She grabbed Geldof’s head, jammed it into her bosom, and began stroking his hair. The effect on Geldof, who had looked as if he was about to oppose his father’s will, was like plugging a dummy into an infant’s mouth.
‘Be careful,’ Lesley said.
Terry gave her a weak smile. ‘If anything happens, I’ll run like the coward I am.’
He and James clambered onto the platform and crept to the stairs. Terry’s ears had become super-sensitive radar dishes, almost swivelling as he strained to hear anything that sounded remotely like scampering, scuttling, tramping, stampeding or pattering. He was painfully aware they had nothing to use as a weapon should the need arise, although James seemed unconcerned. At the top of the stairs, James peeked around the corner, and then signalled it was OK to advance. He went into a crouch position, sidling along the wall beneath the ticket booths like a furtive crab. Terry followed, trying to avoid brushing his hair against the numerous clumps of chewing gum stuck to the underside of the shelves that jutted out from the booths. At the corner to the main concourse, James once again ducked his head round and gave the all-clear.
Terry straightened up, groaning at the release of the pressure on his knees, and set out across the deserted concourse. Half of the platforms had trains parked in them beneath a lifeless overhead board. The coffee shops and newsagents were shuttered, while the exits also looked firmly locked up. He made a beeline for the left luggage department, leaving James to check the side exits. He had no intention of spending the rest of the journey in boxer shorts, a T-shirt and bare feet. With a bit of luck he would find some clothes that fitted him, a makeshift weapon and something to prise open the shutters to the newsagents and gain access to the snacks therein.
Halfway across, a smoky smell with a meaty undertone tickled his nostrils. The images of the animals he had killed bobbing along in the river of blood returned briefly. His head swam, and he had to stop and put his hands on his knees. When the dizziness passed, he diverted his course towards the main exit, which led out onto George Square. The smell grew stronger.
When he peered through the slat in the shutters blocking the door, he saw a black mass heaped up around the column jutting from the middle of the square’s red concrete surface. Whatever it was, it reached the feet of the statue on top of the column and sprawled around it in all directions. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the pile, to be snatched away by the wind. Then Terry saw what could only be an arm sticking out, and understood what he was looking at: a pile of bodies, animal and human, fused together in one blackened mass. He slid down the wall.
‘What is it?’ James called from the other side of the hall.
‘You’d better see for yourself.’
James looked out of the window for a long time then sat beside Terry.
‘How many people are in there?’ Terry asked.
‘It looks like mostly animals to me. But I doubt that’s the only bonfire.’
‘Jesus,’ Terry murmured. ‘This is really grim.’
‘Look, it’s good news,’ James said. ‘It means that the military has some level of control, at least in this part of town.’
‘Hurray. Except the military are probably after us as well, remember?’
‘I’d rather deal with soldiers. There are specific rules under martial law, which means you can predict what is going to happen. Animals don’t have a rulebook.’
After a short silence, Terry leapt to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’ James asked.
‘The only thing that’s going to cheer me up is a can of Irn Bru and a packet of Pickled Onion Monster Munch, which are locked up in that store.’ Terry jabbed a finger at the newsagents. ‘We need to find something to break in with.’
He strode to the left luggage office. The flimsy lock caved in with a few kicks. He hurdled the counter and began rifling through piles of abandoned suitcases and bags. Judging by the amount of luggage still there, they must have closed the station at short notice. He sifted through clothes, books and toiletries and was fingering a pair of frilly black knickers when James joined him.
James raised an eyebrow.
‘Slingshot?’ Terry said, pulling the elastic back and firing the pants at James.
James dodged the lacy projectile and joined the search.
Ten minutes later, they emerged with two pool cues, a crowbar found in a utility room at the back of the office, a couple of torches, and a toolbox full of wrenches and screwdrivers. Terry was newly clad in a pair of hiking boots, waterproof trousers and a bulky North Face jacket, courtesy of the owner of a hefty rucksack. They set about the padlock on the shop’s shutters, making a horrendous racket that Terry was sure would bring any animals in the vicinity running. He was too hungry to be overly concerned.
