London Eye

by Tim Lebbon

  Published 2012 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  London Eye. Copyright © 2012 by Tim Lebbon. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover illustration © Steve Stone

  Jacket design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Pyr

  59 John Glenn Drive

  Amherst, New York 14228–2119

  VOICE: 716–691–0133

  FAX: 716–691–0137

  WWW.PYRSF.COM

  16 15 14 13 12 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lebbon, Tim, 1969–

  London eye / by Tim Lebbon.

  p. cm. — (Toxic city : bk. 1)

  ISBN 978–1–61614–680–1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978–1–61614–681–8 (ebook)

  1. London (Eng.)—Fiction. 2. Terrorism—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.E245L66 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2012018464

  Printed in the United States of America

  “The tide of evolution carries everything before it, thoughts no less than bodies, and persons no less than nations.”

  —George Santayana, 1863–1952

  There has been an explosion at the London Eye. Two fatalities are reported, though details are still sketchy. Scotland Yard has issued a brief statement: “There is no indication that this was a terrorist attack.” More soon.

  —BBC News Website, 4:34 p.m. GMT, July 28, 2019

  Even though their movements describe a strange, hypnotic beauty, she is certain that the rooks are going to kill her.

  She is in the middle of a deserted street. It was silent before, empty, a place she had to herself, though she had been terrified of the silence. Then the peace was broken by the descent of the rooks, and now she is terrified still. She runs for the houses to her right, but though their gates stand open and the front gardens are overgrown and untended, the front doors are all locked tight.

  She looks back and up, and the rooks are falling closer. Are they toying with her? Teasing? She cannot say. They circle her in a fast, tight spiral, and she feels as though she is looking into the heart of a black tornado.

  Screaming, her voice is lost to the birds, so she decides to run again. Across the street, hands over her ears to block out the rookish cacophony, she stumbles into a burnt-out car, scratching her leg through her jeans. She staggers and falls, feeling tears run from her eyes…but she will not show her weakness.

  The first of the birds touches her, a gentle stroke of soft feathers across her cheek. She waves her arms but feels nothing. More come down, crowding around her now, claws snagging in her hair, wings beating against her face.

  She stands, and this time her scream of rage is heard. This is not the way for me to go! She snatches a bird from the air and throws, causing a ripple in the wall of black around her.

  Through that ripple, a shadow appears. Its movement is nothing like that of a bird. And then she sees it smile.

  Lucy-Anne started awake, scanning her surroundings for birds that were not there, and realised she was in Camp Truth. That afternoon when everything was about to change, Jack was there with her.

  She sighed and leaned against Jack. He was seventeen but looked three years older. The loss of his parents in London two years before had aged him, and though he wasn't the sort she usually fell for, their grief had brought them close. He had his eyes closed now, but she could see that he was not asleep. When he slept, his worry lines almost vanished.

  Camp Truth always comforted her. It was home to photographs, reports, press clippings, testimonies, and artefacts that revealed a thousand lies about the dreadful fate that had befallen London and which could, if successfully exposed, make so many things right. That was why this was the most important place in Lucy-Anne's world. And she never failed to see the painful irony in Camp Truth existing underground.

  When they'd been setting it up, the four of them—her, Jack, Sparky and Jenna—had debated whether to try and keep things hidden away, even down here. The decision had been unanimous: if Camp Truth were found, they were all finished, so why not revel in what they were doing? And so there hung a huge mosaic map of London as it once was across one wall, and stuck all over it were dozens of small clear envelopes. Sparky had made a pinboard for the second wall, and here they had pinned random photographs, cuttings and other ephemera they had gathered over the past couple of years, but which they could not place accurately. Most images were blurred, some damaged by the fires intended to destroy them. A few had been hacked from weapon-cameras just before the people in them were blasted to smithereens.

  Lucy-Anne yawned, scratching at her scalp. “Sparky and Jenna coming later?” she asked.

  “Don't think so,” Jack replied, opening his eyes. “Jenna's out with her parents, and Sparky's still working on the car.”

  Lucy-Anne laughed without humour. “It's almost forty years old, rusting and dead. Why bother?”

  “You know why,” Jack said softly.

  Lucy-Anne laughed again but said no more, and that was her way of admitting that, yes, she did know why. Sparky liked working with the impossible in the hope that it could change things. If that old Ford Capri ever started again and took to the road, perhaps it would mean that, against all odds, his brother was still alive somewhere in London's sad ruin.

  Jack sighed.

  “What is it?” Lucy-Anne asked.

  “Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary tomorrow.”

  “Oh, hell, I should have remembered.” She sat up straight, flushing with dismay at her bad memory, and Jack smiled and shook his head. But his smile turned sad.

  “They'd always wanted a weekend in London on their own,” he said, and even though Lucy-Anne had heard this a dozen times, she would always listen again. “They were just…” He trailed off, and she pulled him into her embrace and hugged him tight.

