Six Days

by Philip Webb

  “What happened here?” he asks at last. “I mean, these bioweapons – how did they …”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Germs,” I go. “It was over dead quick. Enemy planes over London dropped all these canisters loaded with disease and that. There was a few survivors on the outskirts, but most folks died in the first wave.”

  “What was it about – the war?”

  “Look, how come all this is news to you? Ain’t it time for you to come clean with me?”

  “What?”

  “Where you’re from, what you was doing skulking about in Big Ben.”

  “I … can’t tell you.”

  “Hey, that ain’t good enough. I bailed you out, remember? Least you can do is cut the mystery cobblers and get to the point.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

  “Shut up. There ain’t no secrets between scavs.”

  “So I’m a scav now, am I?”

  “Well, I’m sticking my neck out to make you into one.”

  “I’m sorry, Cass. It’s best if you don’t know.”

  “Oh, yeah? I reckon I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “You don’t understand!” he goes. “I’m grateful you helped me, but then I helped you and Wilbur, so that makes us even –”

  He stops mid-flow, cos Wilbur’s suddenly popped up out of nowhere. “Dad said to come down and hurry you up, that’s all.”

  Time to change the subject. “So anyhow,” I go to Peyto. “How come you ain’t got yourself any decent threads yet? First thing I’d do if I was chattering me teeth out on the job.”

  “Huh?”

  They both follow me into the bedroom as I start emptying cupboards.

  “But I thought we had to put it all in the crusher,” goes Peyto.

  “Nope. You can take what you like as long as you can carry it.”

  “I like books,” says Wilbur, all helpful-like.

  “You think we’d do this just for the measly moola?” I show him my chunky watch. “Cost thousands back when London was capital of the free world. Rollicks.”

  “Rolex,” goes Wilbur.

  “But the soldiers –”

  “Vlads ain’t interested in this old junk. Course, you’ve got to stand on the belt and get scanned at the end of the shift just so they know you ain’t got the artifact, but if you get the all-clear, then it’s yours.”

  Peyto has gone paler than at any time in the whole day. He slumps onto the edge of the bed.

  “You OK?” I go.

  He looks at me like I’ve just dealt him the Death card. “I’m just tired.”

  I collar Wilbur and we go in search of old-school threads. Ten minutes later we’ve kitted Peyto out in a rain jacket, neck warmer, knitted hat, water-resistant kecks, and an unused pair of them rubber shoes with the tread.

  I dust him down a bit. “You won’t freeze your bits off now.”

  “We’re definitely coming back here tomorrow, aren’t we?”

  “If you get the nod at crew pickings, yeah. Blimey, there’s no stopping you, is there?”

  “And nobody else will come here while we’re gone?”

  “No. Why? You worried someone’s gonna walk off with your poke? Forget it – all our lot’s done places like Dulwich. That’s what you call quality pickings.”

  “What about those boffin people?”

  “Nah, they ain’t fussed about any of this old clobber. They never come on site – it’s back to a fancy Vlad compound for them come the end of the shift.”

  He don’t say nothing to that, but I can tell he ain’t sure whether to believe me.

  “Look, you’ve got your eye on something you can’t carry today, just stash it, but you want to start getting choosy. Unless it’s proper useful, don’t bother. Scavs what hoard stuff for the sake of it tend to get a bit of stick.”

  We crack on and the day passes without further drama. Come six o’clock, we’re all done and dusted. Literally. Peyto takes his turn to get scanned on the crusher belt, and he looks proper guilty clutching a bag he’s stuffed with extra clothes. Anyhow we get the all-clear, then it’s down to the truck for the off.

  There’s a holdup on Blackfriars, some kerfuffle with Vlad troops searching one of the lorries up front. As we’re waiting, I clock Dad gazing upriver. Whenever we get to water, he always gets this faraway look, probably dreaming about boats or something. He ain’t from scav stock originally. His family are fishermen and traders, sea people, from up past the Great Barrier. Something happened for him to leave them little places up the coast, though he’s never said what. When Mum was alive, he used to go on about scraping the pennies together to go back to that life, but he ain’t brought it up in a long time. Scavs is what we are now – that’s what you hear from him these days.

