Apocalypse Cow (28 page)

‘We’re going to need some weapons – guns if possible,’ James said.

‘Mum wouldn’t like you using a gun,’ Geldof objected.

‘She would understand.’

From Terry’s experience of Fanny, he doubted that would have been the case. Even if a cow had been eating Geldof alive, Fanny would probably have exhorted him to make sure he didn’t break one of its teeth with his bones. But Terry stayed quiet. He had seen how his mother revised his father’s entire character within two weeks of his death, changing him from a cold fish who preferred the company of his golf clubs into a jovial, loving man who enjoyed nothing more than curling up on the sofa to play Monopoly with his family. Fanny was undergoing a similar reinvention in James’s mind.

‘This is Glasgow, not the South Bronx,’ Terry said. ‘I think our chances of getting our hands on some guns are pretty slim.’

They stared at the dark mouth of the tunnel.

‘Are you sure we want to go in there?’ Lesley asked.

So far they had not encountered any trains; services must have stopped when the country went under martial law. But Terry was still worried the tunnel might be blocked, which would mean a nerve-racking walk through the darkness. Nevertheless, as unappealing as that sounded, the tunnel was their only viable option and it would at least serve as a rehearsal for the larger tunnel at the end of their journey.

‘No real choice, I’m afraid,’ he said, and edged forward.

The headlights picked out the tracks and little else until Terry turned on the full beam. He drove slowly, peering into the blackness for any sign of danger. The headlights cast ominous shadows across the walls, sometimes looking like a fluid mass of rats, sometimes like the hulking backs of a herd of cows. In the end they saw not a single living creature, not even in the pools of daylight shining through the open roofs of the deserted stations they passed along the way.

Finally they emerged into Queen Street Station, where they would have to leave the relative safety of the car. The engine noise echoed off the high ceilings above the platform, which was empty apart from a few cardboard Costa coffee cups and billboards advertising cheap holidays in the sun nobody would be taking for quite some time. Terry stopped the car and killed the lights. Daylight trickled down the steps leading to the main station, lending the platform an eerie grey light.

‘What now?’ Lesley asked.

‘Terry and I go scouting,’ James said. ‘If we aren’t back in thirty minutes, or you hear something that doesn’t sound right, drive right back up that tunnel.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if they waited to see if we need to get back into the car?’ Terry asked.

‘No,’ James replied. ‘And Lesley, if we don’t make it back, I need you to look after Geldof.’

‘Steady on,’ Lesley objected. ‘I can’t even look after myself at the best of times. How about I go scouting with you, and Terry gets the parenting gig?’

‘I’ll look after him,’ Mary said, the first words she had spoken since witnessing her sons’ death.

She grabbed Geldof’s head, jammed it into her bosom, and began stroking his hair. The effect on Geldof, who had looked as if he was about to oppose his father’s will, was like plugging a dummy into an infant’s mouth.

‘Be careful,’ Lesley said.

Terry gave her a weak smile. ‘If anything happens, I’ll run like the coward I am.’

He and James clambered onto the platform and crept to the stairs. Terry’s ears had become super-sensitive radar dishes, almost swivelling as he strained to hear anything that sounded remotely like scampering, scuttling, tramping, stampeding or pattering. He was painfully aware they had nothing to use as a weapon should the need arise, although James seemed unconcerned. At the top of the stairs, James peeked around the corner, and then signalled it was OK to advance. He went into a crouch position, sidling along the wall beneath the ticket booths like a furtive crab. Terry followed, trying to avoid brushing his hair against the numerous clumps of chewing gum stuck to the underside of the shelves that jutted out from the booths. At the corner to the main concourse, James once again ducked his head round and gave the all-clear.

Terry straightened up, groaning at the release of the pressure on his knees, and set out across the deserted
concourse
. Half of the platforms had trains parked in them beneath a lifeless overhead board. The coffee shops and newsagents were shuttered, while the exits also looked firmly locked up. He made a beeline for the left luggage department, leaving James to check the side exits. He had no intention of spending the rest of the journey in boxer shorts, a T-shirt and bare feet. With a bit of luck he would find some clothes that fitted him, a makeshift weapon and something to prise open the shutters to the newsagents and gain access to the snacks therein.

Halfway across, a smoky smell with a meaty undertone tickled his nostrils. The images of the animals he had killed bobbing along in the river of blood returned briefly. His head swam, and he had to stop and put his hands on his knees. When the dizziness passed, he diverted his course towards the main exit, which led out onto George Square. The smell grew stronger.

When he peered through the slat in the shutters blocking the door, he saw a black mass heaped up around the column jutting from the middle of the square’s red concrete surface. Whatever it was, it reached the feet of the statue on top of the column and sprawled around it in all directions. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the pile, to be snatched away by the wind. Then Terry saw what could only be an arm sticking out, and understood what he was looking at: a pile of bodies, animal and human, fused together in one blackened mass. He slid down the wall.

‘What is it?’ James called from the other side of the hall.

‘You’d better see for yourself.’

James looked out of the window for a long time then sat beside Terry.

‘How many people are in there?’ Terry asked.

‘It looks like mostly animals to me. But I doubt that’s the only bonfire.’

‘Jesus,’ Terry murmured. ‘This is really grim.’

‘Look, it’s good news,’ James said. ‘It means that the military has some level of control, at least in this part of town.’

‘Hurray. Except the military are probably after us as well, remember?’

‘I’d rather deal with soldiers. There are specific rules under martial law, which means you can predict what is going to happen. Animals don’t have a rulebook.’

After a short silence, Terry leapt to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ James asked.

