by Saci Lloyd
For a moment it was silent, except for people breathing. And then someone cried: “We’ve got to get out of here!” The screaming started again, and there was a massive push toward the doors. I thought my lungs were gonna burst, so much pressure was on me. A voice, shouting: “All right, everyone, the way to get out of here is to keep calm. People by the doors—can you open them?”
I felt this guy next to me take the door seal in both hands and strain against it with all his strength. He pulled away in pain. “No, man. No way.”
“What about the windows? Where’s the bloody emergency hammer?”
Someone next to me went: “We need a light . . . who’s got a flashlight?”
“I’ve got a lighter!”
“No!” the first voice answered. “No naked flame—we don’t know what’s down here.”
I made a vow to myself to carry a flashlight if I got out. Always.
“It’s a bomb!” A woman’s voice. Breaking.
“Keep calm. We’re all going to get out of here. We have to believe that. Can anyone see where we are?”
I peered thru the grimy window. Nothing out there, just dirty tunnel. Shit. I could feel the panic rising again around me.
And then another voice. Somebody was shouting from the next car. “The driver’s sent a message along the train. We’ve had a power cut—but we’re all right cos the front car is in Bond Street Station. He says we’ve got to make our way slowly from car to car till we reach the front. But you’ve got to stay where you are till the people in front move forward. Pass it on.”
Adi squeezed my hand. “Oh, Jesus.”
The big guy next to me began to cry softly.
And then we stood in the dark for the longest time till it was our turn to move. You could feel everyone trying to control the fear. Trapped underground, pressed tight, heat rising, pitch-black. Suddenly a beam of light flickered across the car. A sea of pale, scared faces.
“All right, people. I’m a police officer. Is anyone hurt?” Nobody answered. “Then let’s get you out of here. Step away from the connecting door so I can open it. And when you do move, please, do it slowly and calmly.”
Me and Adi held hands as we stumbled down the endless black train cars. On and on and on until finally we got to the front and stepped onto the platform. There were some kind of dull backup lights there. I peered forward into the gloom. The platform was packed full of people slowly shuffling forward, like souls risen from the dead. We joined them, step after step, stair after stair, tunnel after tunnel. At one point a load of people fell. It was too packed. I went down, bodies around me. People screaming, others shouting, “Keep calm, it’s okay,” and shit like that. Then Adi’s hand on my arm, pulling me up. “Come on. We’re nearly there.” And then the best part of all—air, fresh air on my face. I never knew how good that could feel.
When we got onto the street, there were thousands of people crushed into the cordoned-off area around the exit. There were police and ambulances around the front. The streets were gridlocked. Me and Adi stood there, gasping. A fireman waved us over.
“Are you all right?”
I couldn’t find any words, I just felt cold.
He frowned. “Can you hear me okay, love?”
Adi nodded. “She’s fine. We just want to get home.” He took out his cell phone.
“There’s no network. Emergency Services only. Where’s home?”
“Charlton.”
The officer glanced around, uneasy. “Look, the official line is that people should stay here until the power comes on, but . . . well, my feeling is you’d be better off away from the West End. Are you fit to walk for a bit?”
“All the way to Charlton? It’s miles, man.”
“I know, but nothing’s moving here—and it’s just going to get more and more packed. D’you know the way across the river at least? I reckon once you get clear of the center there’ll be buses running, and maybe the phone network will be back up by then, too.”
“But why? What’s happening in the West End?” I asked.
He hesitated. “There’s some reports of looting. I don’t want to scare you, it’s probably on a small scale—and normally I’d never advise two kids like you to go alone . . . but look at the amount of people we’ve got here—we can’t protect you properly. It’s best to get out of the area.”
Adi nodded. “All right. Thanks.”
The fireman touched my hand. “Take the back routes and if you see any trouble, run.”
We pushed through the crowd and slipped under the cordon at the top of South Molton Street. We only went 50 meters before it was pitch-black. I turned and looked back at the crowd.
“You sure about this, Adi?”
