Apocalypse Cow (29 page)

‘I don’t want him to be proud. His job always meant more to him than we did. I want the old goat to be jealous. If I get this story out, I can rub it in his face for ever.’

‘You’ll get it out.’

‘You think?’

‘Absolutely,’ Terry lied, quite convincingly he thought.

They fell silent, listening to the rain spatter against the glass, until Terry’s eyes began to droop, the lack of sleep catching up with him.

‘Sorry about your cousin, and the boys,’ Lesley said.

‘So am I.’

Even though David had been the architect of his own and the twins’ death by first kidnapping them, thus preventing them from leaving earlier, and then by going to the window so foolishly, Terry could not forget he was the one who had brought Brown to the house. That was something he was
going
to have to live with for the rest of his life, but at the moment the feelings were too raw, and their situation too precarious, to bear close examination.

He got to his feet sharply and held out his hand. ‘Come on, you, we’d better go.’

Lesley let him pull her up. She slipped on a pair of trainers and walked across the concourse at Terry’s side. He was all too aware how close their bodies were. Back in the newsagents, they ate a lunch of Mars bars, Double Deckers and Dairy Milks, washed down with fizzy drinks. Geldof and James slipped away, each returning with a fresh set of clothes. The dull afternoon light slowly faded and occasionally they heard the growl of an engine.

When the light was almost completely gone, James handed out rucksacks he had purloined from the left luggage room. ‘Fill them with what you can. It may not be real food, but it’s all we’ve got.’

They crammed the bags with confectionery, crisps, juice and water. Lesley threw boxes of Regal King Size into her backpack.

‘Let’s try not to use the torches either. It’ll draw attention to us,’ James said. ‘Just stay close behind me and watch my signs. We’ll make it.’

James took the crowbar, then handed a pool cue each to Terry and Lesley. Geldof got a wrench.

‘Don’t I get a weapon?’ Mary asked.

Terry looked at her. She still appeared stunned, but her eyes were clear. ‘Do you want one?’

‘If I meet this Brown person, I want to beat him to death. He killed my boys.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Terry responded.

He unscrewed his pool cue into two pieces and handed one to Mary. She thumped it against her open palm in a very unschoolteacherly manner.

They snaked out into the concourse, James the head and Terry the tail, and crept over to a side exit, which was barely visible in the near darkness. James listened for a while, and then smashed the lower pane of glass. He listened again. The city was silent. James cleared away the last shards of broken glass and led them out onto the street, where a lone delivery van sat.

‘Why don’t we take that?’ Terry asked.

‘We can’t risk driving through the city,’ James said. ‘It’s too loud. We can get transport at the other end.’

James led them down the hill and, after a quick check, across the road into an alleyway. Terry guessed the lack of traffic snarls was down to most people abandoning the city centre at an early stage, before panic really set in. It was even darker in the alleyway, the high buildings blotting out all but a tiny strip of sky, which was now clear and leaking starlight onto the world below. At the end of the alley, they scuttled across the road and crossed into George Street.

At the front of the Museum of Modern Art, James stopped abruptly. Light flickered on the walls and columns of the museum. The stink of charred flesh reached Terry’s nostrils again. James led them away from the source of light, staying deep in the shadows. Terry glanced behind him as they rounded the museum to cross the plaza towards Buchanan Street, and saw another bonfire, this one smaller and brighter, across from the statue of the Duke of Wellington astride his horse. Terry was one of many Glaswegians who, pissed up at three in the morning, had climbed atop the statue to perch a
traffic
cone on the Duke’s head. The memory of happier times made him want to crumple to the pavement.

On they crept, ducking from cover to cover, passing another smouldering pile of melded animal and human flesh. The windows of many of the stores they passed were smashed, displays devoid of products. So far they had seen neither soldier nor beast. That luck could not hold.

