Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

I know that I could leave the television on and in the first couple of weeks that’s exactly what I did. I left it playing all day, even when I wasn’t in. I would come home to broadcasts of only bad news. The presenters were too familiar to me, their scripts of doom created by my hand several hours earlier. I had written so many reports on countries that had stopped functioning, world leaders who had been confirmed dead and the impact all of this has had on our crumbling society and ruined world economy. The favourite kind of story with our viewers was usually about dead celebrities found in the streets; their bodies mangled and their faces just about recognisable. The faces might have been familiar but the wounds and accompanying stories were normally hideous, although often made up, but I think that maybe this helped others to connect more strongly with what was happening around the world.

Even those stories dried up, as there were fewer people around to spot the odd famous person who had been seen recently mutilated, and levels of global communication dropped off when the internet was restricted to government use only. So, as the news got worse the updates from around the world got less, and the number of channels still broadcasting was reduced each day. Now it’s only the good old BBC left. Some say this is the government taking control but anyone with half a brain knows they have bigger things to worry about.

I give my television a triumphant nod and then look down at the three pictures I am still clutching in my hand. I look at my parents and I decide that this is the weekend I will go home. Apparently, two-thirds of Londoners have remained in the capital, seemingly to keep things going, but for many people it is their one and only home, so they cannot leave, even if they wanted to. The fact is that refugees stuck in the middle of a crisis in a civilised society don’t fare well, because people are too concerned with protecting what they have to open a door to strangers. But for people like me, who call this place home but also have an alternative, it’s something that has been weighing heavily on my mind. Perhaps the countryside will be safer, as my dad constantly insists, or perhaps it’s just more appropriate for me to leave this life, which I will never manage to protect, to be with those who matter most. I flick to the second photo, which is of my girlfriends, all of whom have stayed in London. Defiant until the end, that’s what we agreed.

It’s the third photo that makes me wonder, makes me yearn. I hold up the picture; it’s of a man I have never met, a world I’ve never known. He’s just a man from a magazine, someone I’ll never meet yet he has still earned his place in my small collection. He’s the unknown someone, just like one of the many I see every day and wish could be single and mine to hold. My one regret is still being alone at the age of 30. Despite living in a city of millions, I still spend every night on my own; even the impending collapse of the last pillar of the western world hasn’t led to me having any nice, young and talented men in my cold bed.

I tuck him away, into my small purse, where I keep pictures of my family and friends, as well as a scattering of other small treasures and a wedge of notes that make up all that is left of my limited wealth. I start to wish I had kept more money hidden in the flat; I should have seen the restriction on cash withdrawals coming from a mile away. It’s funny that the things you tell people and the things you do don’t always end up being the same. I was too busy writing news stories about how money will soon lose all its value that I forgot to count up what I had and hide it somewhere safe, just in case I survived and just in case I was wrong.

The sudden noise of a siren in the distance jolts me back to life, back to my small world of big worries. I look out the window to see smoke rising up in the sky, joining the grey clouds and casting a shadow over the view I once loved. Whatever is happening now is new and different and, in my tortured mind, it becomes something entirely more sinister. It looks to be a few miles away, but it’s not like I could ever know for sure.

I grab my day-pack and my coat and head for the door. I look in the mirror, still evaluating and offering myself some everyday criticism. My skin looks tired, my makeup application half-arsed at best. I ruffle my hair, pulling my fringe over as much of my pasty skin as possible. I manage to find some praise for myself – my choice of skinny jeans and a tight jumper seem appropriate for the dangers of today, in being entirely unattractive, although they do add a post-war drama feel to my attire.

I take one final look throughout my apartment and wonder if I will see it again. Everything here is a symbol of my progress towards the life I desperately wanted – the yellow cushions that match the sunny weather, the pictures covering nearly every wall, all deliberately chosen from the year I spent travelling the world.

I look around at all the things I could never fit into a suitcase, let alone my small survival pack. This isn’t supposed to be happening because this is supposed to be my happy home – my place of sanctuary where I await my man. He would come in and smile at the ready-made woman for him. He would have his own place, too. The weekends would be ours to fill as we pleased, but the odd evening he slept here would mean the most. He would choose to add interruptions to his weekly routine; he would give up a gym session, post-work drinks or a meal with his dearest friends to spend his time with me. It would be our time and it would be the midweek boost I would need. And in the morning, when he clasped a silver watch around his wrist, getting up early to make into the city in time, I would start my countdown to when he would next wrap me in his solid arms.

‘Get a grip,’ I say, out loud to no one but myself. I’m still shaking my head at my own desperation when I finally find the courage to open my front door. I’m still looking into my flat, into the world I so desperately want but that’s now being taken away from me, day by day. I take out my phone and get a picture, taking a snapshot of this place exactly how I left it. I do this every time I leave and I look at the photo several times a day, each time reminding myself of what I have to come back to. I also take this daily photo so that when I get home I can check the exact detail of the image against what is in front of me, looking for any signs of a disturbance. Mass looting might not be taking place, but burglaries are up 500%, as I reported in my editorial feature last week.

I drop my phone deep into my coat pocket – out of sight but close to my heart. Don’t leave anything in your backpack: that’s the current advice from the Metropolitan Police. I pull my backpack around to my front, hunting for my keys, openly laughing that this advice doesn’t quite cut it for this urban, end-of-the-world city girl.

Just as I find them, I feel something grip my arm. The hold is tight and I can feel another hand making its way around to the other side of me. I scream and pull myself away, frantically shouting until I trip over and fall down. I’m still yelling as I hit the floor and turn over, hoping to somehow use my feet to push the door shut. I’m already seeing visions in my head of some crazed man scratching his way through the gap, trying to slice me up.

No sooner do I get my mind sorted do I then realise that it’s Carla, my one remaining neighbour.

‘Emma!’ she shouts, her hands held out. ‘It’s me, it’s just me!’

I lie still for a second and my heart continues to beat in triple-time. I look up and I let her stare down at me, wanting her to realise how close she caused me to come to a heart attack. ‘Carla, what the hell was that?’