Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse (14 page)

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘Okay, we’ll go up. Everyone else stays exactly like this. No-one gets their knickers in a twist.’

‘Agreed.’

Liam followed Onesie up the stairs. He had considered asking whether she should find a House key, but soon saw that all the rooms were open, as if they had been checked. He told Onesie the room number and she took him straight there - clearly she was a member of staff.

‘Here it is.’

Liam stepped inside. Unless his sister was in the bathroom, she was not there. He didn’t recognise the luggage on the bed, but the general tip of clothes and toiletries made him feel like he was in the right place, as his sister was well-known to be messy. He checked the bathroom, empty. Then he looked for something personal in the luggage. There was no passport, or any item of clothing he recognised to be his sister’s. Just as despair started to tug at him, he spotted a letter. Adrenalin made him scan through it, realising it was to do with her job interview. That was it! He showed the letter to Onesie.

‘My sister was here!’

Onesie examined the letter. ‘The address is on Long Island. You think you’ll go there?’

‘Of course we’ll go there. We’re going to Long Island, right! Where’s Long Island?’

Settled in, as best she could, at Mr Stickford’s enclave on Long Island, Charlie tried not to let her mind fret for her loved ones, of whom Harry Styles was definitely an important member. A couple of times, while alone at night, she had cried for the normal days when she could simply type in his name on her laptop and see him doing a thousand different, interesting things. Thank God she had her
One Direction
phone cover always with her.

She liked the people she had found herself marooned with, especially the adorable Mr Grainger, who she thought of as the grandfather she had never got to meet. His Prepper plan was well underway, but he didn’t preach to them at all. More often than not he laughed at himself and at what the world had brought him to, when he was trying to tell them about self-sufficiency in agriculture, and how to collect rainwater, or about the rules for the new latrines.

The rations were agreed on, and loose working roles allocated. Charlie and Ana, the Nicaraguan au pair, would look after the children, which included the young Stickford girls. Mr Grainger already had a vegetable patch in his back yard, and this was to be extended, with the help of Jonathan. All the other adults would take turns with the cooking and general chores. Overall, it was a satisfying way to sit out the crisis.

One of the large houses in the local vicinity remained unoccupied; the one belonging to the Ryan family who were yet to find their way home. Mr Grainger had his eye on their wide, perfectly manicured front lawn for his potato crop. Charlie thought Mr Grainger a funny sight, in his Wellington boots, green corduroy trousers and ugly jumpers, with a white sun hat on top of his head. He also had an automatic rifle on a tight strap over his back, facing muzzle downwards, looking like a white farmer in Zimbabwe, or a Jewish settler in the Occupied Territory. An unfriendly trespasser had prompted the opening of Mr Grainger’s Prepper gun cabinet, and Mr Stickford was also similarly armed.

Jonathan came out of the Grainger house and wandered across with coffee for them all.

‘Shall we plough it up, then, Jonathan?’ asked Mr Grainger.

‘Definitely, I think we should. If we end up getting sued by the Ryan’s then we’ll know the world has gone back to normal.’

They sipped their coffee. It was a lovely day, weather-wise. Charlie remembered something said the other day by Mr Grainger, who had become tired by all the talk of the reasons behind the crisis: “It’s happened, people. That’s the way it is. Anyone who feels short-changed at not getting a rounded explanation is an idiot”.

Charlie noticed that Jonathan was watching Ana as she skipped from one house to another with the Stickford girls. There was something between admiration and love in his eyes.

‘Careful,’ she whispered to him. He shot her a look, but was happy to take her advice. ‘Crazy times. She might not appreciate the attention.’

She sensed Mr Grainger wanted to talk man to man about gardening, so drifted to where Mrs Grainger had come out to sit on her front porch with a cup of tea and an old magazine, taking a break from preparing the day’s meal. The sweet, diminutive,  archetypal little old lady with her grey hair up in a bun was wearing an ankle length skirt and a Christmas sweater with lots of white reindeer galloping about on the red background. She smiled at Charlie and waved her over. The magazine was open on a certain article, which she offered to Charlie. It was a gossip column piece, without any substance, but carried a photograph of Harry Styles, in the company of a lady friend. Charlie squealed in delight and grabbed the magazine, overjoyed to have something of Harry she had never seen before. Her knees briefly crumpled until she decided not to be so melodramatic.

‘I thought you’d like that, honey,’ said Mrs Grainger. ‘I heard you talking about him yesterday.’

Charlie kissed Mrs Grainger’s cheek. ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Grainger. Can I keep this?’

‘Of course you can keep it.’

Charlie sat down on the porch at Mrs Grainger’s feet, staring at the photograph.

