The Fear (11 page)

‘
For real?
’ said DogNut in mock amazement. ‘You learn something new every day. But tell me, Andy, my manz. Has anyone ever got over these walls?’

‘Nah, it’s impossible.’ Andy didn’t sound that convincing.

‘For sure? No one’s climbed in – no one’s climbed out?’

Andy made a face, deciding whether to keep a secret. He looked around, checking nobody could see them.

‘If I tell you something, will you promise never to let anyone know it was me that told you?’

‘Sure, bruv.’

‘There is a way over. Some of the kids worked it out. They jammed the spikes so they won’t turn and cut a section of wire. They fixed it back up again so if you didn’t know what to look for you’d never know. David never looks, anyway.’

‘Why’d they do that?’

‘To get in and out. David doesn’t let us otherwise.’

‘To get away from here?’

‘No. But some of the kids take stuff, food and whatever, and they trade it with other kids out there from the other settlements.’

‘Not you, though, soldier?’

‘Never had the guts. Besides I’ve got a blazer, so I have privileges. Wouldn’t want to lose them.’

‘So are you going to tell me where this safe way out is?’

Andy shook his head and looked at his shoes. ‘I’ve told you too much already. If David found out …’

Andy fell silent as they heard someone approaching through the trees. He looked miserable. Like a kid waiting to see the headmaster. It was only Courtney, though. Andy relaxed and smiled at her.

Courtney nodded dismissively at him and turned her attention to DogNut.

‘There you are,’ she said, sounding tired and grumpy. ‘I been looking all over.’

‘Just taking a likkle stroll,’ said DogNut. ‘You know. Stretching the old pins.’

‘Yeah, right.’

DogNut said goodbye to Andy and walked back towards the palace with Courtney.

‘David wants us to stay for dinner,’ she explained. ‘But Al’s got some news that might change things.’

‘Cool,’ said DogNut. ‘Hit me with it.’

‘I’ll let Al tell you himself.’

Shadowman was in his tent, zip down, sitting cross-legged on his sleep mat, checking his belongings before going out for the night. He could hear loud voices all around. It was always noisy here in the shanty town at the end of the park. There was always a cacophony of barking dogs, laughter, shouting, arguments, joking, singing. Even babies crying. He couldn’t imagine bringing any babies into this mad world, but a couple of the girls had got themselves pregnant and somehow survived childbirth.

The tent was tiny. It had been advertised in the camping shop where he’d found it as a two-man, but it could barely fit one. That was fine with him. He didn’t want company. He worked alone. Was happier that way. Didn’t want to be weighted down with people, belongings, responsibilities. He travelled light. Everything he owned except for his sleeping bag could fit into his slim backpack. It had been designed to carry a laptop and suited him perfectly, as, slung across his back underneath his cloak, it lay flat against his body. Nobody could tell he was carrying it.

He had emptied his pockets and tipped out the contents of his pack on to his sleeping bag and was sorting through them, something he did regularly. It was a habit, really, or an obsession. A little ritual to bring him luck and keep him safe. He would touch each of the objects, remind himself why he carried it and carefully, lovingly, put it back in its place. Like a labourer with his tools, a soldier with his kit.

There wasn’t much to it.

Some emergency food – beef jerky, dried fruit, stale chocolate, a mini A-to-Z book of every street in London, a Swiss Army knife, a compass, a cigarette lighter and a box of matches in a waterproof bag with a couple of small candles, a sewing kit, a knife sharpener for the sheath knife he carried on his belt, a small set of tools that packed away into a neat flat box, a tin plate and cutlery set designed for campers, a torch, spare batteries, a tiny compact pair of binoculars, a couple of biros and some paper, a first-aid kit with bandages and antiseptic cream and painkillers, a paperback novel that he’d throw away when he’d finished it and replace with a new one, gaffer tape for repairs, a spare pair of socks and thermal vest. He didn’t bother to lug about any other clothes. He hardly ever washed and it was easy, in this new London, to pick up new clothes in any one of the hundreds of abandoned stores. He wanted to be able to ship out and move on at a moment’s notice. He slept in his clothes, with his boots and his backpack safely stowed away in the bottom of his sleeping bag. He could be up, into his boots, with his pack across his back, his water canisters clipped to his belt and his cloak wrapped around him in less than a minute. He’d timed it and practised his technique every week or so.

