The Barricade
Jules was woken up by the alarm that had been set for seven. He was still unaccustomed to the drill even though it had been in place for the last few weeks. Jules was in his late teens, a little taller than average, and gangly. He was a confused bundle of genetics; Algerian, French, and English. He thought of himself as French. He did not belong to England and he had resented being there from day one. Before anything had happened, before the attack, Jules had been a tourist in the city of his birth. And now, in the last six months Jules had been forced to witness London’s rebirth.
This was London. Or rather, what was left of it. Regents Park was one corner at the edge and Hyde Park the other, both were part of the Barricade that now encircled the city. Five miles in one direction – Earls Court to Fleet Street, an hour and a half from Regents to the Embankment; five square miles by nearly five square miles. You could walk it in under two hours, to touch both sides of the wall that boxed in the city. Jules had lost count of how many times over the last six months he had walked that distance. No more Notting Hill, no Camden, and nothing south of the river, although you could just make out the tops of St George’s Wharf and a few other tall buildings along the opposite bank.
His English father was dead. Killed three-weeks after ‘The Event’ occurred, a term coined by the papers before they stopped printing, but the expression had caught on nevertheless. The streets may be calm now, but back then hundreds of people had died in the riots that had swept through London. Jules had stayed inside and dreamt of being back in Toulouse where it was warm. He recalled the sun drenched buildings, the hills that hugged the city and the people who spoke a language he missed more than he ever thought he would. It hadn’t been hard to stay indoors after all, Jules told himself, that it wasn’t his country, or his concern, and that he’d always planned to leave England. But the guards had arrived en masse, the Internet was now a distant memory, and even the idea of getting to an airport like Heathrow was impossible. Jules couldn’t get home. No one had heard from outside the Barricade in months, and for all he knew, France too had been attacked and Jacques, Elisa, and all his friends and all the places he knew and loved were as dead and gone as everything was in England.
The alarm continued, sounding throughout the house to wake up his Aunt Lydia, Rupert, Maria and him. Jules stayed in bed. It was to his mind a small piece of defiance to lie there and ignore the sound of ringing.
‘Wake up!’ His cousin burst into the room. ‘How can you ignore the alarm?’ Rupert grabbed the covers off the bed and threw them on the floor. The coldness hit Jules in the chest, despite the fact it was mid-June. He rolled over and glared up at Rupert. Jules was grateful (not for the first time) that he was an only child.
‘Mother won’t be impressed. The alarm was her idea.’
‘I’m up.’ Jules got to his feet; seven o’clock was just too early, nothing could make him feel otherwise.
Rupert slumped down on the now unoccupied bed, looking covetously around the room. Jules had been given the master suite – his father’s bedroom. It was painted in mulberry tones and the furniture was made from old-fashioned mahogany to match. It was full of books, most of them about the military or the navy. Rupert had wanted this bedroom. Whilst Jules started to dress, Rupert leant further and further back until he lay flat on the sheets staring up at the ceiling, ‘Why did she have to give you the better job?’
Jules didn’t need to ask whom his cousin referred to. Aunt Lydia, even before The Event had happened had dominated and controlled the Delaware House, and it was now only natural that she as one of the sole survivors of the government would keep helping run what remained of the country. Rupert swung between admiration for his mother, and an active envy that he only ever hinted at.
‘I guess because I’m older.’ Jules straightened the badges on his father’s jacket before slipping it on.
‘You could show a little more enthusiasm. You’re the lucky one here.’
‘Yes.’ It didn’t do to disagree with Aunt Lydia. And furthermore he liked his job.
‘I hope you are sufficiently grateful.’
The fact that they were both closely related to Lydia Delaware offered no firm protection for either of them. Complain, or just even ask a few too many questions, and both of them were aware that she’d have little hesitation in sending them out there, past the Barricade. Everyone had heard the silent whispers about what happened to the people who had made a nuisance of themselves.
He finished dressing, and smoothed his hair in the mirror. Lydia liked the boys to look neat. Jules didn’t look like his father or any of the Delawares. He was dark and they were blonde and pale. Rupert lay on the bed continuing to talk. Jules’ father had wanted him to go to Sandhurst, after all it was a family tradition. Perhaps to please his father, Jules would have gone, if The Event hadn’t happened. The jacket didn’t fit him, his father had been broader and muscled in a way that Jules never would be. His father, Giles Delaware had also been a good four inches shorter than his son. The uniform was therefore an odd mixture of loose and tight.