  They'd been together for almost two years. She would always remember the first time they met; she'd been a fifteen-year-old standing on a chair and offering the world out for a fight. They'd gone to the same counselling sessions for orphans of Doomsday—as the destruction of London had become known—and Lucy-Anne had taken it as a chance to rage against the authorities that put them there. Bloody lying bastards! were the first words Jack had heard from her mouth. Her hair had been green then, shaved to a half-inch buzz, and the leathers she wore that day were new, creaking, and obviously stolen.

  The others in the group had retreated in fear, cried, or simply turned away, and it had taken the three counsellors half an hour to talk her down. She had sat there for the rest of that session, simmering, and swapping cautious glances with this new orphan.

  “We should go,” Jack said. “Be dark soon.”

  “It's always dark,” Lucy-Anne said, shivering. And in Camp Truth that was true.

  Jack led the way up out of the basement. Lucy-Anne followed, and he wondered once again what had become of them. They'd been down in the basement for almost three hours, and there'd been little more than a quick kiss, and then her haunted sleep. A year ago they'd have spent their time doing a lot more. But things had changed between them, and he still tried to persuade himself that it was because they'd moved on from being teenaged lovers to the best of friends.

  She was almost seventeen, but sometimes her grief made her look ageless: she'd lost her parents and brother in London. Her current hairstyle was purple spiked, formed
into a carefully sculptured I-don't-give-a-damn mess, and her dark jeans and white tee shirt were tattered and ripped. Those rips weren't designer, Jack knew. Lucy-Anne had been left with her family's house, but very little else.

  “Sun's going down,” he said. He stepped through the curtain of clematis they'd trained across the staircase entrance, and the red splash of dusk exploded across his skin.

  Lucy-Anne looked cautiously up into the trees, as if expecting to see a cloud of birds descending towards them from any direction. But the trees were silent, and they were alone. “Red sky at night…” she began, and Jack went to her side and put his arm around her waist.

  “Shall we check the drops on the way back?”

  “Yeah!” She perked up, hugging him with both arms and giving him a kiss. He pinched her bum, she gave him a playful slap, and he welcomed the familiar relief at leaving their secret place.

  They walked back through the forest towards their village of Tall Stennington, and on the way they checked the places where truth came to find them.

  There were thirteen drops—a number not chosen intentionally, but which the four gang members were pleased with—where unknown people would leave them information about London. They checked them all: a hollow fence post, the space between two half-moon shaped stones, another hole in a fallen tree trunk. And it was only at the thirteenth that they found something.

  Lucy-Anne dug the tin from beneath a crab apple tree's roots, lifted the small lid, and squealed in delight when she pulled something out. “It's from Jenna!” she said. She fumbled with the white, flower-painted envelope.

  “What does it say?” Jack glanced around to make sure they were alone, always fearful that one day this would be a trap, and there would be soldiers waiting for them. He and his friends would fight to the last, but they could not win, and they'd find themselves taken where all the disappeared went. Into the Toxic City itself, some said. Into the heart of dead London.

  “Lucy-Anne?”

  “Okay, okay.” She unfolded the paper and read the note. “It says, ‘My house. I have a nice surprise.’”

  Jack's eyes grew so wide that Lucy-Anne uttered a short, quiet giggle.

  “We should go,” he said. ‘A nice surprise’ was the code the four of them had agreed upon for something earth-shattering.

  And as they ran across the open field separating Tall Stennington from the forest, the moon began to emerge from the darkening sky.

  Breaking News: A suspected gas attack in Central London has left hundreds dead or injured. Hospitals have been put on Major Incident alert. UK Threat Level raised to Critical. Homeland Security Threat Level raised to Severe/Red. More soon.

  —CNN, 11:58 a.m. EST, July 28, 2019

  Jenna answered the front door, looking excited and scared.

  “Come on!” she said. “Sparky's already here.”

  “How did he get here so quickly?” Lucy-Anne asked.

  “I went to his place on my bike. Don't worry, I didn't use the phone.” Jenna turned and disappeared back into her house.

  “I bet she bloody did,” Lucy-Anne said as she stepped over the threshold. “Bet she called him.”

  Jack shook his head and followed his girlfriend inside. They were all careful, but sometimes she was ready to take caution too far. They always went under the assumption that the authorities listened to all telephone communication, but if any eavesdropper heard a girl calling a boy and saying, Come over, I have a nice surprise, it was doubtful they'd press the panic buttons.

  He immediately noticed the strange atmosphere inside the house. There was nothing definable, nothing he could put his finger on, but the place had an air of…change.

  A shadow filled the doorway to the kitchen, and the thunderous voice that followed was familiar to them both. “Hey, you bastards, finished playing with each other long enough to join us?”

  “Hey, Sparky,” Jack said, smiling. They'd become friends through circumstance, brought together because of their beliefs and suspicions, but Sparky was a boy Jack would have got on with anyway, even if Doomsday hasn't happened and London was still there. Sure, he had a wildness about him. Sometimes he acted as if he had a fault-line running along his spine. One day he'd blow. Sparky's brother had blown long before Doomsday, taking to drugs, stealing cars, and running with a gang in the suburbs of London. But Jack was confident that Sparky would keep it together. If he ever did quake, it would be on the shoulders of someone that deserved it.