  Back on the south bank, the journey home is always more lively. A couple of the old ‘uns sing songs, and everyone’s thinking of the hot nose-bag waiting for us back at Elephant and Castle. Wilbur gets press-ganged into reading out loud from an old magazine – something about a girl who’s worried she’s too fat to bag a mate.

  “Week’s scavving would sort her out,” mutters some toothless codger.

  I go, “Why don’t you write in, gumbo? Tell her she ain’t never gonna be too fat to land you!”

  They all start chipping in then. I don’t know – it’s easy to make everyone laugh about the old-school Londoners. They just seemed so pampered, like everyone was royal. But they had their worries, too, I suppose.

  I catch Peyto looking at me then. His face is knackered and serious, all lit up in the last rusty glow of the sun.

  “Thank you,” he goes. “For looking after me today.”

  “No bother. Like you say, we’re quits now.”

  He looks like he’s about to say something else, but Wilbur butts in and lands a comic on his lap.

  Peyto holds up the front cover – an olden-time sailor swinging from the rigging, staring out at the ocean. “So is this Captain Jameson?”

  The way Wilbur beams at Peyto right then gives me the shivers. Cos my kid brother might not have landed the artifact at Big Ben, but you can tell that finding Peyto might be the next best thing …

  “And his ship travels through time?” asks Peyto.

  “Yeah, see, he’s sailing in the Indies and it’s 1709, and there’s this storm and next thing, all his crew’s drowned and he’s the only one left alive, and he has to sail single-handed, but when he gets to the Americas, it’s not 1709 anymore. It’s 3709! He’s washed up into the future!”

  “Two thousand years,” goes Peyto, and there’s this weird look on his face that I can’t quite read. Like Captain Jameson has hit a nerve. “Then what happens?”

  “Well, it’s a comic; he has different adventures. He helps people out, but even if a lady goes soppy for him, he never sticks around. He always gets on board the Vanguard and sails off with his latest crew. But the thing is, every time he sets sail, he goes back in time a hundred years, so he can’t change his mind and head back to the last port, cos everyone he knows there won’t even be born yet. He has to keep going.”

  “But one day he’ll make it back to 1709?”

  “I suppose. I just haven’t found that comic yet. But I’ve got loads. My favorite’s 2009.”

  Peyto leafs through the comic, then he asks, “Have you ever heard of a character called Halina?” It’s odd cos his voice catches on the name, like it means something to him.

  “No, who’s she? Have you found any Captain Jameson comics, then?” Wilbur goes, getting all wound up. “There’s a few ladies in it – the best one’s a pirate who can’t decide whether to love him or kill him …”

  Peyto smiles. “No, she’s not a pirate. At least, I don’t think so.”

  Wilbur blathers on fit to bore a statue to death. But it ain’t boring to Peyto. And just like he promised Wilbur this morning, he listens.

  It’s dark by th
e time the truck gets us back to the hiring point. We all off-load, and Dad mumbles at Peyto to join us for some grub at the Elephant and Castle meeting house.

  “Thank you, but I should be getting back.”

  He jumps off the truck and turns to me to do this crazy half bow – the prince of ponce again. “Thank you, Cass.”

  He glances away toward a girl who’s hanging back from the crowds at the hiring point. She’s about my age, tall and skinny. She looks proper lost, shading her eyes from the glare of the truck headlights. And guess what? She’s wearing pajamas. My heart sinks a notch to see her, cos even from here I can see she’s a looker. But then she’s got the same bonkers hair as Peyto – shining black and sticking up all over the place. So maybe she’s his sister.

  “Your mate’s welcome, too, ain’t she, Dad?” I pipe up.

  But Peyto is already backing away. “Maybe another time.”

