The End of the World Running Club (39 page)

Abdul shrugged.

“Whatever you say Jenny,” he said, and shouted the man’s order through. He turned to Jenny Rae, scanning us nervously first. “And what can I get you, madam?”

“Five specials please, Abdul,” said Jenny Rae. “Gimme a tray of chips and all.”

“No problem,” said Abdul, and then screamed the order back across his shoulder. “Ten minutes, Jenny.”

We found a place to stand away from the counter while Jenny Rae circulated the shop, talking to the masses that were coming and going. Eyes were on us constantly. Even Bryce avoided them, possibly because of the distraction of the smell of cooking meat as much as anything else. Occasionally a number would be yelled out and one of the waiting hordes would step up to the counter and take their bulging, knotted plastic bag of food.

“This is weird,” breathed Richard, stretching out every word. “How the hell have they managed to get a takeaway running?”

“I don’t like it either,” whispered Harvey. “What do these people think they’re eating? The only meat I’ve seen has two wings and an orange beak.”

“I doubt they care,” I said.

“Spend enough time eating curries in Edinburgh,” said Bryce, “and there’s a fair bet you’ve already eaten a seagull.” He craned his neck to see into the kitchen. “Meat’s meat,” he slavered. “I’m eating whatever comes slopping out of those wee foil trays.”

Our order came and Jenny led us out of the takeaway to more mumbled greetings and stares from the queue. She ate her chips as we walked.

“See?” she said. “We do pretty well here. Electricity, water, food, alcohol, all rationed of course, but we got quite a good deal in the settlement.”

“Settlement?” said Grimes.

“We had to agree on a rough territory, supplies, that kind of thing,” she said.

“With the police?” I said.

Jenny stopped in her tracks and made a noise in her throat. She stared at me in disbelief, one ketchup-smeared chip halfway to her mouth, then threw back her head in laughter.

More laughter. I squirmed as we let it run its course.

“Police?” she said at last, wiping spittle and grease from her chin. “Police? There is no bloody police. We won!”

“Won?” said Richard.

“Aye, won. The fights, the riots.” She turned her mouth down into a proud snarl. “We came together,” she said. “Beat ‘em.” She popped the chip into her mouth, turned and continued walking down the street. It was darker nearer the bottom; fewer of the houses had their lights on.

“There were a few of us, you see, from different parts of the city, different estates that had survived. We had what we called a settlement, an agreement. Pretty amicable considering. Everyone got their own territory, their own estates of course, then bits and bobs around the city where we knew there were supplies, industrial estates, supermarkets, shopping centres that hadn’t burned, that kind of thing. Then we got streets and areas of the city itself.”

She turned to us and grinned. Her front two teeth glinted gold in the low light from the houses.

“And you walked onto one of mine.” She raised her eyebrows. “Lucky for you.”

“And the police,” said Richard. “Where are they now?”

Jenny gave him a flat look and shrugged. She picked at her molars with her tongue.

“Not a problem any more,” she said. “Right, here we are.”

She directed a sharp whistle at the fence, now almost hidden in the darkness. We heard a clatter and then footsteps as one of the guards crossed the road towards us. He was tall and broad, head level with Bryce’s, knew his way around a gym I guessed. A thick scar travelled the length of his right cheek and met his top lip beneath his nose. He gave us a cold once-over before turning to Jenny.

“Jenny,” he said.

“Guests staying at number seventy-three this evening,” she said. The word ‘guests’ unsettled me even more. I had never felt less like one. “Keep them company outside would you?”

“No problem, Jenny,” said the guard. He moved towards the gate of the house we were standing next to. Jenny strode through it and up to the door, on which she gave three loud knocks. A moment later the door opened and a slim, timid woman in a baggy cardigan looked out from behind it. She looked nervously between us and Jenny

“Yes?” she said, then “George?” quietly back across her shoulder. We heard slow footsteps on the stairs behind her.

“Did the boys tell you?” said Jenny Rae, her voice loud and firm.
 

The woman shook her head. “No.” A man appeared behind the woman, ashen and concerned. He took off his glasses and let them fall on the string around his neck, peering out at us.

