From London
The train juddered along the Victorian track and my eyes started to droop lazily. The sky swirled with a liquid slate overcast, ashen and shot through with bullets of sunlight. The evening drew close as the minutes bled from the touchscreen of my phone and the distant streets below burned at a thousand hells fahrenheit. I watched in a sort of numb anticipation from the bridge as a crude molotov sailed through the air a short distant before colliding with a police car and shattering brilliantly. The fire spread along the bonnet as riot police smacked at balaclava-wearing yobs in uncanny silence, none of the sound penetrating the carriage. I noted the probable time I had until the rain would fall again and sighed in a familiar apathy I’ve know since childhood; always raining, always dull. It didn’t help that the train was so crowded. I eyed the passengers to pass the time and tried to calculate the population density. Was it higher than Singapore’s? What about Monaco? I gave up after no more than fifteen seconds. Maths never was my forte. The train’s neon lights undulated as shadows came then went rhythmically through walls and trees, while in-between the flashes I played out the future in my mind like a film commentator. Let’s see now, brain said, the fires will be extinguished before dusk and the sides will retreat and the stalemate will continue till God knows when. I shook my head at the frivolity of it all. The army were due to be called in by the end of the day as the riots were beginning to spread beyond the capital city now; into Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and even into areas of Scotland would you believe it?
“The army’ll sort this lot out,” I turned to see an overweight, middle-aged man clutching a can of Foster’s and tried to ignore him. Always hated people trying to start conversations on a fucking train. What is he, a mate? “Bang ‘em up they will and then we can all get on with our lives again lad.” Probably an uneventful one in his case. I nodded absently in response -unable to resume my foreshadowing commentary- as another bottle exploded like a Chinese New Year and a rioter fell to his knees. Blood was pooling, so I looked away again. Wigan hadn’t been affected by this social plague yet but I knew it was coming; it was time to board the windows, lock the doors and flee for the tranquil hills, constantly being depleted as the fires of political fallout spread in a ravenous hurricane. Not long before it gets to me, I thought sardonically.
I took my eyes off the scene and surveyed the passengers more closely now, who chose to look through me with a kind of fear, cool and unrecognised, almost instinctive. I don’t bite and I haven’t killed anyone, haven’t even harmed so much as a fly but still I attract some funny looks when I walk down the street or into a bank. These people did the same now, but spared looks towards Hell every now and again. I got a feeling that they enjoyed watching the rioters and police collide on the ground while they watched from above, a spectator blood sport of sorts to justify the extortionate ticket cost. Or a new kind of reality TV. It hadn’t even been a week since the election and there was already trouble boiling violently. I didn’t vote for Adam Richardson but knew in my heart that he’d win. People always want change during a crisis, always want a new lot to replace the others so they can sleep soundly, knowing that they’ve done their bit to get things moving again. Disappointed was an understatement for most people in the country, with inflation nearing hyper-inflation, war without peace and politicians without scruples; can’t say I couldn’t blame them to be honest. I’d never really had much of a political mind, but surely during adversity it’d be a good idea to pull together to solve problems? But then accusing the new PM of cheating in an election because 50% of the country voted for him? For setting a new record for most votes gathered, half the country it seemed, reacted like a splitting atom. The explosion was still expanding beneath me.