Rupert pointedly checked his watch. ‘Alright, I’m coming.’ They left the bedroom, Jules first. The Delaware House had been in their family for generations. It was old, had a grand staircase, an ornate front door, and huge stain glass windows. There were paintings dating back to the first famed Delaware – a general – a portrait by Gainsborough. Somewhere in the library there was an original Tom Jones manuscript. The house itself was close to Pimlico tube station. There were no tubes anymore; all the lines had been blocked up.
‘We can still see the river.’ Rupert use to say that a lot, even after they started building the Barricade. Jules had hardly left London before The Event, he now resented that he couldn’t go and see the countryside, it was strange the things you ended up missing. Proper trees. Public transport. The sea. The supposed grandeur and power of the Internet. Bookshops. Coffee, the instant powder stuff just wasn’t the same, the smell was weaker and the taste disgusting.
Delaware House was still as elaborate as it was when Jules had first arrived. Plum wallpaper. Polished floors. And there was a distinct smell of cognac, lilies and tobacco that still listlessly hung around the house.
The boys briskly entered the dining room, and Aunt Lydia starred down the table at them. Despite their tardiness they still looked presentable. They had been quick to adapt to her rules and had become practical, unlike their fathers. Rupert listened and Jules did as he was told, they are good boys, she decided.
‘Julian,’ she said, ‘come sit by me.’ Even for breakfast, Maria had laid the table with silver candlesticks, and the second-best china.
Jules walked to the head of the table and looked down at Aunt Lydia, who was sat silently watching him. Her slim face impersonally looked him over. He wished he could question his Aunt, about where the food came from, about why Maria was still in the house, and if he could ever leave, but he knew there would be no point in asking.
She looked back at him without moving and said, ‘I really must get you a new uniform.’ Jules wanted to say that he did not want one, and that ideally he’d burn the one he was wearing. ‘Now my dear, since my husband is away from home, you as the oldest male here are now head of this family. I know the army holds no great appeal, but I hope you like your job. It suits you I would imagine.’
‘Yes thank you.’
He was spoilt, she thought, so unlike her own son. But Rupert was well… he was sweet, good boy but…he didn’t live up to the Delaware name.
Jules sat down, and started to eat. The conversation was stilted, and at one point Rupert attempted to make a joke. Jules ended up playing with the contents of his plate. He knew it was better to wait for Aunt Lydia to speak; it was never a good idea to interrupt her, so he waited for a lull in the conversation.
‘I don’t want to disappoint you so I must leave or else I’ll be late.’
‘It’s not about me; it’s for the good of London.’ His Aunt was always keen to emphasis London’s gain.
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘Go then. The gallery awaits you.’
He pushed out his chair. He could walk beside the wall, through the destroyed parkland and catch glimpses of the river through the Barricade.
He kissed his Aunt’s cheek dutifully, nodded at Rupert and left the building. Most of the houses that stood alongside Delaware had after The Event been abandoned, but now they were filled with people. There were no more tramps in this new London. There was once a particularly beautiful house at the end of Clarence Road, all of it painted cream with the occasional artfully placed piece of wisteria. Jules had met the inhabitants, the Morgans; he had even briefly dated the daughter, Cecilia. They were gone now, off on a trip to Malawi for Christmas, and obviously they couldn’t get back. Things were so different now; money, or even your class, they no longer mattered. Jules had once laughed at the irony of it, but he didn’t see the humour anymore.
Playfully he ran his fingers over the railings, enjoying the feel of the hard metal when it hit against his palm. One of the windows was broken and through the shattered pane he could see a dark haired woman moving around the living room. She was reading. Jules looked away and carried on along the street. Too many books were locked away now and to keep them safe they were being stored in Buckingham Palace. The building, as Rupert had once pointed out, might as well be put to good use.
Jules rounded the corner, drawing closer to the Thames. Close enough to hear the strangely loud flow of the river once drowned out by the continuous rumble of cars. He crossed the street; rounded one of the many abandoned vehicles, and walked up onto the pavement closer to the neat row of houses. On reaching the final dwelling, whose protruding garden was circled by a wall on which was sat a little girl. She must have been about ten. Jules didn’t know a lot about small girls, in fact he knew nothing at all. Her clothes were dirty, mud stained as if she’d rolled around on the ground for several days. Her hair was wrapped in a ladybird scarf, but strands of it stuck out. He walked slowly nearer to her. She had drawn her knees up to her chin and was staring down at the ground.