‘I miss him so much, you know, Mrs Grainger.’

Mrs Grainger cackled, good-naturedly. ‘Jesus, anyone would think you didn’t have a proper boyfriend out there.’

Charlie smiled. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think of my boyfriend constantly. But… you know… look at Harry.
Just look at him
.’

Both women laughed.

They watched Mr Grainger and Jonathan talking animatedly.

‘I would have thought you’d get close to that young man,’ suggested Mrs Grainger.

‘I think Jonathan only has eyes for Ana.’

‘Oh, is that a fact?’

‘Mrs Grainger, can I ask, what do you miss? Since this all silliness started? Do you miss your favourite television show? Or being able to drive to the store? What?’

‘I’ll tell you the truth, Charlie. I like it like this. I had nothing as a child, growing up in rural Pennsylvania. I hate all the technology of today. Oh, I have the latest cell in there, and could Skype on the computer to relatives in other States. But this suits me just fine. I know it’s really cruel on you youngsters. But, there you are, there’s my thoughts. I hated all that texting with the thumb, and don’t even get me started on those bores with their tablets, or whatever they were called.’

‘How long have you been retired? What did you do before?’

‘Let’s see, I retired from being a school administrator in 2001. Since then I’ve been writing novels. Of course, sales have completely vanished.’

Charlie was surprised. ‘You wrote novels? Wow. What kind of novels?’

‘Oh, erotica, dear.’

‘What!?’

‘Yes. And here’s another good thing to come out of all this - no more total assholes posting one star reviews on my books. And some who moan at me and they haven’t even finished the copy they were reading. I’m so happy those fuckwits have thrown themselves off a bridge. I mean, if you don’t like something, just forget it, just go away, go back to your fucking knitting, or something. Why do they feel the need to say “it just didn’t work for me”? Really, please, who gives a shit for their dumb-ass opinion?’

Charlie stared gobsmacked at sweet old Mrs Grainger.

Everyone came together happily (as could be in the circumstances) for the evening meal in the Grainger’s house. After the recent incident of the unpleasant trespasser, there had been talk of taking turns on guard, but they had decided not to live as if under siege. So it was like a family gathering, passing the potatoes around the large table in the kitchen, lots of chatting, with young Louise Cross feeding Ben in his high chair, while husband, Peyton, proudly watched on. It had been a poorly Ben who had kept Mr and Mrs Cross at home on the day the situation started. They felt very blessed to have been kept together safely as a unit.

Mr Stickford, next to Peyton, worked as the manager of a fast food restaurant not far from home, so was able to walk to his daughters’ school to collect them when it dawned on him what was happening. He had since been back to gather what supplies he could, and they had gorged on burgers for the first few days. The Graingers were at home, of course, and Ana, although she had use of a little Volkswagen car, had also been home with the Springsteen boys. She had gone with the children over to the Grainger’s house when it started to get dark and the power had not come back on.

After the evening meal, Charlie decided to take some air on the front porch. There she encountered Jonathan and Ana, talking intimately. While it was lovely to see the two of them hitting it off straight away, she did feel a bit sad for her own circumstances. She smiled at them, then took herself off to a different place to be with her thoughts.

On a glorious day in Connecticut, Michael found himself invited to play golf with Mr Ferguson. Michael considered himself a jack-of-all sports, average at everything but not good enough to be professional at any one thing. He did possess the hand to eye co-ordination to play golf, but he didn’t particularly like it, and had not played for about three years. It was also unnerving to have armed henchmen, actually in mirror sunglasses, following along behind. Michael kept thinking back to a film he had watched, just prior to flying out to America - it was about a man in Iraq, forced to become the body double to Saddam Hussein’s son, Uday. Uday was clearly a psychopath and it was fascinating watching this poor man having to live through insane and horrible events. Michael had the same feeling being in the presence of Ferguson. Ferguson, with his permanently cheery demeanour, failed to recognise that 90% of the people at the Country Club despised him.

The previous day had confirmed Michael’s suspicions that he had stumbled into a nightmare. If it wasn’t enough that a complete stranger in the person of Taylor had offered him her body like a slave, he had met up officially with his “people”, his group, to find out who they were and what exactly their jobs entailed. The laundry work, apparently, involved only a few hours a day, so they were not too distressed with that. What did upset them, talking with the oldest man, Phillip, was the segregation from family members put in other groups. Phillip’s wife of thirty years was expected to work under the control of one of Ferguson’s people. During the day, they managed to see each other, but had to part at night. Nicholas, a thirty-two-year-old accountant, was in the exact same boat - his girlfriend worked in the kitchens. The youngest man, Jerry, was single, but clearly very unhappy too - thoroughly demoralised, in fact. The man looked tired, with dark rings under his eyes. In normal life he would have been a handsome teenager. Michael knew about Jane Flynn, but hearing Sienna’s story put the cap on matters. She had come to the wedding at the country club with her older cousin, Olivia, who was now in Ferguson’s group and had not been seen since. That simply galvanised Michael’s plan to “go over the wire” as soon as possible. But, as he had already decided, he must bide his time and wait for the right opportunity.