“Come on, girl, things are gonna turn ugly here soon. You know it. We’ve gotta get home.”
Even as we watched, a fight broke out on the edge of the crowd and police officers closed in. We slipped away into the darkness.
That boy has got a mean sense of direction. We took the blackest, tiniest back roads and traced a route down behind Piccadilly and then cut east, toward the City and the river. For 30 minutes, we saw no one, just rats and rubbish spilling into the road. By the time we got down behind the Strand, my foot was killing me. I leaned against a railing. “Wait, these new shoes are messed up.”
Adi looked around us. “We’re doing good. Maybe we can sneak out onto the main roads and check out the buses now. I reckon that fireman was freaking out. We ain’t seen nothing, huh?”
I winced with pain as I peeled my sock back. A massive blister. It popped, sending a gush of slime over my hand. “Urggh! Adi, have you got a tissue or something—”
“Sshh.”
“But it hurts—”
“Laura . . . can you hear that?”
“What?”
We both stood still for a moment, and then there it was—a dull, roaring sound. A siren cutting across it. Coming toward us. We looked at each other.
“Get your shoe back on.”
I crouched down on the corner of the road, tying up my lace, when suddenly a man hurtled around the corner, carrying a massive TV.
“Move!” he snarled, jumping over my outstretched leg.
“Laur, get up now. We’ve got to hide.”
Heart racing, me and Adi running down a crazy maze of city streets, trying to get over a railing or into a basement area, but there was nowhere to hide. By now there were sirens all around us. Then we took a sharp turn and ran straight onto the Strand. We stopped dead. It was a massive standoff. At least a thousand people in a silent mass outside Somerset House. Facing them, a line of police in riot gear. It looked like a photograph, like they’d been there forever. Then, without warning, the police fired 3 gas grenades into the people. The crowd fell back, screaming. Thru the smoke I could see the police moving forward, beating on their shields with their sticks. Suddenly I heard Adi screaming in my ear. “What you doing? Move! Move!”
And then we ran and ran and ran. Across the bridge, along the Embankment, till we couldn’t run anymore.
The feeling of opening my front door—and walking into my home. I can’t describe it. Not that anyone noticed I’d been gone. Dad was the only one up. He looked up from his book. “Had fun?”
I nodded.
I can’t write anymore tonight.
Thurs., Feb. 5
And the funniest thing of all is the power was only out for 2 hours. All that for 2 lousy hours. 30,000 passengers trapped till midnight, 8 million euros’ worth of damage in the City, 2 buildings burned down, 4 separate riots, looters fired on with gas and water cannons, 6 people dead, 260 injured, 800 arrests.
And the cause? A circuit went in the 275,000-volt system that goes around London. One stupid tiny transmission circuit blew in a substation in Kent.
I can’t believe how naive I was before. I’m so down. Our first test and we failed it so bad. Looting? What’s that about? It’s just greed, stupid greed—same thing that got us into this mess in the first pl
ace. Sometimes I really hate people. What’s going to happen when something really bad happens?
It’s got to end soon. The blizzards are finished in Europe, but now the snow’s melting so fast that it’s all flooding like crazy. Denmark has increased our gas supply to 75% but the bloody French are still holding theirs back. There’s just not enough fuel to keep our power stations running.
Sat., Feb. 7
Time-warp factor 10. Mum decided we needed to do something fun to cheer us up so our big happy family went for a drive this afternoon like it was such a big deal, like we were going to the moon.
I squeezed into the back of the car with Kim (dragged out of her room), but I made her boyfriend, Paul, sit between us to soak up her radioactive rays. What he sees in her is a total mystery. I guess she must be hot at the old you-know-what. Urggh.
“I’m not sure about this, Julia,” Dad muttered from the passenger seat.
“Well, I am. We haven’t used the car in over a month and I, for one, need some goddamn normality.”
“All right, but we should really think about trading this car in for a full electric.”
Mum shivered. “I’m not driving around in a milk truck, Nick, and that’s final.”