‘Hello,’ he crouched down trying to see her face.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice was calm, but her eyes were red.
‘I’m Jules. What’s your name?’
‘Amy.’ She watched him but without meeting his eyes. Jules sat on the wall as far as he could from her, so not to scare her. She was an ugly little thing – her hair was matted, the dirt stretched up her neck and onto her face; she looked unwanted.
‘Are your parents inside?’ Jules gestured towards the brightly coloured house; it was painted in a garnish pink, unlike the other beige building it was connected to.
‘No, they’re gone.’ She looked away from him and then resumed staring down at the ground.
‘Do you have anyone else?’ Jules didn’t think he’d seen any children in months. They were a rarity in the city; in truth he and Rupert were probably the youngest people he’d seen since the Event, now that he actually thought about it. It was difficult to bring up such a delicate issue, but he wondered what had happened to all the children. Had they stayed inside too? And if so where were they now? Just more questions he knew he’d never get answers to. He looked back at Amy. Her eyes were very red, and her face was small, and partially hidden by the scarf.
‘No,’ the girl climbed off the wall, and brushed uselessly at her skirts. She was wearing adult’s clothes, the skirt reached to the ground. She is like me, Jules thought; she’s wearing her parent’s clothes.
‘Why are you here?’ He asked her.
‘I liked the house, it’s colourful.’
Jules turned and stared at the bright wall – from a child’s perspective he guessed it would be attractive. ‘I’m going to help you.’
‘I don’t need your help, I just – I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘I’m not a stranger. I’m called Jules and I live in that house up there.’ Even from where they sat it was possible to see the Delaware House, jutting up arrogantly into the sky. ‘In that house, there’s food, and books and a woman called Maria who can give you some clothes and –’
‘Books?’
‘Yes picture books.’ He decided against telling her they were mainly military biographies or war records, and after all, they did have photos in them.
‘Alright, my stuff is over there.’ She pointed over the wall, and Jules noticed for the first time her bag slumped against the discoloured bricks. It was an ancient-looking Hello Kitty rucksack, which had been stretched and crammed with her possessions. It had the look of once being pink, he thought, but was now rather like its owner, an unappealing shade of brown. He picked the bag up gently and started walking back on himself. He asked her questions at first but she wasn’t very forthcoming. Instead, she preferred to ask him things – why did he have an accent? Did he have any books with dolphins in? Did he live with anyone besides Maria?
They reached Delaware House and walked in. Jules was certain now that he would be late for work – it wasn’t done to be late.
‘Maria,’ he yelled. His cousin and Aunt would have left for work by now.
‘Yes?’ The middle-aged woman rushed from whatever she’d been doing into the hallway where Jules stood. For a plump woman she knew how to move quickly, reminding Jules of a startled hare – constantly ready to jump at any command. Her round face travelled from Jules down to look at the child.
‘I want you to look after her. Give her food, and a bath – anything she needs. I’ll be back here as soon as I can.’
‘Yes sir.’ Jules could not make out whether Maria was as subservient as she appeared to be.
‘Good,’ He knelt down in front of the child, even though he knew he’d get in trouble for his tardiness. ‘Listen Amy – you’re going to be fine. This woman will look after you and I’ll be back in the afternoon.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
Jules thought perhaps he should hug her, or at least pat her head, but in the end he just turned to the door, calling, ‘See you later,’ over his shoulder.
Then he started to run. Jules used to go running when he first got to London, to escape from Delaware House and the people in it. He’d wake up early before they woke, dress, and leave the house. He’d make his way down to the riverside to follow the route he knew so well. Back then he’d resented the people who got in his way – the early morning bankers, the stragglers from one night stands, the aimless drunks – now he missed them, and the stupid comments they’d make as he jogged past.
Running was something that he was good at, and it had made him feel free and in control. But the Barricade had changed all that. He ran in shadow now. The bricks climbed up high over the route he used to take, boxing him in. No longer could he enjoy the places he once sped past; Lambeth Bridge and the many boats docked alongside it.
