Rufus awoke dry-mouthed and cold. He peeled back the pages of Time Out that he used as a makeshift blanket and peered out. It was early morning – the dust was not yet rising – and the cold glare of the sun forced him to shield his eyes.
“Ugh. Need espresso”, he muttered, smacking his lips and rolling over in his nest of papers. An article, “The 50 Best Supper Clubs in Shoreditch” casually settled in front of him. He chuckled – before it came he’d planned to visit each and every one. He was especially excited by the prospect of number 28, an all-male amateur burlesque experience on Bacon Street.
But it wasn’t to be. The evening of number 27, it came. It changed everything. And Bacon Street now was nothing more than a memory and an ironic mound of smouldering rubble, teeming with rats and passed over by the occasional scavenger.
He thought back to that night and closed his eyes. Had he really enjoyed a delightfully kitsch fondue just moments before everything changed? He remembered reaching for a baby corn to make his final pass at the hot bowl, then suddenly the ironically chosen bottle of Blue Nun shattered spontaneously, pandemonium descended upon them. The taste of hot cheese and croutons still lingered in his mouth as he sprinted through the streets, searching for shelter from it. He truly understood duality of meaning at that moment.
Sitting up, Rufus noticed that Leonard had still not returned. His bed lay empty, all American Apparel boxes, paper bagel bags and back issues of “Vice”. Neatly arranged beside it were Leonard’s wordly possessions – antique brogues, brown, an undersized waistcoat, a pocketwatch, a simple bow and arrow, and a half-used wrap of ketamine.
The futility of these meagre, humble, but also beautiful objects – remainders of the carefree life left behind – crushed Rufus, pushed down on his remaining hope. If Leonard, gentle, beautiful Leonard was gone, then what hope was there?
“He can’t be. He can’t be. You’ll be back, won’t you old mate?” But there was no answer. Just the creak of metal still straining and twisting, and the soft wind of the morning.
Redchurch Street had changed beyond all recognition. Still he stayed there, with Leonard, clinging on to their neighbourhood, wandering the streets, picking through the wreckage of the landscape they once animated with their incredible lives.
Where once had bustled and thrived a community of photographers, bloggers, haberdashers, artists, poets, graffitoes and models, now stood vast columns of desolate steel and concrete, piles of broken glass and all-around flesh and rotting food and dust dust everywhere.
Rufus calculated he had an hour to spare before the wind grew and the dust forced him to shelter again. Hungry, aching and still chilled from sleep he put on his military jacket and All Saints boots and stepped out of the husk of building that he and Leonard had made their own. Two walls, some bare floor and by luck and bizarre physics a portion of roof that kept off the acid rain when it sparingly fell. It was shelter. Rough shelter, scant and uncomfortable. In many ways it embodied the principles of urban decay, dereliction and post-industrial modernism that he had flippantly sought out in the days before it happened. If he had know then what he knew now, he would have embraced comfort, mainstream lines and warm colours with all his might.
Picking his way carefully across the rubble, he considered his position. Leonard had been gone for 2 days. He had no food. Nightly, the sounds of aggressive gangs of survivors had come closer. It was only a matter of time before they would stumble across him. Without Leonard he would be in danger. Leonard was tall, lean and muscular. His biceps curled beneath a cropped, deep-V necked vest. Sailor tattoos adorned his chest. His stubble and sparing, NHS-style spectacles gave his face a Spartan quality that was useful in moments of conflict. Days beforehand he’d fought off a passing scavenger with a simple look.
It wasn’t the first time that Leonard had disappeared for more than a day. His hunting trips in Victoria park could last for days. On his return, normally bringing a catch of squirrels, herons or fashionable dogs, he would brood as the meat roasted. “It’s not right,” he would mutter, “they’re all over now. All over. With their baggy trousers and lack of personal irony, who do they think they are?”
Rufus didn’t pry, but he knew all too well what Leonard was referring to – he’d seen it himself. Normal people. Non-Shoreditch people. People with standard collar sizes, no clear sense of style, people who didn’t appreciate the statement a non-functioning vintage television set could make in a room. They were all around, drawn to Shoreditch by the rumours of fuel stockpiles, ample bagels, and live game in the parks. Many of them hadn’t even been to an illegal car-park party on a Sunday.
But Leonard wasn’t hunting now. His bow and arrow rested against the wall where he’d left it, his hunting trilby beside it.
Heading West down Redchurch Street towards the scorched remains of The Albion café, Rufus huddled inside his jacket. Was it cold? Or was it Leonard’s absence which chilled him? Without food, and with the impending danger of a fight, he needed to make a decision for his own survival. Head East to the docklands? He’d vowed never to return there after an abortive night out at Matter but that was before all of this. Could he face it?
Or South? Through Spitalfields and beyond lay the hallowed land of Borough. The market held delicious foods, wines and decorative plants. But they’d said that about Broadway, and when he and Leonard had ventured there they’d encountered sights which sickened and disturbed them beyond words. Men turned to savages ran naked on London Fields and hunting the weak and the vulnerable. Cannibalism was rife. Market stands once laden with delicious and exotic foods now dripped with blood and entrails. Sexual assaults were common, and took place in broad daylight. Rufus saw a moustachioed youth in a boater and dungarees buggered senseless. Could Borough Market hold the same nightmares? The thought filled him with dread.
And then to his left, in the crushed glass and darkness of the Owl and Pussycat he saw a shadow move, quickly and clumsily ducking behind the bar. Rufus started, fear awakening his tired limbs. He clenched his fists, steeled himself, and stepped forward.
“Who’s there? Leonard? Is that you?”
No answer. Just the crunch of glass underfoot and the smell of stale beer. They never sold mojitos, he thought. Why would they never sell mojitos?
“Leonard, this isn’t funny… Come out”
“I’m not your friend” The hoarseness of the voice startled him.
“Who…who are you?” Rufus was ashamed. His voice sounded small and afraid. Leonard’s baritone put him to shame.
“You should get on your way. I’m no good for you. Move along before I do something I regret.”
The threat compounded the fear in Rufus. In his heart he wanted to run, to hide under his Time Out magazine duvet and shut out this world of blood and dust. But as he turned to run he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.
A Nike high top, with fluorescent pink trim, oversize Velcro straps and neon green laces.
Leonard’s shoe. Lay amongst the rubble of the Owl and Pussycat. In the dark.
“Move along I say. There’s nothing left of him. He’s mine. Catch some of your own.”
Rufus stood, frozen to the spot. The wind grew around him and dust rose around him. Squinting, he gazed again into the dark of the hollowed-out pub. A shoe. A leg, and then. Meat. Just meat. And an arm, emblazoned with a koi karp, Japanese leaf tattoos, and the traditional mermaid of the sailors that Leonard had loved so much.
