She peddled as fast as she could, looping around until she got back in the right direction. Suddenly the blazing cars weren’t so intimidating now. They were a weird sign of freedom. But for how long?
Her legs ached as she pedalled, going in the same direction as the groups of walkers now. She had assumed they were moving north to escape London. Now she wasn’t so sure. Was it London or the army they were fleeing?
She thought about asking someone, but they were all so dead-eyed and hopeless that she didn’t. Nor did she want to risk stopping. For all she knew, there were more soldiers coming in. The road arched right at a junction with a main road north. Most of the walkers headed that way.
She sped up again when the road straightened and she passed the inferno she’d seen earlier. The middle of the street appeared to be in flames and youths were clustered around the side of the blaze jumping around and cheering.
Annie’s stomach lurched as she turned off onto a side street she’d never been on before and prayed it didn’t lead to a dead end. Her legs were aching now because she was riding faster than she’d ever gone before—she was cycling for her life.
13. Terry
It was dark. Terry had grown up in London and he couldn’t remember ever seeing darkness like this. Maybe that time his parents had taken them on a caravan holiday in Wales. It had rained the whole time and the roof of his father’s rickety old car wasn’t watertight. They hadn’t gone on holidays again after that.
He reached for the whisky bottle and stopped. He was already four or five down and far from helping him sleep, it was making his head buzz with the strangest thoughts. Like what if all of this wasn’t just a power cut?
He sighed and reached for the bottle anyway. What else was he going to do? He shook his head. He had no idea whether it was nine or midnight or three in the morning. He’d left the curtains open and had spent the evening sitting in his armchair staring out at the darkness. Occasionally, the moon drifted out from behind the clouds and cast a faint light on the driveway outside. It wasn’t even close to as bright as street lighting. If anything, it made him feel more on edge. He thought he could see figures moving around outside. Not just outside the gate, but within the estate itself.
Maybe he was imagining it. It was so noisy outside that his eyes might have been inventing figures to go with that noise. It had been reasonably quiet when he got home from work, but that changed once darkness fell. He held his breath and listened. Now it was almost unbearable. He couldn’t make out one distinct sound. There was howling and screaming and roaring. It was coming from all directions.
He stood and moved the few paces to the window, surprised by the way he stumbled over his own feet. He pulled the curtains shut and moved back to his chair, suddenly exhausted. He’d barely eaten all day. They usually had staff meals, but without power there’d been no way to cook and anyway they’d been too understaffed to have anyone prepare food for the others. He was starving.
He got up again feeling weary to his bones. It was cold. It wasn’t snowing, thankfully, but it might as well have been. Terry wasn’t one of those blokes who left the heating on twenty-four seven—he couldn’t afford it, even if he’d wanted to—but he was feeling the chill now. It wasn’t even the cold, it was the damp.
He was parched too. Probably from the whisky. He had plenty of food, but no water. He didn’t believe in buying water when there was perfectly good water in the taps. He picked up a fleece from the other armchair and went to the kitchen, relieved to have something to do.
What he did have was plenty of food. Cans and cans of it. He opened the food cupboard and stared inside. He couldn’t see a thing—he could just about make out the shapes of the stacks of cans—but he didn’t need to. He had a system. Maybe he was used to it from stacking shelves at work. He didn’t know. He’d never given it much thought. But he always stacked food cans the same way. Like with like. Dinner things on the bottom shelf and fruits on the top. He didn’t much like tinned fruit, but they often sold them off cheap. He had a ton of the stuff.
He took out a can of beans and one of mixed fruit and set them on the counter. It was no trouble finding the canopener. It was right there in the top drawer where it always was.
He opened the beans first and ate them with a spoon. When he was finished, he moved to the sink to rinse out the empty can just like he always did. He was startled at first by the gurgling, hissing tap. He turned it off quickly when he remembered.
At least the building itself was quiet. It would have been a lot more nerve-wracking if he could hear noises coming from right above or below him. Of course, it didn’t help that the place was almost empty. That only added to the feeling of being completely alone.
No, he thought. Not alone. Clive is two doors down. And he has a gun.
That thought gave him some comfort. He thought about calling over, but quickly ruled it out. He didn’t want Clive to see him like this—half-drunk and stumbling. Probably slurring too.
He went to throw the dirty can in the bin but stopped, not wanting to throw a load of tomato sauce in there.
He opened the tin of fruit, still hungry. It was suspended in a sugary syrup, which he’d never much liked before, but now he was thirsty for it. Even so, he winced as he swallowed down the first mouthful. It was sweet—almost sickeningly so. He was grateful for it all the same. People would have beaten each other up for it at the shop earlier. They probably had. Before he left, the noise had been incredible. People screaming at each other—he’d been able to hear it from outside.
He sighed. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do for money, but he was relieved he didn’t have to go back there tomorrow. Even if the power came back overnight, the cleanup was going to be a nightmare. And the restocking. He could only imagine the nasty mood Charlie would be in as he tried to get everything back to normal.
No, he’d find another job. Somewhere. He was only forty-five. He’ be fine. He knew the over fifties struggled sometimes, which was a shame. But that was what happened when companies were only interested in profit.
He closed his eyes and gulped down the last of the sweet syrup. He was still thirsty.
He returned to the armchair but he was rattled now. He found it hard to sit still. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or if it actually had gotten louder outside since he got up to eat. Who were all those people? Why couldn’t they just go home and go to bed?
But he knew why—and it did nothing to settle his nerves. He’d seen the riots. That’s what it reminded him of. He’d never seen anything like what he’d seen at the supermarket earlier. People were losing their minds. And not a policeman in sight…
He sighed and closed his eyes, willing himself to drift off to sleep. How many people lived in London? Eight million? Nine? He tried to imagine what that would even look like. How many people fit onto a football pitch if they were crammed in together?
He shook his head. He knew there was a way to work it out, but it was beyond him.
Even if he had known how, he wouldn’t have been able to think with all the noise. It was never-ending. It was far worse than a normal Saturday night, which was loud. It was worse than New Year’s Eve. He’d never heard anything like it. It sounded like all of London was out there losing their minds.
Worse than the shouting was the sound of glass shattering. It happened every now and then and it set his teeth on edge. Luckily it didn’t seem to be coming from his block. But what was to stop someone…
His blood ran cold. No. They wouldn’t do that. If anything, people would target the newer fancier flats that had been built a few years ago in the old brickworks.