Chapter One
The chill wind was thankfully cut off with the soft closing of the sliding window. Eighteen floors above the ground gave meagre to no heat when exposed to the night air. A shadow patiently listened, sharp ears searching for any tell-tale noise that would alert to another’s presence in the darkened apartment… There was none. Satisfied the black hooded figure stepped from the shadows.
Beyond the polarised floor to ceiling windows, on the southern banks of the River Thames, the fires of Low Town pricked the night like a thousand flickering stars stretching outwards in red and orange profusion to a hidden horizon lost in the darkness, giving the illusion of welcoming beauty. The lurid reflection glimmered on the lowering clouds, as if the sky were on fire, the low belly of the clouds angry, a dark volcanic hue as if Sauron himself had reawakened above the ruined streets of London.
It was all an illusion. The bright fires lighting up the darkness with a ruddy inviting glow hid the squalor and sordid reality of Low Town. A collection of threadbare tents and ramshackle hovels constructed out of old doors, wooden pallets, sheets of corrugated iron and plastic, rotting tarpaulins, all held together with string and wire and a prayer to the heavens that the first heavy storm didn’t bring ruin and collapse. The river lay like a sparkling ribbon of black oil, a glittering roiling snake separating opulence from squalor.
With an effort the angry thoughts were pushed away, now was not the time. Full attention was needed for the job in hand, discovery and capture were not an option.
The L.E.D. lights stitched around the hem of the hood gave ample light but not so much that it would be noticed from the ground. Gliding across the white granite tiles of the floor, weaving easily between the oversized leather sofa and the glass and mahogany coffee table the dark figure flitted to the door. An ambient light from the archway to the left illuminated the hallway beyond. The luminescence emanated from the stove in the kitchen, the green digits proclaiming it was one thirty-five a.m.
Without hesitation, on soundless soft-soled trainers the figure moved to the huge stainless-steel refrigerator dominating the further wall, trying to ignore the overwhelming stench of bleach lingering within the kitchen. Even now, four years later, the fear of the virus hung like a grim spectre over the ruined city as the pristine, sterile décor of the apartment attested. Every surface non-porous, white tiled walls, granite counter tops and floors, glass and stainless-steel cupboards, even the large island filling the central position in the kitchen was a monster of stainless steel and white stone. Every surface a proclamation to easy sterilization and cleanliness.
After the dimness of the room the brilliance was blinding as the figure pulled open the right-hand side of the refrigerator’s split doors, squinting in the glare, gasping with wide eyes as the contents were revealed.
“Fuck…” The voice was soft, low, awed.
The icebox was crammed with food of every description, cold meats, cheeses, ready-made meat pies, chicken, cooked vegetables in sealed containers, milk… Wine.
“Where the hell did they get wine from?” The voice asked no-one.
Then memories of the wine cellars below London Bridge Station, opposite Guy’s Hospital, in Tanner Street, Tooley Street and surrounding area came to mind, not to mention the myriad public houses dotted about London’s Square Mile, all within easy reach of High Home.
Slipping off the backpack the figure began loading it to bursting with food, pulling edibles out of their bulky containers to allow more room, utilizing every bit of the limited space. Forty-five kilos was the limit, anymore and it would be impossible to get back across the River Thames. Temptation to take the wine was great, but the bottles were large, and wine had no nutritional value. Essentials only…
Opening the freezer side of the refrigerator revealed packs of meat, bacon, pork, steak… It all went into the backpack. Satisfied, the backpack was closed, straps fastened as the figure swung it onto his back, so it nestled comfortably over the shoulders. The box of chocolate bars on the lower shelf sitting glaringly in their black and gold box gave the figure pause, looking at the confection avariciously. They weren’t essential, not a necessity…
“What the hell….” The chocolate bars were stuffed into the pockets of the three-quarter length coat.
Food had been the prime consideration, but something else was needed. Something to barter, something light, but of value. Thanks to previous reconnaissance the safe’s location was already known, behind the print of ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch hanging above the large double bed in the adjoining room. An odd choice of décor for a bedroom, but that was of no concern. The safe was easy to open, a piece of cake; no pun intended. The camera situated at the rear of the safe was ignored, its little red recording light gleaming balefully straight at the intruder, confident that the LED light around the hood would blind the lens and hide any identifying features. Rifling through the meagre contents, papers, photographs, a small, gold-plated Beretta which precipitated momentarily raised eyebrows, a small black velvet drawstring pouch was revealed. Looking inside gave rise to a satisfied grin. Perfect. The bag went into an inside coat pocket.
Taking an apple from the chrome wire fruit basket on the kitchen island the shadowy figure had one last look around the apartment, a cold and empty place despite the opulence, it had no soul, no ambience, no love. It was hard to decide what was worse, living in the squalor and filth of Low Town or here in the prissily antiseptic cleanliness of the high-rise apartments of High Home. Once they had been offices, businesses, showrooms… Once… Now they just stank of bleach, permeating the entire apartment to the point of nausea, a sterile, vacuous waste of space.
The colourful magazine thrown carelessly on the coffee table drew the shadow’s attention. Looking closer the eyes widened.
“No way…” The voice breathed.
“The Death of Superman” the banner proclaimed in bright yellow and red. Lois Lane, on her knees clutching the battered and bloody body of Superman in her arms, tears streaming down her distraught face, in the background the shredded remains of Superman’s cape fluttering like a ragged banner in an unfelt wind, depicted on the lurid cover.
April fourteen, nineteen ninety-three the date… He flicked through the precious magazine, his eyes scanning avidly, the interior art could have been better, and the story outcome, of course, didn’t last… But it was still a classic, nonetheless. Carefully folding the magazine, it joined the little black bag in his inside pocket.
Returning to the window that had given entrance to the apartment the figure paused, his welcome already well overstayed. The window was eased open and the figure stepped confidently out onto the narrow ledge, the cold wind once again brushing against the hooded face. The L.E.D. lights had been extinguished affording complete concealment from any watchful eyes from below. There were still a few people strolling about the quiet streets, the people of High Home rarely went early to their beds… Thankfully. It was unlikely any of them would actually look up, but there was always that chance. And there was High Homes Security Force to consider, they were armed and even this high up their guns still had the range.
Pulling the window almost closed the figure turned around, the wind plucking at the hood of the coat. The city sprawled out three hundred feet below, the pristine streets well-lit, safe, the few people taking their midnight strolls coming and going from God knows where, looking like ants, strolling around as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Anger tinged the deep reaches of the dark figure’s heart.
“That will change,” The thought was fierce, intense, and meant.
That was for another time, tonight had been a success, now it was time to go home and without further ado the figure stepped off the narrow sill.