  He jogs over to the girl and starts yanking out the clobber from his bag. It’s sweet cos he’s gone for enough layers to truss her up for Pass the Parcel. The tartan fleece ain’t a bad option, cos it’s got detachable sleeves. But what she’s gonna do with them fluffy earmuffs, I ain’t so sure. Typical lubber choice. Still, the way he greets her and helps her into the gear, it gives me a feeling. Just of loneliness. Like they’re gonna slip into the byways and I won’t be seeing Peyto no more.

  “You could’ve invited him like you meant it,” I go to Dad.

  “Leave them be. They’re not our kind anyhow.”

  “What kind of talk is that? He did his graft! For nothing. He’s got every right to tuck in same as us.”

  “Enough of your lip, Cass. I offered and he said no. You want me to go on my bended knees?”

  I give him the daggers he deserves. “Scavs don’t cold-shoulder people. He binned up till his hands bled, and that makes him one of us. He just don’t know the score, that’s all.”

  I’m all hot under the collar as I storm off toward Peyto. But as I get closer, I can hear they’re having a right old to-do – all hissing under their breath and looking over their shoulders. Peyto starts to point but drops his arm. I figure he’s looking over at me. But he ain’t. He’s looking at Wilbur.

  “What do you mean, you left it there?” The girl’s nearly in tears. She rips off her earmuffs.

  “I told you, I had no choice. I can find it again tomorrow.”

  “And then what? Hide it again the next day and the next and the next?”

  “What do you suggest, then? I couldn’t have brought it back with the soldiers there! They’d have found it for certain!”

  “But what if we lose it? We can’t afford to! What if I lost mine, too? We’d never get back to the ship then.”

  I’m thinking, Ship? What ship? There ain’t no ships in the Thames, ‘less you count the Vlad ones …

  Peyto holds his hand out to steady her down a bit cos she looks set to lose it big-time. “Look, it’s fine. We’ll think of something, I promise.”

  “It’s not fine and you know it!”

  At last they spot me hovering and they clam right up.

  “Sorry,” I go, like I ain’t heard a sausage. “But I ain’t gonna let you miss out. Wednesday’s meeting night and the grub’s free. You’re both welcome.”

  I put my hand out to the girl, and she just holds it like she’s never shaken no one’s hand before.

  “You’re Cass.”

  “Hey, word gets round –”

  “Cass,” she blurts out. “We need your help.”

  Peyto grits his teeth. He looks set to blow his top. “Erin, we don’t even know for sure if he’s the …” He trails off, reining in his anger.

  “He was there, wasn’t he?” goes Erin. “Where he was supposed to be?”

  “Yes, but we can’t involve other people till we’re sure. It’s not safe!”

  She turns on him then. “Safe? In case you’ve forgotten, we don’t have any time for playing it safe! How are we ever going to be sure if we don’t take a chance and ask?”

  I’ve got a million questions, but out the corner of my eye I see Wilbur running over, and it’s time to wind things up before they get out of hand.

  “Whatever you want to ask me, be my guest,” I go. “Straight talking never did no harm. But it’s got to wait just one hour cos there ain’t nothing as important right now as some good scoff.”

  The two of them look set to take lumps out of each other, but good old Wilbur puts paid to all that.

  “Come on,” he pipes up. “Mabel’s done pork and we’ve got to be quick to get first dibs.”

  BAD BLOOD

  Our little settlement at Elephant and Castle ain’t much more than forty huts, a patchwork of allotments, the mill with its flour stones and mule team, a few sheds for the livestock, and, in the middle, the meeting house. The closest proper settlement is Greenwich, but there’s dozens of places, mainly scavs and farmers, as far east as Dartford and as far south as Purley.

  The meeting house don’t look much from the outside – just a stockade of railway sleepers dug into the clay, then a pitched roof with a hole in the top to let the smoke out, no windows. But inside, on a wintry night, with everyone in there, it’s my favorite place in all the world. The walls are lined with straw and clay, and there’s all nice old-school paintings hanging up. Gramps says they’re priceless, which means they’ve got the biggest price of all. Some of them are a bit manky now, what with the steam and the smoke, but there’s loads of museums north of the Thames we ain’t even reached yet, so no one’s that fussed. By the flickering light of the main fire you can see the ring of tables and benches, and the cauldrons and the spit, and the old dears who knock up the grub. Today, it’s honey-roast hog with an apple in its gob.