Jules would run through Victoria Tower gardens, past the unopened shops, the Embankment and then all the way up to Waterloo Bridge. Waterloo Bridge was all that really remained now. All the other bridges had been demolished, and the once pretty gardens were penetrated and cut up by the Barricade. Whilst Jules had stubbornly stayed inside and read books or painted, he had chosen to ignore the destruction. It was better to stay inside it was the only way to survive.
Jules slowed as he reached the café where he and his father would go on Saturday for breakfast. On the weekend Giles liked to get out of Delaware House. The café had been run by an enthusiastic Australian named Belinda, who made great bacon baps. It was called Blossom Heart and was boarded up now. A lot of places had had wood or chairs stacked in front of them, no one really knew why.
Jules came to a stop when he reached the Mall. There was something unworldly about that stretch of road; even more so since The Event; maybe it was just the remains of royal grandeur like perfume in the air. You couldn’t run here anyway, there were too many guards. He looked down at the gravel and hoped none of them would stop and question him. Even with his Aunt’s connections he was fully aware that he stood out, like a child playing at dressing up. Most of the guards sat around the looming white arch. He could have avoided them but it was better not to draw attention to himself: that would only make matters worse. None of them stopped him.
The churches in Trafalgar Square had been boarded up – most in the city had been. But the gallery was still just as impressive. There were no red flags hanging down anymore, but the crowned dome and archways still loomed above his head. The fountains were waterless. It was sadly quiet, no cars, no tourists with their children and cameras, just the distant talk from the guards at the archway.
Jules climbed the marble steps, eyes peeled for someone who he might be working with today. It was good to be here, he liked his job and the chance it offered to see inside the gallery. It was better than working for the guards anyway. Jules had always loved art, even as a child – it was rather like going to the cinema, another joy that had been lost. He was itching once more to see Cezanne, Bellini, Monet and others less well known but equally as precious. It was a privilege – his Aunt was right – these paintings were a glorious testimony of their age, and it was he – Jules Barineau – who could pick and choose and save them for the future. Save them so that the terrorists couldn’t take the heritage they offered and as Aunt Lydia liked to say -
‘You there,’ Jules hadn’t noticed the man who had approached him from the left. He was a guard. Uniformed. Booted. The works. They sent different men on different days but this guy was new.
Jules walked closer; the man was in his thirties and a little plump. He wasn’t terribly tall. I could take him in a fight, if I had to, Jules thought.
Jules cautiously held out his hand, ‘Hello, I’m here to help with the exhibition. I come every day and pack –’
‘ID?’
Jules reached inside his jacket for the card. ‘Slowly,’ the guard ordered. Jules handed across the laminated card. He didn’t need a wallet anymore. This was the only thing that you were required to carry with you.
‘Julian Delaware?’
‘Yes.’ The guard didn’t smile, but grunted and pushed the card back at Jules. ‘Follow me,’ he called over his shoulder, as he turned towards the building. They took the back route winding through dull empty corridors; passing the occasionally labelled door that stated which exhibition they had skipped.
‘Here we are.’ The guard opened one of the doors and light illuminated the tunnel they had been standing in. It was one of the rooms Jules hadn’t visited before. He edged forward into the space. It was large. Wooden floored, white walls and it had skylights, which explained the warmth. It would have been used to house beautiful, probably imported works. But there are no paintings on the walls, instead they were scattered haphazardly around the room.
‘Are those the paintings?’
‘Yeap.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Jules marched forward reaching the nearest one, bending to see what was written on the paper, the words – ‘Signac’. ‘You can’t do this. They need to be properly cared for. These are masterpieces.’ He looked behind the Signac, ‘My God, this is a Van Gogh. Do you understand?’ Jules rounded and looked at the guard.
‘If you like it, you can take it. No one will notice.’
For a moment Jules wondered if he should, perhaps Amy would like to see a famous masterpiece – she might like art. He’d always loved Van Gogh, especially the one with the irises – perhaps it was wrapped in this brown paper, and he was touching it. But it should never be his. ‘No.’
The guard shrugged. ‘Most of these have already been wrapped, but you can do the rest.’ He walked closer to Jules and handed him a marker pen, ‘When we’re finished you can decide which ones are worth moving downstairs.’
‘Okay.’ There was no point bothering with this man.
It took all day to find and label the pieces. Jules wondered fleetingly if the guard had even stolen some of the art himself. He didn’t see the iris painting. He double wrapped each piece of art, unlike his fellow guard. Jules pointedly ignored the throwaway comments from his companion, and instead thought about Amy. Maria will be nice to her, he was sure, and Aunt Lydia wouldn’t be back until much later anyway.
