Anna and the Apocalypse Page 4

  “We?” Savage replied. “You mean you and your interminable offspring?”

  “Well, I usually call her Anna.” Tony nodded. “It’s shorter.”

  “And you want me to come to your house and eat a meal with you?” He could barely believe what he was hearing. Tony and Arthur were not friends. They had never been friends, they would never be friends. He must want something from him; Arthur firmly believed no one in this world did anything out of the goodness of their own heart anymore.

  “Yes, Arthur,” Tony said, clearly incapable of following even a simple instruction. “I am inviting you around to our house for dinner on Christmas Eve. It’ll be fun.” Neither of them looked convinced by this statement. “And maybe you can talk some sense into Anna. Seems she’s decided to go traveling rather than bother with university, and God knows she isn’t going to listen to her old dad.”

  And there it was.

  “Is that so?” Savage wasn’t surprised. “She’s a bright enough girl.”

  “Gets that from her mum.” Tony smiled, a wistful tear in his misty eyes.

  Arthur wasn’t quite finished. “She’s also rude, ignorant, and has absolutely zero respect for authority.”

  “Aye, gets more of that from me, I reckon,” he replied. “Proud and free spirited like her mother, but stubborn like her old dad. What a combo. She’s just a dreamer.”

  “She’s a lost cause,” Savage countered.

  “I don’t know about that.” Tony very nearly looked ever so slightly upset. “Anyway, can we expect you Thursday evening?”

  Savage stared at the fat, scruffy, middle-aged man.

  “No,” he said, astonished. “Absolutely not.”

  “Right you are,” Tony relented. “See you at six.”

  “Five thirty,” Savage barked as Tony saw himself out.

  It wasn’t just the children who needed to learn to do as they were told.

  “They’ll learn,” Savage said quietly, his eyes following Tony out of the building, across the parking lot, all the way back to his wreck of a car. “One way or another, they’ll all learn.”

  6

  “I REALLY WANT you to get under the skin of this place,” Steph explained, pulling the sleeve of her sweater down over her hands to open the door to the soup kitchen. It was freezing outside. “Lots of close-ups, lots of expressions. Who are these people? Where have they been? How did they end up here?”

  “I don’t know,” Chris replied. “How did they end up here?”

  Steph sucked in her cheeks and exhaled slowly.

  “I wasn’t asking you to answer the question yourself,” she said slowly. “What I meant was, that’s what we’re here to find out. We’re investigative reporters, we’re documentarians. We’re going to answer the difficult questions that society would rather ignore.”

  “Right.” Chris nodded, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. “Like, what’s going on with Kanye or is the dress blue or is it white? Lisa thought it was gold but I was like, Lis, that’s not even an option…”

  “Just, no,” Steph interrupted. They hadn’t even started yet, and she was totally ready to gag him. “Follow me and point the camera where I tell you to, okay?”

  “Okay, boss,” he confirmed with a thumbs-up and a goofy grin.

  “And think more Michael Moore than Michael Bay,” she said as they walked inside. “If there’s an explosion here tonight, something has gone very wrong.”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Chris whispered as they walked inside. “I can always add them in afterward. I’m a special effects boss.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Steph groaned, silently reminding herself it was better to have Chris the cameraman than no cameraman at all. She had to get this story. It was important and being ignored, and no one was prepared to tell it but her. Plus it would really stick it to Savage and the council, but most importantly, it would totally help the homeless community. She cleared her throat and concentrated on the task at hand.

  “Hello!” Chris stepped in front of her and stuck his hand out toward the tall, bearded man walking toward them. “Can you tell us who you are, where you’ve been, and how you ended up homeless?”

  “Chris!” Steph gasped as the man shook Chris’s proffered hand, a look of confusion on his face. “This is Mr. McKnight, he runs the soup kitchen!”

  “So, he’s not homeless?” he asked, still shaking Mr. McKnight’s hand and looking him up and down. The man looked down at him with a tight smile.

  “No,” she replied, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. “Mr. McKnight, I am so sorry.”

  “Not at all,” he replied, although she could see him turning pink under his black beard. “I take it you’ve never been to a soup kitchen before, lad?”

  “No,” Chris said, shaking his head and still wondering why an adult like Mr. McKnight would be wearing those terrible shoes if he had a choice in the matter. “First time. Soup kitchen virgin.”

  “We’re here to educate as much as to assist. I’m sure you’ll leave here tonight with a better understanding of what we do,” Mr. McKnight said, standing back so Chris could see the entire place. It was much bigger than Chris thought it would be, and it didn’t look anything like a kitchen. In fact, it looked fairly depressing. Rows of tables and mismatched chairs filled the space, while fluorescent lights flickered on and off overhead, casting yellow shadows on defeated faces. “We’re so glad you wanted to do this, Stephanie. It’ll really help us out.”

  “Just Steph is fine,” she replied, smiling politely. “I’m thinking we start by getting some B-roll footage and then maybe chat with one or two of your … guests?”