Some kid tugged at his mum’s dress asking for a sweet. His mother refused harshly. An old man coughed and spluttered into a tissue and some schoolboys chucked crisps and debris at one another in a battle royale, which soon provoked the ire of the ticket collector. I blanked it all out and brought my wallet to eye level and searched for my rail card. I showed it to the man for a second before he left and bounced down the carriage, obviously nervous about not stopping fare-dodgers. Or maybe it was everything below that perturbed him the same way a gun startles an animal within the proximity of a hunting expedition. Cautioning another look down I stared from the window towards a field now level with the train as it disappeared into the distance. A solitary cow grazed, oblivious to the danger. The travellers became a little more lively as we approached a small-town train station and a chance to flex after being cramped like food in a tin. The trees stood tall and the grass rolled out like a carpet. I sat down in a vacated seat once we’d left the hustle behind, still warm from the arse parked there previously. I pulled out a book and began to read. I always found it helped keep me awake rather than send me to sleep and recently I’d taken out a book from the library, worn and loved. It was book by some professor or historian I’d never heard of called The Historical and Sociological Significance of the French Revolution to Class in Contemporary Europe. Don’t really know why I picked it, but the cover was beautiful with its gardens and a small village of quaint French architecture, a remote hiding place for the aristocrats-in-exile; quite appropriate as well, given the troubles. I read my current chapter sluggishly as my mind wandered and my eyes swayed across the words, not paying attention; a broken vacuum cleaner or a snail-pace computer. I put the book away after twenty minutes knowing that I’d just miss important details, cursing myself. I’d never had a good attention span and I was bored now, it didn’t take much. Drifting through life without purpose, and the riots just another chapter in my oh-so-brief existence. I knew from the starlight -I tried to spy it through the thick clouds circling- that galaxies span a million miles a second, even if I couldn’t see them thanks to all the light pollution around these day. The bottom line I suppose was that it all dwarfed my life as if I were a mote of dust riding the breeze until death or the dying of the wind came. We’re all waiting for nature to drop us like a careless mother would her child: It was only a matter of time before time eroded my matter. Good philosophy, I thought, it’s a keeper.
Leaving behind the train journey now, I came back home to a more picturesque location. Wigan’s a surprisingly good night out for most, but it’s also quiet enough for the less raucous amongst us. I didn’t have any friends as such and spent most of my time alone. I wasn’t depressed or crazy because I’ve since seen both those things and know now that I wasn’t it. As I made my way back home that night there were a few townsfolk still wandering the streets. I heard almost excited talk of riots and trouble brewing. They thought it was so far away, almost tantalising them; they all treated it as if it were a game of some kind or an episode of a soap opera. I suppose I did as well and didn’t really know what to think. More fires burned the next day and the army made things worse. The next day on the news I saw soldiers deployed and kitted for war. People in Wigan grew restless as the news showed the rioters spreading up to the midlands and towards the north the way a poison works it’s way to the brain. In light of this Parliament passed an ‘emergency bill’, creating a new Home Defence Act in less than a week. It gave the army what was essentially a shoot to kill order for by this point, Parliament itself was coming under fire. It was all very strange. Richardson wasn’t a dictator of any sort I was sure. Nor were there any of the other MPs on either side of the House, whom I would have suspected as being despots, yet here they were passing a Bill in the best interests of containing the spread of destruction wrought by conspiracy theorists and their equally-violent detractors. I think back now and fondly remember the early days. After the election a group of dissenters were founded and gained swift popularity. They called for a vote recount, but Richardson refused, saying of the protesters that they were making politics out of a serious set of issues requiring immediate attention. And he wasn’t wrong, because a second group emerged to counter-protest the first band. They wanted reconciliation and for everyone to simply quiet down and stop the rabble-rousing. It’s ironic when you consider that -if they didn’t counter-protest- then the riots would not have started in the first place: They gave the anger an enemy to drive at, and a divided nation was what it produced. Death tolls mounted as the army began to diverge from London to all areas of the country. Words like “collateral” became common as new targets such as hospitals and schools were chosen in the escalating panic. The army became an enemy and the streets became unsafe. By this point the original cause for distress had been lost. The rebels were now without, and others groups were starting to emerge: Racists, Nationalists, Libertarians, Communists, High-Tories you name it, came out in attempts to unite and/or divide further for whatever goal it was they had in mind. Richardson was nowhere to be seen any longer as the deaths mounted on his watch. I’d always romanticised the idea of him hiding in some complex labyrinth underground in the catacombs of Parliament, or jetting off to Barbados to enjoy himself and put it all out of mind like a bad dream he was going to wake up from any minute now. I don’t know what happened to him and didn’t care then either, because what else could he do? What could the rest of us do? I didn’t know then and I still don’t, but what I do know is that I want to get out of here, whether there’s a road out or not. So where am I now?