Once the shutter was up, Terry raided the soft drinks cabinet. He chugged down a full can of Irn Bru in ten seconds flat, let loose a massive belch, and then attacked the crisps section. He was cramming Monster Munch into his mouth when there was a flash of white in the corner of his vision. He froze mid-chew.
‘Something’s coming,’ he told James, peering out of the window.
Pelting up Queen Street towards the station were four tracksuit-clad youths on mountain bikes, each of them with a bulging rucksack strapped to his back. All four were glancing over their shoulders and hammering at the pedals as fast as they could. The rear cyclist, a scrawny kid barely into his teens, turned round too far. The rucksack shifted and he lost control, the bike somersaulting ahead of him as he slid into the kerb at speed. Watches, mobile phones and iPads spilled out of his bag across the road. His friends didn’t slow down.
‘Looters,’ James remarked. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
What came round the corner next was definitely something to worry about: a jeep carrying three soldiers armed with squat guns. They roared past the fallen kid, who was slowly regaining his feet, and pursued the other three. There was a long burst of automatic fire. The three cyclists came tumbling off like rag dolls. The jeep stopped and the soldiers piled out. Two of them ran up to the cyclists, while the other headed back to the boy, who was backing away from the rucksack. Four single shots rang out.
‘Martial law,’ James said. ‘Looters get shot.’
The soldiers gathered up the bodies and set them to burning before driving off. Terry put the unfinished packet of Monster Munch back on the shelf.
James stayed at the window, looking down at the fresh fire, his face expressionless. ‘We’re going to have to wait until nightfall before moving.’
‘If I put a pound in the till it doesn’t count as looting,’ Terry said to himself, fishing in his pockets.
James pulled him up by the arm. ‘They’re not going to ask to see your receipt before opening fire. Stay here. I’ll go get the others.’
It seemed like an eternity before James came scuttling back with the rest of the party. They all crammed into the small shop and James pulled the shutters down.
‘What’s that smell?’ Lesley asked, trying to wrinkle her nose but failing due to the fact it was swollen up and looked rather like an old radish.
‘Look out of the window,’ James said.
Lesley did. As with Terry, it took her a few seconds to understand what she was seeing. She turned away, her cheeks pale, and sat beside Terry. Geldof peeled himself from Mary’s embrace to look, and then quickly returned to take up his role as a human teddy. Mary showed no interest in finding out what the fuss was about.
‘Hey, where did you get the clothes?’ Lesley asked.
Terry accompanied Lesley to the left luggage room. As she rummaged through the suitcases, the clouds burst overhead, sending sheets of water lashing against the windowpane.
‘This reminds me of the caravan holidays we used to take at Arbroath when I was a kid,’ Lesley said. ‘We’d always be stuck inside, the rain drumming down on the roof.’
‘That must have been boring,’ Terry said.
‘Not really. We’d play games. Both my parents were j
ournalists, so they would have me interview them, do fake TV reports, that kind of thing. It was fun.’
‘So journalism’s a family tradition. They must have been proud when you started at the Tribune.’
‘They were,’ Lesley said, concentrating on slipping into a pair of jeans to go with the white woolly jumper she had put on earlier.
‘Wait a minute,’ Terry said. ‘Is your father Charles McBrien?’
Lesley grimaced. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘Wow. He’s a famous war correspondent.’
‘I know.’
‘He’s been everywhere: Somalia, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan.’
‘I know.’
‘He saved that little Muslim girl from the wreckage of a bombed-out building in Sarajevo. There was a film made—’
‘I know!’ Lesley yelled, hurling a pair of shoes she had been inspecting against the wall.
Terry held up his hands. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.’
‘Yeah, well. You think I don’t know how good a journalist he is and how crap I am?’
This time, Terry picked up on the cue. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself?’
Lesley flopped back in a pile of clothes and put her hands over her eyes. ‘Am I? I totally fucked this story up. I could have had it published by now. Now I might die before I can get it out.’
