The Chaos (18 page)

‘Nan, we should’ve worn normal clothes. I feel stupid like …’

‘Shh, we’re here now.’

The automatic doors swish open in front of us and we go into a lobby area. There’s a touch screen offering options. We pick ‘appointment’, ‘14.30’ and ‘Vernon Taylor’ and then another set of doors opens and we’re sent into a waiting room.

It’s light and bright, with chairs grouped round coffee tables piled with magazines. The walls are mostly glass, so you can see through to the interview rooms the other side, but dotted about on them are screens, running films of people telling us how much the local council has helped them. In between clips, a slogan flashes up, ‘Twenty-first century services for twenty-first century people’.

I look round the room at the other ‘twenty-first century people’. There’s a young woman sitting staring into space while her little boy runs round and round the chairs screaming at the top of his voice; there’s a man in his forties or fifties, wearing a dressing gown over his clothes, talking to himself. The video loop is interrupted and a message comes up on screen.

‘Mrs Dawson to Suite 3.’ 

I nudge Nan’s arm. 

‘That’s us. Look.’

‘Suite 3. Where’s that, Adam?’

Room 3 is in the corner to our right. Through the glass we can see someone already in there, waiting for us, a man in a crumpled suit with a crumpled face to match. He half gets up when we go in, wipes his hand on his jacket and holds it out towards Nan.

‘Vernon Taylor,’ he says.

‘Valerie Dawson,’ Nan says and shakes his hand. He don’t offer it to me. The room is empty apart from a desk, three
chairs and a laptop.

‘Do sit down. Do sit down. Now then, Mrs … aah …’

‘Dawson,’ says Nan again.

‘Quite. How can I help you?’

Nan takes a deep breath, and launches in. It sounds as lame as I thought it would. I mean, would you believe it if someone told you my story? I’m cringing as I sit there listening, embarrassed for all three of us. My eyes start roaming round, looking for a distraction. The little boy in the waiting room is looking in at us. He squashes his face against the glass, so it looks like the bottom of a slug. Nan and Mr Taylor take no notice, but I stick my tongue out at him. His face changes. He backs off from the window so quickly he trips over this own feet and starts to cry. He sits there, on the floor, while his mother carries on ignoring him.

I hate the way no-one’s paying him any attention and I hate that my face made him cry. I turn back to Mr Taylor. Nan’s got to the nitty-gritty now. Mr Taylor’s making notes on the laptop as she speaks, but when she mentions the date, the first of January, he stops typing, and his eyes flick from the screen to Nan and then to me. I’ve already clocked his number, but it hits me again. He’s one of them, a twenty-seven, but he’s a drowner. I’ve seen quite a few more now, heard the rushing of water in my ears, felt it choking my lungs, filling my stomach, dragging me down.

He’s still looking at me, and then he interrupts Nan, and talks to me directly for the first time.

‘The first of January, New Year’s Day. What do you think is going to happen?’

‘I don’t know. Something big. It’s going to make buildings collapse and things catch fire. There’s water too, lots of water.’ I feel sick saying this to him, and there’s a tell-tale
tremble in my voice. ‘And it’s going to kill people. Lots of people.’

‘Nothing more than that? No details? No
real
information?’

‘It is real. All of this is real. I know it don’t sound real, but it is.’

Nan leans forward in her chair.

‘He’s always seen them. The numbers. Always. I didn’t think you’d believe me, so I brought these.’ She fetches out the file of cuttings she showed me. ‘His mum was the same, you see. She could see the numbers too. You might remember her. Jem, Jem Marsh – she was all over the papers. She predicted the London Eye bomb in 2009. Look, I’ve got the cuttings.’

‘Nan?’

‘Shh, Adam, it’ll help. It will.’

She shoves the file across the desk. Mr Taylor fishes in his suit pocket for his glasses and starts to read.

‘Yes,’ he says in a low voice, like he’s talking to himself, ‘yes, I do remember. And this was your mother?’ He looks up at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time. 

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘But she denied it later, didn’t she? Said she’d made it all up?’

‘She said that to get everyone off her back. That’s all.’ 

He leans forward over the desk, and shuffles through the papers a bit more. Then he takes off his glasses and leans back in his chair. He closes his eyes and it’s a long time before he speaks again. It’s a long time before he even moves, and Nan and I are exchanging looks when he springs back into life.