1: Church: (08:25)
I’m in a church, one that’s dilapidated and dusty. The air chokes me like an invisible throttle, but most of it’s dehydration while my eyes water as best they can in the darkness. I don’t think we’ve got much time left, but time’s almost began to dilate since the destruction reached its crescendo. The walls are decorated with arcane tapestry and a battle rages around the room. It’s the Battle of Maldon (991 AD) I think.
Aethelred’s men are being scattered by Viking sea-gods in cavalier strikes and sweeps at the battlefield as destruction rains down in storms, of arrow and blade, the hammer of war forging victory for the invaders with every pass. The Anglo-Saxons fire back over the clear, crystal liquid of the River Blackwater to the Viking ranks. Next wall: Men fall to the ground as red hot blood stains the cool green plain and speckles the tiniest grass-plates. Commander Byrhtnoth of the Saxons roars in cries of morale as I feel myself gravitating towards him, across the rippling water and the docked longboats, their occupants massing on the land. Short-swords are splintered and shields are shattered, while blades lacerate and arrows penetrate. Blood, blood… so much blood; I’ve never liked the stuff I realise belatedly, as my head begins to whip around in a maelstrom in my heavy skull:
I imagine dialogue, “Dux Byrhtnoth,” cries a scraggly-haired man, “we’re losing ground.”
He responds a gargled utterance I can’t hear as my eyes flick across the tapestry and silver piles high before the Vikings in opulent hills. A deep voice erupts in my head in a chatter, becoming a row soon after. They talk in what sounds like Old Norse, becoming Old English before turning into a rioting chatter and grumble that I can understand: They’re arguing about taxation. I shake my head, then slap myself lightly; imagining things again- I chastise myself.
It’s quiet in here, which is strange because there’s normally distant gunshots echoing round these parts- gangs and soldiers at war. I’m truly surprised at the general incompetence of the army to be honest. I’d have thought they’d be able to contain everything, but unfortunately they managed to lose a few cities and areas to other groups. Some soldiers -I remember hearing- even went rogue, trying to set up a military dictatorship, can you believe it? They always come out of the woodwork when the time’s right, bigots, despots; the politically dubious in other words. I sigh and kick a piece of stone, it barely budges as the sun glistens on the motes of dust that cascade in the air through stained glass windows. We’ve tried our best to block the broken ones using benches and other bits of furniture, that’s myself and an old fella called Marcus Fish. He’s an elderly guy, never told me his true age, and the vicar of this church; we barely spoke when I arrived last night, damp from the shower of insidiously light rain and dirty from a week of living the slum life under bridges, dunes, in destroyed cars; whatever I can find- I’ve adapted better than I thought I would. He’s been trying to gather survivors for the last three days he’s been living here he said. Only a week ago I was going back home on the tube, and now this- shattered windows and upturned cars; gunshots, screams and even silence rings in my ears at all times of the day horribly, forever anticipating the next bullet that might put a hole through me. The timeline of the destruction’s bafflingly short, as if I’m on holiday to a third-world country in the backwaters of Island Dystopia, or living out an overnight stay in Silent Hill. I piece together the chronology of events, some of it hazy and jarring, feeling like a splinter in my brain: Only two weeks ago- Adam Richardson is elected Prime Minister; One Week ago- riots erupt and quickly spread throughout London; Five Days ago- other groups start to emerge and some coordinated riots are planned throughout the midlands; Three Days ago- train stations such down while the riots spread throughout the rest of Great Britain; Two Days ago- the news stations stop broadcasting as Media City, aka Salford, becomes a war-zone. I don’t know about the other utilities, but I doubt their ability to function at present. Fucking hopeless.
I sigh again and think about things, stuff, anything I can to pass the time that crawls now that my phone’s battery is exhausted and my charger’s broken. So much tech and so much wealth, meaningless when it’s all wielded by barbarians who’d take us back to the dark ages in a heartbeat. Sigh: I guess they’ve succeeded.
