National Emergency

by Jobling, James

  “He’s harmless. Honestly.”

  “If he touches you again, he will be.”

  A sheet of silence blanketed the room.

  From the bedroom, Ethan heard the strained voice of Shaggy talking to his old friend, old buddy, old dear, dear pal, Scooby. “So what’s this thing you want to show me?” Ethan asked. He crossed the room and picked up the remote control from the coffee table. He turned the TV on and the room flashed from pitch black to a deep blue.

  “There’s nothing on there,” Dave said. He sat down on the swivel chair in front of the laptop. “TV stopped broadcasting about half an hour ago. You need to see what’s on here.”

  Ethan wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring in disbelief, mouth wide open - catching flies, his mother would say—captivated by the bright blue screen and the bold white words scrolling across it. He heard Dave turn the laptop on; heard it buzz and crank to life; heard rain pelt the window; heard the familiar ding-ding-ding-dung as the Windows logo appeared. He heard it all, but saw none of it. Ethan Hardcastle refused to turn away from that TV.

  THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

  REMAIN CALM

  ALL SCHEDULED PROGRAMMES HAVE BEEN CANCELLED

  DO NOT PANIC

  RIOTING HAS BEEN REPORTED IN EVERY MAJOR CITY IN BRITAIN

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE HAS BEEN ATTACKED

  PRINCE JASPER CONFIRMED KILLED

  ARMED FORCES ARE NOW TO ASSIST POLICE

  DENNISON ASARIA CORPSE HAS BEEN RELEASED TO HIS FAMILY

  CORONER OFFICIALLY CONFIRMS CAUSE OF DEATH—BRAIN ANEURISM.

  “What the—”

  Dave waved him quiet.

  “It’s about to start. It’s on loop.”

  “What is?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a strong voice boomed from the surround-sound speakers. The solid tone commanded attention. Ethan figured that was why they had used that actor.

  What kind of fucking job is that?

  “As I am sure you are aware, widespread rioting is unfurling across England today. With chaotic scenes now confirmed in every major city in Britain, thousands of yobs have taken to the streets throughout the night to demonstrate against the death of a youth called Dennison Asaria. Unfortunately, Mr. Asaria died yesterday morning after they arrested him for breaking the conditions of his curfew. He died in police custody and some immediately presumed police brutality. A post-mortem has since been conducted with the full sanctioning of Mr. Asaria’s mother. I can now inform you that Mr. Asaria died of a brain aneurism. His death – regrettable as it is – was inevitable. The police are not to be held accountable.”

  “Shit,” breathed Ethan.

  “However, with a spiralling death rate, it is far too late for some people. Buckingham Palace has been attacked and Prince Jasper, and his fiancée Adela, were badly beaten. It is my solemn duty to inform you that the Prince has since died from the horrific injuries he received. The King and other Royal constituents have been flown to a more secure location, but were present during the attack.”

  There was a sound from the bedroom. Ethan looked away from the TV for the first time and saw Karris open the door. His wife had a wastepaper bucket under her arm and, for no apparent reason, déjà vu struck, catapulting him back to his driveway yesterday, watching her step onto the porch with a bowl of salad under her arm. Had it only been yesterday? It felt like a millennium had passed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Lincoln’s been sick. He got some of it on Marcel’s quilt.”

  “Is he okay?” Ethan asked.

  “Yes. I think he’s just frightened.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Do you mind if I fetch him a glass of water, Dave?”

  “Mind? No, don’t be silly. There are bottles in the fridge.”

  “I will wash Marcel’s quilt for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad he’s in Scotland with Stefan right now.”

  Ethan turned back to the TV.

  “Since the death of Prince Jasper – and, to some degree, in retaliation of it – all police have been removed from the streets. The Prime Minister has granted the Armed Forces permission to enforce the first ever-countrywide curfew. Between now and six a.m. any person or persons found on the streets will be greeted with an insensitive and certified approach. Please, return to your homes. Encourage loved ones you know to be out and about to go home. This is your only warning. Anyone found on the streets after this announcement will be categorically dealt with.”