‘The only thing that’s going to cheer me up is a can of Irn Bru and a packet of Pickled Onion Monster Munch, which are locked up in that store.’ Terry jabbed a finger at the newsagents. ‘We need to find something to break in with.’

He strode to the left luggage office. The flimsy lock caved in with a few kicks. He hurdled the counter and began rifling through piles of abandoned suitcases and bags. Judging by the amount of luggage still there, they must have closed the station at short notice. He sifted through clothes, books and toiletries and was fingering a pair of frilly black knickers when James joined him.

James raised an eyebrow.

‘Slingshot?’ Terry said, pulling the elastic back and firing the pants at James.

James dodged the lacy projectile and joined the search.

Ten minutes later, they emerged with two pool cues, a crowbar found in a utility room at the back of the office, a couple of torches, and a toolbox full of wrenches and screwdrivers.
Terry
was newly clad in a pair of hiking boots, waterproof trousers and a bulky North Face jacket, courtesy of the owner of a hefty rucksack. They set about the padlock on the shop’s shutters, making a horrendous racket that Terry was sure would bring any animals in the vicinity running. He was too hungry to be overly concerned.

Once the shutter was up, Terry raided the soft drinks cabinet. He chugged down a full can of Irn Bru in ten seconds flat, let loose a massive belch, and then attacked the crisps section. He was cramming Monster Munch into his mouth when there was a flash of white in the corner of his vision. He froze mid-chew.

‘Something’s coming,’ he told James, peering out of the window.

Pelting up Queen Street towards the station were four tracksuit-clad youths on mountain bikes, each of them with a bulging rucksack strapped to his back. All four were glancing over their shoulders and hammering at the pedals as fast as they could. The rear cyclist, a scrawny kid barely into his teens, turned round too far. The rucksack shifted and he lost control, the bike somersaulting ahead of him as he slid into the kerb at speed. Watches, mobile phones and iPads spilled out of his bag across the road. His friends didn’t slow down.

‘Looters,’ James remarked. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

What came round the corner next was definitely something to worry about: a jeep carrying three soldiers armed with squat guns. They roared past the fallen kid, who was slowly regaining his feet, and pursued the other three. There was a long burst of automatic fire. The three cyclists came tumbling off like rag dolls. The jeep stopped and the soldiers piled out. Two of them ran up to the cyclists, while the other headed
back
to the boy, who was backing away from the rucksack. Four single shots rang out.

‘Martial law,’ James said. ‘Looters get shot.’

The soldiers gathered up the bodies and set them to burning before driving off. Terry put the unfinished packet of Monster Munch back on the shelf.

James stayed at the window, looking down at the fresh fire, his face expressionless. ‘We’re going to have to wait until nightfall before moving.’

‘If I put a pound in the till it doesn’t count as looting,’ Terry said to himself, fishing in his pockets.

James pulled him up by the arm. ‘They’re not going to ask to see your receipt before opening fire. Stay here. I’ll go get the others.’

It seemed like an eternity before James came scuttling back with the rest of the party. They all crammed into the small shop and James pulled the shutters down.

‘What’s that smell?’ Lesley asked, trying to wrinkle her nose but failing due to the fact it was swollen up and looked rather like an old radish.

‘Look out of the window,’ James said.

Lesley did. As with Terry, it took her a few seconds to understand what she was seeing. She turned away, her cheeks pale, and sat beside Terry. Geldof peeled himself from Mary’s embrace to look, and then quickly returned to take up his role as a human teddy. Mary showed no interest in finding out what the fuss was about.

‘Hey, where did you get the clothes?’ Lesley asked.

Terry accompanied Lesley to the left luggage room. As she rummaged through the suitcases, the clouds burst overhead, sending sheets of water lashing against the windowpane.

‘This reminds me of the caravan holidays we used to take at Arbroath when I was a kid,’ Lesley said. ‘We’d always be stuck inside, the rain drumming down on the roof.’

‘That must have been boring,’ Terry said.

‘Not really. We’d play games. Both my parents were journalists, so they would have me interview them, do fake TV reports, that kind of thing. It was fun.’

‘So journalism’s a family tradition. They must have been proud when you started at the
Tribune
.’

‘They were,’ Lesley said, concentrating on slipping into a pair of jeans to go with the white woolly jumper she had put on earlier.

‘Wait a minute,’ Terry said. ‘Is your father Charles McBrien?’

Lesley grimaced. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘Wow. He’s a famous war correspondent.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s been everywhere: Somalia, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan.’

‘I know.’

‘He saved that little Muslim girl from the wreckage of a bombed-out building in Sarajevo. There was a film made—’

‘I know!’ Lesley yelled, hurling a pair of shoes she had been inspecting against the wall.

Terry held up his hands. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.’

‘Yeah, well. You think I don’t know how good a journalist he is and how crap I am?’

This time, Terry picked up on the cue. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself?’

Lesley flopped back in a pile of clothes and put her hands over her eyes. ‘Am I? I totally fucked this story up. I could have had it published by now. Now I might die before I can get it out.’

It was difficult to argue with Lesley, given the events of the day. Terry was beginning to believe their chances of survival were smaller than he had hoped. Lesley’s fear gave him something to focus on, though. If he could convince her, he could convince himself.

He sat down beside her. ‘You still have the data, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, patting her bra.

‘You’ve got the story then. All we have to do is get it out.’

‘All we have to do? It might prove a little more complicated than that.’

‘So far we’ve been shot at, chased by dogs and attacked by rats. We survived. And that was without James, who’s a trained soldier. Now he’s not totally wasted, he can help. We’ll definitely get out, your story will be published and your dad will be proud of you.’