The Enemy (8 page)

“Thank you,” he said.

“So, for al your clever talk, you don’t know what caused it, then?” Whitney asked. “The sickness.”

Patchwork shook his head. “No one knows. How could we? We’re just kids. Adults used to tel us things, in newspapers, on TV, at school. But now there’s no adults left to tel us anything. And you can look at that as a good thing or a bad thing.”

“It’s a disaster,” said Maxie.

“Is it? This is our world now.”

“It’s a crap world,” said Cal um, and a few of the kids laughed.

“Not where I’ve come from,” said Patchwork.

“So where have you come from?” said Ol ie.

“Buckingham Palace.”

There was a snort of laughter fol owed by a chorus of jeering and mocking from the assembled kids. Patchwork just smiled.

“It’s true,” he said. “Why not? The Queen’s dead, al the people that looked after her, al the guards in their bearskin hats, the police, the tourists . . .

No more adults tel ing us what to do. There’s just us kids. And we can do what we like.”

Y
ou realy trying to tel us you live in Buckingham Palace?” said Whitney, her deep brown eyes softening into a smile.

“Yeah. It’s cool. It’s got a lake and a garden with a big wal around it with spikes on the top. It’s safe. We grow food in the garden, we drink water from the lake, we sleep in the Queen’s beds. Nobody can get in and there’s enough of us to keep the place secure. We got our own guards now. We’re making a fresh start.”

“So what are you doing here, then?” said Ol ie.

“We figured there must be other kids like us out there,” said Patchwork. “Kids who survived. And the more of us we can get together, the better it’l be.

It’l be safer. We can grow more food and work together to gradual y rebuild the city. We can start to make London new again. Next to the palace is St.

James’s Park; there’s enough space there to plant fields, if we’ve only got enough people. So I was sent to find other kids, tel them about what we’re doing, and bring them back.”

“Yeah, wel , we’ve got news for you,” said Cal um. “We ain’t going. Why would we ever leave this place? We don’t need your Buckingham Palace, thank you very much. We got Waitrose.”

“Shut up, Cal um,” said Achil eus. “Let’s listen to the man.”

“You’ve come al the way across town by yourself?” said Ol ie, not convinced.

Patchwork’s face clouded over.

“There was five of us to start with,” he said. “We thought al of London would be like where we come from—organized. We didn’t realize how dangerous it was out here. How many Strangers there are.”

“Why?” said El a. “What’s it like where you come from?”

“I told you. It’s safe. Most of the Strangers have disappeared from the center of town. We kil ed loads of them early on. Those that are left keep out of our way. They’re beaten. But it was mad getting here. We had to come through the badlands. They picked us off one by one. I lost Alfie just today. He was the last one. There’s only me left.”

He swal owed hard. It was obvious he was trying not to cry. Nobody spoke for a while. In the end Ol ie broke the silence. He squatted down and spoke gently to Patchwork.

“How many other kids have you found on the way?” he said. “How many have you sent back?”

Patchwork sniffed. “None. You’re the first. The original plan was to keep going around London recruiting al the kids that were left. But it’s too dangerous for that.” He smiled and looked up at Ol ie. “You lot, though, you could real y make a difference. Together we could get back easy. You know how to look after yourselves. You’re good fighters. The best I’ve ever seen. I can take you there. I can take you to safety.”

“Let me ask you a question,” said Arran, his voice sounding hoarse and croaky. Everyone turned to him; it was the first thing he’d said since the meeting began.

“What?”

“Why should we go into the center of town? Why shouldn’t we just leave London? Go to the countryside? Surely we’ve got a better chance of surviving out there. That’s where al the grown-ups were trying to get to when they started dying.”

“Exactly,” said Patchwork. “And I reckon that’s where they al went. The center of London is empty, there’s none of them around, but the further out we got, the more of them we found. I reckon if you tried to get out of town you’d just come across more and more of them. It’s miles before you hit any proper countryside, but into town from here, how far is it? Five or six miles at the most. You could walk it in two hours if you didn’t have to fight any Strangers. Who knows what you’d find out there if you did manage to leave London. But in the center, where I’ve come from, I can tel you what it’s like—it’s safe.”

“How do we know you’re not lying?” said Ol ie.

“What would I gain by that?”

“Dunno. Don’t real y know anything about you.”

“Yeah,” said Blue. “What’s your name?”

“Some people cal me Jester, some cal me Magic Man. . . .”

“Some cal him jerk,” said Achil eus, and there was a fresh round of laughter.

Jester nodded. “Yeah, some might cal me that. I’ve been cal ed worse. You can laugh at me if you want, or you can listen.”

“We’d need proof before we left this place and went marching off across London,” said Ol ie.

“I’ve got proof.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got pictures.”

“What sort of pictures?”

“From an old Polaroid camera. Photographs.”

“Show us.”

Jester took his satchel off his shoulder and opened it. He rummaged around, then produced a cardboard folder. From inside it he took out a handful of square, glossy photos. He passed them to Ol ie, who flicked through them, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He brought them over to Arran, who had to lean forward into the light to see them properly.

They weren’t faked. You couldn’t fake a Polaroid. It wasn’t like the old days when you could use a computer to do anything you liked. There was no Photoshop anymore, not without electricity to power the computers. Photoshop was just one more thing that had seemed real y important at the time, but now was completely irrelevant. Useless.