I flare to life when the large door creaks open and a beam of light cuts through the room like plasma. The wood clanks against the stone walls and a silhouette emerges in my squinting eyes.
“Marcus.”
He coughs. “John, how’ve you been?”
“Fine thanks fine. Any luck?” My question is answered when another two people emerge behind him. Marcus turns and smiles at me, the wrinkles creasing slightly like paper:
“Yes John, we’ve been very fortunate; I found some more people on my travels, don’t suppose you saw them last night?”
I want to wave to them but decide against it as the two arch their heads inwards, a man and a woman- they obviously know one another.
“Can’t say I do Marcus.”
“Well John, these are our new guests. I always think it’s better to share problems with as many as possible, don’t you agree?” He’s got a soft manner of speaking that I’ve found quite relaxing.
“I suppose so.” Not the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever given and I’m not even really looking at Marcus, unable to concentrate for some reason; my head feels thick with anticipation as the shadow clears from their figures.
The man stands with unkempt, greasy brown hair, mild stubble and a small nose as sharp as a cliff-face. The woman’s long blonde hair to his left isn’t looking much better, but then again, we’re hardly all going out to buy shampoo these days. A bad hair day pales when you compare it to one of those days when you get shot and your brain falls out in bloody chunks. Her face is smooth and pale-skinned, both are thinner than I am and I’d say she was only early twenties. He was about the same age as me, thirties. Their clothes were dirty like mine and their skinny jeans were holding up well against the concrete and gravel they’d obviously come into contact with. They each had satchels that had seen better days, a water bottle poking out from the man’s like a limb.
“Hi.” My voice is grating today.
They respond in kind while Marcus stands between us. Awkward start.
“So, erm,” I’ve always been lousy at intros, “How’ve you been holding out? You been out there long?”
The man’s eyes are serious. “I’ve looked after myself. Tried looking out for some others too.” The grin that follows creeps me out a little. Unthinkingly I turn to the woman who says:
“I’ve been wandering around Wigan for the past couple of days.” She smiles that smile that boasts a casual denial of what’s going on. We all do it now I think. “Thanks for inviting us in, I would have come around here sooner but the soldiers hadn’t moved yet.”
“Yes I see what you mean,” Marcus replies, “I had to get in here the back way.”
“So what are you called?” The man asks me; a strange way to ask.
“My name’s John. John Yates.” I hold out a hand, he takes it in an iron grip, I’m afraid my fingers might get crushed. “And your’s?”
“I’m Williams, Nick Williams; used to work in a petrol station around here, I’m from Stoke-on-Trent originally.”
“Well,” I trip through my sentence, “It’s great to finally meet some more people that aren’t probably going to kill me.” I smile and turn to the young woman.
“And you are?”
“I’m Holly Yates.” Her voice is softer than wool, of a perfect pitch and her eyes gleam with a depth that hasn’t faltered during the last perilous week, as if harbouring double the personality of any average human, because let’s face it, I think, this Nick’s got the one of a brick. “I’m from Luton, a student living in Manchester. Or was.” She seems a little shy and I find myself taking interest. I examine her hands and see the fingers writhe as the nails click and tap hypnotically. I speak as if tired and drunk:
“What do you study?”
She’s obviously surprised by the question. Way to go John! You’ve probably just freaked her out big time, wanting to get to know her so well-
“I study History.” She isn’t angry with me. “I came here for a night out a few days ago, but the riots started here on the day the trains stopped and I guess I just, watched everything fall apart.”
I nod. “I’m sorry you had to be here.”
She smiles again. “Yeah, same goes for everyone I suppose.”
“But at least you’re safe now.” I look from man to woman and back, settling on Marcus who smiles widely.
“Yes. I’m glad that you both arrived unharmed and hopefully everything will blow over as soon as possible.”
“I don’t see that happening all too soon.” Nick piped up again like a robot calculating outcomes from complex algorithms. He reminds me of some kind of daily nuisance, like a vending machine that won’t take your coin, even if it is the same as the others you’ve just put in. I jump in to stop this drain, he’s a enema sucking life out of the room:
“We don’t know that, and foreign aid’ll come eventually. The world won’t let us just sit here, it’s the twenty-first century!” That’ll show him.