“What’s the matter?” he said. He was well spoken, every vowel rounded, every consonant marked. Jenny Rae tutted and made a frustrated rasp in her throat.

“Those boys, I told them, didn’t I?” She turned to us, then shook her head and rolled her eyes, smiling. “I’ll murder them one of these days.” She sighed. “Ah’m sorry, Mrs Angelbeck,” she said, still shaking her head. “But you have some guests this evening.”

The couple looked us up and down, trying to contain their horror.

“But, b…” the woman began. The man interrupted her with a hand gripping her arm.

“It’s OK, Darling,” he said quickly. “Of course, Mrs Rae. That’s no problem, is it? Is it, darling?”

The woman looked up at him worriedly. He seemed to tighten his grip on her arm.

“No,” she said at last. “No, of course not, no problem at all, er…please, come in.” She opened the door wider.

“Ahhhh thanks, Mrs Angelbeck, that’s very good of you,” said Jenny Rae. “It’ll just be for tonight. They can stay in your front room; you don’t mind bunking down do you?” She smiled at us. “Good,” she said, not waiting for a reply. We stepped into the house, immediately crowding the small hallway and filling it with our own reek and that of the food Bryce was holding. “Well, then,” said Jenny Rae, turning to leave. “I’ll leave you to it then, oh...” she stopped and turned back, holding out her empty chip tray to the woman. “Put that in your bin, would you?” she said.
 

The woman stared blankly down at the tray and took it in her trembling hands.

“There’s a love,” said Jenny Rae. She turned to the man. “See you tomorrow, George? Bright and early?”

The man bounced nervously on his toes and offered a small salute. “Right you are, Miss Rae,” he laughed. “Bright and early.”

A cold smile slid from Jenny Rae’s face as she turned to leave. Richard called after her.

“We need to leave as early as possible.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jenny Rae, holding up a hand. “Someone will come and get you.”

“What about our packs?” he said.
 

“I’ll see that they’re safe,” she said. “Enjoy your curry. Get some rest.”

She hooted a laugh out into the cold night, then started off up the street. We stood nervously in the hallway, saying nothing, the stench of curry filling the cold air. The man regarded us, chewing the arm of his spectacle.

“George,” said the woman at last. “You’re hurting me.”

“What?” he said. “Oh, terribly sorry, darling.” He released his grip on her arm and slowly held his hand to his chest, flexing his fingers. He looked back at us.

“My name is George Angelbeck,” he said, slowly offering his hand to us. “And this is my wife, Susan.”

The woman nodded her head and massaged her arm.

“I’ll get you some plates,” she said, walking past us towards a lit room at the end of the hallway. “Abigail? Can you set the table please, darling.”

G
ULL
V
INDALOO

The Angelbecks’ kitchen was long and thin with a small table against one wall. Susan Angelbeck had extended it fully so that it almost filled the floor and provided enough room to sit four people. She lit a candle and placed it in the centre while her daughter, Abigail, a girl who was about to experience what puberty felt like in a post-apocalyptic housing estate where - her manners and posture screamed - she clearly didn’t belong, had emptied the cupboards of plates and set them on the table with cutlery. George Angelbeck tucked himself in a corner and watched, sucking the end of his spectacles as everyone found a space. Nobody wanted to take a seat at first and we all stood silently, crammed against cupboards, staring down at the empty table, adrift in social waters which, I’m fairly sure, had never been charted before.

Eventually Bryce broke the stalemate by puffing out a deep, frustrated sigh and grabbing the seat nearest to him. He then went to work on the warm plastic of the takeaway bags and began spreading the foil cartons across the table. Susan offered the remaining seats to us. Grimes and Harvey each took one, Richard and I remained leaning by the sink. George gently pushed his daughter forwards to take the last chair.

Bryce tore the cardboard lid from the last carton and threw it in the remains of the plastic bag with the others. For a moment we all watched the steam rise slowly from the gloopy brown food like smoke from a prehistoric swamp, the candlelight throwing gruesome shadows of the mysterious lumps rising out of the surface.

Once again, Bryce could only stand so much and after a few moments he snatched a bowl and began to spoon dollops of rice and curry into it. When he had filled it he took a fork, hesitating slightly before shovelling a heap of it into his mouth.

