Numbers

Everything was up and running now, the traffic in full swing, people out and about. Earlier, it had felt like the city was mine; I’d owned the peace and quiet, just me. But now me and Spider were two ants in a city of millions, nothing more than that. The sun was out now, too. It was turning into one of those bright, crisp winter days.

“Don’t have to walk today, we can get the Tube. Could get a taxi, if you wanted – just about.”

“How much have you got, Spider?”

“Sixty quid – all mine.” He grinned. “Got to be back this evening, though. Bit more business to do. But the whole of the day’s ours,” he said, spreading his arms and twirling about. “Where do you wanna go?”

“I dunno. Oxford Street?”

“OK.” He drew himself up to his full height, then spread one arm in front of me, as if showing me the way, and in the loudest, most stupid toff’s voice said, “A little light shopping, madam. Is that to your liking?”

People were starting to look.

“Shut up, Spider!” He looked a bit crestfallen. “Come on, you soft git, that sounds cool. Let’s get on with it.” And I started running toward the Tube, and then he was there next to me, long legs easily beating me in our race to the ticket booth.

“It’s a fucking rip-off, man, that’s what it is. Sixteen quid to go up in that thing.” He flipped his arm toward the London Eye Ferris wheel, anger fizzing through his body right down to his fingertips. We’d spent most of our money on Oxford Street on stupid sunglasses and hats and Big Macs. Sixty quid doesn’t go very far in London.

People were starting to stare at him. I suppose when you weren’t used to him, he was something to stare at: a six-foot-four black guy, ranting in the street. The queue was gawping at him, like he was a hired clown – just there for their entertainment. I thought, They’ll start chucking coins at him in a minute. Some of them were elbowing each other, saying things out of the corners of their mouths, laughing. Disrespectful, like Jordan had been to me.

“Forget it, then,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. “I don’t want to go on the poxy thing, anyway. Let’s go somewhere else.”

But he was off on a rant now. “Everything’s for sodding tourists in this town. What about us? What about normal people, ain’t got sixteen quid for a poncey carnival ride?” Some of his audience were starting to look uneasy, shifting slowly a bit farther away from him, exchanging worried glances. I was enjoying their reaction now. He was shaking them up a bit.

My eyes ran along the line – yeah, they were getting pretty uncomfortable. A couple of Japanese tourists, wearing matching blue parkas, woolly hats, and gloves, glanced in our direction. In that split second it took for them to look across and look away, I clocked their numbers and got a jolt like an electric shock. They were the same. Weird, I thought, matching death dates – what were the odds? Then the actual numbers registered, like a punch to my head. 12082010. That was today. What the hell…?

I looked back across at them, but Spider’s antics had become too much: They’d turned their backs on us, probably hoping that we’d go away. I must have made a mistake, I thought. I needed to check this out. I started walking toward the queue, thinking I’d go ’round to the other side, have a look at them again. Spider didn’t even notice I’d gone – I could hear him cursing away to himself, cocooned in his outrage.

The line was pretty dense. I made for a slight gap between a young guy in a tracksuit with a rucksack on his back and an old lady with a thick tweed coat on, carrying a straw bag.

“’Scuse me,” I said as I walked toward the lady. I needn’t have said anything, she was backing away, anyway. “Ta,” I said as I squeezed through. She smiled thinly, clutching her bag to her body, and I caught the worry in her face as our eyes briefly met. I caught her number, too, and stopped in my tracks. I stared at her, I couldn’t help it. 12082010.

This was unreal. What did it mean? Sweat came pricking out through my skin, all over me. I stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at her.

The old lady took a deep breath. Her pupils were wide with fear.

“I haven’t got much money,” she said quietly, voice wavering ever so slightly. Her hands were holding her bag so tightly the knuckles were white.

“What?” I said.

“I haven’t got much money. This is a treat for me – I’ve been saving my pension…”

The light went on: The old dear thought I was going to rob her. “No,” I said, taking a step backward. “No, I don’t want your money. No, that’s not it. Sorry.”

I’d bumped into the guy in front of us, and he swung ’round, the corner of his damn bag catching my back. God, I’m going to get a beat-down, I thought. I started backing away in Spider’s direction.

“Hey, sorry,” I said, head down, hands in pockets. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“It’s OK. This is not a problem.” His stilted English caught my attention. I peered out from under my hood. Weirdly, he looked as spooked as I was, sweat beading on his forehead, hair dark and damp around his scalp. “Everything is OK,” he said, and nodded, willing me to agree with him.

“Sure, everything’s OK,” I echoed, amazed that I could still speak like a normal human being. Inside me, my real voice was screaming now – a piercing shriek of terror tearing through me. He had it, too, you see. 12082010. His number.

Something was going to happen to these people.

Today.

Here.

I turned ’round and stumbled back to Spider, who was still cussing like a sailor.

“Spider, we’ve got to go, now.” He ignored me, wrapped up in his own little world. I grabbed his sleeve. “Please, mate, listen to me. We’ve got to get out of here.” Couldn’t he hear the fear in my voice? Couldn’t he feel my hand shaking on his arm?

“I ain’t going nowhere, man. I ain’t finished with this place.”

“Yes, Spider, you are. It doesn’t matter. We just need to get away.”

Every second we stood there talking was a second closer to whatever was going to wipe these people out. My heart was hammering away in my chest, like it was going to burst through my rib cage.

“I’m going to talk to the main man, whoever’s in charge here. Someone needs to tell them, set them straight. It’s disgusting, ripping off people like this. We shouldn’t put up with it no more. We…”

He just wasn’t listening. There was no way to make him listen.

“…take too much of this shit in this country. We’re all treated like second-class citizens. We -”

Without even thinking about it, I lifted up my hand and slapped him hard in the face. And I do mean hard. Smack! He stopped midflow, frozen in total shock. Then he put his hand up to his cheek.

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“I need you to listen. We’ve got to get out of here. Please, please, get me out of here, Spider. Come on.” I grabbed his other hand and pulled until, finally, he started to move. I broke into a run, kind of dragging him along, and then, at last, he was running, too. Getting into it, he let go of my hand and sprinted ahead of me, long legs striding out, arms pumping. Half a minute later, he stopped to wait for me, and then we jogged together, along the Embankment and over Hungerford Bridge. We slowed to a walk midway across the bridge, then stopped and looked back where we’d come from. Everything was just as it had been, no problems.

“What’s going on, Jem? What was that all about?”

“Nothing. You were just upsetting people, that’s all. The next thing someone would’ve called the police.” It could have been true, couldn’t it? But even as I said it, I knew it sounded lame, and it didn’t fool Spider.

“Nah, that’s not it. Look at you, there’s something wrong. You look like a ghost, man. Even whiter than normal. What’s wrong with you?”

Standing there, looking over the Thames and the city just getting on with a normal day, I suddenly felt that I’d made a fool of myself. The words running through my head didn’t sound real, even to me – numbers, death dates, disaster. It sounded ridiculous, a stupid fantasy. And perhaps that was all it was, some twisted game my mind was playing on me.

“It’s nothing, Spider. I had a bad feeling there, a panic attack. I’m OK now – well, not OK, but better.” I tried to turn the conversation back to him. “I’m sorry I hit you.” I put my hand up to his face and held it there for a couple of seconds. “Is it sore?”