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  “Like what?”

  “If you listen to what they’re saying, they’re still telling us that everything’s under control and the problem’s contained but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But no one’s coming up with any explanations. No one’s even making any attempt to explain what’s happening. That tells me they’re either keeping something from us or . . .”

  “No one’s managed to work it out yet,” she interrupts before I’ve had a chance to finish my sentence.

  18

  IT’S DARK. THE HOUSE is silent. I’m tired but I can’t sleep. It’s almost two in the morning.

  “You awake?” I ask quietly.

  “Wide awake,” Lizzie answers.

  I roll over onto my side and gently put my arm around her. She does the same and I pull her closer. It feels good to have her next to me like this. It’s been too long.

  “What are you going to do in the morning?” she asks. The side of her face is touching mine. I can feel her breath on my skin.

  “Don’t know,” I answer quickly. I want to stay at home but there’s a part of me that still thinks I should go back to work. The longer I’ve laid here awake, the more I’ve slowly managed to convince myself that it will be safe to go back to the office tomorrow. Stupid bloody idiot. I watched people being shot in the middle of town today. There’s no way I can go back there.

  “Stay here,” she says quietly. “Stay here with us. You should be here with me and the children.”

  “I know, but . . .” I start to mumble.

  “But nothing. We need you here. I need you here. I’m scared.”

  I know she’s right. I wrap my arms farther around her and run my hand down the ridge of her spine. She’s wearing a short nightdress. I put my hand underneath it and feel her back again. Her skin is soft and warm. I expect her to grumble and pull away from me like she usually does but she stays where she is. I can feel her hands on my skin now.

  “Stay here with me,” she whispers again, slowly moving her hand across my backside and down before sliding it between my legs. She starts to stroke me and despite all the fear, confusion, and uncertainty we’re both feeling I’m hard in seconds. I can’t remember the last time we were intimate. There always seems to be a reason why we Can’t be close. Something or someone always gets in the way.

  “How long’s it been?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “Too long,” she answers.

  Lizzie rolls over onto her back and I climb on top of her. I carefully slide inside her and she grips me tightly. I can feel her nails digging into my skin. She wants me as much as I want her. We both need each other tonight. Neither of us says a word. No talking. There’s nothing to say.

  It’s four thirty. I don’t remember what happened. I must have fallen asleep. It’s still dark in here and the bed’s empty. I look around and see Lizzie standing by the door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Listen,” she whispers.

  I rub sleep from my eyes and sit up. I can hear noises coming from above us. The sounds are quiet and muffled. Something’s happening in the other occupied flat upstairs. There are voices—raised voices—and then the sound of breaking glass.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, still drugged with sleep.

  “This started about five minutes ago,” she explains as the voices above us get louder. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought . . .”

  A sudden thump from the flat above interrupts her. Now the whole building is silent. It’s a long, uncomfortable, and ominous silence which makes me catch my breath. The bedroom is cold and I start to shiver through a combination of the low temperature and nerves. Lizzie turns around to face me and is about to speak when another noise makes her stop. It’s the sound of a door slamming upstairs. Seconds later and we hear hurried, uneven footsteps in the lobby outside, then the familiar creak of the front entrance door being pulled open. I start to get out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “I just want to see . . .” I start to say although I’m not really sure what I’m doing.

  “Don’t,” she pleads, “please don’t. Just stay here. Our door’s locked and the windows are shut. We’re both safe and so are the kids. It doesn’t matter about anybody else. Don’t get involved. Whatever’s going on out there, don’t get involved . . .”

  I have no intention of going outside, I just want to see what’s happening. I go into the living room. I hear a car’s engine start and I peer through the curtains, making sure I can’t be seen. One of the men from upstairs—I can’t see which one—drives away at an incredible speed. I couldn’t make out much detail, but I did see that there was only one person in the car and that immediately starts me thinking about who, or what, is left upstairs. I turn around and see that Lizzie is in the living room with me now.

  “Maybe I should go up and check . . . ?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she hisses. “Like I said, our door’s locked and the windows are shut. We’re safe here and you’re not going anywhere.”

  “But what if something’s happened up there? What if someone’s hurt?”

  “Then that’s someone else’s problem. I don’t care. All we need to think about is the children and each other. You’re not going anywhere.”

  I know she’s right. Out of duty I pick up the telephone and try to dial the emergency services. Christ, I can’t even get an answer.

  Lizzie goes back to bed. I’ll follow her in a couple of minutes but I already know I won’t sleep again tonight. I’m scared. I’m scared because whatever it is that we’ve seen happening to the rest of the world now suddenly feels a whole lot closer.

  THURSDAY

  19

  I WAKE UP BEFORE the alarm goes off and lie still and stare up at the ceiling as I try again to make sense of everything that’s happened over the last few days. It all seems implausible and impossible. Has anything actually happened at all? I still can’t help wondering if this is all just the result of people’s fucked-up and overenthusiastic imaginations or whether there really is something more sinister and bizarre going on? In the cold light of morning it’s difficult to try and comprehend all that I’ve seen and heard. I start trying to convince myself to get a grip, get up, and get ready for work. But then I remember what I saw in Millennium Square yesterday and I’m overcome with nerves and uncertainty as the reality of it all hits me again.

