Am I Dead?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  I take the coffee he offers me, and yawn. Then I turn my attention to the city below.

  It’s truly apocalyptic. Deserted, empty streets. As far as the eye can see. Which is very far. There is now no air pollution. No smog. Just clean air. A sky full of it.

  We head down to the river Thames and then turn east flying upstream above the middle of the river towards Westminster. As we pass over Tower Bridge, we veer inland slightly, and are soon flying towards and then over the top of the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  It’s an amazing experience which I can’t help but enjoy, which makes me feel slightly guilty, given that this is only possible because of the pandemic.

  We pass directly over the top of the Cathedral, the centre of the dome only about twenty metres immediately below us.

  We pass over Fleet Street, head up the Strand, and then only minutes later we are landing in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

  As I gather up my things, the Sergeant hands me a large brown envelope.

  “Your Blue Pass. And a few other things the Home Secretary promised you. As far as I’m told, the other things you’ve requested will be delivered to your room tonight.”

  I thank him.

  “Do you know how to get to the Government hotel, or do you want me to escort you?” he asks.

  I point towards Whitehall, down past the bottom of the Square, in the direction of Downing Street. The Sergeant nods.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the address.” I reply. “Elbow bump?”

  The Sergeant nods.

  “If you need a lift back up to Scotland anytime, just call.”

  We bash each other’s arm with our elbows and then I move to the edge of the helicopter and climb down over the edge of the now open door onto terra firma.

  Hurrying to the edge of the Square, I watch as the helicopter blades gather speed then lift the Sergeant quickly, but silently, into the sky above. The helicopter banks slightly, then turns slowly in the air and heads back along the river the way we came.

  A moment later they are gone and I am left completely alone, standing in the centre of an empty city in the middle of the day.

  When I was last here, it was under different circumstances. Now I feel a lot more relaxed. Less stressed.

  As I set off down towards Whitehall where my hotel is, I feel excited.

  There is even a spring in my step.

  --------------------

  “Stop! Do not move!” I hear a loud voice booming all around me.

  I am only half-way across the road from the Square, moving towards Whitehall when I hear the command to freeze.

  I immediately obey. I even put my hands up, after first dropping my rucksack onto the ground by my feet.

  Seconds later I am surrounded by three police officers, one pointing a gun at me. Or is it a taser? Where on earth they have come from I have no idea.

  “Please identify yourself,” a voice says from behind the gun, the face hidden inside a black helmet of a police uniform straight out of Star Wars.

  “I have a Blue Pass!” I shout back, nervously. “It’s in this brown envelope.”

  “Don’t move,” the voice commands, before one of the storm troopers reaches across towards me and takes the envelope from my hands.

  He - or is it a she?- reaches a hand inside the envelope and then pulls out a long blue lanyard which is attached to a plastic badge holder, in the middle of which is a plastic, blue, card, with my photograph on it.

  My Blue Pass!

  The officer extracts the card form the holder, holds it up and compares the image on it to my face. He then scans it with his mobile phone, waits a second and then looks at the phone’s screen. “Stand down!” I hear the voice, a man, say to the others. The helmet then turns slowly towards me.

  “James Quinn?” it asks.

  I nod back.

  “Welcome to London, Sir.” The voice replies. “How may we assist you today?”

  After explaining that I’m on my way down to the apartments in Whitehall, and that I don’t need any help, the officer wishes me a good day and leaves me alone.

  I continue on my way, crossing the road and heading down towards Downing Street. I’ve literally only be walking for five minutes when another officer steps out from a doorway near Horse Guards in Whitehall and stops me.

  I immediately hold up the Blue Pass, explaining I have only just been stopped, minutes ago.

  The officer goes through the same checks, and immediately becomes very polite when it turns out that I am a very important person indeed.

  I ask where the apartments are that I’m heading to, and the officer points to a large grand white building about two hundred metres further down the road.

  “It’s the green door. It’s closed, but as you approach it someone will see you. Just hold up your blue pass and show your face. You’ll be scanned. Once you’re recognized the door will open.”

  Which is exactly what happens.

  As I’m ushered into the grand marble floored lobby I experience a level of politeness and servitude I have not experienced… actually, ever before! I think that they have perhaps mistaken me for a King from some foreign land, and I do feel slightly guilty, and am slightly nervous that at any moment they may realise it’s all a big mistake. That I’m an imposter. And that I will soon find myself locked up in a police cell somewhere.

  But that doesn’t happen.

  Instead, the manager standing behind a clear perspex protective screen and the reception desk in the main lobby explains that most of the apartments are empty at the moment…there are only a few residents currently, and because of that I could be upgraded to a suite on the top floor, if I wish.

  Before confirming loudly that, yes, ‘I wish’, I check first who will actually be footing the bill for all this.

  The manager checks the screen.

  “The British Government. You are their guest, Sir.”

  “In which case,” I smile, “I definitely ‘wish’. If you recommend the top floor suite, I’d certainly like to try it!”

  Which proves to be a good choice.