  “Dealt with?” Ethan mumbled. “Don’t like the sound of that much.”

  “Me neither.”

  The screen faded to black for a few seconds, flashing blue when the public service announcement rolled onto the screen again. Ethan realised it was playing on loop and pressed the stand-by button, ending the broadcast. He dropped the remote control on the recliner, the realisation of just how severe the situation had become grasping him with the surprise of a spider’s fang penetrating his big toe in the dead of night.

  “You need to see this,” Dave said. He was leaning over his laptop, the fingers of his left hand tapping away on the keyboard. “Internet’s a bit shaky, but I’ve still got a connection.”

  “What is it?” Ethan asked.

  “A video,” answered Dave. Fingertips click-clacked a few more keys. “It was uploaded onto YouTube an hour ago.”

  Ethan groaned loudly. “Do I really want to see it?”

  “I think you probably need to.”

  The laptop buzzed as the opening page of the video-sharing network fired up. There was a brilliant white screen, then the usual logo and emoticons appeared on the left side. Below, where the recommended videos usually were, there was a variety of blocked images, all parading the same hooded youth pointing a gun at an older man wearing a suit. The blog descriptions underneath ranged from BRITISH RIOTS 2016 to HOODED CHAV DECLARES WAR.

  “Dave, what am I looking at?”

  “Just watch it,” urged Dave. He pressed the ENTER key and a pictorial egg timer flashed onto the screen. “This should explain things a little more clearly.”

  Ethan sat down on the arm of the recliner and waited for the video to load. A painfully long second passed and Ethan looked around the apartment.

  Then the video began to play.

  The drenched man in the footage was in his mid-forties, colossally overweight, wearing a black two-piece suit, pale yellow shirt, green tie, and Wellingtons. His neatly cropped hair was matted to his skull. It seeped down into a great bushy beard, giving him the appearance of a rabbi. Small, round, rain-splattered glasses sat proudly on his bloated nose. He had a microphone in one hand and, at first, Ethan mistook him for another journalist. Then he spoke, introducing himself as the Mayor of London, and Ethan stood corrected.

  Why the hell is he standing on the banks of the Thames?

  There was only the Mayor on film for the moment, but behind him – on the opposite side of that foul-smelling river of pollution that Parliament and its money-hungry litter were so proud of – hundreds of burning fires exposed menacing black storm clouds. The stretching tongues of flame looked more like Fisher Price plastic fire from that distance.

  “Hello, I am the Mayor of London, Kenny McKay, and I am here on the banks of the Thames at,” he quickly glanced at the illuminated face of his watch, “two-thirty on a dreadful Saturday morning.” He held up his hands at this point to express how bad the rain was. “I am here to speak with a young participant of the violent disorder destroying our country. I have stressed that under no point during this interview will the youngster be apprehended for his contribution to the anarchy. I have given him my word.”

  A youth crunched his way across the pebble beach and stopped beside the Mayor. He wore a grey hooded top with the drawstring pulled so tight that only the rock star sunglasses concealing his eyes were visible. A scarf, wrapped like a Mummy’s bandages, covered the lower part of his face. He stood alone, arrogant, obnoxious, flashy
, and there was not a breath of fear in his body. His duffle coat was wringing wet; a barefaced indication of how long he had been rioting.

  “The Britain we know and love died tonight in an orgy of murder and mindless violence that has continued now for nearly twenty-four hours and shows no sign of relenting. Here is Daryl Duncan, who has agreed to meet with me to shed some light on the frightening events occurring in that burning city behind me. London; once noble, dignified, proud - the beaming capital of Britain - has descended into a burning and bloody island of lawless barbarity. In your own words, please, Mr. Duncan, describe what this protest means to you.”