  Mr. McKnight nodded. “Aye, I’ve got a couple of regulars who are happy to talk with you. And some of the volunteers, too, if you’re interested in talking to them.”

  “That would be awesome,” she agreed as Chris turned his camera on and started to record. A few people sat by themselves, keeping to the corners of the tables with their steaming bowls of soup, while others sat in groups, laughing and forcing smiles. On the opposite side of the room, an entire family sat together, kids tucking in happily while Mom and Dad exchanged heavy glares across the table.

  “And I’ll need to get a few words from you at the end,” Steph said, checking her notes on her phone. “Then we’ll clear out.”

  “You’re very welcome to stay,” Mr. McKnight offered. “We have more than enough to go around tonight. People tend to be more generous at this time of year. It’s January and February when times get tough.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to go and see my girlfriend in the school play,” Chris said, still filming. “She’s doing a special song, it’s going to be epic.”

  “I’d love to stay,” Steph replied. She had nowhere else to be. “Maybe I can help with the cleanup?”

  “Fantastic.” Mr. McKnight clapped his hands together, and Chris almost dropped his camera. “I’ll let you get what you need and you’ll come and find me when you’re done, aye? Thank you again.”

  Chris gave the man a wave as he walked away, disappearing through a little swinging door that flapped back and forth to reveal the actual kitchen. It looked like the school kitchen. In fact, it smelled like the school kitchen. No wonder I don’t like this place, he thought to himself. Nothing more depressing than school lunches.

  “God, this is quite depressing,” Steph said, savoring the misery. This was going to be the best video ever, she was going to get so many hits. Not that it mattered how many hits she got, not that she cared. Except maybe, just a little.

  “That’s just what I was thinking!” Chris exclaimed. “Steph, can you read minds?”

  “Generally speaking, no,” she replied. “But I’ve got a feeling yours might not be that difficult to crack. Let’s get some background footage.”

  “What made you want to be an investigative reporter?” Chris asked, guiding his camera around the room, zooming in on the Christmas tree that sat in the corner as Ste
ph removed a couple of baubles to make it look a little more sad. “Are your parents journos?”

  “My dad is an investment banker and my mom is…” She paused as she pulled a wing off an angel. “My mom.”

  “Must have been nice to have a stay-at-home mom,” Chris commented, turning his camera onto Steph’s face. Judging from her expression, he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Maybe it would have been if she’d ever stayed home,” she replied. “Or if she had interest at all in actually being a mom. Who wants to hang out with your kid when you could be at yoga, right?”

  He pulled out on the shot as Steph pointed over at a group of volunteers walking in the front door with heavy sacks of potatoes. “I got really lucky with my gran, she’s basically the best ever.”

  “Your gran?” She had to admit, she’d never thought about his family before. He was always so busy sticking his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat, she pretty much tried to avoid the pair of them as much as possible. “What about your folks?”

  “My mom died when I was a baby and my dad left right after she died,” Chris said with a little shrug. “Couldn’t cope with me on his own.”

  Steph felt a massive wave of regret wash over her. Her sarcasm melted away.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, rocking backward onto her heels. “That sounds, ah, really tough.”

  “My gran always says we each have our own cross to bear,” he recited. “But I don’t think I’m missing out on too much. She’s awesome, my gran.”

  “Maybe we should trade,” she joked, slowly replacing the baubles on the tree under the watchful eye of a particularly judgmental little girl.

  “I would like to go to America,” Chris replied, clearly considering it.

  Steph narrowed her eyes into tiny slits.

  “I’m not American. I’m Canadian.”

  “Really?” He stared back at her with wide eyes.

  “Really.” She rolled her eyes back so far, she was sure she could see the edge of her brain.

  “I love Drake,” Chris said, still beaming at this exciting piece of news. He’d never met a Canadian before. But then he realized that meant he’d never met an American, and the smile slipped off his face.

  “They film loads of stuff in Canada these days,” he said, attempting to cheer himself up with movie trivia. “Like all the X-Men movies. It’s supposed to be set in New York but they filmed it in Toronto. Me and John looked it up and—”

  “Yeah, Canada is kind of boring,” she cut him off and abruptly stood up. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Is that why you left?” Chris asked.

  “I left because my high school was offering an international travel exchange and I thought they were going to send me to Paris,” she replied, exasperated. “But hey, tiny town on the Scottish border, practically the same thing, right?”

  “Oh no,” he replied. “I’ve been to Paris. We went on a school trip in year nine and John was sick on the coach and Anna dared me to eat frogs’ legs and honest, Steph, it’s nothing like Little Haven.”

  “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, give me strength,” she said, turning her eyes skyward and praying to a God she had made it quite clear that she didn’t believe in, at her cousin’s Catholic wedding. “Okay,” she said, clapping her hands and giving Chris a dazzling smile. “Shall we get on with the interviews so you can get back to your girlfriend?”

  “Lisa said you’ve got a girlfriend,” Chris said, following her back across the room.

