bedlamite in his tracks.

  “No,” said a man in the crowd.

  Walker looked over his shoulder and saw an old man wading through the crowd. He was probably in his seventies, and he was wearing black shorts and an old denim shirt that was unbuttoned all the way down, exposing a shrivelled body with the ribs poking out of the pink skin.

  He was walking towards Michael King.

  “No Michael,” he said. “It’s like Deidre said, you can’t go out there.”

  The old man turned pointed to the windows. Outside, the bright sunlight was dimming fast. Now a dull, threatening grey was taking root in the skies; it was a hint of the impending darkness to come.

  “It’s too late,” the old man said. “We don’t know where they’re coming from. You know how tricky those bastards are – they don’t just come up straight from the south every year. Sometimes they drive around the city and attack our streets from the north. So who knows where they’re coming from tonight? And when. They could be here earlier this year and that means they might catch you on the way back if you’re out there. It’s already early evening. We can’t risk losing you Michael. There shouldn’t be any Bedlamites out there on the street anyway – the Ghosts might interpret that as hostility on our part.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Michael King said to the old man. “Leave the boy out there to die? Or worse?”

  “I’m not leaving him,” Carol said. “I don’t give a damn about the Ghosts or where they’re coming from. I’m going after him and I’m bringing him back.”

  “We’ll go,” Barboza said.

  She turned to look at Walker. Without hesitation, he nodded his agreement.

  “It’s not that far to Old Street,” Barboza said, turning back to Michael King. “And it’ll be quieter if we go out there on foot rather than you doing it on a pack of motorbikes. He’s up there in Old Street Station right now – I saw the look in his eye earlier and I’ll bet you anything he’s looking for his mum. Or waiting for her. We’ll find him and bring him back before the
Ghosts get here. I promise. We won’t come back without him. And besides, we’re not Bedlamites so if the Ghosts do see us, they wouldn’t have any reason to think it’s hostility on your part. We’re just two people on the street.”

  Michael King sighed. He looked at the crowd, looking back at him. Then he turned to Walker and Barboza.

  “You must be quick,” he said. “It’s true. We don’t know exactly when they’re coming. But you’re not safe the moment you step out that door. Understand?”

  Barboza nodded.

  “I’m coming with you,” Carol said. She was looking at Walker and Barboza defiantly, daring them to challenge her. “I’m his guardian and that means he’s my responsibility.”

  Walker decided against arguing with her, even though he would have preferred going after Charlie with just Barboza.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Barboza said.

  Just as they were about to get moving, one of the younger women in Station – no more than nineteen or twenty years old – stepped up behind Barboza. The young woman gently wrapped a black, suede jacket over Barboza’s shoulders.

  “You want to be invisible out there,” the young woman said. “No bright colours.”

  Barboza nodded in thanks to the woman. Then she took the jacket off her shoulders, threading her arms through the sleeves and pulling the zip up to her neck.

  Michael King took a step back. He held an arm out, gesturing for the crowds to move away from the entrance, to make room for the small search party.

  “My friends,” he said to them. “Good luck. And whatever else you do, be quick.”

  Chapter 11

  It was getting dark in London.

  The bright summer sky was gone, leaving behind only a pack of grey clouds that moved tentatively across the roof of the world, like a scout party travelling ahead of the night.

  The heat of the day refused to yield, although it was much cooler than it had been earlier on.

  Walker, Barboza, and Carol travelled north along Bishopsgate. The two women had been at each other’s throats since leaving Station, but Walker knew that whatever they had to say would have to wait. They didn’t have time to get into any further arguments about who was to blame for Charlie’s disappearance. At first, Barboza had been quite willing to accept responsibility, but as Carol continued to insult her on their way out of Station, Barboza snapped back and left a few choice remarks about how Carol could have allowed Charlie to give her the slip so easily.