  There’s no point just lying here. Lizzie and the kids are asleep. It’s still dark outside but I get up and shuffle through to the living room. I peer out of the window. The car belonging to the people upstairs still hasn’t returned. What happened up there? My mind starts to wander and play tricks. Was there a Hater upstairs? It scares me to think that my kids could have been so close to one of them. I force myself to remember Lizzie’s words when we were awake earlier. I have to ignore what’s going on everywhere else and concentrate on keeping the people on this side of the front door safe.

  The flat feels colder than ever this morning and the low temperature makes me feel old beyond my years. I fetch some breakfast and then sit in front of the TV. I watch cartoons. I can’t cope with anything more serious. Not yet.

  I’m halfway through a bowl of dry cereal and I can’t eat any more. I don’t have much of an appetite. I feel uneasy all the time and I can’t stop thinking about what’s happening out there. What the hell is going on? I think about all the unconnected events I’ve witnessed and the hundreds—probably thousands—of other incidents which have happened elsewhere. No one can see any connection and yet how can all of these things not be connected? That, I decide, is the most frightening aspect of all. How can so many people from so many different walks of life begin to behave so irrationally and erratically in such a short period of time?

  I look over at the clock and realize that I should be getting ready for work now. My stomach starts to turn somersaults when I think about having to phone in and speak to Tina. Christ knows what she’s going to
say or what I’m going to tell her. Maybe I just won’t phone at all.

  My curiosity and apprehension get the better of me. I finally relent and switch on the news. Half of me wants to know what’s happening today, the other half wants to go back to bed, put my head under the pillow, and not get up again until it’s all over. And that causes me to ask myself yet another unanswerable question—how will this end? Will this wave of violence and destruction just fade and die out, or will it keep building and building?

  The TV news channel looks different this morning, and for a while I can’t put my finger on why. The set is the same and the female presenter is familiar. I don’t recognize the man who’s sitting next to her. Must be a stand-in. I guess the usual newsreader didn’t turn up for work today. Half the staff didn’t turn up at my office yesterday. There’s no reason why things should be any different for the people on TV, is there? Except, perhaps, the fact that they get paid a hell of a lot more than me for doing a hell of a lot less.

  The news is running on a loop again. It seems to be just the headlines on repeat, introduced by these two presenters. There’s no sports or entertainment or business news anymore, and the reports I’m watching are all similar to those we’ve seen before. No explanations, just basic information. Occasionally the cycle is interrupted when one of the newsreaders interviews someone in authority. I’ve seen politicians, religious leaders, and others being interviewed over the last few days. They can all talk the talk and most of them know how to play up to the camera, but none of them can disguise the fact that they seem to know as little about what’s happening as the rest of us. And there are other people who I would have expected to see interviewed who have been conspicuous by their absence. What about the Prime Minister and other top-level politicians? Why aren’t they showing their faces? Are they too busy trying to personally deal with the crisis (I doubt it) or could it be that they’re no longer in office? Could the head of government or the chief of police be Haters?

  The male newsreader is talking about schools and businesses remaining closed when a sudden flurry of movement in front of the camera interrupts him. He looks up as a scruffy figure carrying a clipboard and wearing headphones stumbles into view. It’s a tall, willowy woman who walks back until she’s almost standing right against the newsreaders’ desk. Is she a producer or director or something like that? She crouches down slightly to make sure the camera is properly focused on her.

  “Don’t listen to any more of this garbage,” she says, her weary face desperate and tear-streaked. “You’re only being told half the story. Don’t listen to anything they tell you . . .”

  And then she’s gone. There’s more movement all around her before the pictures disappear and the screen goes black. After a wait of a few more long and uncomfortable seconds the broadcast returns. It’s a report about personal safety and security that I’ve seen at least five times before.

  What is it that we’re not being told? That woman looked desperate, like she’d been trying to get an opportunity to speak out for days.

  I phoned the office a few minutes ago but there was no answer. I was relieved when I didn’t have to speak to anyone but then I started to panic again when I thought about how bad things must have got if no one’s turned up for work.

  There’s nothing else to do now except sit back on the sofa in front of the TV and watch the world fall apart.

  20

  WE NEED FOOD. THE last thing I wanted to do was go outside again but I didn’t have any choice. The kids and Lizzie have been trapped at home for the last couple of days and the cupboards are almost empty. We should have thought of it sooner. I need to get some supplies before things get any more uncertain out there.

  I have as much cash as I could find in my pocket and I’ll see what it will get me. I’ve always been bad with money. I don’t have any credit since I got into a mess with my bank a year or so ago and they canceled everything on my account. I’ve got a “last chance” loan now. Once the payment’s gone out on payday and I’ve paid the bills I cash the balance and that’s what we live on until the next time I get paid. It’s two weeks until payday so I haven’t got much left.