It was difficult to argue with Lesley, given the events of the day. Terry was beginning to believe their chances of survival were smaller than he had hoped. Lesley’s fear gave him something to focus on, though. If he could convince her, he could convince himself.
He sat down beside her. ‘You still have the data, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, patting her bra.
‘You’ve got the story then. All we have to do is get it out.’
‘All we have to do? It might prove a little more complicated than that.’
‘So far we’ve been shot at, chased by dogs and attacked by rats. We survived. And that was without James, who’s a trained soldier. Now he’s not totally wasted, he can help. We’ll definitely get out, your story will be published and your dad will be proud of you.’
‘I don’t want him to be proud. His job always meant more to him than we did. I want the old goat to be jealous. If I get this story out, I can rub it in his face for ever.’
‘You’ll get it out.’
‘You think?’
‘Absolutely,’ Terry lied, quite convincingly he thought.
They fell silent, listening to the rain spatter against the glass, until Terry’s eyes began to droop, the lack of sleep catching up with him.
‘Sorry about your cousin, and the boys,’ Lesley said.
‘So am I.’
Even though David had been the architect of his own and the twins’ death by first kidnapping them, thus preventing them from leaving earlier, and then by going to the window so foolishly, Terry could not forget he was the one who had brought Brown to the house. That was something he was going to have to live with for the rest of his life, but at the moment the feelings were too raw, and their situation too precarious, to bear close examination.
He got to his feet sharply and held out his hand. ‘Come on, you, we’d better go.’
Lesley let him pull her up. She slipped on a pair of trainers and walked across the concourse at Terry’s side. He was all too aware how close their bodies were. Back in the newsagents, they ate a lunch of Mars bars, Double Deckers and Dairy Milks, washed down with fizzy drinks. Geldof and James slipped away, each returning with a fresh set of clothes. The dull afternoon light slowly faded and occasionally they heard the growl of an engine.
When the light was almost completely gone, James handed out rucksacks he had purloined from the left luggage room. ‘Fill them with what you can. It may not be real food, but it’s all we’ve got.’
They crammed the bags with confectionery, crisps, juice and water. Lesley threw boxes of Regal King Size into her backpack.
‘Let’s try not to use the torches either. It’ll draw attention to us,’ James said. ‘Just stay close behind me and watch my signs. We’ll make it.’
James took the crowbar, then handed a pool cue each to Terry and Lesley. Geldof got a wrench.
‘Don’t I get a weapon?’ Mary asked.
Terry looked at her. She still appeared stunned, but her eyes were clear. ‘Do you want one?’
‘If I meet this Brown person, I want to beat him to death. He killed my boys.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Terry responded.
He unscrewed his pool cue into two pieces and handed one to Mary. She thumped it against her open palm in a very unschoolteacherly manner.
They snaked out into the concourse, James the head and Terry the tail, and crept over to a side exit, which was barely visible in the near darkness. James listened for a while, and then smashed the lower pane of glass. He listened again. The city was silent. James cleared away the last shards of broken glass and led them out onto the street, where a lone delivery van sat.
‘Why don’t we take that?’ Terry asked.
‘We can’t risk driving through the city,’ James said. ‘It’s too loud. We can get transport at the other end.’
James led them down the hill and, after a quick check, across the road into an alleyway. Terry guessed the lack of traffic snarls was down to most people abandoning the city centre at an early stage, before panic really set in. It was even darker in the alleyway, the high buildings blotting out all but a tiny strip of sky, which was now clear and leaking starlight onto the world below. At the end of the alley, they scuttled across the road and crossed into George Street.
At the front of the Museum of Modern Art, James stopped abruptly. Light flickered on the walls and columns of the museum. The stink of charred flesh reached Terry’s nostrils again. James led them away from the source of light, staying deep in the shadows. Terry glanced behind him as they rounded the museum to cross the plaza towards Buchanan Street, and saw another bonfire, this one smaller and brighter, across from the statue of the Duke of Wellington astride his horse. Terry was one of many Glaswegians who, pissed up at three in the morning, had climbed atop the statue to perch a traffic cone on the Duke’s head. The memory of happier times made him want to crumple to the pavement.