  The youth looked gloatingly over his shoulder, glaring right into the camera. Ethan could swear that the eyes beneath those sunglasses were smirking. “Well, you see, fat man,” Daryl chuckled, “London is a city of two worlds. You get me? One half has well-educated, well-paid, pretty boys and girls living in two grand a month apartments. Then you’ve got the other half – my half – where people are unemployed, crashing in hostels, living out of fucking black bin bags—”

  “Please refrain from using bad language on—”

  “Shut the fuck up! Who do you think you’re fucking talking to? You want to fucking hear this or what?”

  Kenny McKay nodded, raising the microphone to Daryl’s cloaked mouth.

  “I have a brother, yeah? He’s nine. And you know something; there’re parts of this city – your city – that he ain’t ever seen. I mean, sure, he’s heard of Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye, but he’ll never see them. We can’t afford the bus fare out of Peckham. I have mates, yeah, who can’t leave their estate for fear of getting shot the fuck up.”

  “So what does living in an underprivileged area have to do with the death of Dennison Asaria?”

  “Nothing,” Daryl confirmed. “Kid’s dead. So, fucking what? There ain’t nothin’ I can do about it. Just because some brother dies in a jail cell doesn’t mean I’m going to tear London up, does it? I’m sure as hell not protesting.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Am I fuck, fat man.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “I’m making a declaration.”

  “What declaration?”

  “A declaration of war,” Daryl growled into the microphone. “We’ve had enough of your bullshit. I have a message for your so-called ‘fearless leader’, Robert Harris. Mr. Prime Minister, as you send your brave men and women into my world, surely even you - the pompous millionaire of a millionaire - can see there will only be one outcome. Your people are weak. Mine aren’t. They are brave. Their time has come. They will stand up and be counted. For decades, people like you, Mr. Prime Minister, have looked down on my people and regarded them as deadbeats, told them they are worthless. You believe it okay to treat them with no respect. You think they can never accomplish anything in life. But you’re wrong, Mr. Prime Minister. My people have brought those two worlds – yours and mine – together. Now we’re going to tear the fucker up. My people are stronger. My people are—”

  “Your people are starting fires and stealing computer games,” Kenny McKay interrupted.

  “Okay, I suggest we wrap this up here,” the cameraman said off-camera.

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Daryl continued, masked face filling the lens. “I encourage you to bring your armed pussies into my world. They are like you – old, fat, soft, yellow. My people will rip their fucking hearts out and shove it down their throats. We will not cower. We will not surrender. We will not stop until every last one of your people has been wiped off the face of the Earth.” Daryl paused, snapping his hooded head towards the Mayor. “Starting with you.”

  The camera recorded the muffled pleading of Kenny McKay and his loyal cameraman before an explosion shattered the stillness. The impact threw the Mayor—arms outstretched, head pouring blood—into the icy depths of the Thames.

  “No!” Ethan screamed. “Dear god, no!”

  There was a brief glimpse of a smoking handgun. Black heavens, rolling thunderheads, shingle, then the cameraman’s feet as the recording turned into the cheapest found-footage movie ever; filming shaky, motion-sickness-inducing footage as the cameraman ran for his life across the beach. Another sharp retort, and the camera fell to the ground.

  “My God,” Ethan breathed. “They’ve murdered the Mayor of London.”

  “On live TV, too.”

  “We need to get out of here. We need to go and get Mum and Lee, then get the hell out of this country.”

  “And go where?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Don’t care. Just so long as we’re far enough from Britain. Maybe some place where it’s hot and there’s a beach. Where somebody’s not trying to blow my head off every five seconds.”

  “But how do we get there?” Dave asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The airports are on lockdown.”

  “They are?”

  “Ethan, have you not been paying attention to anything tonight?”

  “No, Dave.” Ethan compressed the syllables between clenched teeth. “I have been too busy watching Harold getting kicked to death.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just a little rattled.”

  “Not important, mate. I know that feeling well. What is important is what we do next.”

  “Like I said,” Dave mumbled, turning the laptop off and pushing the monitor down, “airports are on lockdown. They have armed soldiers refusing to allow anybody in or out of the country. The ferry ports are under the same lockdown, too.”