These pictures were the real thing. They showed Buckingham Palace and a group of happy, healthy-looking kids— posing at the front in the parade ground, inside eating lunch around a big grand table, working in the gardens, swimming in the lake, playing soccer. It looked like an impossible paradise.

A glimpse into another world.

Arran felt a lump in his throat. His hands were shaking. He gave the photos back to Ol ie, who gave them in turn to Blue. Soon they were being passed from one excited kid to another, al grinning and shaking their heads and starting up a happy murmur of approval. The only one of them who scoffed was Cal um. He looked at the pictures in disgust and sneered at the people in them.

Arran’s eyes were misting up. What he had been shown was Unimaginable. It was hope. If what this guy was saying was true, then maybe things would be different in the future. Maybe he and Maxie would have a chance. Earlier it had seemed that there was no way out, that they would al slowly die here in this miserable empty supermarket. Picked off one by one, kil ed by disease, grown-ups or dogs, or each other.

Was there real y a way out?

He barely listened as Ol ie questioned Jester further, getting more details.

He was remembering what life had been like before. In his parents’ big house in Dartmouth Park. Playing on the Heath with his mates. Going into Camden to walk around the market. Hanging out on the streets, chatting. Eating Sunday lunch with his mom and dad.

His mom and dad ...

He couldn’t picture exactly what his dad had looked like. He had been a busy man and was hardly ever at home. But Mom ...

He could never forget her face.

It was the face he had seen at the pool.

His mother.

No.

It wasn’t true. He’d imagined it. No way that—thing— could have been his mother. It was a trick of the light.

He realized there were tears streaming down his face. He was glad that nobody could see him. He had turned into a little kid again and just wanted his mom to wrap her arms around him. Speak softly to him. Sing him to sleep.

The thing at the pool, though, if it had been his mother, had tried to kil him.

“Mwuh ...”

He wiped his face, dried the tears. If his eyes looked red, they would assume it was because of his wound.

“We’re going,” he said firmly, and everyone looked at him. “I don’t care if Jester is making it up. I don’t care if there’s nothing at the other end. We can’t stay here any longer. In the morning we pack up everything and we go.”

“Wait a minute,” said Maeve. She wasn’t like the other kids. She wasn’t a Londoner. She’d been visiting friends in Camden when everything had kicked off, and had been stuck here ever since. “Shouldn’t we discuss this a bit more?”

“What’s to discuss?” said Arran.

“Wel , I just think it’s crazy,” said Maeve.

“Maybe,” said Arran. “But I’m not staying here.”

“What you said before. About going to the countryside. Surely, if we’re going anywhere, that’s what we should do. The city’s crawling with grown-ups.

The only food we can find is cans and dried packets and the half-rotten crap we find in abandoned houses. This is no kind of life.”

“I told you,” said Jester, sounding exasperated. “We’re growing food at the palace. It’s al organized. You go anywhere else, you’re going into the unknown.”

“I grew up in the country,” said Maeve. “I know it. We need to get away from the city and go where we can properly farm things and keep animals. We need space and clean air. We need to get out of London.”

“One day, maybe,” said Arran. “But we have to take it one step at a time. If Jester’s right, and it’s safe in the center, if we can make camp at the palace and get strong, then we can prepare. I don’t know—send out scouts, like Jester, only better armed—find the best route. . . .”

“Why wait?” said Maeve. “If we head into the center of London we’re going the wrong way. Can’t you see that?”

“It’s what we’re doing,” said Arran, who felt exhausted and had had enough talking for one night.

“Maeve’s got a point, though,” said Maxie. “If we link up with the Morrisons crew we’l be strong. We’d have a good chance of getting out. It might be our only chance. To properly start a new life.”

“We should vote on it,” said Maeve.

“Okay, okay,” said Arran, who just wanted to go to sleep. “But these are city kids, Maeve. Al they know is London. Some of them have never even been out of the city.”

“Wel I have,” said Maeve, “and take it from me, London’s not the center of the world. Our only chance for a decent future is to get out. I’ve been arguing for this since we set up camp here. Now’s our chance to do it properly. If we head north up the A1 and then fol ow the M1, in two or three days we’d be clear of the city.”

“Al right,” said Arran. “You’ve made your point. Al those in favor of going to the palace with Jester, put up your hands.”

Ol ie careful y counted the show of hands.

“And anyone in favor of Maeve’s plan, put your hands up.”

Arran was surprised at the number of hands going up in support of Maeve. Once again Ol ie counted. But it wasn’t enough. The vote had gone Arran’s way.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “It’s decided.” He hauled himself up out of his chair and walked over to Blue.

“What do you reckon?” he asked. “You coming with us, or do you need to take a vote as wel ?”

“We don’t need no vote. We ain’t no democracy, man. I’m in charge. End of story.”

“And?”

Blue stood up and looked Arran in the eye.

“We’re coming.”

They gripped each other’s hands. It felt good to be doing something for themselves. Then Blue turned to Jester and the light went out of his eyes.

“If you are lying to us, though,
Magic Man
, you are dead.”

S
mal Sam wasn’t dead. That thought was firmly lodged in the back of his mind. He wasn’t dead. When they’d put him in the sack he’d thought that that was it. Al over. He’d fainted, and when he’d woken up he was being jostled along on one of the grown-ups’ shoulders. The grown-up stank, but the sack smel ed worse. Of grease and rotting meat and poop. Sam didn’t like it in the sack. He couldn’t see anything. He’d wet himself.