At six he left the National. It was not quite dark yet - in fact, the sky was awash with an array of pinks, blues and yellows – but Jules who had spent the whole of his day wrapping colours and putting them away barely saw its beauty until he is stood before Delaware House, with the faint dribble of sunset hiding out of sight behind the walls of the Barricade.
Jules pushed open the gate, walked up the five steps to the door and turned the handle. Rupert stood waiting for him.
‘Hi,’ Jules started to remove his jacket but Rupert was far too on edge to keep still. He had taken off his own coat, rolled up his shirt and his hair was stuck up in comical tufts.
‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something.’ He grabbed Jules’ arm and pulled him up the stairs. Jules was too tired to fight; he would have rather sat and watched Rupert parade before him whatever it was his cousin had dug up in the house. Rupert had a talent for delving into Delaware House, which was assisted by Aunt Lydia who was continually adding items from outside to ‘decorate’ the place. Rupert was rather magpie-like in his delight at these new decorations.
Rupert took the steps two at a time and Jules dutifully followed. They reached the landing and Rupert looked back over his shoulder, ‘It’s a little girl. She turned up and -’
They were both moving in fast, quick steps, but Jules overtook him, ‘What?’
‘I locked her in your bedroom. She said she knew you but I didn’t know if she was lying or not. I had to call mother.’
Jules wasn’t listening to Rupert, he rushed down the corridor, till he reached his door, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said turning the key in the lock.
She stood huddled near the window, trying to open it. She rounded when she heard the door open. ‘You betrayed me.’
‘No I didn’t. I promise, it’ll be fine.’ He walked a little closer. She was shaking.
‘Stay away from me.’
‘I will.’ He stayed where he stood and looked over his shoulder. Leant against the doorframe Rupert was staring at the child as if she were alien. It wasn’t curiosity but something rather close to it; quite similar to the way Rupert viewed the ‘decorations’, as if Amy were a new possession. I hate him, almost as much as I hate Aunt Lydia, Jules thought.
It was something in the way that Rupert appeared to be so causal. Jules walked up close to his cousin, right in his face and said; ‘What the hell were you thinking? Why did you lock her in?’
Rupert shrugged, ‘I didn’t trust her.’
‘Get out of here.’
Rupert grabbed the door handle and yanked it childishly shut but Jules knew all too soon, the door would open and he would have to explain Amy to Aunt Lydia.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning to face the child. He sat down on the floor half way to where she stood, and hoped that she would step away from the window-seat. She wasn’t mud covered anymore, and the stupid scarf had come off, so that her shoulder length hair fell about her face. She looked younger than before, especially when she started to cry.
‘Please don’t -’ He shifted, wondering wither he should step closer or not.
‘I’m glad you’re back, I thought you might have lied.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
She stepped away from the window and came and joined him on the floor, ‘Who was that man?’
‘He’s my cousin. He’s called Rupert, I’m sorry he was nasty to you,’ She still looked sad, ‘I wish he wasn’t my cousin. You don’t need to worry about him.’
She nodded and then said, ‘I’m tired.’ Her head lolled a little, and Jules wondered if he should fetch Maria. Surely a woman would be better at looking after a child, but then again, the stupid idiot had let Rupert lock Amy up.
‘I’m going to put you to bed, and I’ll sleep there.’ He pointed to the half sofa, ‘so you don’t need to be worried about Rupert.’
She got up and climbed into the vast bed, they talked for a few minutes about Rupert until she was convinced that Jules’ cousin wouldn’t come near her.
I don’t want to deal with Aunt Lydia – I don’t, Jules said to himself. He knew she’d be downstairs now. What would she think of the child? He supposed Aunt Lydia might take her away. Jules looked back at the bed – she wasn’t so ugly anymore, in fact she looked like a baby now she was asleep – he would try and keep her here, it wasn’t fair or right to have her on the streets.
‘It’s dangerous for her out on the streets, she’s safer here.’
Aunt Lydia looked up from the folders and files she was shifting through. Colour coordinated – yellow, green, red – no one else in the house was allowed to see them, not that anyone would ask to. ‘I don’t like being disturbed, Julian.’
‘I know Aunt, but Rupert –’
‘You found a child; you can keep it. That area of the government hasn’t been organised yet, so you might as well.’