‘Let me tell you about my job,’ he says. ‘There are people
in councils all over the country doing what I do. We put the plans in place that make sure that we can cope with whatever life throws at us; flood, epidemics, accidents, terrorism, war even. It’s all about risk assessment and forward planning. We have regular meetings with the emergency services and the government and the armed forces, and there are strategies and plans and procedures for every eventuality.’ He’s leaning forward again now, and his elbows slide on Nan’s cuttings. ‘I want you both to understand that if something happens at the New Year, we are well-placed to deal with it. I want you to go away from here feeling confident that the systems are set up to cope. I don’t want you to worry any more.’

He starts gathering up the press clippings, bending right down to get a couple that have fallen onto the floor. It’s obvious we’re about to be dismissed. He’s on auto-pilot now.

‘We have early warning systems, you see. Long-range, medium-range and short-term forecasting, backed up by the most sophisticated computer systems. We …’

‘It’s not just me,’ I cut in, ‘there’s other people too. There’s a mural, a painting near Paddington. The girl that did it, she’s seen it all in a dream. She’s seen the same date as me. And it’s all on the internet, people who know something’s coming.’

He carries on stuffing the cuttings back into their folder.

‘It’s probably a film, or something on the television. Science fiction. Something that’s stuck. Happens a lot. It can seem very real.’

‘It’s not a film, you patronising bastard, it’s real! We need to get everyone out of London. Don’t you understand?’

‘Adam!’

‘It’s all right, Mrs … ah. It’s all right. You feel that this is real, and worrying, but in fact, it’s all under control. There’s
no need to panic, no need at all. You can leave it all to us now.’

‘So you’ll do something? Start moving people out?’ Nan’s trying to get him in her headlights, but he isn’t fazed. His eyes are half-closed and he’s trotting out the official line.

‘There’s no need to move anyone. We have the systems in place to cope with any eventuality.’

‘You need to get people out!’ I’m practically screaming now. ‘It’s not safe. It’s …’

‘The worst thing would be to panic. You know what the media are like. They could whip up a story like this in an instant, and then people will be running round like headless chickens. If everyone tries to leave at once, the transport system won’t cope. It would be dangerous, so I must insist that you keep quiet about this, and leave it to the professionals.’ He stands up and holds his hand out to Nan. ‘Thank you for coming in today.’

She takes his hand and holds onto it, and she gives him one of her looks. She’s got him now and I can feel how uncomfortable he is.

‘So you’ll definitely do something about it, will you?’ Nan says. ‘You’ll take it further. You’ll tell the police and the firemen and whoever else needs to know.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll follow the procedures we have.’

‘You will?’ She’s not letting go yet.

‘I will. Thank you, Mrs Dawson. And if I were you,’ he says in a lower voice, ‘I’d think about booking a doctor’s appointment. He’s obviously agitated,
disturbed.
‘ His voice is down to a whisper. ‘These things can run in families.’

I want to shout in his face,
I’m here, in the same room as you, you tosser,
but for once I keep quiet. I just want to get out of here, out of this bright, white shit-hole.

The boy and his mum are gone from the waiting room. I can see them in another interview room. He’s quiet now, sitting on his mum’s lap, sucking his thumb. She’s got her arm round him. Does she care after all? Is he going to be all right? Suddenly I want to know his number. I want to know if this boy is going to survive. It matters. We didn’t make eye contact before, he only looked as far as my scar.

Nan tugs on my sleeve.

‘Come on, Adam, what are you gawping at? Let’s get out of here.’

I let her lead me away and out into the wind and rain battering the High Street.

‘Well,’ she says on the way to the bus stop, ‘at least we tried. Nobody could say we didn’t try.’

‘He just thought I’d got a screw loose.’

‘Do you think so? Don’t you think he was listening?’

‘I dunno, Nan. He was full of it, though, wasn’t he? Council-speak crap. Plans and systems.’

‘Well, you need plans, don’t you?’ She don’t sound convinced.

‘Nan?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What happens if the guy in charge of dealing with an emergency dies along with everyone else?’ 

She stops walking then, and turns to face me. 

‘Is that right?’ I nod. ‘Shit.’

‘What are we going to do, Nan?’