  “Tell the truth, Dave; we’re going to have our work cut out just trying to get back to the house. I’ve been out there already. It’s like hell on Earth.”

  “Where’s your truck?”

  “Little bastards overturned it when I reached the city. We barely made it here in one piece.”

  “There is another way.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Stefan drives a taxi. It’s parked around the back. He must work weekends so he can claim income support. If it’s still in one piece – and I have no reason to believe otherwise – then we could use it to get to your house.”

  Ethan nodded. “Never thought I’d be thanking Stefan.”

  “He’s a good man, Ethan.”

  “I’m sure Daryl’s father would have said the same thing about him this time yesterday.”

  They paused as the air raid siren continued to scream its warning of damnation and punishment and abysmal penance from the netherworld. The whole thing seemed like a hellish nightmare, reminding Ethan of a film he and Karris had watched a couple of weeks ago on Netflix; a Guillermo Del Toro movie based on a book about society being rocked by a sudden increase in the number of violent assaults on individuals. It was a popcorn movie (nowhere near as good as the book, Karris had said), but there was one scene where the main character was trapped inside his home as his neighbour went on a murderous rampage. Boulders of fear tumbled down Ethan’s spine.

  Thunder roared like a rabid animal caught in a bear trap.

  Karris opened the bedroom door, stepping into the front room. She was carrying Lincoln in her arms. His eyes were red-rimmed and his skin was frightfully pale.

  “Oh no, here comes trouble,” joked Ethan, hoping laughter really was the best form of medicine. Fretfully, he crossed the room. “How are you feeling, champ?”

  “Sick,” complained Lincoln.

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s burning up, too.” Karris added.

  “Probably coming down with something.” Ethan stroked the side of his son’s flushed face. “We will get you feeling better soon, mate. I promise.”

  “I feel sick, Daddy.”

  “Just hang in there, son. We’re going to go home in a second or two.”

  “Will they still be there?”

  Ethan paused and held his breath. He knew who “they” were, but he pretended he didn’t. Ignorance sometimes truly was bliss. “Will who still be there?”

 
“The bad guys.”

  Ethan choked back a sob. From the corner of his eye, he saw Karris turn her back. Even the hammering rain couldn’t conceal her weeping.

  “Look, honey-bear; I’m your Daddy, and I give you my word that you are safe. I’m not going to let anybody hurt you. I love you and I always will. There’s nothing to fear. I will make sure there are no bad men at home.”

  “Let’s go,” said Dave.

  Ethan nodded and grabbed hold of his son’s hand.

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 18

  The Prince smiled patiently and stood in front of the briefing table. Lieutenant Sean Page, along with the Chief of Police and Deputy Prime Minister, were excused and dismissed to their required locations. The Prince had warned them all that the coming hours would be exceptionally bleak and dark for everybody. He shook each man’s hand, wishing them the very best of luck and thanking each man individually for their alliance to his father’s regime. To Robert, it had seemed more like a farewell than appreciative recognition.

  The Prime Minister sat at the table, eyes closed, fireworks exploding behind closed lids, head aching, fingers on his left hand totally numb, listening to rain beating the above. Once they were on their own, the Prince removed his peaked visor hat and placed it on the table.

  “I want to apologise once again for keeping you in the dark on this one, Rob. It was not the correct procedure, but my hands were tied.”

  “Why was I not notified about TK-214, your Highness?”

  The Prince sighed loudly. “It was my father’s decision. He believed – as do I – that you had enough on your plate already.”

  The Prime Minister shook his head. “All due respect, your Highness, but I am the spokesman of the United Kingdom. It is part of my job description to ‘have a lot on my plate’.”

  “Look, you’re taking this far too personally. There’s no need to. You had a lot going on, it’s as simple as that. You didn’t need the added pressure of a pharmaceutical trial that may or may not have been successful. There was the ongoing conflict in Afghanistan, the Tuberculosis outbreak in Devon, not to mention your private life having already been dragged through the public-wringer.”