Page 37 of 59 Minutes
CARRIE
‘Grace!’
The power is still out and Carrie gropes around her, trying to find Grace or some trace of where she could be. Why isn’t she speaking?
This is a kind of darkness Carrie has never seen in the city. The streetlights have been snuffed, the nearby houses and shops are without power. Only the dim orange glow from a distant pile of crashed cars smears the darkness with its thumb.
This is war. A sudden, alien thought. London has done this before, blacking out for the Blitz. Is that what they’re doing now? Surely modern missiles are more high tech than this? Do they need visibility? Isn’t it all done with computers? Why the hell haven’t I paid attention?
Something metallic collides with her leg and she nearly falls over. It’s a bike – she can hear the rattle of the wheels and just make out the shape of the rider as they whip away into the night.
Nearby, people are shouting and crying, but they’re just grey shapes, the whole picture of Kennington Road is like dark papier maché, shapes on shapes, torn out and undefined.
Her eyes adjust more. Shop fronts and houses are pencilled in, she sees people darting around. She can see the cyclist that clipped her, zigzagging around people in the dark like a dying wasp. But she can’t see Grace.
People have started using their phone flashlights, the whole road seemingly dotted with fireflies. She can see colours now, of sleeves and coats. Grace cannot have gone far.
She tries to remember what she could see just before the power went. An alleyway, a man. She hears scuffling nearby. Oh fuck.
She can see the opening to the alleyway, still totally dark. But she can definitely hear movement. ‘Grace, come out,’ she says, but it’s clear she won’t. Or more likely she can’t. Because she’s not alone in there.
Carrie takes a cautious step inside and her foot sends a glass bottle spinning noisily.
A muffled cry comes from a few metres away.
Carrie stoops and gropes for the smashed bottle, her hand shaking so much she can barely grasp it.
‘I’m armed,’ she says, and it sounds ludicrous.
‘Just let her go, and no one will ever know.’
A muffled sob.
‘Come on,’ she says, ‘we’ve only got minutes left of life as we know it, do you want to spend it hurting a young girl?’
‘Yes,’ comes a voice. Reedy and robotic.
Carrie stands up straighter, the anger moving through her like adrenaline, as she steps further into the alleyway.
She grips the bottle tightly as the street lights around sputter into life and she sees him.
He’s standing in front of a wheelie bin, his arms holding Grace tightly.
A small, wimpy man, about fifty. A dirty carrier bag has been pulled over Grace’s head and pinched together under her chin.
As she breathes – rapid, animal – the plastic sucks tight around her mouth.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Carrie shouts. Devoid of a better idea, she throws the bottle just behind him.
He cowers. A rat man in his rat alley. His grip on Grace slackens and she runs full pelt towards Carrie, tearing the bag off as they collide.
‘You evil prick,’ Grace shouts over her shoulder as they run from him, tangled together.
It hits Carrie like a punch. Even now, even in this, the chance to hurt women and girls is still all-consuming to some men.
And if there’s him, there’ll be a hundred, a thousand men more.
All the men who have shouted things at her and Emma, or not believed her when she’s said she’s not interested.
Are they still stalking the city today? Will they be waiting around the next corner?
Carrie pulls Grace close and tries to comfort her, to show that she’ll protect her, but the girl shakes herself loose and turns back to shout at the man. ‘You deserve what’s coming!’