Alex Scarrow - City of Shadows

‘That’s what me mother used to say about me.’

She looked back at the magnified screen. ‘We have The Revolutionary Century: A History of Socialist Britain. That’s a bit heavy-going, I think. How about Two Worlds: The Free Man and the Profit Slave? That’s quite a good read.’ She looked up at him. ‘And it’s got lots of pictures too.’

‘Aye, that one sounds good.’

She tapped a key. ‘There, requested it.’ He noticed her sneak a furtive glance up at him, then her eyes darted awkwardly back to the lens screen. ‘Now, umm… let me see… what other works can I recommend for you?’

‘Good to see a library so well used,’ said Liam, looking back at the rows of eager readers, the gentle whispering rustle of pages being turned.

‘It’s the news-sheets,’ she replied. ‘Everyone wants to know the latest on what’s happening.’ The teasing smile at the edge of her lips dropped for a moment. Very suddenly she looked drawn and worried. ‘It’s all so terrifying, though, isn’t it?’

‘Terrifying?’

‘The blockade! The Americans shipping in all those atomics for their French friends?’ She pressed her lips together. ‘You can’t help wondering how this is going to end up, can you?’

Liam decided to play along. ‘Aye, it’s pretty bad, there’s no doubting that.’

‘My mum says,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘my mum says if the French get those missile bits and pieces and decide to put them together, it could end up leading to an atomic war.’

‘War?’

She nodded. ‘ Atomic.’ She mouthed the word as if it was a curse not to be spoken out loud. As if merely saying the word would open the gates of Hell for Satan and his hordes to pour through.

‘It’s so frightening. Mum says we could all end up dying if that happened.’

Liam shrugged that off. ‘Ah, now I’m sure something like that won’t happen. What’s in it for the big fellas at the top if they let something daft like that happen? Hmmm?’

She fiddled absently with the index folder in front of her. ‘No, I suppose not. I suppose it all looks more frightening than it really is. It’ll all turn out all right in the end, won’t it?’

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘Always does. Everyone sees sense in the end.’ He smiled. ‘They always do.’

She raised that teasing, flickering smile again, and continued browsing through catalogue pages on the lens screen. ‘Anyway… so do you, uh… you live in London? Only you sound Irish or is it Scottish?’

‘Irish.’

‘I see. Are you, uh… visiting? Or do you live in London, or something?’

‘Just visiting.’

‘Uh-huh.’ That sounded to him more like a disappointed ‘ oh ’.

She tapped the keyboard in silence for a moment, the soft blue glow on her face flickering with screen refreshes. Finally she looked up, her lips playing with words silently for a moment before picking one or two to start with. ‘I… I… don’t normally…’ Her face flushed pink.

‘Don’t normally? What?’

‘I wonder…’ she continued, her eyes firmly locked on the lens screen, far too embarrassed to look up at him and meet his eyes. ‘Whether you’d care to… care to have some tea and brancakes?’

‘Tea and…?’

‘Brancakes. Lunchtime? With me?’ She dared a glance up at him. ‘I have a lunchbreak coming soon, at one. I eat it outside by the fountain.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Sometimes I feed the pigeons with my cakes if they’re too dry, though.’

‘I…’ Liam was pretty sure his cheeks looked as red as hers did now. ‘I… well, uh… I’m awfully sorry, I have to run along. I’m only passing.’

‘Oh! I’m… s-sorry. No, don’t worry!’ she cut in too quickly. ‘Just a thought. Just an idea. I’ll… just…’ Her fingers knotted together uncomfortably. ‘I’ll just go and check on your book. See if someone’s retrieving it for you.’

She turned and hurried away from the counter through swing doors and out of sight.

Maddy managed to pick up half a dozen discarded newspapers and shove them under her arm. She was beginning to think she looked like some mad bag lady — like that old vagrant in Times Square with his tarpaulin-covered shopping trolley and all that bin-rummaging.

The people in Piccadilly Circus seemed far too preoccupied to care about her, though.

Watching the comings and goings, the exhaust-spewing bubble cars, the hundreds of people on bicycles, some of them so overburdened with things she wondered how they didn’t topple over. She was reminded of images of Beijing, of Mumbai, of Havana. There was an exciting, almost frenzied, whirlwind of chaotic activity going on all around her. But like those places, looking closely, she’d begun to note a threadbare quality to everything: a stiff-lipped impoverishment hidden away behind broad smiles and exuberant ‘how-do-you-do’s. A make-and-mend place of limited resources.

The cars all looked old, patched up, held together in places with tape, ribbon and rope. So many items of clothing seemed to sport discreetly sewn patches. At first she’d thought it might be some sort of fashion thing — a particular passion for elbow patches. But she noted thread giving way on shoulder seams, trousers worn tissue-thin at the knees, shoe leather worn to a rough suede.

They’re really struggling. Britain’s poor.

She was about to grab another discarded newspaper left on a bench near the fountain surrounding Eros, when a church bell — at least that’s what it sounded like — gave an ominous single claaaang. She looked up towards where it seemed to have come from and saw that the large television screen had a logo slowly crawling across its black and white pixel blocks. Maddy recognized it as the clock face of Big Ben. And beneath it: SRBBC 1 — LUNCHTIME NEWS.

She noticed how many people in the bustling space turned to look. The trams continued, of course, the bubble cars rattled on, but the bicycles pulled over, the pedestrians stopped and turned. All those who could stop seemed so very keen to view the screen and listen to the news.

A newscaster appeared in blocky black and white pixelvision: smart, formal, a bow tie and a dark jacket. Silver-haired and with a reassuring fatherly smile, he looked like Dumbledore after a wet shave and a sensible haircut in smart gentleman’s-club evening wear.

‘ Good day, citizens. This is your News at One.’ A pause. A very long pause.

Looking around, Maddy noticed how many of the upturned faces around her seemed to wear a frozen expression of anticipation.

No… more than that. Dread.

‘ The ultimatum presented by Secretary Andrei Bechemov of the Soviet Republic, and Secretary Andrew Benn of the Socialist Republic of Britain, has expired without any official response from President Jonathan Elroy Bush. The convoy of American warships crossing the Atlantic carrying the atomic materials to France appears to be proceeding undaunted. It is thought that the convoy will cross the 20 degree west longitude — otherwise known as the Bechemov Ultimatum Line — at some point late tomorrow afternoon. Discussions are continuing among the other gathered heads of state in Berlin as to the official response to the crossing, should it happen. There have been increased calls for a naval interception. Soviet warships despatched over a week ago across the Arctic Sea and around the top of the Atlantic and into the American-enforced “Trade Embargo Noose” will be in a position to meet the convoy should it make any attempt to cross the line.’

The newscaster took a breath.

‘ Secretary Benn reiterated that the proliferation of atomic weapons, specifically President Bush’s insistence on deploying a forward atomic weapons base on French soil, was a flagrant attempt to provoke hostilities. French leader, President Durant, responded that France was at one with American foreign policy in wanting to preserve a robust frontline against socialist encroachment.’