On they crept, ducking from cover to cover, passing another smouldering pile of melded animal and human flesh. The windows of many of the stores they passed were smashed, displays devoid of products. So far they had seen neither soldier nor beast. That luck could not hold.
They were about a hundred metres from Central Station when James brought them to a halt outside the Horseshoe Bar, one of Terry’s old haunts. Hope springs eternal, and Terry thought they were stopping for a break, and possibly a sneaky looted beer. It had been weeks since alcohol had passed his lips. Then he heard voices, followed by a sharp burst of laughter. James motioned for Terry to join. At the junction right on the corner of the station, a trio of soldiers sat in armchairs, likely hauled from a nearby furniture store, smoking around a campfire next to their parked vehicle.
‘What do we do?’ Terry whispered.
‘We wait.’
They hunkered down. As the minutes wore on and the cold seeped further into Terry’s bones, it seemed unlikely the soldiers were going anywhere.
‘Where are all the looters when you need them?’ he asked.
As if in answer to Terry’s question, a radio crackled. They heard a short exchange, and then the engine leapt into life.
‘Back!’ James said urgently.
They jammed themselves into a doorway as the jeep shot past, its headlights illuminating a spray of bullet holes on the opposite wall. The engine noise receded into the distance.
‘We need to move,’ James said.
They broke cover and ran into the road. Outside the station sat three taxis, all locked up. James broke the window of the first one and opened the doors. He rummaged in a tool kit he found under the passe
nger seat and, as he attacked the steering column with a screwdriver, Mary and Geldof piled into the back seat.
‘Get the gates open,’ James hissed at Terry and Lesley.
They ran over to the massive wrought-iron gates at the station entrance and found the padlock had already been broken, probably by looters keen to access the larger selection of shops in the station. The taxi burst into life. Terry winced, expecting an army vehicle to come careering round the corner. James pulled up alongside them, but Terry waved him forward so he could close the gates behind them and cover their tracks. Then he and Lesley jumped in.
The wheels squealed as the cab motored towards the railway tracks, passing the clock under which Terry, and just about every other teenager in Glasgow, used to meet his dates before heading out on the town. At the platform, James turned on the headlights, searching for a ramp leading onto the tracks. There was none.
‘We’re going to have to jump it,’ James said.
He backed up, put the taxi into first then hit the accelerator.
‘Can we not get out fir— Ooohhhhhhhhh shiiiiiitttte!’ Lesley cried as the taxi hurtled into thin air. It hit the tracks with a crunching impact. The occupants of the back seat were thrown up, to land in a tangle of limbs on the floor.
James didn’t slow down. ‘Sorry about that. I didn’t want to waste any time in case the patrol came back. Everyone OK?’
Terry rubbed the top of his head. ‘I think you’ve concussed my concussion. Apart from that, I’m fine.’
The others picked themselves up and settled down into the rattling seats, holding on to the bars to steady themselves. James steered them out of the station, his driving far faster and more assured than Terry’s had been on the other rail track, and onto the bridge spanning the River Clyde. Terry looked out over the city. The lights that normally sparkled along the riverside were extinguished. The entire city lay in darkness, save for the many glowing spots, like distant fireflies, that marked the bonfires of death burning through the night.
16
Unhappy campers
Guilt is a funny thing. It creeps up on you, taps you on the shoulder and punches you on the nose when you are finally doing something you have dreamed of for years. At least, that’s what it did to Geldof as the taxi, running with its headlights off, trundled south. Up until that point, nestled between Mary’s breasts, he had been floating in a dreamy state, interrupted only by the dash through the city centre. His few coherent thoughts had focused on how he was going to develop the situation and get a naked nipple stroked across his forehead or across his lips.
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