“They’ve no obligation to, especially when all Europe’s like, in money trouble and the Asian nations might take ages to respond.” Shit! He’s got a point.
Marcus restores balance. “But we can survive if we keep out of harm’s way. We’ve got food, defence in this church with its strong stone walls and most importantly, there’s no war zone around here any longer.”
“I agree.” I say.
“But isn’t there a danger that they’ll return?” Asks Holly.
“I doubt it.” I say, but I know I can’t form an argument for it.
“John’s got a point,” Marcus stretches slowly, “They’ve apparently moved beyond here, indicating -I hope- that any reason has gone with them too. Maybe they’ve found another group of thugs to round up.”
My voice becomes a near-whisper. “Or maybe they don’t know we’re here.”
“Yeah, or that I guess.”
As Marcus starts to talk to Holly in hazy utterances my limbs start to unravel. My eyes settle on the vapid Nick, hands in pockets, silent and observant, and the sunlight seeping through cracks takes me back into the tapestry, whirling down a rabbit hole to Wonderland at light speed and-
And I walk along the grass, cool and smooth with morning dew as I ascend the slight bend in the plain only to go downhill again. There’s commotion. There’s a language being spoken but I understand none of it. A dirt road leads into a forest. A horse-drawn cart rolls down it leisurely, the passengers singing in the alien tongue. Water laps against rocks, a fly buzzes in my ear and soon after my heart rate quickens and my balls shrink in terror for a silly moment, so I allow a short chuckle. The sun’s calm and I’m pretty sure that this place isn’t Maldon over a millennia ago. In the dislocation I follow the road back only to see the cart travel into a village, complete with stone architecture in places and a lovely little river snaking outwards through undergrowth and downhill towards the nearest lake or sea. I want to go in. Want to see what’s there and to look inside this village of masterful craftsmanship, what are the residents like? Are they like me? Does Holly live there, writhing her fingers, tapperty-tap-tapping her long, slender nails against beautifully-cut stone? I want to walk to the front entrance and boldly introduce myself before crashing back to reality and realising that I, John Yates, wouldn’t be fitting company to such… What? Have I seen this place before; been here… Brain responds by bringing up an image from the old memory bank, an identical village and soon I remember where this is. It’s in France somewhere and given the time when that book was written (still haven’t returned the damn thing) I doubt that it’s an accurate representation. Still, make-belief’s as good as any right? I’ve imagined sleeping in hotel rooms I can’t afford before; sleeping with women unattainable to me, usually while in the company of my long-term friend Kleenex. I try to run, but my feet weigh me down, lead and concrete, it’s been injected into me. I’m sinking through soil. I’m going to need a little help here, please. Guys? Residents? Nice French aristo types? Please? Hey I’m talking to you! Help me you bastards! The village feels like it’s slipping through my fingers. It’s growing smaller and smaller, running away from me, rejecting me like an exclusive club open only to an extravagant few. The sunlight turns itself off like a lamp and a screen fills my vision:
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By the time 8:50 rolls around, my contribution rate probably racks up to about 5 words a minute. There’s a makeshift conversation area at the altar of the crucifix, made from a rough circle of benches that Marcus and I dragged out last night. I’ve still not left the village alone, but the others sense none of my disturbance as they discuss their last few days in this Mad Max world of ours. Holly told us about the club she had been to only three days ago, looted along with all the other shops and bars. I remember the trains stopping. Some conductors wanted to disobey, but the army prevented them from doing so. That was a pretty big trigger for the riots around these parts.
“…And so I came out of this cellar and found Holly running, away from something I thought.” Nick turned to Holly as he recounted his tale. Marcus was listening intently.
“Yeah, I was running from a militarised area.” She smiles. “Nearly took a wrong turn.”
“Hmmm, yes it presents some difficulty.” Marcus props his chin up with a philosopher’s fist. “There’s surely a way out of this place, back onto the motorways, out into the open where there’s few people, ability to move between places.”
