The Doomsday Prophecy

Ben took out his cigarettes. ‘You mind?’

‘I’ll join you,’ she said. He gave her a light, and they clinked glasses. It seemed a little strange to him to be sitting there with her, yet at the same time she was easy to be with.

‘Great concert,’ she said. ‘Shame about the audience.’

‘I guess Bartok’s an acquired taste.’

‘If it had been Chopin’s greatest hits, or some frilly baroque thing, the place would have been packed out.’ She smiled. ‘So, Ben, are you a postgrad or what?’

‘Undergrad. Waiting to start my final year at Christ Church.’

She seemed surprised.

‘I know,’ he said, catching her look. ‘I’m old.’

‘You’re not old.’

I feel old, he thought. And tired. ‘I took some time out,’ he explained. ‘Did two years of my theology degree, long ago. Too long ago. Now they’ve let me back in to finish it.’

‘Career change?’

‘Definitely.’

‘What did you do before?’

He thought for a moment. Even thought about telling her the truth – then decided against it. ‘I was self- employed. Kind of a freelance consultant. Troubleshooter. Specialist stuff. I travelled around a lot.’

It was meaningless, the vaguest answer he could think of, but she seemed satisfied with it. ‘Career change would suit me too,’ she said.

‘You don’t like working at the library?’

‘It’s OK. But I want to paint. I’m an artist. The Bodleian job’s only a few hours a week, to help with bills. I’d go full time with the art if I could make a living out of it. But things are tight.’

‘Tough business,’ he said. ‘I hope you succeed. What kind of art do you do?’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘No, I am interested.’

She reached into her bag and brought out a business card. On one side was printed LUCY WILDE, FINE ART PAINTER and a phone number and website address. Ben flipped it over. The back of the card was printed with an abstract design, clean and geometric, a style that reminded him of Kandinsky. ‘This is one of yours?’

She nodded.

‘I like it. You’re pretty good. I hope you do well with this stuff.’ He made to hand her back the card.

‘Keep it,’ she said. He smiled and slipped the card into his pocket.

There was silence between them for a few moments. He twirled the glass on the tabletop, then glanced at his watch. ‘Maybe I should be going.’ He drained the last of his drink.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘North Oxford. Woodstock Road. What about you?’

‘Up in Jericho.’

‘I’d offer you a lift,’ he said. ‘But I’m on foot.’

‘Same here. But you’re going my way, as far as St Giles. Walk with me?’

He nodded. She smiled, and they left together. They didn’t talk much as they walked back along the narrow street. Their footsteps echoed up the pitted old walls of college buildings as they made their way back towards the centre of town. A crowd had spilled out of the New Theatre and the kebab vans were busy, filling the warm night air with the smell of grilled meat. Past St John’s College, up the broad St Giles. The streets were quieter there, and the streetlights cast off a dim amber glow.

Lucy stopped. ‘I go this way,’ she said, pointing to a sidestreet. ‘So I’ll see you sometime? The library?’

‘I suppose so.’ He was about to turn to walk away.

‘Ben?’

‘What?’

Her voice was hesitant. ‘I was thinking – would you like to go to see a film with me tomorrow night?’

He said nothing.

‘It’s a movie about Goya,’ she said nervously. ‘The artist.’

‘I know who Goya was.’ He hated the abrupt way it came out.

‘I don’t know if it’ll be any good. But I thought you might like -’ Her voice trailed off. She shuffled a little, looked down at her feet, fiddled with her bag.

He hesitated. ‘Sorry, Lucy. I don’t think I can make that. I’m busy.’

‘What about some other night? Maybe a drink?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

She looked flustered. ‘OK, I understand. See you round, then.’ She turned to go, and he watched her walk away. She didn’t look back. He carried on up the street.

After about a hundred yards he slowed his step. Stopped. Stood under the amber lights and shook his head. What an arsehole, the voice in his head told him. He’d handled that all wrong. Stupid and clumsy and callous. She obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who asked men out on dates every day. It had been an effort for her to come out with it, but he’d stepped on her like an insect. She deserved better than that. He needed to go back and explain the situation. That he liked her, but just couldn’t see much of her. How he could never possibly be attracted to anyone, not for a long time and maybe never again. That it wasn’t personal – it was just him and his problems. That he was sorry.

He turned and strode back to the cobbled side-street where he’d watched Lucy walk away from him. It was poorly lit and narrow, and the high buildings either side threw long black shadows across the cobbles. Little more than a long alleyway. There was nobody around.

Just Lucy and the three guys.

They were thirty yards away. They had her pressed up against the wall. One in front with his hand on her throat. One each side, blocking her escape. She was struggling and kicking. One of them had her bag, and she was holding onto the strap, trying to snatch it back away from him. Then she let go, and Ben heard a laugh over her faint cries.

He moved stealthily against the dark shadows. They were too preoccupied with Lucy to notice his approach, but not even a professional soldier would have heard him. Two of them were white, and the third one who’d ripped her bag out of her hands was Asian. The one holding her throat looked the most useful. Shaved head, nose ring, confident attitude. Definitely the leader. The other white one was short, chunky, mostly fat. They were little more than kids, aged probably between seventeen and twenty, all in the same kind of designer sports gear.

Just kids, but dangerous kids. Something glinted in the dull amber light. The leader had reached inside his jacket and drawn out a blade. A kitchen knife, black plastic handle, maybe eight inches of serrated steel. He waved it in Lucy’s face. She let out a stifled scream and he growled at her to stay still and shut the fuck up.

Ben’s fists tightened at the sight of the knife. He moved closer, completely quiet. They still hadn’t seen him.

The Asian kid was rifling through her bag, looking for her purse whilst his fat friend grabbed her arm, trying to pull off her watch. Her eyes were locked open in terror.

Ben stepped out of the shadows. They froze. Stared at him. Lucy gasped his name.

His mind was full of the ways he could take them out. Three seconds, and they could all be down and broken on the ground. As for the knife, it was big and scary to the average victim, but the leader kid had no idea how to use it. Not against someone trained to take it off him and drive it into his brain pan before he could even draw a breath.

They were dangerous kids. But still kids.

‘Open the purse,’ he said to the Asian one. The kid glanced down at it, then back at Ben. He blinked.

‘Go on, open it,’ Ben said, keeping his eyes on the leader. His voice was steady and soft.

The knife kid was frowning and Ben could see the confusion in his face. He knew what he was thinking. Three against one, but something was horribly wrong with the balance of power. His confidence was ebbing away fast, and the defiance in his eyes was fading into fear as he fought for words. The knife was wavering a little in his fist. He slackened his hold on Lucy, and she wriggled away from him.