We had just escaped from Camberwell Green when my mobile phone shuddered in my pocket, as though in sympathy with the distress which surrounded us.
The line whirred and crackled, like the soundtrack to an old newsreel, and it took me a minute to recognize the voice.
“Henry? It’s me.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Jasper. Though I think you ought to know now. My name… my real name… It’s Richard Price.”
I thought for a moment. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“No. I just thought… I thought you ought to know my real name.”
“Thanks.” I really couldn’t think of what else to say. “How are you?”
“Fading fast.”
I asked him, not without a certain measure of impatience, what on earth he was talking about.
“I’m in a hotel room,” he said. “Somewhere expensive. Somewhere clean. So very important, I think, to die somewhere clean.”
“What are you doing there? Can’t you lot help? This stuff — this snow — it’s doing something to people.”
Jasper chuckled indulgently, like a mother to her little boy who won’t stop jabbering about his first day at school. “I’ve swallowed some pills, Henry. Swallowed a lot of pills.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because I touched her.”
“Touched who?”
“Only once. I want to make that absolutely clear. I only touched her once. But I had to. You understand? What man wouldn’t?”
“Who? Who did you touch?”
“The goddess, Henry. The new Estella. She was so perfect. She was smooth between the legs.” He wheezed in exhilaration. “Do you forgive me? Henry? I absolutely need you to forgive me.”
“I don’t suppose it matters now,” I said, watching fistfuls of black flakes throw themselves in kamikaze assault against the windows.
“It’s all over. The great serpent is coming.” Mr. Jasper (“Richard Price”) coughed, a thin rasp which turned, horribly, into something gushing and wet. “You’ve seen the snow?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
“It’s ampersand, Henry. Ampersand pouring from the sky.”
Another rattling breath, the line went dead and the snow fell more densely and more heavily than before, ceaselessly, without mercy, pouring onto the city like tears.
Chapter 25
Three days was all it took for London to run into the arms of chaos. The city embraced it willingly, all too eager to swap her staid old suitors of simmering calm and disgruntled order for this fresh admirer, this master swordsman of panic, anarchy and fear.
We arrived back at the flat late that afternoon. Several times during the journey the driver had come close to turfing us out his cab. He was going to make a break for it, he said, get the hell out of the city before catastrophe struck. It was only by stopping at another ATM and clearing out all that was left in my account that I was able to persuade him to take us home at all.
On the long drive Mum had got much worse, alternately enraged over old mistakes and infidelities, and weeping over what was hiding in the snow. By the time I got her to the flat, she’d grown almost delirious and Abbey, who, I noted with a warm glow of affection, was working hard to batten down her own panic and disquiet, had to help me put her into my bed, swinging Mum’s legs indecorously onto the mattress, stripping off most of her clothes, settling her down and doing our best to make her comfortable.
I’m sure it was wrong of me to think about such things at a time like that, but I realized, with a tingly thrill, that this unexpected houseguest would mean I’d have no choice but to share Abbey’s bed that night.
I brought Mum a glass of water, persuaded her to drink and, as she seemed finally to swim back to lucidity, introduced her to Abbey.
“You two an item?” she asked, as I wiped a strand of spittle from her lips. “I always thought you were gay.” She gurgled, spumes of spittle dripping from the corners of her mouth. “Never saw you with a woman. Assumed you were a woofter.”
“What’s happening?” Abbey asked when I came back into the sitting room and, frightened, we held one another just a little too tightly on the sofa. “Henry, what’s happening?”
“The worst thing you can imagine,” I said. “That’s what’s happening. The absolute worst thing you can imagine.”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m fed up with all these secrets. I want to know exactly what’s going on. I want you to tell me the truth.”
So I took her in my arms and, as gently as I could, I told her everything — from what had happened on the day that Granddad collapsed, to my history with the Prefects, to all that I knew about the snow. When I’d finished, she just nodded, thanked me for my honesty and reached for the TV remote.
On the tiny screen of Abbey’s portable television (rescued from the attic after Miss Morning had smashed up its predecessor) we watched the news as the terror began. The hoofbeats of disaster were there in every story — an epidemic of suicide; the churches, synagogues and mosques filled beyond capacity; neighbor turning upon neighbor; violence on the streets, widespread, indiscriminate and hysterical. Bewilderment led to confusion, confusion to fear, fear to panic — panic, ineluctably, to death.
At six P.M., the prime minister called an emergency session of Parliament. One hour later, the government was advising everyone to stay in their homes, exhorting us not to venture outside. At eight P.M., we heard that the hospitals were overloaded, filled with manically gibbering patients (many of them former members of staff). At nine P.M., the telephone rang in our lounge.