“Do we have a map?” Heads turn towards me. I don’t realise that I have spoken at first. “Or a phone that actually works, connected to the Internet?”
“No’s” resound, but Marcus’ eyes shine brightly with the glare of a wolf amongst sheep:
“We’ve no working technology?” He glances around to make certain we don’t. “But I think I do have an old map book.”
“Where is it?” Nick wipes dust absently, tracing alien lines on arcane furniture.
“It’s in my old suitcase I hope.” Marcus strains to his feet, “Bear with me.”
The old man rifles through his old, greying case with a meticulous consideration, opening flaps and closing them again methodically. The old thing has tears at its seams and stains from long-forgotten travels mark the fabric, oil and powder like chalk or makeup; a rainbow of history. He pulls out a torch, flicks it on then off again, and pockets it in his old duffle coat. It takes less than minute for him to return, flicking through the ancient pages, creased and stained with coffee rings. He runs his fingers along the roads and eventually comes to the foldout section at the back. He tears it loudly from the card back page, a thinly-veiled shock flashing on all our faces before we realise that the map is unharmed. He thrusts it into my hands:
“Excuse me for a sec.” He walks off again and grabs a small table to put between us all. I look at the mass of colour, the veins of society since run dry, blue for motorways, red train lines snaking through cities written in bold black print. I scan from the northwest downwards to London.
“So this’ll help us?” Nick looks puzzled at the page. Holly joins over his shoulder.
“Might help us plan a general route, but it’s a little too broad to plot journeys.”
“That’s why we’ll take smaller maps, so we can see specifics for each region, as specific as we can find.” Marcus calls over.
I’m transfixed on the roads and don’t look up. “Aren’t we forgetting something?” Although I can’t see them, I know their eyes are pinpointing me like a missile targeting system. There’s nothing new there then. “How do we plot a journey if we’ve no destination? Where would we go?”
A sigh erupts from all of us. The news channels were cut two days ago, just static on TVs now. Ours sits blankly in the corner. An old clock hangs near the altar, a minute to nine ticking away loudly on the clock face. Holly gets up and presses the old ON switch on the set and we all turn to watch, like children being told a story. Springs bounce back and forth and a cracking sound emanates from the plastic.
Static crackles for a few seconds like a snowy mountain explosion before being replaced by a beleaguered newsreader broadcasting from a studio that’s seen better days. His balding head drips beads of sweat as we lean closer, his heavy breathing echoing throughout the cavernous room. It’s 9:00 exactly:
“This is an emergency channel and I carry major instruction from the Prime Minister himself. We are painfully aware that you sit in fear for your lives as we speak.” He scratches his head absently, stress ravaging him like rabid dogs. “But these instructions are of the utmost importance for all citizens across this nation. We urge that you take serious note. Firstly, the past week’s unprecedented events are being contained as best they can by the international community. You may be wondering about foreign aid and wide-scale mitigation of these troubles. Sadly, negotiations between nations have taken days longer than expected and they may take days to come. We understand your plights and our hearts go out to you all. This is why France have agreed to send a single ferry -all they can spare at present they assure us- to dock at Dover. They stress that it will dock for a day only and will have to leave at nine am tomorrow morning. I will repeat: A French ferry will dock within the next hour at Dover, and remain until 9:00 hours tomorrow morning. We hope and pray that you can all make your way there over the next 24 hours, wherever you may be in the country. There will be no official transport to the coast, we are sorry to report. I have been Rob Hornby of the BBC, bringing you this vital message. We urge safety at all times and so have prepared a card detailing the recommended provisions to take with you and instructions to follow. It will remain broadcasted on this channel for the next 24 hours. There will be no further updates during this time. Thank you for listening and I wish you all the best of luck.” The screen flashes off to show a black card with white writing, a male automated voice reading through the items, which include pretty no-brainer stuff; water, food, maps and the like.
I turn away from the screen and examine slowly three speechless looks, the dronevoice the only noise in the background.
Thank you for reading!
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