  I’m given an electronic key to one of three suites on the top floor with guidance to insert the key into the slot inside the lift, step out and turn left on the top floor and use the electronic key to open the door to the apartment at the end of the corridor.

  I follow the instructions, quickly rising to the top floor, then letting myself in through the door of apartment forty-eight as directed, and find myself stepping through to a level of luxury you only normally see in films.

  There are five rooms in my suite.

  All have views onto the river Thames, looking out over towards the South Bank.

  There are two bedrooms, both massive, a TV room, a lounge with a large desk in front of the window, and a dining room. Both bedrooms have en suite bathrooms. There is also another luxurious bathroom near the entrance.

  The temptation to immediately start gathering the free soaps and shampoos - which are all in branded UK Government containers featuring colourful Union Jacks - is something I have to fight with quite hard. It occurs to me that these are exactly the sort of souvenirs that Keira and Nicole would get really excited about if I were to take them home to them. When I remember that can never happen, the temptation to collect them quickly subsides.

  Instead, I drop my bag in the middle of the lounge, and help myself to an apple from the bowl of fruit on the marble table top.

  I wash the apple then standing by the window, gazing out over the river, I slowly eat it, thinking about what I’m going to do next.

  A quick glance at my watch confirms my guess. It’s just gone four o’clock.

  Under normal circumstances I would have plenty of time to go to my Mum’s house in Kingston, only about twenty minutes from Waterloo station by train. From where I am now, it would only take me another twenty minutes to get to Waterloo. But without any trains running, it’s not a viable plan.

  Sitting down in one of the ridicul
ously comfortable chairs in the lounge I pick up the receiver of one of the hotel phones and press ‘0’, guessing it will probably connect me to the front desk. I’m right. As I start to speak to someone who picks up I notice for the first time a card with my name on it sitting on top of a red folder and number of black boxes.

  “Hi, this is James Quinn up in room forty-eight.” I continue, “I was wondering, do you have any idea how I may be able to get to Kingston from here? I’m assuming no trains are running yet?”

  “Hello, Mr Quinn. Well, as a Blue Pass Holder you have two main choices. First, you can ask for a chauffeur-driven car, and they can take you there and back. Or, if you prefer, you can rent a car. We’ll organise it all for you, and the rates are very good.”

  I go for the rental option. Being driven somewhere by a government chauffeur who might be watching my every move is not something I fancy. Plus, I haven’t really got a firm plan. I’d far rather have the flexibility to drive wherever I want. When I want.

  I arrange to get a mid-range five door car with a hatch-back, and am told it will be delivered in an hour’s time.

  “I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I can get a meal later tonight, is there?”

  “There certainly is, Mr Quinn. There’s normally a restaurant open on the second floor, but it’s closed during lock-in. However, in the welcome pack you’ll find on top of the boxes that were left for you in your lounge, you will find a menu, along with a list of places you may eat during lock-in. If you choose to select something from the menu, we’ll bring it to your room. We encourage all guests to stay in the room whenever possible.”

  Thanking the concierge, or manager, or whatever I’m meant to call him, my attention moves to the black boxes. There are three, one large one and two medium sized. When I take the lids off them I find a laptop, some more clothes, a selection of snacks, a bottle of whisky, an SP, and the rest of the things I had written down on my list and given to the sergeant.

  I open up the red folder and skim through its contents quickly, and remove the menu from which I immediately select Steak-and-kidney pie with mashed potatoes and peas. My mouth is already watering by the time I’ve placed the order with a request it be delivered around 6.30 pm. With a couple of draft beers. And a bottle of wine.

  And some cake.

  And some champagne.

  Next I take out the phone from its box, switch it on, and start to play with it, exploring all the LTs that had been put on it but quickly realizing that I don’t know what half of them do.

  After figuring out how to set up a lock-screen password, I turn my attention to the laptop, and soon have it open and running.

  I play with it for a while, getting used to the latest Windows 14 programme. Compared to the programme I was using eight years ago, it’s amazing. When I try to connect to the internet, I find there is no password required. Another benefit of being a Blue Pass Holder.

  Actually, the whole experience is amazing. The laptop is lightning fast and any time I do a search on the internet, for anything, the results are returned almost before I hit the return key.

  Does everyone have this same internet connectivity in this world, or is it just here in “Blue Pass Holder” Internet Heaven?

  There’s a knock on the door. It catches me by surprise. I stand up quickly and move to the door, looking forward to seeing another human being, but by the time I open it there is no one to be seen in the corridor outside.

  Instead, there is a trolley with my food and drinks on it.

  Feeling that it’s my duty to do my best for my country, I take it inside and eat everything that I find.

  Unfortunately, I get carried away and drink both beers.

  This means that when the phone rings to inform me that my rental car has arrived, I realise I can’t drive it, so I agree with the manager that I will collect the key in the morning.

