I'm With the Bears (13 page)

8th November 2040

Slept for hours. Stronger. I've got all the food and drink, and the gun. There's still some shouting from down there but it's weaker now. I think he's almost finished.

9th November 2040

Slept for hours. Fever gone. Baked beans for breakfast. More groans started up just now. Never mind. I can wait.

10th November 2040

It's over. I got stuck into his bottle of vodka, it was the demon drink that saved me. He was out mugging—left me up the tree as usual—I drank just enough to raise my courage. Nothing else worked so I thought I'd get him to beat me up. When he came back and saw me waving the bottle he was beside himself. I pretended to be drunker than I was and I lay down on the wooden platform with my arms round my head while he got the boot in. It worked. Not right away, but that night.

Meanwhile M decided he fancied a drink himself, and very soon he'd polished off the rest of it—over three-quarters of a bottle. He was singing and sobbing and carrying on, out of his tree with alcohol, and then, when he was standing pissing off the side of the platform, I crept along and gave him a gigantic shove and he really was out of his tree. Crash.

13th November 2040

I've wrapped your remains in my good blue shirt; sorry I couldn't let you stay on board, but there's no future now for any baby above ground. I'm the end of the line!

This is the last page of my thirtieth birthday present. When I've finished it I'll wrap the notebook up in six plastic bags, sealing each one with duct tape against the rain, then I'll bury it in a hole on top of the blue shirt. I don't know why as I'm not mad enough to think anybody will ever read it. After that I'm going to buckle on this rucksack of provisions and head north with my gun. Wish me luck. Last line: good luck, good luck, good luck, good luck, good luck.

18.8.2040

“Oi, you!”

He means me.

“Yes, I mean you, young feller-me-laddie.”

Should have stuck to the backstreets, but I thought the peasouper was thick enough to keep me hidden.

“Right. See this building here?”

How could I miss it?

“This building is officially on fire.”

I look up at the vast concrete frontage of 300 Oxford Street, the former John Lewis building. 300 Oxford Street is definitely
not
on fire, although I know exactly what the Fire Warden means.

And thank the Lord it
is
a Fire Warden, not a Crip. Our boys in blue have some major firepower, and dogs. Major dogs.

“What on Earth do you think you're up to, breaking the curfew? Don't you know there's a war on?”

This Fire Warden is albino, pug-ugly, and sounds like he's enjoying 2040 much more than any of the rest of his (I'd guess) forty years.

He has an automatic shoved down the waistband of his trousers. From what I can see of the handle, this looks real enough, but most of the Wardens' weapons are fake––carved out of wood then painted gray. The man's helmet is definitely papier mâché and chickenwire––I can see the crosshatching on the underbrim. Can't see much else, though, because he's shining his torch right in my eyes. It's been a long time since I faced a light so bright. This must be what proper squint-making sunshine was like.

“Now, look lively and sharpish and all that malarkey and get yourself back down the underground while this raid's still on.”

But now, silly me, I'm gazing straight up––the sky is a dead gray, and completely silent. No planes. No air-raid. The only sounds I can hear are horses' hooves, thudding on the manure that covers the Tarmac.

“Are you being disrespectful of me, sonny jim? Because if you are, I'll have your guts for starters.”

At least he's not searching me. If he saw what I had on under this greatcoat, I'd be in the cells prontissimo. (Utility wear? Me?) He hasn't even noticed the boots.

I know I must speak, say something credible to give me a cover story, tell him I'm out getting meds for my old dad, and so I open my mouth and run.

“Stop!” shouts the Fire Warden. “Stop, or I'll shoot!”

Visibility is down to about twenty feet. I have at least another ten to go before I'm out of his sight, and another hundred before I'm out of earshot. I pray I was right about his gun. We'll soon find out.

“I'm drawing my weapon! This is your last chance!”

I speed up––sprinting into the gray.

“Bang!” he shouts, and I send thanks to God. It's a fake! “You have officially been shot. Come back. Bang! Bang! You have now officially been shot three times!”