Dad sighed and looked out the window.
She’s kind of right, though. This Loud Dad guy who lives 4 doors down has just got an electric and it takes him to the end of the street to get up to 10 kph.
Mum drove us to Virginia Water and we had a freezing picnic by the side of the lake. And then a strange thing happened. Mum kept trying to force the last bit of quiche/cake/Kettle chip onto Paul—“Come along, growing boy like you! Blah blah”—and he was saying “No, no, thank you very much, Mrs. Brown, blah, blah”—when suddenly Dad bounced up off the grass like a hot coal. “Why don’t you ever bloody listen? The boy said no!” Then he hurled his drumstick onto the ground and stormed off into the woods. We all stared at him in silence. Our dad, all angry. Kim began to laugh. “Finally, we’re starting to crack.”
Mon., Feb. 9
Yes! France has finally, finally lifted its ban on exporting oil. No more blackouts! Or at least until the next snow. Everyone is so happy. Bob Jenkins twirled Lisa Bell down the hall in some hideous back-in-the-day dance move. But the bad news is the gov’s hooking up all the Smart Meters in our homes to the energy grid so they can control people and cut them off if they get out of line. Disgusting.
Tues., Feb. 10
I had the house to myself this morning so I hooked my ePod up to the speakers and cranked it way up. Green Day, Peaches, New York Dolls—all the old classics—and I pogoed my little arse off all over the lounge. God, I love those bands—so much strut, so much style. Claire’s always trying to get me into the whole Straight X scene, but I dunno—no drugs, no meat, issues, it’s so heavy. I mean, I care about stuff, but I want a life, too.
After a bit, I sneaked into Kim’s room with my bass to practice some moves in her full-length mirror. I tried lowering the strap, but then I couldn’t hit the high notes on death to the capitalist scum. There was a load of junk in front of the mirror so I moved a pile of papers to one side. The top ones slid off—and underneath was a ton of mags and brochures about Ibiza. What the hell was Kim doing with all these? I felt the back of my neck prickle. I had to look—all those U.K. people partying and burning up fuel like crazy traitors. I was jealous and dead angry with them all at the same time.
Suddenly, I heard the front door slam and I legged it big time.
I hate Kim so much it makes me feel sick. The thing that’s so bad about it is that until 2 years ago we used to really watch each other’s back. Kim’s always been kind of nuts, but she was cool, too—she’d teach me how not to take shit from anyone; I’d hang out in her room all the time, doing makeup, chilling out, playing tunes—and then when she started going to fashion college, she flipped and dropped me like I was the biggest loser.
Wed., Feb. 11
6:30 A.M. Postman just woke me up.
“Sign here, please,” he said, handing me a red envelope with a Carbon Department official stamp on it. “That’s a red.” He raised an eyebrow. “They only send them to the real overspenders. Ta ta.”
I didn’t even open it, just hid it under the recycling bin. There’s so many wine bottles in there, they’ll never lift it. I can’t stand the trauma.
I almost feel like a standard teenager on a Friday night tonight. We had a popping band practice—rationing’s made us go dead focused. After an hour or so, we took a break. Claire looked across at me.
“So, you’re finally getting radical, Laur?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I hear you’re going to the hydro gig. They’re out there. They don’t say it, but they’re behind the SUP action.”
“The what?”
“Y’know, Scratch Up Petrol—any car on the streets that burns dirty fuel. Kids everywhere are scratching the hydro logo on them with keys.”
“Oh, what, that anarchy symbol that’s got an H instead of an A?” asked Stace. “My dad’s dentist got a fat one right on the hood of his Porsche the other day. My dad said he was so mad he nearly drilled thru Dad’s cheek.”
I shook my head. “Look, I don’t know—I just like the music. Why does everything have to be political with you, Claire?”
She twirled the mic around her arm. “Cos it is, Laura.”
