Introduction

Listening to: Incubus – Drive

Sunday 15/06/2057 05:25

Embankment Bridge

Morgan had not spoken for 2 years, 1 month, 30 days, one hour and twenty-five minutes.

He scribbled down this fact in a pocket diary, inwardly cursing himself for not knowing the precise number of seconds. It felt significant somehow. The diary was tattered and old, the Mickey Mouse picture on the front bearing one tea stain too many for his liking, and half the pages had fallen out. It was to be expected. Since he had bought the diary, his life had been a constant roller-coaster and he had never yet had enough time to buy a new one.

Looking up, Morgan saw the London skyline, under construction as usual. London 2057 was a carefully structured mess. Like a child’s mouth, the old teeth were gradually falling out, and shiny new versions were rising from the ground as if from nowhere. The red buses were a dying breed, and the black taxis a fading memory. Soon the whole of the city would be swallowed up by a torrent of little white boxes.

Looking down, he peered out across the Thames, oozing along its great sluggish path towards the sea. He wondered what it would be like to jump.

A train rattled by behind him, distracting him from his thoughts. Morgan shook his head, grey eyes scanning the page before him. Of course, he was wearing contacts, and had dyed his hair so many times he had forgotten its original colour. Today it was a dirty blonde, teased into feeble spikes that poked out from under a brown cap. Shrouded in a brown coat and with said hat so low he could barely see, Morgan looked for all the world like a juvenile flasher.

Tap, tap, tap. A woman in heels scuttled past, head down, eyes low. In a city of mistrust and suspicion, people generally avoided one another’s gaze for fear of seeing something they might regret. Morgan watched her go, then wrote it down. Moments later, a fat child waddled past holding a doughnut wrapped in a greasy napkin. Morgan was tempted to drop-kick this podgy infant into the Thames, and steal his breakfast too, but the kid was surprisingly fast and sped off after his mother as though he knew Morgan’s intentions. Several more people bustled past, unaware that Morgan was writing down every detail in his diary. He was waiting for someone special. He knew who it was, knew that the one he wanted walked this way every day without fail, but he still liked to arrive a few minutes early. He could watch people go by and make up stories for them.

Five-thirty. Morgan tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Please, he prayed, please, please, please. He wasn’t sure quite what it was he wanted. Perhaps just for things to be alright again, the way they had been before. Fat chance.

Yes! There he was. Morgan leant back against the rail, trying his best to look nonchalant as the subject of his attention walked past, whistling a jaunty tune and carrying his rucksack on one shoulder. Five-thirty exactly. Bang on time. After allowing him to walk a few paces ahead, Morgan pocketed the diary, tucked the pencil behind his ear and strolled along behind him at a leisurely pace. There was no rush; he knew exactly where they were going. Only every day he walked as a different person.

Right now, he knew, Ku would be straightening up and wiping the blood off his hands. And he knew Korin would be painting her nails in preparation for another day as a fake air hostess. Alex would be in a pub somewhere drowning his sorrows. He knew someone would be going to bed, while someone else was waking up. Someone would get kissed, someone would get punched in the face. Someone would laugh and someone would cry. He knew a baby was being born, somewhere, while someone curled up in their own blood and died. All happening, all at once, under the orange sky.

The city was waking up.