Game Changers of the Apocalypse Page 2

  Greg exhaled, looked out of the window. “I usually do.” He turned back to Simon. “But it’s like it’s all focused on that one point.” He squashed his thumb and forefinger together. “And it’s like trying to fit through the eye of a needle or something.”

  Simon smiled, and his head tilted. “Yet maybe when you do everything will be fine on the other side.” His head leaned the other way. His smile waned. “Though perhaps she is putting a lot of pressure on.”

  “Yes.” At last, someone actually understood.

  “So maybe you both just need to relax. You need to think less and communicate more, and she needs to give you some time to catch up with events.”

  Greg held his hands up. “Yes!”

  He’d been living with Polly for over four years. Simon had only had one short-term relationship in that time, with a woman from Canada doing a PhD at UCL. How did he do it? How, when, had he become an expert in affairs of the heart?

  Chin canted, Simon stared at him from a slight angle. “You did tell her it’s just the wedding you’re worried about, that you do love her? You told her that?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Greg jerked his head up and down. His head slowed. “Well, I think I did.” He hung it. “Oh. Maybe I didn’t.”

  “Greg…”

  “I’m not sure I had time. You know how it is. Well, maybe you don’t. One minute we were talking and the next I was out on the street, carrying that bloody bag.” He jabbed a finger in its direction. “I love her, devoutly. It just either comes out wrong or not at all.” He pressed his palms to his forehead. “I seem to have a catastrophic tendency to say the wrong thing.”

  “You need to let her know you love her before she starts telling everyone the wedding’s off and it becomes set in stone.”

  Another space-age sound from Greg’s mobile.

  He read the text. Shit. Too late. “Steph says the worst kind of waste of space is the one who pretends to be a nice guy. I mean what was the point proposing?!!” His heart felt bruised, on the inside. He started tapping a response when another one came through. “Why would I want to be with someone who doesn’t love me enough to want to marry me?” Ah, the double backwards guilt thrust. How does she do that? It continued, “Just wish you could have told me before we sent out the fucking invitations.”

  Rob stuck his head round the door. “Simon, Milo’s looking for you. Sounds urgent.”

  Greg darted towards the door. “I’d better get going.” He bounded back. Snatching up the bag, he glanced at Rob. “You haven’t seen me.”

  “Er, I can hear you, but I can’t see you.”

  “I’m not here.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Oh, keys.” Simon detached his front door key from his Doctor Who sonic screwdriver fob and handed it over.

  “Thanks, Simon. See you both.”

  “Bye, Greg.”

  Rob faced the wrong way, waving. “Bye, strange phantom.”

  Greg made it out of the main door without encountering Milo.

  Thank God for that.

  ~

  Countless bodies lay on every patch of grass like pink sea lions beached. Having seen a little too much from his elevated view over walls and into gardens and across greens and parks, Greg stepped off the bus.

  Although a relief to escape the hot, stale trapped air of its interior, the naked sun turned its attentions on him and slowly, very slowly, baked his face. Thankfully the end of Simon’s road was a few yards from the bus stop.

  A warm gust of wind buffeted him as he loped up the short path to the front door of Simon’s narrow maisonette. Each concertinaed house had an angled projection at the front. This particular rush of air had probably sheared off next door’s façade.

  Greg set the bag down, opened the door and went straight through to the kitchen-cubicle. He placed the key and his phone on the granite countertop and headed back out to fetch the bag.

  Blood filled his head as he bent to pick it up. Another flurry ruffled his hair.

  Slam.

  He turned around. The front door faced him, shut. He reached in his pocket for the key. No, no, no, no... It was inside, with his phone. He pushed at the door. No... It wouldn’t budge.

  He glanced at the dead weight hanging from his other hand. Jesus. Talk about a bag for life.

  ~

  Sweat ran down him in rivulets as, hefting the bag, Greg ignored the crunk and shriek of a siren, grabbed the cylindrical handle attached to the main door and entered work.