After practice we all went to watch Icebreaker, which was this 3-D thriller about New York freezing over. It was kind of weird watching it, though; it was meant to be all tearjerky—this family and all the shit they were going thru—but every time they cried or whatever, everyone in the theater laughed. The family just seemed so spoiled, like children. In the end scene the dad hero guy was trying to outrun a glacier in a Jeep and Adi shouted “Bullshit!” and a whole bunch of people in our row cheered.
Bloody Claire. I don’t want everything to be political. I want everything to be normal.
Sat., Feb. 14
Happy Valentine’s Day to me. How am I going to get RD to notice me? I’m in 2 very bad non-sexy categories—the girl next door and the girl he solders circuit boards with on Monday mornings and Thursday afternoons. I kind of want to tell people, but the last time I liked a boy (Scott Harris), everyone got so angry with me obsessing and not making any moves that they fly-posted the school with a blown-up photo of Scott with Call Me! and my cell number all over it.
I dropped in on Kieran this afternoon. He hasn’t picked up his scissors for weeks. Instead, he’s been pacing up and down his living room, talking to himself. I tried to calm him down, but his eyes were all mad and he kept going: “What am I gonna do, what am I gonna do?” like a parrot.
Like I know. I’m sixteen.
When I got home Dad was out in the back, pretending to sweep the yard, but in reality chatting to Mr. Datta. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak more than 4 words in weeks, so I listened in.
Jesus, grown-up men are so boring. 30 minutes of conversation for this:
1. Mr. Datta came over to Britain in 1987 to go into business with his brother, and everyone has disappointed him since.
2. My dad went into teaching in 1986, and everyone has disappointed him since.
They only stopped cos Ravi came out to tell his dad he had a call. When Mr. Datta had gone past him into the house, I saw Ravi spit on the ground just where he’d stepped. Ooh-er. I tried to catch his eye, but he just turned on his heel and disappeared indoors.
Dad went back to bed again—so much for that burst of life. I took the chance and sneaked into his office to log on. Every time I use electricity now I feel like a criminal. I wanted to look up some background on the hydrogen, but I couldn’t remember the address of this underground music site, so I went into history—and guess what I saw? A load of hits on Ibiza.com. Kim can’t be that crazy. I went to the BA site to find out the CO points for air travel. Man, it’s heavy—100 points for a return to Ibiza. That’d leave you with hardly nothing to survive on for t
he rest of the month. It’s impossible. I also found this printout in a drawer.
That man’s got no idea what he’s up against.
Mon., Feb. 16
So much for the carbon white market. There’s a total black market in the Yard now. There was nearly a riot today when this kid got rushed cos he’d got a box of jacked batteries and was selling them with no CO swipe. It’s not about money anymore, it’s about keeping your card low. This kid’s set up a business on the bike-shed roof where you take him your backpack in the morning and he charges up the solar panels, and then you pick it up at the end of the day for a chiller. It’s a pretty good deal—you can run your smartphone for a day off it. I’ve finally got the carbon points in my head. 1 point is a cooler, 10 is a chiller, and 100 is a cube. I think.
I think I might have found out what’s wrong with Dad. I was walking down the D-Block corridor with Claire to her Travel & Tourism lesson, but when we got to the room there was a notice stuck on the door saying the course’d been canceled. The whole course. Everybody’s dropped it, and you can’t blame them. What’s the point in studying something you’ll never do? I got a really sick feeling reading it. All the places I’m never gonna see.
Claire kicked the door. “Brilliant! Let’s go home and cook and sew and have babies and freeze our arses off and never go anywhere or do anything exciting and die in a storm and live with our parents forever.”
I feel dead sorry for Dad. I mean Travel & Tourism is a really stupid department to be head of, but what was he supposed to do after cruising around the world in a VW camper van with a head full of weed in the ’80s? Mum got pregnant with Kim and he went into teaching, and now it’s 18 years later. He’s like a dinosaur, one of those big, soft, leaf eaters, a brontosaurus maybe, who one day looks up at this strange cold stuff falling out of the sky and goes, “Ooh, pretty snow!” and the next thing is kids are sticking gum on the back of his skull in the British Museum.