‘Thank you…’ He did not stay in the room to hear what else she might say. He could keep Amy safe, and here, and that would have to be enough.
The work at the gallery continued. He did get to lord it over the other guards who knew nothing about art, and now he had something to look forward to it the evenings – time spent with Amy. He didn’t mind going back to Delaware House.
The guards changed several more times over the next few weeks, but on the final day of packing, Jules had a guard who he recognised – Willie, a middle-aged man, who had run several Burger Kings, before The Event happened. He smelt suspiciously of white stripe – Jules realised the black market rumours were more than gossip.
It was only two in the afternoon. They had locked up the gallery and stood on the steps outside it, waiting for fresh guards to arrive and transport the selected artwork.
‘You might as well help me,’ Willie glanced across the papered paintings at Jules.
‘Help you with what?’
‘The paintings. Don’t you want to make sure they are safely transferred?’
‘Yes – isn’t that someone else’s job?’
‘Bradley’s bringing the van round, but it’ll just be him and me.’
‘I had planned –’
‘Here he is.’ Willie pointed at the lone vehicle – a large black van that mounted the kerb and drove straight at them. It stopped far too close to the neatly arranged paintings.
‘Be careful,’ Jules hurried down the steps.
The door swung open, and out jumped one of the tallest men Jules had ever seen.
‘You must be the nervy Frenchman?’
‘Nice to meet you too.’ He didn’t take the offered hand. ‘I’ll help,’ he said turning and looking at Willie. He didn’t trust either of them with these paintings.
They decided to do it in shifts. Since Jules was in his father’s uniform, he already looked like a guard, so there was no great difficulty when they reached The House of Lords in carrying the items inside. There were only three sentries posted on the gate. One of them handed Jules a key and told him which room to carry the items to. Willie and Bradley started unloading the van while Jules went inside. They were joking and laughing and making puns on the way his voice pronounced their words. Ignorant pigs, Amy was ten times their worth. She had taken a surprising interest in art, so Jules had pinched a souvenir guidebook from the gallery, which he planned to give her tonight - He was lost. The House of Lords sprawled before him, door after door. He checked behind several of them. It was just space filled with papers, desks pushed up against each other. The next room – a little more space, he walked further in – it was filled with scrolls, and books awaiting removal and storing. Jules turned and walked out and carried on along the corridor. He might as well just pick a door and leave the paintings, after all Bradley and Willie were bound to have gone and left the precious artwork behind on the pavement. He chose a door at random. It opened and Jules staggered in and carefully put the paintings down. The room must have been an office for someone important. The desk was as grand as Aunt Lydia’s. The windows were darkened with tissue paper. There were several stacks of papers on the table. It was all rather dull and grey.
Jules started moving between the guard’s checkpoint outside and this chosen office. To tell it apart from the other offices he shifted the chair so it would hold open the door. On the fourth trip up the stairs, Jules removed the tissue paper from the window, to watch and wait for the returning van, and to give the room some light. Willie and Bradley were slow, and out of boredom Jules began to order the papers. He liked things to be neat.
Most of the papers were on the tax revenue from Norfolk and the surroundings towns. These were the first dozen that Jules flicked through, he started to alphabetize them, after all he had nothing better to do. His thoughts returned to Amy, and he decided that she would probably want to get out of Delaware House, she was indoors too much, just a walk, that would be permissible surely.
He overturned the next folder, a different coloured sheath and tipped the pages over the desk. There were photos in here. He looked without seeing, Amy he thought would like the nearby park; the swings were still in place, although maybe she’d think it was childish. He lifted one of the photos up. It was three men and a woman, bags over their heads and they were naked. He stopped thinking of Amy. He grabbed the next photo – those four he’d just seen up against the wall, were dead, he only recognised them because of the order they had been placed in. The rest of the yellow folder contained similar images. It was labeled ‘Norfolk XIV’. He stepped back from the desk, and looked around the room. It was filled with identical boxes to the one that he had pulled the photographs from. He counted ten behind him, another dozen squished in so that they lined the room. Jules had put several of the paintings on top of them.