I keep running as the albino's voice gets higher and higher. I am not playing their silly little wargame, and it really annoys him. The last thing he shouts is “If you come back now, you will receive free medical care!”

For just a moment I almost think about turning back. What if he's telling the truth? I could get these lesions on my legs fixed up. They could check out my eyes, which I'm sure need specs from all this peering through the gloom. Maybe someone could tell me exactly what this black stuff I've been coughing up means.

But I'm a sensible boy, and I run away from the agents of the law as fast as I bloody well can. I listen for sounds behind me, and what I hear is a whistle which, a couple of seconds later, is answered by one whistle, then another. I slow from a sprint to a run, plunging deeper into the lovely gray fog.

Think I'm safe now. Can walk again, catch my puff. Don't want to seem out of sorts when I make my big entrance at The Blitz. That's
my
Blitz,
our
Blitz, no way
their
Blitz, which started ten days ago, and is just so so faux. I mean, whoever thought of forcing the entire country to reenact the events of 1940
exactly
a hundred years to the day later? What Whitehall wonker came up with that? Chap seriously needs his head removing. I mean, yes, it's ten percent more carbon-efficient than going ahead with 2040, as previously planned. And, yes, it gives the authorities a good excuse to enforce the blackout that was bound to happen anyway. Yes, it means that “Dig for Victory” and “Make-Do and Mend” posters can be plastered over those empty billboards. But also, yes, it means that no one anything like young is allowed to be anything like young.

No drugs. No dancing. No decent clothes. No loud music. These things are Earthkillers so these things must be banned.

Not that the oldschool Blitz (September 1940–May 1941) was like this. I've been doing my research, and from what I can make out, London was a pretty swinging town back then, give or take the odd sprinkling of TNT. If you weren't bombed out by Hitler, you were bombed out on benzedrine. Dark alleys were full of courting couples––home leave squaddies and randy Land Girls up for the night.

What we're being forced to go through today by this bunch of Tescommunists is the cleaned-up revisionist version. And it's not as if the Walmarxists would do anything different, so don't go thinking your vote could change stuff.

But our Blitz is keeping it real. Instead of 1940, we've defaulted to 1980. And we fully intend drugs, dancing, and most of all decent clothes. The loud music, I'm afraid, has been sacrificed to practicality. But we have a way round that. You'll see.

I hope you'll see.

Because clippety-clop and cloppety-clip along with scritch and then scratch and what could that be? Snarl, from somewhere behind me. And a good old-fashioned woof!––oh crap. Not great. Snarl snarl! Those would be major dogs. Clippety-clop! Those would be horses.

And these would be Crips.

“Okay,” I scream, backed up against a shopfront. “Call them off.”

They're a pitbull-alsatian cross. There are three of them. They are absolutely ruining my trousers.

“That's him! That's the one.”

“Hello, again,” I say.

The Fire Warden is sat up behind the Crip sergeant, on a huge grey horse. Another couple of horse-riding boys in blue are behind them.

The Crip sergeant whistles, and the dogs leave off my legs.

“Man say you been shot.”

“I suppose so,” I say.

“You best go hospital,” he says. “Get fix up.”

“I shall do,” I say.

“Police hospital,” he says.

I am in the back of one of their wagons, being guarded by a female Crip. Her gun is real. For five minutes she hasn't stopped staring at my trousers, which might be rescuable with a little of my own make-do and mend.

“Where were you going?” the Crip asks. “Dressed up like that?”

My costume has been revealed. I'm wearing––brace your-self––a double-breasted grandpa-collar white cotton shirt with scarlet trim and silver buttons, sixteen-pleat black trou-sers with scarlet piping tucked into burgundy pixie boots, about seven strings of pearls, my great-grandmother's best onyx brooch, and in my bag I have a Tyrolean hat with a blue feather on the side. Now, when was the last time you saw an outfit like that?

“Where were you going?” she asks again.

Again I don't reply.

“Go on,” she says. “You can tell me. I'll keep quiet.”

I shoot her a look––yeah, like I'd trust you. But the look I sneak at the same time has a kicker. She's really very cute. And quite stylish, too. I can see that her hair, beneath her helmet, is cut pretty sharp. Is that homemade gel I detect? Surely she's breaking some regulations here.