  He trudged up one flight of stairs to his floor, then up the next flight to Simon’s floor. What the—The layout was different on this floor and had changed since he’d last been up here. He couldn’t see Simon’s office. It had moved. No—the whole corridor had moved. Strip lights rendered the panelled tunnel uniformly bright. He tiptoed past a door that said “Milo Siley—Head Actuary.”

  Turning at the end, the corridor now passed behind Simon’s office rather than in front of it. Where was the door? Where was Simon?

  Swinging round the corner, he found the door that side.

  “Simon Darnley—Actuary,” read the nameplate.

  He knocked.

  “Come in.” (Simon’s voice, small and distant, as if from inside a biscuit tin.)

  Greg opened the door, shut it behind him and leaned back against it.

  Simon looked up from his computer. “Greg.” He started as if he’d just taken a bullet. “What happened?”

  “It’s…” Given the thinness of the walls and the closeness of Milo’s office, Greg kept his voice low. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “What?”

  He held up the bag, fitting punishment now, only not nearly large or heavy enough. “I was just picking this up outside your place when the front door slammed shut.” He tried to lick the dryness away from his lips, difficult with a saliva-less mouth and took another breath. “I’ve locked your key in. I couldn’t even call you because my phone’s in there too.”

  Simon raised a palm. “Greg, don’t worry about it. It’s happened to me too. Part of the reason my brother has a spare.”

  “He does?” Phew. “Where’s he?”

  “Stratford.”

  Oh. “Upon-Avon?”

  “No, East London. Want to come, this evening?”

  Confession delivered, other impulses surged inside him. “I should go and talk to Polly. She could be texting me.” Reading between the lines it looked as if, unable to face the bank today, she’d thrown a sickie too.

  “Good idea.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

  Simon smiled. “No, you haven’t. Hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks.” Greg edged towards the door. “And sorry again.”

  “Just get her back.”

  Greg grinned and stepped out into the corridor. Good old Simon.

  The breezy air-conditioning had returned his body to a more familiar climate, yet after rushing all around town, carrying the bag, his throat felt as dry as a box of Weetabix.

  He stopped at the water dispenser, filled a cup and, tipping it back, tracked the shock of cold on its way down.

  He had to wait for what felt like a sharp icicle to melt before filling and starting on his second cup.

  A strip light this end of the corridor hummed like a headache.

  Plastic crackled next to him and he looked round to see his ex, in a trouser suit and heels, half-kneeling to fill a flimsy cup.

  “Hi, Nicks.”

  She gave a little wave as she stood up and took a sip.

  “How’s the baby?” he said.

  She swallowed. “Oh, on Facebook now.”

  “She is? Blimey. They start early now, don’t they?”

  Nicola hiccupped a laugh. “No, I mean the pics.”

  “Yeah, I saw. She’s the spit of her daddy. Got his ears.”

  A swerve of dark, pencilled in, eyebrows.

  “How’s the lapdog?” he got in quickly.
br />   “Oh, he’s into squeaky toys now, when he’s not humping your leg.”

  “Gar, that Milo, eh? I did warn you.”

  Her eyes executed an upwards parabola.

  “How is your other quarter?” he said.

  “You can ask him yourself.”

  Her line of sight twitched to a point just to the left of his shoulder and he spun round.

  Milo stood at the head of the stairs. Set-back eyes stared at them. A generously proportioned pair of ears stuck out from his wheatsheaf haircut.

  Tss, went the flickering tube of light above their heads, adding to the sense of irreality.

  “Greg.” A functional smile. “Glad to see you’ve recovered from your gastroenteritis. And so quickly too.”

  “It must have been something I ate.”

  “See you later, handsome,” said Nicola.

  “Bye, love of my loins,” said Milo.

  A wave of nausea passed between Greg and his stomach.

  Milo turned to him. “We saved the P7 mortality tables for you.”

  “Oh?”

  Knowing that that amount of desk-work would give him deep-vein thrombosis, in his head, Greg groaned sub-vocally.

  They shuffled round each other, and he glanced back at Milo filling a cup at the water cooler as he headed down the stairs.

