fights, torn hair, bloodied knives, things set on fire, bodies in the street casually stepped over by wild-eyed looters pushing overladen shopping trolleys, and woefully few police, who watched, powerless to stop any of it. A madness had descended upon everyone, particularly here in London, as people desperately scrambled to grab what could be taken, and were prepared to kill in order to keep hold of it. Jenny remembered the news stories of the Katrina survivors in New Orleans; those stories paled against what she and her children had seen.
She stepped inside, holding her breath as she did so.
Standing still, she let her eyes adjust to the dim interior. Like every other shop it looked like a whirlwind had torn through. The floor was a mash of spoiled goods, newspapers, magazines and paperback novels; shelves dangled precariously off the walls and a row of fridge doors stood open, the contents long since emptied.
A plastic CD case cracked noisily beneath her shoe as she slowly moved deeper into the store, her eyes working hard across the carpet of trampled and soiled stock, searching for an overlooked bottle of water, a can of Coke. Something.
‘You okay, Mum?’ called Leona.
‘I’m all right!’ she replied, hating the feathery sound of growing fear in her voice.
The sooner they cleared London the better. After that . . . Jenny didn’t have a clue. All she knew was that this city was death now. There were too many people tucked away in the dim corners of every street, cowering in dark homes, ready to use a knife or a smashed glass bottle or a gun to take what they wanted, or keep what they had. She really had no idea what they’d do once their feet hit a B-road flanked by open fields. She entertained a fanciful notion of living off the land, Jacob trapping rabbits and cooking them over a campfire; all thick jumpers and outdoors rude health. Almost idyllic, just like that old BBC show, The Survivors. If only Andy was with them . . .
Not now, Jenny, not now.
Her husband - their father - was gone. Dead in the city.
Crying comes later when we’re clear of this place. All right?
She thought she saw the glint of a soda can on the floor - dented, but quite possibly still full of something sickly sweet and bubbly. She was bending down to pick it up when she heard a noise. A plastic clack followed by a slosh of liquid. An instantly recognisable sound; that of a plastic two-litre bottle of some drink being casually up-ended and swigged from.
‘All right?’ A boy’s voice, a teenager perhaps; the cadence wavering uncertainly between choirboy and manhood.
Her eyes darted to where the voice had come from. Adjusted to the dark now, she picked out a row of four . . . maybe five of them, sitting on crates, buckets, boxes. She could see the pale outline of sporty stripes and swooshes, trainers and caps, and the soft amber glow of several cigarette tips.
‘Uh . . . fine . . . thanks,’ she replied.
‘You after somethin’?’ Another voice, a little slurred this one.
‘I . . . I was looking for something to drink,’ she replied, taking one small step backwards. ‘But forget it, you can have this shop. I’ll try another.’
Keep your voice calm.
‘Don’ matter,’ said the first voice, ‘we got loads. Wanna share?’
She heard a snigger. Several cigarette tips pulsed and bobbed in the dark. She recognised the smell - a familiar odour from long ago, from college days, the same smell she picked up occasionally off the dirty laundry Leona brought back from university. Dope.
They’re just kids, she told herself. Just boys. Boys who could be scolded and cowed if one picked just the right tone of voice.
‘So where are your parents?’ she asked.
Another snigger.
‘Who cares?’ replied one of them.
‘Fuckin’ dead for all I know,’ said another.
Jenny took another step backwards, hoping it was too dim for them to see her attempt to put further distance between them.
‘You should get out of the city, you know,’ she said, trying hard to sound like a voice of authority. ‘Seriously. You’ll starve when there’s nothing left to pick up in the shops.’
‘Thanks, but we’re all right, love.’
She saw the pale outline of a baseball cap move, the scraping of a foot and the tinkle of broken glass. One of them getting up.
‘Hey, why don’t you give me a blow job? An’ I’ll give you a fag.’