We watched him carefully as he chewed, staring straight ahead at the wall. He swallowed with a small shudder, then looked around at the roomful of eyes that were trained on him.

“Not as bad as you think it’s going to be, is it?” said George from the corner.

“I’ve had worse,” said Bryce.

“Abi, darling, take a plate,” said Susan to her daughter.

“I’m not hungry, Mummy,” said the girl. She looked grimly at Bryce as he went to work on his second and third mouthfuls.

“OK, let’s go and get ready for bed then. We’ll let our...guests…eat in peace.” Susan ushered her daughter out of the kitchen by her shoulders, shooting a look at her husband as she left.

“Night, Daddy,” said the girl.

“Sweet dreams, darling,” said George after them.

We heard them climb the stairs and whisper.

“Do you mind if I...?” said George, pointing at the empty seat.

“Not at all,” said Richard. “It’s your house, after all.”

George sat down and raised an eyebrow at Richard.

“Ah...huh, yes, quite,” he said, spooning some rice into a bowl. “Our house. Quite.”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” said Harvey. “But you and your family don’t really seem like you belong here.”

George topped his rice with a spoonful of sauce and three slivers of meat.

“Well, we’ve had to make some adjustments in the last year, of course,” he said jovially. He sounded as if he was talking about some minor economic downturn rather than the almost complete destruction of the country. He looked around at us.

“As I’m sure we all have,” he said. He spooned some curry into his mouth. “Please,” he said, casting his spoon around the table. “Dig in.”

The wall clock ticked and the candle burned, already halfway down. My legs began to twitch and my foot began to tap. I watched as, one by one, Grimes, Richard and Harvey took a bowl and filled it with the rapidly cooling excuse for food. They moved with painful slowness, as if through mud. Bryce’s jaw worked through mouthful after mouthful, the wet squelch of the slurry inside his face seemed to grow louder and louder.  

The clock ticked. The candle burned.
 

“Ed, you should eat,” said Harvey.

“I’m...”

“Huh?” he said. I gritted my teeth.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. Loudly, deliberately.

“Away,” grunted Bryce, his head hanging over the bowl like a pig in a trough. “Sit yer arse down.”

“I’m alright, really, I’m…” I said.
 

Grimes slurped something from her lip. “Sit down Ed,” she said, not looking up from her bowl.

“Not hungry?” said Harvey. “We’ve barely eaten today…”

I slammed a fist on the sink.

“We’ve barely moved today!” I said, surprised at the sudden thunder in my voice. The room fell silent.

“What are we doing here?” I said. “We’ve got to get moving! Now!”

George’s eyes darted up at me. He pushed back from his chair and took a single long step towards me so that his face was in mine. He was trembling, afraid.

“Keep your voice
down
,” he whispered sharply. He pointed outside. “There is a guard outside this house. You cannot be heard to say things like that.”

“Why not?” I said. “What
is
this place anyway?”

“
Quiet
!” he said. “
Quiet.”

There was a knock on the door. George froze, wide-eyed. After a moment he turned and walked from the kitchen.

“George?” came a small voice from upstairs. “What’s happening?”

“Shush Susan! I’ll deal with this.”

“Nice one, Ed,” said Bryce over his shoulder at me.

We heard the door open.

“Hello?” said George. “How can I help you?”

“Everything alright?” said the guard. “I heard shouting.”

“Shouting?” said George. “No, no, just ah...laughter, probably, just enjoying the food.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Right,” said the guard. “Laughter. Any more laughter and I’m calling Jenny, understood?”

“Understood, absolutely,” said George.

The door closed and George walked slowly back into the kitchen. Richard placed his unfinished bowl back on the table.

“Just exactly what is happening here ,George? And who is that woman?” he said.

George shook his head, looking frantically around the floor of the kitchen. “Jenny Rae is a…a fine woman,” he struggled. “She’s built a strong community, given us homes, protection, work, food…we…we really owe her our lives.” He glanced up at Richard and then looked away.

“You can sleep in the lounge,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

He left the room. We heard his dull footsteps on the stairs and then the squeak and click of a door closing. Bryce tossed the last empty tray of seagull vindaloo on the pile. We sat and watched the candle burn to its end.