They were about a hundred metres from Central Station when James brought them to a halt outside the Horseshoe Bar, one of Terry’s old haunts. Hope springs eternal, and Terry thought they were stopping for a break, and possibly a sneaky looted beer. It had been weeks since alcohol had passed his lips. Then he heard voices, followed by a sharp burst of laughter. James motioned for Terry to join. At the junction right on the corner of the station, a trio of soldiers sat in armchairs, likely hauled from a nearby furniture store, smoking around a campfire next to their parked vehicle.

‘What do we do?’ Terry whispered.

‘We wait.’

They hunkered down. As the minutes wore on and the cold seeped further into Terry’s bones, it seemed unlikely the soldiers were going anywhere.

‘Where are all the looters when you need them?’ he asked.

As if in answer to Terry’s question, a radio crackled. They heard a short exchange, and then the engine leapt into life.

‘Back!’ James said urgently.

They jammed themselves into a doorway as the jeep shot past, its headlights illuminating a spray of bullet holes on the opposite wall. The engine noise receded into the distance.

‘We need to move,’ James said.

They broke cover and ran into the road. Outside the station
sat
three taxis, all locked up. James broke the window of the first one and opened the doors. He rummaged in a tool kit he found under the passenger seat and, as he attacked the steering column with a screwdriver, Mary and Geldof piled into the back seat.

‘Get the gates open,’ James hissed at Terry and Lesley.

They ran over to the massive wrought-iron gates at the station entrance and found the padlock had already been broken, probably by looters keen to access the larger selection of shops in the station. The taxi burst into life. Terry winced, expecting an army vehicle to come careering round the corner. James pulled up alongside them, but Terry waved him forward so he could close the gates behind them and cover their tracks. Then he and Lesley jumped in.

The wheels squealed as the cab motored towards the railway tracks, passing the clock under which Terry, and just about every other teenager in Glasgow, used to meet his dates before heading out on the town. At the platform, James turned on the headlights, searching for a ramp leading onto the tracks. There was none.

‘We’re going to have to jump it,’ James said.

He backed up, put the taxi into first then hit the accelerator.

‘Can we not get out fir— Ooohhhhhhhhh shiiiiiitttte!’ Lesley cried as the taxi hurtled into thin air. It hit the tracks with a crunching impact. The occupants of the back seat were thrown up, to land in a tangle of limbs on the floor.

James didn’t slow down. ‘Sorry about that. I didn’t want to waste any time in case the patrol came back. Everyone OK?’

Terry rubbed the top of his head. ‘I think you’ve concussed my concussion. Apart from that, I’m fine.’

The others picked themselves up and settled down into the
rattling
seats, holding on to the bars to steady themselves. James steered them out of the station, his driving far faster and more assured than Terry’s had been on the other rail track, and onto the bridge spanning the River Clyde. Terry looked out over the city. The lights that normally sparkled along the riverside were extinguished. The entire city lay in darkness, save for the many glowing spots, like distant fireflies, that marked the bonfires of death burning through the night.

16

Unhappy campers

Guilt is a funny thing. It creeps up on you, taps you on the shoulder and punches you on the nose when you are finally doing something you have dreamed of for years. At least, that’s what it did to Geldof as the taxi, running with its headlights off, trundled south. Up until that point, nestled between Mary’s breasts, he had been floating in a dreamy state, interrupted only by the dash through the city centre. His few coherent thoughts had focused on how he was going to develop the situation and get a naked nipple stroked across his forehead or across his lips.

These thoughts, and the vibration of the taxi, helped maintain the erection that had sprung up like the centrepiece of a pop-up book the moment his face made contact with Mary’s chest. Lying in the warm darkness in the back of the cab, with Lesley and Terry nodding off beside him, Geldof turned his body and pressed his crotch into Mary’s thigh. She didn’t seem to notice, either too buried in her grief or thinking the rubbing of his groin against her leg was simply a function of
the
horrendous bouncing they were all experiencing from the rail tracks. He was just getting to the tickly bit when something wet landed on his forehead, trickled down his nose and into his mouth. It was salty. Another fat tear hit his cheek. Then he realized Mary was calling out the names of her boys, low and repeatedly. His penis wilted and he moved his groin away from the grieving mother.