He wouldn’t take the tent with him when he left the camp. He’d leave it for someone else to use. It was easier to find a new one if he ever needed it. Quite frankly, he preferred sleeping indoors under a proper roof. He’d take the sleeping bag, though, rolled up and slung across his shoulders.

He wondered why these kids had chosen to live in tents and makeshift huts rather than in buildings. It was certainly more dangerous. Though the kids seemed to welcome danger. Perhaps they wanted adults to attack? They did seem to love fighting. A mother and a father had got into the camp last week and they’d been chased around by a jeering mob armed with sticks and stones. By the time the kids had finished with them their battered and pulped bodies looked barely human.

That was what they thought of adults, and maybe they lived here in their camp because they didn’t want anything more to do with the world of grown-ups, though Shadowman doubted they could ever explain that. They weren’t given to deep thought. They lived day to day, hand to mouth, didn’t look forward or back, didn’t question what they were doing. They were like him in that way.

He filled his pockets and slotted the last couple of items in his pack, which had lots of little compartments. Everything had its place and the vest kept it all from rattling about. Satisfied, he stood up, slipped the single wide diagonal strap over his head and put on his cloak. The kids in the shanty town wore a bizarre mix of stuff that they’d looted, bits of military clothing, odd fashion items, punky stuff, leather jackets, fancy dress, as if they were all trying to outdo each other with their wackiness, so Shadowman didn’t stand out in his cloak. In other circumstances, with different kids, he might have taken it off, rolled it up and worn it over his shoulders as if it was a blanket, but here in the camp he felt he could wear anything he liked and not be noticed.

The camp was its usual chaotic, squalid mess. The biggest problem kids had since the disaster was boredom. This must have been what it was like going to war, the stories he’d read about soldiers whose days were filled with unrelenting boredom, punctuated every now and then by brief moments of extreme terror and violence. That was what life was like now for everyone. There was no TV, no computers, no mobile phones or Xboxes; there was nothing to do except try to stay alive.

The shanty town had been largely built on the solid footing of the parade ground, but it spilt over on to the grass in the park where a group of kids was playing football. The ball was a bit flat; that was a permanent problem. Balls were too easily punctured and very hard to repair. A fully pumped football was something of a precious treasure.

Other kids were playing different games: the younger ones chasing each other around; some of the girls had invented their own elaborate games that involved hopping and skipping, jumping, clapping, singing and counting. Most kids, though, just lounged around on whatever they could find to sit on – broken chairs, logs, bits of rubbish – and chatted to each other, just like the bored contestants on
I’m a Celebrity
 … 
Get Me Out of Here
. Of course they couldn’t talk about what they’d watched on TV last night, or a piece of music they’d heard, or something they’d seen on YouTube, the latest video game, the premier league … It was all gossip. Who’d said what to who and what they’d said back at them, who they liked, who they didn’t like.

That was another reason why Shadowman preferred to keep himself to himself. So he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He kept on the move, strolling around the camp, settling now and then by one of the fires that they kept burning day and night, letting the smoke wash over him. He’d learnt early on that the grown-ups could smell kids, so he did all he could to mask his own scent. It also hid his smell from other kids. Smoke was the best deodorant around. It got into your clothes, your hair, your skin, and drowned out all the unmentionable smells that unwashed bodies accumulate. He’d rubbed most of the soot from his skin and now just looked like one more grubby boy among a camp full of grubby boys.

A group of kids was making music – banging boxes, clapping, rapping – one had a battered guitar with three strings. Occasionally one of them would break away and do a little dance of some sort, showing off, trying to outdo the others.

Nearby two boys were fighting, a small crowd gathered round them. They were really battering each other and the onlookers were laughing. Shadowman smiled. All of this served one purpose. To take their minds off the thing they all thought about all the time.
Food
. Where was it going to come from, what was it going to be, how much was there going to be?