  I’m right curious about Erin’s plea for help, but there ain’t no time to chat in private cos it’s a pack-out already, and the world and his wife want to say hello.

  The shout goes up for first sittings, so I get the two of them in line, but when their turn comes, they shake their heads.

  Mabel’s a feisty old mare and she takes it personal.

  “Been slaving over this porker all day. What’s the matter? My cooking ain’t up to scratch, huh?”

  “I can’t,” says Erin firmly. “It’s a dead animal.”

  Mabel pokes her carving fork in the pig’s snout. “Well, I hope it’s dead, girl. It’s been turning over this fire for the best part of six hours.”

  “Is there anything else?” goes Peyto.

  I slap a couple of slabs of bread and a wodge of honey on their plates instead. “There you go – no dead animals in that. Unless you get a weevil. In which case it’s probably alive, so best spit it out.”

  “All right, move your fussy mates along, will you? I got a hundred-odd mouths to feed and I ain’t got all night to do it.”

  I nudge Erin. “So, what, you ain’t partial to meat, then?”

  “It’s not about the taste …”

  I think she’s about to explain, but then she looks at Mabel hacking away at the hog and she clams up.

  Back at the bench, they both get serious about tucking in. Erin sets to like she ain’t eaten in a week. I get them both to go back for seconds. Mabel loves that.

  After the grub is done and the pig’s just a charred backbone and ribs, it’s time for the meeting. Our Elephant and Castle chief, Gus Turnley, stands up on a barrel and calls for hush. There’s general groans all round cos Gus is a stickler for meetings, and everyone knows he’s just in love with the sound of his own voice. Still, rules is rules, and Turnleys, over the years, have made decent enough chiefs, so people put up with the meetings even if they do break into everyone’s drinking time.

  “I’d just like to thank Mabel and all her fine helpers for putting together such a grand Wednesday feast –”

  “Get on with it, Gus, you old windbag!” someone shouts from the back.

  It’s pretty funny watching Gus looking for the culprit as he clatters a spoon against his f
lagon for silence. Half cut, he teeters on his barrel, his bleary eyes scanning the crowd, his top lip plastered with beer foam.

  “First item of the evening is the urgent and ongoing matter of latrine maintenance. What’s the point of having a rota if no one is going to adhere to it?”

  “How come you’re not on the rota, then, Gus?” someone pipes up.

  “’Specially when you spend the most time filling them pits up!”

  That kicks off an uproar that flusters Gus so much, he nearly topples off his perch.

  Right at that moment, there’s a blast of cold air as the door slams open and in marches Elephant and Castle’s resident maverick and doom-monger. There he is – all wild-eyed and nutty, his hunched back jutting higher than his white-whiskered face. He bounds in with that strange sideways loping, and everyone hushes up in a way they never do for Gus Turnley.

  “Who’s that?” whispers Peyto.

  “That,” I go, with a touch of pride, “is my gramps.”

  “Still banging on about the state of the bogs, Turnley?” growls Gramps. “How come no one ever talks about what matters at these meetings?”

  He rounds on everyone then, taking center stage. “As long as there’s meat ‘n’ beer, you lot don’t give a stuff, do you? Well, how much longer are you going to bury your heads in the mud?”

  “Give it a rest, grandad! We been graftin’ all day …,” cries a voice from the back.

  “Just like I did for fifty years or more, and my father before me, and his father before that!” snaps Gramps. “And for what? A crippled back and a handful of olden-time coppers.”

  Dad walks stiffly over to face Gramps. “It puts food on the table, doesn’t it? You know, same as everyone else, we need the money for trading out of England.”

  “Slave wages! Before the Vlads, we had a whole city full of treasures for trading with the Gallics – now we’ve just got half of one. And soon we’ll have nothing!”

  “That’s right!” cries Dad. “You’ve got the answers, eh? Chasing your dreams and your rumors! That won’t keep the fire stoked!”