I was checking on Mum when it happened. She seemed to be sinking into some kind of delirium, muttering about something coming out of space to swallow London whole. The strange thing was that when she spoke about it, it was with a pronounced lilt in her voice, an intonation of delight, as though she was actually looking forward to the death of the city.
When I got into the sitting room, Abbey was staring at the phone, gazing at it warily, like it was about to jump up and bite her. I asked her why she hadn’t answered.
She bit her lip. “I’m scared.”
I seized the receiver. “Hello?”
I didn’t recognize the voice. It was a man, about my own age. “Is Abbey there?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“I need to speak to Abbey.”
“Who is this?”
Now the voice had an undercurrent of belligerence, barely disguised. “This is Joe. Who’re you?”
“I’m Henry Lamb,” I said, and slammed the phone down hard.
Abbey looked at me, wide eyed and shaky. “Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” I said, and the way she stared at me it was like she knew that I was lying.
I took a glass of water to Mum and got her to struggle up and take a couple of sips before she sank back onto the mattress again.
“It’s all happening so fast,” she murmured.
“Don’t, Mum,” I said. “Don’t try to speak.”
She groaned softly. “Didn’t think it would end quite like this…”
Her eyelids fluttered shut. I kissed her once on the forehead, made sure the duvet was tight around her and left her alone.
Next door, Abbey was already in bed, dressed in a man-sized T-shirt, tense, fidgety and chewing on her fingernails. Self-consciously, I stripped to my boxers and climbed in beside her.
“How’s your mum?” she asked.
“Not sure,” I said. “A bit shaky.”
We both knew that I was ready yet to admit the truth of it. At least not aloud.
“She seems nice,” Abbey said. “From what I could tell.”
“Well, you’re probably not meeting her at her best,”
“Probably not.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence.
“Henry? Do you think we’re safe here?”
“Ye
s, I think we are,” I said. “My granddad told me to go home.”
“I did a bit of research on this house once,” Abbey said, suddenly eager for a chat. “It’s been here longer than you’d think.”
“Really?” I said, grateful for the shift in conversation, happy for any old nonsense to be spoken as long as it filled the silence.
“Back in the last century, before this place was divided into flats, there was a psychic who lived here.”
“A psychic?”
“A spiritualist, yeah.” She giggled, and that giggle, it was wonderful to hear. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
“I think a lot of dark stuff’s happened here in the past,” I said softly. “I don’t believe anything’s been an accident in my life. Not even this place.”
The moment of good humor had passed.
Abbey sighed, rolled over and switched off the light.
Later, as we lay together in the dark, she said: “I can’t believe I’ve found you. You’re my second chance, Henry. I always wanted to do something worthwhile with my life. Something that makes a difference. With you, p’raps I finally can.”
I squeezed her hand and she squeezed mine as outside the snow continued to fall, covering the city in a second skin, in a carapace of jealousy and spite.
In the night, there were strange sounds — shouts and moans and smashing glass. Once, just after midnight, we heard a whispered invitation at the letterbox. Certain promises were made, certain boons offered in exchange for services rendered, for a number of small concessions.
But we held one another close and tried to stop our ears against it, knowing that this was our haven and that to leave the flat could mean the end for either one of us.
I suppose there might be some bitter kind of irony in the fact that the next day was Christmas Eve. In all that had happened, I’d started to forget that there was supposed to be anything festive going on at all.
When I woke, Abbey’s side of the bed was empty and cool. I wrapped a dressing gown around myself and walked through to the lounge to find her on the couch watching television, a mug of something hot cupped between her hands, riveted by the cataclysms unfolding on-screen.
She didn’t even look up. “The city’s in lockdown,” she said. “They’ve set up checkpoints at the edge of London. People’ve seen soldiers. They’re saying they’re shooting to kill.”
I sat beside her on the sofa and hugged her close.
“Everyone’s gone mad,” she said. “They’ve all gone mad.”
I kissed her gently on the forehead, smoothed back her hair and whispered something treacly and cloying.
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled.
“I need to check on Mum.”
She nodded distractedly. “Henry?”
“Yes?”
“What can we do?”
“We stay here,” I said firmly. “We stay in this flat and we wait it out. As long as we’re together — as long as we’re in here — then nothing can touch us.”
“But there are people outside I care about. What about them?”
“Everything I care about’s right here.” I sounded perhaps a little colder than I had intended.
“You think your granddad’s dead, don’t you?” she said.
I walked away.
Of course, I blame myself.
Mum was fine when I checked on her. Her breathing was shallow and she was still murmuring and moaning to herself, but she didn’t have a temperature and seemed, if anything, to be slightly calmer than before. I did what I could, gave her water, mopped her brow and, just before lunch, helped her lurch uncertainly into the bathroom, even cleaning up the subsequent mess.