He turned and took the top box from the pile behind him; he tipped it onto the desk along with the photos from Norfolk. Little yellow folders slipped this way and that over the table. He leafed through the top one – ‘Oxford IX’ – there were children here, all dead. The next box he tipped up was Somerset, more of the same photos played out under his fingers. Then Wales. Derbyshire. Counties that Jules hadn’t heard of, and cities he hadn’t known. Some of the photos were dated; neatly penned numbers – they had been taken recently. More and more stacks of pictures of the dead, decorated with tiny holes, cold, naked – one corpse after another, until he lost count and couldn’t tell one from another. He turned round and took up another box, and threw it over the desk across the floor – again out spilled those yellow files. One photo grabbed his eye and he hurried around the desk, it contained a clothed man. He was standing near the bodies, in uniform, with his back to the camera; he didn’t seem to have seen that the photographer was still at work.
It was them; he thought absently, the patrols that Aunt Lydia had talked of, the ones she had sent out, no surprise that they hadn’t come back with any survivors.
Jules dropped the files he still held. He was certain any moment someone would come through the open door and see all those secrets he had found. I will move silently, normally, he said, but then berated himself for breathing. You’re being too loud, his thoughts screamed at him. He moved to the window, the guards below were talking together – but there was no sign of the returning van. He stepped through the photos and files, grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut behind him. Jules’ head felt oddly empty. I need time to stop and think, the babyish voice cried at the back of his mind but he knew that he didn’t have that option.
It didn’t seem to take long to make it down the stairs. He walked past the three guards who didn’t stop him. He kept walking. He knew if someone spoke to him, that he’d start to scream and then he’d tell them what he’d seen…He could taste sick in his mouth, which had mixed with the remains of the cornflakes and tea that he had had for breakfast. When Jules rounded the corner of the road, he could feel the indents on his tongue where he’d bitten down too hard and when he fell to his knees and threw up, there was cereal and blood on the pavement.
It was a beautiful afternoon – a blue cloudless sky stretched high above the crouching figure of Jules. Think, he told himself. Amy - she’ll be back in Delaware House, locked behind the door reading and unaware. He could picture her perfectly. Her hair no longer spilling over her shoulders but tucked neatly back in a braid, and her head bent over the desk. She didn’t like his father’s military books but there was nothing else, so she was rapidly becoming an expert on martial action. In a way, he told himself, she was safe locked up in Delaware House. I can’t go and get her. I can’t… He looked around him. The park he stood in was empty but the guards from the gallery would be getting back soon, and someone would find the room and the photos that he hadn’t hidden. They would tell someone – Aunt Lydia perhaps and then men in uniform, groups of them would descend on him – he didn’t have enough time to save her. He wouldn’t be able save her.
Waterloo Bridge was the last bridge left. It was close, and Jules started to walk towards it. The once wide road narrowed into the famed bridge, which was built from chunky sand-coloured bricks. It was now covered with a doomed roof of tarpaulin. Guards blocked the way. Standing upright they wore their green uniforms and their guns with equal pride. Jules had forgotten when it had become mandatory for them to carry weapons.
He reached the gate it looked more welcoming that the smooth un-climbable walls of the Barricade.
‘ID?’ The guard was to Jules’ eyes, interchangeable with the others behind him. There were some many others, yet more men in uniform. He counted ten at least, but he couldn’t pick them apart. Any of them could have been the guard in the photograph standing over the dead.
‘My Aunt sent me. I’m going to collect a package from outside.’ Jules’ voice was flat.
The head of the guard bent as he read the information on the card. Another one leaned over and smirked.
‘Better let his highness through.’
Jules stayed quiet. The gate started to lift and he walked underneath it. He wondered what would happen to Amy. She was only a child – nine and eight weeks she told him recently - her birthday was in May. May the 12th. Next birthday will be better, he’d said. Step, one footfall after another, the wire, the bricks and the mortar of the Barricade dropped away and each step took him closer to the other side.
‘Wait.’ A voice called out behind him.
Jules thought of running but having only reached the middle of the bridge, the distant steps at the end seemed a very long way off.
A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back, ‘Where’s your gun?’
‘I –’
‘You better take mine. It’s much worse out there.’
‘Um – thank you.’
He reached the steps at the end, and stopped himself from running. They would still be watching him.
When the buildings hid him from their sight, and when he could no longer see Waterloo Bridge, he started to sprint. To run like he had before The Event, before it had all happened. He couldn’t let himself think of Amy, she’d be fine, he told himself, she had survived this long. She didn’t need him. Jules could see the streets of Toulouse rather than the pavements of London under his feet. He didn’t stop running until the tops of the Barricade had vanished from view.