  Although he tried to ignore the nameplate on his door, the engraved lettering caught the light as he opened it. It was in any case seared into his soul: “Gregory Veyor—Trainee Actuary.”

  Eternal Trainee. He caught himself grinding his teeth as Polly claimed he did at night. Polly...

  His chair squeaked, bouncing a little, as he sat on it. He turned on his pc. Polly…

  Once his machine had booted up, he searched for and found the Excel spreadsheet he needed. I should be going to see her. Opening up his email, he ignored the fifty-seven unread messages. Bloody Milo. He fired off one of his own:

  Hi Simon,

  Just ran into Milo, so still here. What a tosser! Sometimes I’d love just to say to him,

  “Why do you have to be such an @rsehole?

  Up Yours,”

  Greg

  He Alt-tabbed back to the spreadsheet and scrolled down so fast that it was as if the rows and columns stayed still while the percentages fluctuated within them. I did just send that to Simon?

  He clicked on Sent Items to check that he hadn’t copied anyone else in, and his bowels plummeted. He hadn’t sent the email to Simon at all. He’d sent it to Milo.

  Shit shit shit. He shot out into the corridor. His legs pistoned up the stairs.

  Ahead, he made out a retreating back and a pair of radar-like ears sticking out of a blond shock of hair: Milo, getting farther and farther away; closer and closer to his office.

  The light fizzled and blinked.

  “Milo, just one thing…”

  Milo stopped, turned. “Yes?”

  “Er…” Greg cleared his throat, coughed. “I think Rob’s looking for you, downstairs.”

  “Well, tell him to call me in my office, or come up himself.” Milo continued on his way and reached out for his door handle.

  He paused, turned back. “That reminds me... Polly called.”

  All the stronger for being from far away, Greg experienced an elastic-like tug deep within him. “She did?”

  “Yes. You know, it really would be a good idea if you could keep these spats to yourself, but she asked if you could let her know the number of the DJ. She’s managed to cancel everything but him.” A stifled guffaw. “I hope you took out insurance.” The light sizzled and flashed. “Anyway, you’d better start work. It’ll probably mean staying horrendously late but then you owe several hours in any case.”

  Resurgent, the fluorescent tube buzzed between them like a lightsaber.

  Greg went hot. “Do it yourself.”

  Milo’s smile shrivelled. “What?”

  “You do something for a change—instead of taking the credit for other people’s work.”

  Milo swayed. “I have to say, Greg, I don’t appreciate your tone. Not one bit.” He leaned against the wall. “First you feign illness, now you’re apparently refusing to do your job.”

  Greg flung an arm. “Oh, fuck off, Milo.” His arm flailed back and up before slapping his side.

  Milo sprang upright. “Oh, right, I see. Okay, Greg, well, if that’s your attitude, there’s nothing more to discuss. You can collect any belongings you have about the place and clear out. Your P45 will be in the post. Oh, and don’t expect a reference!”

  Greg turned towards the stairs and didn’t look back. With his eyes on his feet, he cantered down them.

  “You’re on a real fuck-up roll today,” Milo called after him.

  “Check your email,” Greg shouted back.

  Whatever was in his desk and locker could rot. He pushed on outside. After the air-conditioning, it was like opening the oven door to hell. A blast of Gas Mark 5 or 6 engulfed him, and he didn’t even pause to catch his breath.

  ~

  Greg crested a knoll and bruised clouds rose to greet him. He hurried on as the very air around him darkened.

  His bus had broken down on Updown Road, so he’d taken a short cut. At least tomorrow can’t be any worse…

  The fresh breeze in his face meant that he had to keep his head down, most of the time, with his eyes on his shiny shoes as they alternately skimmed over and crushed the velvety grass. Yet whenever he glanced up at the sculpted landscape—bright green here, dark green there—the cathedrals of clouds above it had got bigger, nearer.

  Unexpectedly, the grass and trees lit up as the sun came out. The clouds, by contrast, turned black, before smothering the sun again.

