The Dead

As he limped across the square, a mess of birds took flight all around him, swirling up into the sky and confusing him. He flailed at them, cursing and swearing.

They were pigs.

Pigs might fly.

Pigeons too.

The next thing he knew he had one in his hand. He’d caught it mid-air. Like a golfer. A goalie. His grin grew wide. He was king of this place. He should be up on top of that pillar. Lord London! That was him. He squeezed the bird until he could feel its bones crack. Then he stuffed the corpse into the pocket of his jogging pants. He was cold. He’d lost his shirt in a fight over a dead boy. It had been ripped anyway.

The boy done that. Before.

He’d make that boy behave himself.

He’d won the fight, but lost his … what was the word? He’d had it just now. Save it for later.

Shirt. Yes. His shirt.

Something glittering caught his eye. An overturned stall. It had scarves and hats and …

Souvenirs.

That was a good word. A hard word to remember. How many people knew that word?

He shouted it.

‘Souvenir! Souvenir! Souvenir!’

He came to the stall and rifled through the stuff, throwing aside rubbish and tat and souvenirs.

Tat. Tatty souvenirs.

Then he found a sleeveless vest. He held it up. It looked good. The colours pleased him. There was a pattern on it, a picture, red stripes, one way and one way.

A criss-cross.

Cross.

He saluted.

‘Lord Nelson, sir,’ he said, the words clear in his head, but coming out as a slurred grunt.

It was a flag.

The cross of his country.

He pulled it over his head. Yes. He was the king now. The king of London, the king of the world. And he was going to get strong and take his revenge on those boys. Those clever-clever school kids who thought they could beat him.

Him! Lord Nelson. Lord London. King of souvenirs.

And worse. They done bad. They took his Liam from him. Yes. They killed him. He’d been looking after Liam and they killed him.

They couldn’t do that to him. He was a hero. He was Charlie George. Saint Charlie. Saint George, the pigeon slayer. Not a pigeon, a dragon. Yes. St George. And he was going to kill every dragon in the world.

But first he was going to go home and see his boy. And he was going to take his boy to the football. To the big church, what were they called? Catherine wheel? No. Catholic. Cathedral. Yes. His own cathedral. The stadium. The theatre of dreams.

Home.

The Arsenal.

One Year Later

Ed was standing on the battlements with Kyle, looking at the Thames as it flowed sluggishly past. It had rained the night before and everything glistened with wet. Now, though, a patch of blue appeared in the sky, the sun broke through the clouds and everywhere was lit up gold and silver.

He turned his scarred face towards Kyle and smiled.

‘The sun actually feels warm,’ he said.

Kyle gri

‘You’re right, skipper,’ he said. ‘Soon be summer.’

‘Slow down a bit,’ said Ed. ‘We haven’t had spring yet.’

‘I never did work out which way round the seasons went.’ Kyle laughed. ‘Account of me dyslexia. If you asked me, I couldn’t even tell you how long we been here.’

‘Feels like forever.’

Ed thought back to when they’d first arrived. The first few weeks at the Tower had been very busy. Jordan had kicked everyone into shape, insisting that the key to survival was organization. Left to themselves the kids would have behaved like kids. They would have drifted into anarchy and squabbling. But Jordan wasn’t going to let that happen. He had a vision, and he had drive. He was going to make sure they survived.

He’d started by organizing a military system. Guards and soldiers and scavenging parties. The White Tower was full of weapons and armour, and the buildings were well protected. Ed was made captain of the Tower Guard, in charge of defending the castle. He was a strong solid figure who everyone trusted. Knowing that he was watching out for them made the younger kids feel safe and secure. Kyle acted as a sort of personal bodyguard. Ed could do nothing to shake the big square-headed boy off; wherever he went, Kyle was at his side.

When spring arrived, the moat had been dug over and planted with seeds. The kids had been inspired by old photographs they’d found showing the moat during wartime when it had been turned into a giant vegetable garden.

Spring had turned into summer and the kids’ spirits had been lifted by the light and warmth and sense of new life. But summer had drifted into autumn and autumn into winter. Food was always short. The scavenging parties had to search buildings further and further away to find stuff to eat. Twice they’d struck lucky and found warehouses stacked with provisions, but despite rationing even that had soon started to run low.

The worst part was the lack of fresh food. The vegetable gardens hadn’t been very productive. The kids had a lot to learn and in the winter the Thames had risen and flooded the moat, so they’d lost all their crops. They raided health food shops and chemists for supplements, vitamins and minerals, but they were no substitute for real fruit and vegetables. Lots of the kids had got sick; with their poor diet and no proper doctors there was nothing they could do about it. Too many had died.

With the winter had come the cold and the dark, and attacks on the scavenging parties from sickos had become more frequent. They’d been just as desperate and hungry as the kids. It had snowed in January, and while some of the kids enjoyed playing in it, the relentless freezing dampness made everyone miserable. At night they’d huddled together in big piles like hibernating insects. The death rate rose. The kids were kept busy carting bodies away to be dropped into the icy Thames.

To Ed it had seemed like the winter was never going to end, so now feeling the sun on his back filled him with fresh hope. A year. They’d survived for a whole year. Hard to believe. And now it was possible, just possible, that they were going to make it. The world wasn’t going to end.

Ed had been so busy, so tired at night, so distracted by everything that needed to be done that his birthday had come and gone without him even noticing. He’d realized with a shock one day that he must be fifteen. He’d kept himself to himself for a few days but had shown no symptoms apart from a mild cough, and as all the kids had constant sore throats, coughs and colds he didn’t worry too much about that.

He smiled. In a couple of weeks he would be sixteen. It looked like Justin had been right. Whatever the sickos had got, the kids weren’t going to get it as well.

‘We’re alive,’ he said, and Kyle looked confused.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean we’re alive, Kylo. Against all the odds we’re standing here, breathing.’ He slapped the top of the wall and gave a great whoop of joy. Kyle shook his head and looked at him like he was nuts. Kyle didn’t ever really think too deeply about anything.

There was a shout and DogNut appeared. He’d shown his strength and reliability in the last year and was well respected by the other kids. Jordan had made him captain of the Pathfinders, the name he’d given to the scavengers.

‘See that!’ he said cheerily, turning his face to the sky. ‘Sun’s out at last!’

Ed smiled at him. ‘Better get some of your guys to find us some sunblock,’ he said.

DogNut laughed and settled next to him, arms over the wall. ‘Feels good.’

‘I was just thinking back to when we first arrived,’ said Ed.