  “Sparky,” Lucy-Anne said, “I never play.” Her false-seriousness made them all laugh, but something about Sparky's mirth sounded different.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  His friend stepped into the hallway. He was sweating, short blond hair pasted to his forehead. His eyes were wide and wild, and Jack thought he'd never seen the boy this worked up. “Something you've got to see for yourselves.”

  Jenna appeared behind him in the kitchen doorway, short and slight, and wearing her beautiful long dark hair in its usual twisted mess on the back of her head. “You guys coming, or what?”

  “Where are your parents?” Lucy-Anne asked.

  “They went out. Come on!” Jenna turned and went back into the big kitchen-diner at the rear of the house. Sparky pressed himself against the wall and gestured for them to follow, bowing slightly.

  As Jack walked past his big friend they swapped glances, and Sparky's eyes were alight.

  There was an old woman sitting in a chair at Jenna's kitchen table. A pot of tea, several used cups, and crumbed plates cluttered the table's surface. The woman looked up and smiled. There was nothing particularly outlandish about the way she was dressed. She had grey, unkempt hair, heavy boots which looked as though they'd suit Lucy-Anne better, old clothes that had seen better days. But a vivid red scar above one eye gave her a wild look. And her smile hid a deep sadness.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “My name's Rosemary, and I'm from London.”

  Jack shook his head and backed against the wall. No one comes out of London, he thought. They shoot the things that try. They burn them!

  Rosemary's smile grew. “Don't believe everything you see in the media. But then, you're the last people I need to say that to.”

  “Did you…read my mind?” Jack asked.

  “No, not me,” Rosemary said, “although I know a young woman back in the city who can do just that.”

  “Isn't it wonderful?” Jenna asked. She stared at Jack and Lucy-Anne, as if expecting her enthusiasm to wash over them as well.

  “Bloody miracle, is what it is,” Sparky said.

  “How did you get out?” Jack asked.

  Rosemary took a glass from the kitchen table and sipped at the water it contained. She closed her eyes and sighed; the sweetest thing ever. “Tunnels. There's a whole network under London, and not all of them are guarded.”

  Jack shook his head. It didn't make sense. “So why haven't more people come out before now?”

  “The route's only just been found. There's a man called Philippe who can see the lie of the land. A three-dimensional map in his mind, that's how he explains it to me, and he discovered this way to escape the city. We're afraid that a larger escape would be spotted, so I came alone to meet Jenna's father.”

  “Why?” Jack was still pressed against the wall, and he felt his friends’ eyes on him; Jenna angry, Sparky challenging, Lucy-Anne…he could not read her. She was a blank. He hoped it was caution.

  “So many questions,” Rosemary said.

  “What the bloody hell do you expect?”

  “Jack,” Jenna said, stepping forward. She touched his shoulders and looked up at him. She was sweet, her caramel skin impossibly smooth, and in other circumstances he could have seen them being together. But she was usually so filled with sadness that she rarely let anyone close.

  “It's just something I never expected.”

  “It's something we've always hoped for!” Jenna whispered.

  “So what can you do?” he asked over his f
riend's shoulder.

  “I'm a healer,” Rosemary said.

  “Huh!”

  Jenna squeezed his arms, but he would not catch her eye. She could have been sent here by the Capital Keepers, he wanted to say. And the more he thought about that, the more likely it seemed. If that were the truth they were already doomed, and they'd be whisked away, and even if they were allowed back home they'd be changed like Jenna's father. Ghosts of their former selves.

  “Need an open mind, mate,” Sparky said.

  Jack shook his head. “It just can't be.”

  Jenna sighed, and rested her head on his shoulder to whisper into his ear. The closeness surprised him. “Always the doubter,” she said.

  And then she stabbed him.

  Lucy-Anne went for Jenna. The girl turned with the knife held out. Lucy-Anne feinted right, then moved left, swinging her forearm before her to divert Jenna's arm. But the knife fell and struck the tiled floor with a splash of blood, and Jenna retreated against the closed back door.

  Lucy-Anne snatched up the blade and was on the other girl in a second. She pressed her against the door with an arm across her throat, and then they locked stares; two friends who had been through so much, and Lucy-Anne remembered a dozen times when they had eased each other's tears.

  “What the hell…?” she asked, and Jenna shook her head.

  “Lucy-Anne, trust me.”

  Lucy-Anne looked down at where Jack had slumped to the floor. He was pale, but for the startlingly bright blood pulsing between his fingers from his leg. Artery, she thought, oh shit, she got his artery. She glanced across at where a phone was fixed to the wall.

  Rosemary rose from the table, sighing as her joints clicked with audible pops. “Don't worry,” she said, her voice endlessly calm.

  “Don't worry?” Lucy-Anne shouted. She pulled Jenna from the door and pushed her across the kitchen towards the old woman, facing them all with the bloodied knife held before her. “Don't worry?” She looked at Sparky, expecting support from him but seeing only a strange, subdued excitement in his eyes. He was not looking at her, or the knife she held, or even at their friend bleeding to death on the floor. He was looking at Rosemary.