Taylor told him her background and, from her eyes, he realised he was still thought of as just as bad as Ferguson. So be it, thought Michael - they must keep thinking of him as their boss. He must act like he was in charge. Anything else would be picked up on by Ferguson, then he would be watched, and his chances to flee diminished.

They only played seven holes, with Ferguson winning them all without any help from Michael. It was becoming too warm, and Ferguson happily suggested “tiffin”. Being English, and a fan of the
Carry On
films, Michael knew what that meant, and joined Ferguson on his regular shaded verandah for iced tea and cakes. Technically it was probably not what the people at the time of the Raj would call tiffin, but it was highly refreshing. Ferguson enquired how Michael was settling into his new role. Then he informed him to gather his people after lunch because there was to be an entertainment arranged. That puzzled Michael but he decided not to ask for details, just discussed the golf when the subject moved quickly to that.

At least, being in charge of a group who did the laundry, brought some benefits for Michael; he was in freshly washed and ironed clothes. He was also clean-shaven, well fed, and with a suntan, after all his wanderings. Taylor was “on duty” with him, ready to provide anything he needed, and he still fretted over her indecent proposal. Michael so wanted to change the girl’s uniform and put some pants on her. That was a mistake, he realised, with her cold expression after she caught him looking at her legs.

‘How are you today, Taylor?’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Is everyone ready for this meeting?’

‘Yes, sir. We never like to miss a meeting.’

Sarcasm. Great. Michael led them away from his room. He glanced back at Taylor once, his imagination trying to catch her making a rude face at him, but her sullen eyes just stared him down. Maybe he could take her into his confidence, assure her he wasn’t going to take his appointment seriously? But he decided to hold his tongue - besides, if he left, they would be given to a different man, which Taylor would hate even more. At the laundry, his people were waiting for him. He gave an exaggerated fist pump and led them towards the foyer.

They trooped outside to the gathering of people in the warm sunshine, to Ferguson’s chosen place in front of the flags. Michael noticed Taylor scanning all the faces, then being disappointed not to spot someone. A boy? A parent? He would have to ask her again whether she had a loved one in the club, with a view to getting them transferred to his group.

Phillip, the oldest man in Michael’s group, waved to someone in the crowd; clearly it was his wife. Michael witnessed the pathetic attempt at communication and felt real anger at that point. But he had to focus his mind as someone was calling for order. It was Bill shouting for quiet.

Ferguson strode out, and was actually helped up by two of his men onto the brick wall, from where he looked over everyone.

‘Hoarding!’ he bellowed. ‘Can you actually believe it!? One of our own, found hoarding food.’ He touched his right temple with two fingers, as if the strain of the revelation was too much for him. He wasn’t an obvious actor, but he would have fitted in well to the world of professional wrestling or television evangelism.

Michael was keen for this nonsense to be over with. In all his jobs back in the real world he disliked pep talks and petty rules thought up by middle-management cretins in a loud tie. He saw that someone was being brought through the crowd. Surely this person wasn’t going to be told off in public and made to apologise? Hearing Taylor gasp beside him made him look over the heads, seeing a young chef, in his whites, being manhandled up alongside Ferguson. Perhaps a chef should be publicly dressed-down if he was hoarding food. Michael looked at the faces around him, all quite stern. Then, making him jump with the shock, a shout from Taylor brought him back from his reverie.

‘Leave him alone!’

All eyes turned, horrified, to Taylor, then to Michael, for not controlling her. Michael now saw that the young chef had been stripped of his top and been tied to the “Welcome to Fletcher Ridge Country Club” sign. To Michael, it was not immediately obvious what was happening. Later, he would chastise himself for being so vacant or naïve. He realised that the chef was to be flogged.

Of more immediate concern, was that Taylor was being stared at by Ferguson. Ferguson, who had rolled up his sleeves and been handed a black cat o’ nine tails. Michael was mortified at the scene in front of him but, nevertheless, his self preservation kicked in and he ordered Taylor to hold her tongue. She glared at him with total hatred.

Ferguson continued with his speech condemning hoarders, then began to flog the back of the terrified chef.