He tried to wriggle free of Mary’s suddenly cloying embrace. The touch of her skin brought a different kind of heat, this one shameful. But Mary was not to be denied. She maintained a firm grip on his neck, whimpering every time he managed to gain some distance. Eventually he gave up, returning his face to its perch. Before too long another tear dripped from her chin. He reached up a hand, passed her breasts without pausing, and wiped her wet cheeks with his thumb.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She sighed. ‘It’s not your fault, Tony.’

Geldof pushed himself up until their faces were level. Her eyes were dark pools of shadow, but he could sense her looking at him. He put his arm around her and pulled her head down onto his shoulder. Soon her breathing changed, from the shallow hiccups of grief to a smoother, deeper rhythm. In the darkness, with only the top of her head visible, she could have been Fanny. Geldof stroked her hair.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t get on any more, Mum. I know you did your best,’ he whispered.

He kept stroking even after Mary was fast asleep.

When Geldof awoke, his bladder full, a faint grey light was seeping into the cab, which was parked in the middle of the tracks underneath a road bridge. A chorus of snores came
from
all around. Geldof gently lifted Mary’s head off his shoulder and let her slide down the seat behind him. All seemed still, so he opened the door as quietly as possible and stepped down. He skipped along the sleepers, looking for somewhere to pee out of sight of the taxi. It was a relief to get out into the fresh air, which helped shake off the traces of the nausea that had built in him during the bumpy journey.

He ducked behind a graffiti-covered concrete pillar and let loose, stretching out his back and looking down at his wrists. The scabby crust was beginning to fade, even though it had been less than twenty-four hours since he swapped his hemp-tainted organic cotton T-shirt and trousers for a pair of denims, leather shoes and a thick jumper in the station. The itching was backing off too, and the relief was indescribable.

Yet the physical changes were secondary to what was going on inside. His feelings for Mary were confused: shame for letting his libido lead him to take advantage of her grief and continued lust vying for supremacy. Equally, his victory over the twins was tainted by their death. Yet the years of torment he had suffered at their hands ensured that the memory of his fists and feet thudding into their bodies sparked a savage thrill.

When it came to Fanny, his feelings were even more muddled. He should be grieving her loss, but it felt as if he had gained a mother, someone he could love without her personality getting in the way. As the itch faded, so did his hatred, leaving sadness that he couldn’t tell Fanny how he felt. He knew it would take months, maybe even years, to assimilate the thoughts and feelings swirling around inside his mind. Yet the confusion was exhilarating. He felt he was standing on the cusp of manhood, ready to stride forward and
take
his place in the adult world. Where he would hopefully get a shag at long last.

Once he had shaken off, Geldof took a look around. The occupants of the taxi were still comatose, and there didn’t seem to be any animals in the vicinity. He walked out from under the bridge into an area flanked by loose shrubbery rising above head height. Glancing up, he could just about see the roofs of abandoned cars lined up along the bridge. A lone pigeon flapped down and landed on the railing. Something rustled in the bushes, and Geldof turned, expecting to see another bird.

The rustling came again, too loud to be made by a small creature. Geldof was grateful he had just been to the toilet. He kept his gaze on the section of the shrubbery that was now shaking and backed away. It was maybe two hundred metres back to the taxi: no problem for an Olympic sprinting demi-god like Usain Bolt but a bit of a challenge for a fifteen-year-old with spindly legs who normally only sprinted with the aid of the shift button on his computer.

A long, angry moo emanated from the bush. Geldof squawked and turned to run, his legs and arms flapping spasmodically. His foot snagged on the tracks, ending his flight before it had begun. Behind him, something stepped onto the railway line. Geldof scrambled to his feet for a second stab at the 200-metre cowardly dash. Something grabbed his hand and arrested his progress in mid-step.