  “There’s no key. You just swipe the Blue Pass across the door, or the middle of the steering wheel. And again when locking up.” The manager replies, then continues. “By the way, before I forget, I do need to give you a Blue Beacon before you go anywhere. It’s a little blue box that emits a signal to any police cars in the vicinity of anywhere you go that you are there. It’s for your protection and monitoring. Also, when you’re driving anywhere it tells the police you’re a VIP and authorised to be out and about. Otherwise you’d probably get pulled over by every police car you see. If you see any. The streets are otherwise deserted.”

  The manager wishes me a good evening, and I thank him. Then open the bottle of wine.

  A few hours later I am the most happy I have been in a long time. I run myself a long bath, drop in some bath salts, and while its cooling off a little, I parade around in the apartment wearing a beautiful long white dressing gown with a UK flag embroidered on it, and then stand at the window overlooking London.

  With a glass of newly opened champagne in my hand, I survey my kingdom.

  A few days ago, I was a tramp. Sleeping rough on a cold underground platform.

  But tonight, I am a king, surveying my new world from one of the best penthouse flats in London.

  My rise from pauper to prince has been meteoric.

  I feel on top of the world.

  Amazing!

  Who wouldn’t?

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Going for a drive

  .

  Kingston is normally almost an hour’s drive from the centre of London through polluted, dirty streets full of commuters. Today it’s a very different story.

  After picking up my Blue Beacon just after ten, I find my new car in the garage at the base of the building. It’s a new model, from a new company called Tesla that I’ve never heard of before. It’s beautiful. When I ask whether it takes petrol or diesel, the manager laughs, then quickly coughs, brushing away the potential insult he just gave me, by responding in disbelief that I don’t know such things.

  “All cars are electric these days,” he informs me. “After the forest fires in France and Spain three years ago, the European Union banned the sale of all cars that were not electric or hydrogen based. Your car is brand new. Enjoy!”

  No, I’m not an idiot… I’m a time-traveller. There’s a small difference.

  My car takes me to Kingston in less than twenty minutes. Quite literally. Although I’m told I have to keep my hands on the steering wheel at all times, just in case, the car is the first of the next generation, which, I am assured, are safe, but driverless.

  “When you swipe your Blue Card on the steering wheel, the car will go through a programming routine. It will ask you several questions, and record your voice print. Just tell it what it wants to know. Then, when you put on your seat-belt, it will ask you where you want to go. Just give it an address or post-code, and sit back. The car does the rest for you.”

  ?

  “You’re kidding, right?” I hear myself say, before I can prevent myself.

  The manager looks at me.

  “No, sir,” he assures me, for a second time, “I am not.”

  And it turns out he wasn’t joking.

  I get in the car, swiping as directed, and then undergo a quick interrogation by a computer who sounds more like the woman of my dreams.

  “Thank you …. James,” It says after I am asked to repeat my name three times. “Now, please tell me, where would you like me to take you this morning?”

  “To my mother’s house. Please.”

  “Mrs Amelia Quinn of 26 Greenways Road, Kingston upon Thames?”

  “Yes,” I reply, slightly amazed but concerned how the sexy computer knew that.

  “Are you ready to leave?” the woman asks me. I nod. Twice. Then quickly add, “Yes,” feeling a little bit of an idiot and not a time-traveller.

  What happens next is extremely bizarre.

  The car starts to move. Slowly at first. But then faster, and faster.

  There is no sound. Just a slight whirr.

  It’s almost as if I’m flying.r />
  At first, it’s terrifying, but I quickly adjust, and settle back into the seat, my arms, however, still gripping the steering wheel. Just in case.

  “James, would you like some music? Or perhaps a tour of London as we make our way through the city?”

  “Not now, please. I just want to watch.”

  “Thank you, James.” She replies. Beautifully. In a way that brings a smile to my lips.

  “Do you have a name?” I ask, wondering if the computer will understand the question.

  “Not yet. Would you like to name me, James?”

  I laugh.

  “Yes. Please. Can I call you Sarah?”

  “That’s a nice name, James. Thank you.” She replies. “Do you want to chat?”

  “Not just now, Sarah. I think I just want to be left to my thoughts. Maybe later?”

  “I’ll look forward to that. Enjoy your journey, James.”

  By now we are driving down Whitehall, going past Downing Street on our right. I can’t help but glance across to see if, by the slightest chance of fate, I might see the Prime Minister. It’s then that I realise that I don’t actually know who the Prime Minister is at the moment. I think the Professor mentioned, and I may have read it somewhere in one of the papers, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who it is.

  Perhaps more interestingly, I see two armed police officers standing at the bottom of the road, guarding its entrance. In a way, it’s reassuring, and for a brief moment I remember the last time I was here with Keira and Nicole. We stood at the metal gates across the street, poking our noses through the railings, hoping, just like now, to see the Prime Minister.

  As we pass the entrance, I turn my attention back to the road in front. Still empty.

  We turn left at the traffic lights, passing by Westminster Tube station on our left, and the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben on the right.

  They look exactly the same as they were eight years ago. They’re ageless. Another point of continuity between one of my worlds and the next. It’s only when I turn my attention back to the bridge as we drive across it that I am reminded what year it is.