I’m not a bad son, that’s what I’m saying. I did my best.
Abbey and I were having lunch, eking out the last of our bread and fruit, when we heard the scream.
In the bedroom Mum was on her feet and almost fully dressed, lacing up her shoes with jerky, robotic motions, muttering endlessly about the snow.
She’d managed to tear out some of the fitted carpet, peeling it back to reveal old floorboards underneath. Here she’d uncovered something extraordinary — painted markings, sigils, signs and symbols daubed in red upon the wood.
“Mum?” I said, moving warily toward her and trying not to think too hard about what I’d seen on the floor. “What’s all this, Mum?”
“He sold your father. Did you know that? For the sake of his putrid little war he bargained away your dad. And you know what scares me now? I think he’s sold you, too.”
“Are you talking about Granddad?” I asked.
“That man,” she rasped. “That vicious man. It was always his idea.”
“What was?” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“The telly… Your father and I never wanted it for you. And then — those operations. He paid for them. Oh, Henry. Incisions to the brain.”
I edged closer. “Mum?”
Then I made my mistake. I placed my hand on her shoulder. It was the gentlest restraint, the kindest holding-back, but that was not how my mother saw it. She gave a roar of outrage and pain. Until then, I don’t suppose I’d ever thought her capable of making such a sound. If I hadn’t snatched my hand away as quickly as I did, I honestly believe she might have bitten it.
My voice trembled. “Mum, what are you doing? Please, Get back into bed.”
She bared her teeth and hissed. “Leviathan is coming. We must all go out to meet him.”
Hunched forward, simian in motion, she pushed past me and sped toward the front door. Abbey appeared and stepped uncertainly in her path but Mum just slapped her out of the way. Abbey squealed in shock and I saw that my mother had drawn blood on her cheek.
Mum reached the door and unlocked it, suddenly, helplessly desperate to be outside.
Stupidly, I touched her arm again and she snarled back something terrible. Even now, I am unable to bring myself to set down those words.
She wrenched open the door and I saw the scene outside, a window onto what the city had become. Chaos, smoke, endless snowfall. Dozens of men and women in the same condition as my mother, loping through the snow, all of them streaming in the same direction.
They no longer seemed like people at all. Drones. That was how I thought of them now. Just drones.
Mum stepped into the street and sniffed the air.
“Don’t go!” I shouted.
But she paid me no attention. Mum gave another cry of fury and triumph, and ran into the street to join the others, into that exodus of the damned.
“Mum!”
She didn’t turn back. I stood on the threshold, wondering what to do, uncertain whether to give chase, knowing that she wouldn’t thank me for it. A few seconds more and she was lost to the snow and my decision had been made for me.
I stepped back inside and snapped shut the door, just as Abbey emerged from the bathroom, clutching a wad of tissue to the side of her face.
“She’s gone,” I said.
At five o’clock that afternoon, the television went black. With the exception of half an hour of the test card on BBC1, there was nothing on any channel except static and interference. Snow outside, snow inside, blackness crept all over London. A few hours later, the lights went out as well and we lost power for good.
Abbey and I went to bed, too scared to sit up in the dark, not brave enough to pay any heed to the strange sounds we heard from outside, the rustlings and stampings, the whinnies of terror, the orgiastic cries.
Much later, as we lay close to one another, we heard the same hissing at the letterbox as the night before, the same whispered invitation. But we held each other tight and stopped our ears against it.
As I’m writing this, I feel a flicker of hope. You know what I’m talking about. You must have noticed it yourself.
The other handwriting, that other story, has gone and there have been no more interpolations, no more intrusions, for days.
Maybe everything’s going to be OK. Maybe there�
��ll be no need for that journey I thought I had to make, for that appointment of ours in the wilderness. Perhaps at last I’m really free.
As Abbey and I tried to sleep, outside an old man was running. I didn’t know it at the time but he was very near to us, almost in sight of our door.
His flight had not gone unnoticed. He was being tracked, although not with any subtlety or grace as he could hear them blundering behind him, wheezing and squealing in weird pleasure. There was a whole tribe of them, dumb but implacable, tireless, without morality, the new face of mankind.
The old man was growing weary and out of breath, his years of active service in the Directorate long behind him, weakened by his days in a hospital bed and ground down by the spectacle of his darkest fears become reality. No one would have blamed him for giving up. Thousands would have done just that, long ago. In medical terms, he shouldn’t even have been on his feet. But he didn’t give up. He kept going, forcing his ancient body onward through the snow and the dark, pushing himself far beyond endurance just to try to reach me before the end.
He was less than a street away when they found him, the herd driven mad by the snow, inflamed by the ampersand in their systems.
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