  He passed a wrinkled pond.

  The branches of a copse swung.

  Sea gulls? He could hear the forlorn cries of sea gulls—a bad sign this far inland, on the edge of London.

  He turned up the collar of his jacket, tightened his grip on the bag. He needed to get home, to Polly.

  A flap of lightening concentrated up and off to the left caused his head to jerk that way. The heavens boomed. A curtain of mist swung shut between him and the horizon.

  The wind tried to push him back. He had to lean into it just to keep moving.

  As he skirted a sea-choppy lake, something bounced on the grass in front of him. A golf ball? It wasn’t big enough, and now he couldn’t find it. But another one landed. And another and another and another. The grass came alive with them, bouncing. It quickly turned white as far as he could see.

  Hard chips of ice struck his forehead, stung him through his clothes.

  He crossed a patch of longer grass. The ripping wind literally took his breath away. And the hailstones wouldn’t let up. He might as well have been strapped to the wing of an Airbus A380-800 coming in to land.

  Blinking, blinking, each time he raised his eyes he saw lightning flickering away like a faulty neon sign in the distance.

  Then the crack of doom that accompanied a zigzag of light to his right made him jump as a nearby tree exploded. Sparks flew, as in a foundry, and he heard rustling, a creak and a crash.

  Christ. Did his shoes have rubber soles? Was he going to have to lie down? In melting hailstones? In his work suit?

  His clothes clung to him already.

  He looked around for shelter. No huts. Nothing. It wasn’t even safe under a tree.

  He lifted a...

  Chapter 2

  Ghost Town

  Greg hiccupped.

  The cold soaked his body, while a sunburn-like heat penetrated deep beneath his back and down his left arm and leg. He needed a drink of water and his jaw ached from where he must have clenched his teeth. His gums pulsed.

  He lifted his head and, woozily, looked around.

  He lay on his back in claggy sand. Apart from a few wisps of cloud lingering like cannon smoke after battle, half the sky had cleared. It glowed with a luminous lambency, greeny-yellow rather than blue.


  His ears rang.

  Birdsong reached him like indecipherable code from another Earth.

  He rubbed his eyes and colours kaleidoscoped before dispersing. Spots and splodges floated past, reachably close.

  The birdsong became squeaky casters incessantly swivelling as white light streamed through the trees.

  The sun wasn’t going down. It was coming up.

  Have I been out here… He sat up. It took him a while. Have I been out here all night?

  His left forearm flopped around like a fish. Jesus. His heart beat to a rhythm he didn’t recognize, out of time with his body. He had hot, fizzy pins and needles in his left hand.

  Getting up, the soles of his shoes flapped. His right foot smarted as if he’d walked over fire, while his left had gone all spongy. Each time he shuffled forwards, that side tried to descend an invisible flight of stairs.

  He turned around in the shifting sand and a deep imprint of his body yawned in it. Feeling his back, sand caked it.

  He sat on the lip of the bunker, lifted his legs up, rolled over onto his hands and knees, and pushed himself up off the ground.

  The bag lay several feet away. He picked it up.

  His foot kept rolling onto its side. Not quite sure where his leg ended without looking, he shambled across the golf course towards Polly’s.

  ~

  She wasn’t answering the door, so he clambered in through the back window using an upturned earthenware pot to stand on.

  Hoping his backside wasn’t mistaken for a burglar’s, he crawled over the sink, with its edges digging into his knees, his back smarting as he stretched this way and that, and the bag sliding at, and bumping, his side. His left arm had stopped thrashing about, but his hand trembled as if he had the DTs.

  Climbing down, he dumped the bag on the kitchen table.

  “Polly...” He dashed through to the bedroom, only to find the covers thrown back on the bed.

  He re-crossed the lounge to the kitchen. “Polly?”

  No sign of her there either. But it’s Saturday... Isn’t it? She should be here.

  Panting more than the effort warranted, he ran through to the hallway and out into the front garden. “Polly!” No, no, no... Where is she?