There never was enough, of course. And it was never very nice. A lot of it would be stale or rancid.

Half the kids from the camp were out on the streets still, breaking into houses and shops to see what they could find. There was always excitement in the camp when these groups returned, like fishermen back from the sea or hunters back from the wild. Would they bring back a mammoth today, or just a couple of rats?

Another reason why Shadowman liked to work alone. He could find his own food and look after himself, not have to worry about any other mouths to feed, not sharing or waiting his turn, hanging back to see what crumbs he could pick up after the bigger, tougher kids had had their fill.

He saw one of the kids he’d made friends with, a little Irish bruiser called Paddy. He was sitting alone playing with some broken action figures. Shadowman sat down next to him and Paddy said hello.

‘What are those guys?’ Shadowman asked, nodding at the little men.

‘They’re Halo figures. I found them in a comic shop months ago. I could really do with some new ones.’

‘I used to love playing Halo,’ said Shadowman. ‘My mum used to shout at me all the time. Stop playing that bloody game …’

‘Yeah,’ said Paddy. ‘Me too.’

‘My favourite was Fable, though.’

‘Never played that.’

‘It was good. Good story. Good acting.’

‘I just like games where you blow things up and shoot people.’

‘Yeah.’

There was a commotion on the edge of the camp. Someone was coming in. Shadowman looked over to see John and Carl striding on to the parade ground carrying boxes wrapped in plastic. Big grins on their faces. Behind them came several other lads also carrying boxes.

John and Carl were the two guys in charge here. John was the overall boss. As far as Shadowman was concerned, he was a skinny, wiry, ugly, gap-toothed, mean, shaven-headed little bastard. His character was a lethal mix of bone-stupid and streetwise smarts, and he was prone to terrible acts of random violence. The other kids were scared of him and he used that fear to keep some sort of control in the camp. There was a kind of screwy order and the kids seemed happy to have him boss them around. He made them feel safe.

Carl was his deputy. Cleverer and altogether nicer, he dressed a bit like a pirate, with a bandanna permanently tied round his head, and had no ambition to be number one. He seemed to be the only person who could stop John from getting out of order. Shadowman reckoned that John was seriously unhinged and probably dangerous. If the disaster hadn’t happened, he would have been locked up somewhere. But now, in this upside-down new world, psychos like John were leaders and generals.

As the foraging party got nearer, Shadowman saw that the boxes they were carrying contained not food but cans of beer and cider. John started shouting triumphantly about it.

‘Look what your Uncle Johnny has got for you useless tossers. Don’t say I don’t look after you. There’s going to be a big party in the old town tonight and there ain’t no adults gonna stop us! No mums, no coppers, no sleep till morning.’

Paddy jumped up and ran over to him.

‘Give us one!’ he shouted happily, and John casually kicked him in the balls, sending him sprawling across the gravel, spilling his action figures everywhere. John walked on, laughing, and crushed one of the little men under his heavy boot.

‘Later,’ he said. ‘And you can wait your turn, you Irish loser. We’re gonna have a riot and we’re gonna do it properly. I ain’t had nothing to drink in days.’

He went to his own shack and dumped his box on the ground. The other kids piled theirs around it.

‘Listen up, goons and goonettes,’ John shouted, jumping up on the boxes. ‘I want a really big fire, I want some music and I want some grub. Get on it. Sort me out. And when I’m happy you can all have a drink. Well, not all of you, only the ones that make me happy.’

He jumped down, laughing, and tore his box open to get at a can, which he popped open and clamped to his mouth. As he glugged away, he caught Shadowman’s eye.

‘What you looking at?’

‘Nothing.’

Shadowman dropped his gaze, embarrassed that John had spotted him. His cloak of invisibility had failed.

‘Come here.’

Shadowman had no option but to go over to John who glared at him over his beer can, looking right into Shadowman and making him feel naked and foolish.

‘I seen you around. I ain’t sure I like you.’

Shadowman shrugged. Decided to try to change the subject.

‘Where’d you get the beer?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Just interested.’

‘Yeah – interested. You’re always interested, ain’t you? Listening in, poking your nose everywhere.
Interested
.’