‘I dunno, darlin’, I dunno.’ Standing there, she suddenly looks old again, and I think,
How the hell are we going to do this, save the world? An OAP and a sixteen-year-old kid. We’re fucked, aren’t we? The whole world is fucked.

‘I know what I’m going to do right now though. I’m going
to take these sodding shoes off.’ She steps out of her shoes, picks them up and carries them till we get to a bin. Then she drops them in and sets off for the bus stop, striding along the wet pavement in her stockinged feet.

‘Nan, you can’t do that …’

‘Can’t I? Who says?’

We get to the stop just as a bus is pulling up, and it’s not ’til we’re sitting down that I remember Mum’s cuttings, gathered up in their file, still lying on Taylor’s desk.

Chapter 40: Sarah

M
arie doesn’t say a word. Not one word. She doesn’t need to: her face says it all. She picks her way across the kitchen and out of the back door. I follow her out. She’s hunched up against the weather, clutching her files to her chest.

‘Wait. Please wait!’ I shout after her. She pauses in the gateway, and I catch up with her. The rain is battering into our faces.

‘I’m clean,’ I say to her. ‘I’ve never done drugs. Never. Not interested. The boys do, but they don’t involve me. I’m safe here. We’re safe here.’

‘How old are you, Sally?’

‘Nineteen.’

I know she doesn’t believe me.

‘This is no place for a nineteen-year-old. And certainly no place for a baby. You know that, don’t you?’

‘It’s our home. It’s where we live. We’re fine here.’

‘We’ve got a duty of care, Sally. A duty of care. You’ll be
hearing from us very soon.’

And with that, she’s gone. The rain’s so fierce and cold that it’s hurting the skin on my face. The gate blows back on its hinges, flapping wildly in the wind. I take hold of it and slam it violently. I want to shut the world out. Why can’t they just leave me alone? The gate bashes against the latch and flies open again.

‘Shit! Shitting fucking shit!’ My voice is swallowed up by the storm.

I go back inside. Vinny looks up from the table. 

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘My friend, you stupid, drug-soaked pillock, is from Children’s Services. The Council.’

He stops what he’s doing and puts the foil down on the table-top.

‘Shit,’ he says.

‘Yeah, shit. Lots of it. Up to here.’ I hold my hand up above my head.

‘We’d better tidy up.’ They all start gathering up their stuff.

‘It’s too late, Vin. It’s too late for all of that. They’ll come back. They’ll take Mia, I know they will.’

‘Mia?’

‘They’ve got a duty of care, that’s what she kept saying. They’ll take her away from me.’

‘No, we won’t let them. We won’t let them in.’

‘What you going to do? Put up barricades? Wave your baseball bat at them? Yeah, that’ll help.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ He stands there, flapping his long arms uselessly at his sides.

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I’m just going to go, get out of here. You should too. Let’s face it, Vin. We’re busted.’

I race upstairs and bundle up Mia in as many layers as I can, then I carry her down into the hall. I put her into her buggy and go back upstairs for the bags.

Vinny’s in the bathroom, flushing his stock away. He calls out to me and I stop on the stairs.

‘Where are you going to go?’ Vinny asks.

‘I don’t know. I’ll find somewhere.’

‘I’ve got some cash,’ he digs in his pocket, brings out a bunch of notes.

‘No, Vinny, you’ve done enough.’

‘Take it.’ He stuffs it into one of the bags. ‘I’ll miss you, Sarah.’

‘I’ll miss you, too. We both will.’ I put the bags down on the stairs and wrap my arms round his waist. He kisses the top of my head, like I was his child, his sister. ‘I’ve got to go.’

I put the bags on the shelf under the buggy and wheel it out through the kitchen. There’s no time to think, or be sentimental, I’ve just got to leave, but as I push the buggy down the back streets into the wind I wonder whether there’s any point trying to run away. Because Mia’s chip will tell them where we are. Wherever I go now, whatever I do, it’s not a case of ‘if’ they find us, it’s ‘when’.

Chapter 41: Adam

W
e realise there’s been another power cut while we’re still on the bus. It’s starting to get dark, but the street lights are off and the shops are shutting up early. They know what to expect by now; the cuts can last for anything from a couple of hours up to about twelve. No point staying open in the dark, when your tills don’t work and you can’t take payment cards.