“Was it The Blitz?” she asks.

“How do you know that?” I blurt, freaked out. “No-one's meant to know that.” No one but us kids, I mean.

“Would you take me?” she asks.

What?

“I really want to go,” she says. “I have the clothes. I've just never met anyone who would take me. And I get off shift in, like, half an hour.”

“I've been shot,” I say. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm probably bleeding to death. Officially.”

She glances up through the grille, toward where the driver is sitting. So far, he's whipped the horses about every ten steps. We're not going slowly.

“I can get you out,” she says.

I don't seem to have many other options. But I know I'm taking a big risk. The Crips would love to shut down on The Blitz. Every time we meet, we use up precious natural resources––that's according to them. I mean, even the word “pop” suggests waste.

“Tell him to pull over,” I say.

She rattles her gun-barrel on the bars. “Hold up!” she shouts.

“Tell him to open the door.”

Two minutes later, I am alone with her in the fog.

“Thank you,” I say.

“My pleasure,” she replies. “I'm Sharice.”

“Ferdinand,” I say, giving my club-name.

“First, I need to get changed,” says Sharice. “Can't go there dressed like this, can I?”

“How do I know this isn't some set-up?” I ask.

“I got you out, didn't I?” Sharice says.

My face says, Convince me.

“Okay, then,” she says. “I'll let you go. You can just walk off now. Bye-bye.”

“Bye-bye,” I say, and walk off.

But ten feet into the fog I change my mind, turn round and walk back. I like Sharice. And I especially like the way she's smiling at me now, as if she's five and I'm Santa Claus.

Let's see what her clothes are like. If they're obviously some lame attempt to go undercover, I'll dump her as soon as we get back on the street.

Sharice's flat is halfway up Centerpoint. But I can't check the view because all the windows are covered in blackout material. And there won't be a view anyway, because of the fog.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says.

So I sit on her sofa and drink a mug of water and stare at the dead television while she goes into the bedroom, closes the door and gets dressed by the light of her torch.

Half an hour I wait. But it's worth it. When Sharice comes out, she's a full-on harlequin. Big diamonds of cloth from neck to ankle––red, blue, black and yellow. She shines the torch up and down herself. I particularly like up.

“How long did it take you to make that?”

“A month,” she says. “Since I first heard ‘Ashes to Ashes'.”

Our anthem––well, that and “Fade to Gray.”

“And you heard it where?” There's no TV since the phoney war started, and the BBC is playing no music but classical and swing.

“Someone in the cells was singing it. He was wearing a bandana, eyeshadow, the lot. I asked him what it was. He told me.”

I like Sharice.

“Do you have make-up?” I ask. She shows me the contents of her little bag.

I love Sharice.

“Follow me,” I say.

The club should be at 4 Great Queen Street, but if we held it there the Crips would find it easily. Instead, it's somewhere nearby which changes every time. Tonight, it's in a basement off Parker Street.

The doorman's name is Jim and he calls himself Steve but everyone knows him as Jack. As we sashay up, Jack's doing his party-piece. He hands a small mirror to some poor bedraggled wannabe wearing a polkadot ra-ra skirt and asks, “Would
you
let you in?” Some people will never get it.

Jack knows me, admires Sharice when she opens her coat, and we're waved through.

As we walk down the narrow staircase, bad paintings on the wall, Sharice squeezes my arm. I think I have a date for the evening.

“Wow,” she says.

Wow is pretty much the effect we were aiming for.

The dance floor is completely full. There's no DJ––we can't risk loud music. The Heavy Metal Kids up in Covent Garden get closed down almost as soon as they start up. Five minutes' headbanging tops, then the Crips are on them. Same with the Grungers, down by the river. Mosh, cosh, bish-bash-bosh––game over. We're subtle, though.

Some people sing lead vocal. Some do backing. Some do the synths. Some do the synth-drums. Between us, we have a repertoire of about fifty songs. All the classix nouveaux. (Though nothing by Classix Nouveaux.)