  I didn’t think about where I was going to go until I’d left the apartment. Instinctively I drove toward the supermarket we usually use for our weekly shopping but I turned back before I got there. Even though it was early there was already a huge line just to get into the parking lot. It’s a bad-tempered and busy place at the best of times and setting foot in there today would have just been asking for trouble. Two cars collided in the line just ahead of me. Someone shunted into the back of someone else. Both drivers got out and started screaming and shouting at each other and I got the feeling that the trouble was about to spread. I didn’t want to take any chances. I turned around and drove back toward home along roads which were surprisingly quiet. There’s still a fair amount of traffic about, but nothing like the number of vehicles you usually get at this time of day.

  I’m outside O’Shea’s convenience store now. It’s only a couple of minutes away from the apartment. It’s tucked away in a side street just off the main Rushall Road. It gets most of its trade from the workers at a steel factory just around the corner. It stands to reason that if people aren’t going to work today the factory will be closed and the convenience store should be empty. They have a fraction of the stock of the supermarket and they charge double the prices but I don’t have any choice. My family needs food and I have to get it from somewhere. I park (farther away than usual) and cross the street.

  Bloody hell, as I get nearer to the shop I start to think about turning back again. The building looks like it’s in the process of being looted. It’s rammed with people and the floor is covered in litter and debris. I force myself to go inside, reminding myself that my family has to eat. Half the displays and freezers are already empty and there’s more garbage and packaging left on the shelves than food. I grab a cardboard box (it’s the biggest thing I can find) and start getting what I can. Looks like everyone’s had the same idea as me today and they’re out panic buying. I take whatever I can find—cans and packets of food, bottles of sauce, chips, candy, spreads—pretty much anything that’s salvageable and edible. There’s nothing fresh here, no milk or bread or fruit or vegetables.

  The shop is small and the mood inside the hot and congested little building is tense. Shopping always seems to bring out the very worst in people. Today I can taste the animosity and nerves in the air but no one’s reacting. Everybody keeps their head down and gets on with stripping the shelves. No one speaks. No one makes any intentional contact with anyone else whatsoever. An old guy accidentally elbows me in the ribs as we’re both reaching up for the same thing. Normally I’d have had a go at him and he’d probably have had a go back at me. We look at each other for the briefest of moments and then silently take what we can. I don’t dare start an argument.

  The box is soon two-thirds full with junk. I turn the corner into the last aisle and see two empty checkouts ahead of me. People are just walking past them and there’s no sign, unsurprisingly, of any staff. Naively I expected the people I’ve seen leaving the shop to have paid for the food they were carrying. Should I just take what I’ve collected? In spite of everything that’s happening around me I still feel uneasy at the prospect of walking out with this stuff without paying for it. But I have to do what I have to do. Screw the consequences, I have to think about my family and forget everyone else. This is absolutely crazy. This is looting with manners. Fucking bizarre. I keep loading up the box and edging toward the exit.

  There’s a scream. Christ, it’s a bloody horrible sound and it cuts right through me. People stop moving and look around for the source of the noise. I can see a woman on the ground just behind me. She’s lying in the middle of the aisle covering her face with her hands. I try not to stare but I can’t help myself. Someone shuffles out of the way and I can see that there’s a child attacking her. A girl of maybe eight or nine, no older, is virtuall
y sitting on top of her, punching her and pulling her hair. Jesus, in one hand she’s got a tin of food and she’s using it to batter the woman. She lands the tin on her forehead and it immediately swells up in a bloody red welt. The woman is screaming and crying and . . . and bloody hell, she’s shouting out the girl’s name. Is she being beaten by her own daughter? For a fraction of a second I think that I should help her but I know that I can’t. None of us can risk getting involved. Everyone seems to have come to the same conclusion. Everyone is shocked by what they can see but no one does anything to help. People cautiously edge forward and work their way around the fight to get out of the building as quickly as they can and I keep walking with them. The woman’s out cold now but the kid is still pummeling her face. She’s covered in her mother’s blood . . .

  The speed and number of people leaving the building are increasing rapidly. I can feel panic bubbling up under the surface and I keep moving, desperate to get out before it explodes. I look at the empty checkouts as I run past them and feel another momentary pang of guilt before pushing and shoving my way back out into the open and running toward my car. I throw the supplies into the back and then get in and lock the door.

  I start the engine and look back at O’Shea’s. Desperate people are flooding out of the ransacked shop now, tripping over each other to get away before the situation inside gets any worse. I stare at the building in disbelief, my head filled with images of my family and of what I’ve just witnessed. Could any of my children do what I’ve just seen to Lizzie or me? Worse than that, could we do it to any of them?

  21

  LIZZIE ASKS ME IF I’m okay but I can’t answer. I need to get back inside first. I need to get the food inside then shut the door and lock the bloody thing behind me and never open it again.