  Steph stiffened. Great, they were talking about her now. Didn’t want to talk to her or hang out with her or invite her to their parties but at least she was good for some locker-room gossip.

  “Is she in Canada?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t imagine how I would feel if Lisa went to live in another country,” Chris said with a lovesick sigh. They both jumped as one of the volunteers suddenly burst out in a coughing fit. Steph grabbed the lens of Chris’s camera and pointed it in his direction without a moment’s hesitation. “I think me and Gran would have to move there with her. But then we’d have to leave Little Haven and I don’t really want to do that.”

  “And if Lisa was a guy, your gran might not be so supportive of your relationship,” she muttered back under her breath. “Perhaps she’d practically pack your bags for you. Adios, awkward gay child I don’t want to discuss at brunch.”

  “Oh no,” Chris replied as the coughing man recovered himself and sipped a glass of water, still shaking. “She’s fine with all that. Gay, straight, bi, queer, trans. Gran watches a lot of YouTube.”

  “Maybe we should trade,” Steph said as Chris chuckled and carried on filming. There has to be something wrong with this kid, she thought to herself as he slowly panned around the room. No mom, abandoned by his dad, and stuck in this dead-end town with no desire to leave. What did he know that she didn’t? His face was all scrunched up as he stared at the screen of his camera, panning slowly around the room.

  “Hey, Chris,” Steph said, concentrating on straightening her tie as she spoke. “What is it you love so much about this town anyway?”

  He looked at her with genuine confusion. How could she not see it?

  “Everything?”

  “Wow,” Steph replied with a whistle. “Whatever you’re on, can you get me some?”

  “I did smoke weed once but it made me really hungry and I tried to make scrambled eggs with chocolate but I kept getting all the shell in it and then I got upset and I had to eat seven bags of cheesy puffs and then I had to sleep behind the sofa in case a monster unicorn came to get me.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Haven’t touched it since.”

  “Right. Let’s just shoot the video,” she said, rubbing a hand over her forehead.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Chris said, focusing in on the volunteers ladling out bowls of steaming hot soup. “Why are you so into all this stuff? The investigative reporting stuff? The movies I make are loads more fun.”

  “I think the world needs to know these things are happening,” she replied, her voice light, as though she was afraid the words might crack and break. “And I want to share people’s stories, I want to give a voice to the voiceless.”

  “It’s funny you’re into all this stuff when you don’t really have many friends.” When she didn’t reply, he turned to look at Steph and winced at the expression on her face. “Sorry,” he said, genuine anguish on his face. “I didn’t mean it like that. Only that you’re usually hanging around on your own at school and stuff. You’ve probably got friends outside school.”

  “No, you’re right,” she said with an awkward laugh. “I don’t really have any friends here. Or at home. Or anywhere.”

  “You’ve got your girlfriend, though,” Chris said encouragingly.

  Steph wrinkled up her nose. “I guess.”

  “And you’ve got your blog,” he added.

  “Yeah, people on the internet are a lot more reliable than people I-R-L,” she said, watching as a larger woman smashed in through the front door, wobbling as she walked. Someone had already been on the eggnog. “Mostly reliable assholes, but still. Consistency is key.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said, slapping her roughly on the back and making her cough. “My gran always says everyone has a good side, even if you can’t see it.”

  “Even her?”

  She nodded toward the newest arrival, right as she walked straight into a wall and doubled over to puke in a trash can.

  “It takes all sorts, Steph,” Chris said with unearned wisdom as Steph tried to repress her own gag reflex. “It takes all sorts.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” she said, holding her forearm in front of her face. “You need to leave and I need to … leave.”

  “I hope we don’t get sick,” Chris said as another table of people all started coughing. “Seems like there’s something going around. I don’t want
to be ill for Christmas.”

  “Probably something they picked up on the streets,” Steph replied, glad she’d taken her immunity booster that morning. “It must be so hard for them … Let’s make sure we get lots of footage of the people coughing, okay?”

  “You’re the boss,” Chris said again, heading into the fray with his camera.

  “This is going to be the best vlog ever,” Steph whispered gleefully.

  7

  TONY WAS RIGHT, Anna had always been a dreamer.

  When she was a little girl, she had wanted to be a writer. In the bottom of her wardrobe were boxes and boxes of half-finished stories she’d written before she decided writing took too long and she needed something more immediate. That was when she decided she wanted to be a photographer and never went anywhere without her mom’s camera. When she couldn’t capture the images she felt in her heart, she turned her hand to painting. And then sculpting. She’d also been through her musician phase, her sports phase, and her science phase, but never, even in her wildest dreams, could she have imagined the one thing she’d stick at for more than six months, would be this.

  Thunderballs.

  She’d been working part-time at the local bowling alley ever since she turned sixteen, and even though it was literally the most part-time job that had ever existed, she was determined to stick it out. Maybe she’d given up on the guitar before she got past three chords, and perhaps she wasn’t going to be winning the Nobel Prize for Literature anytime soon, but for every hour she spent handling sweaty, two-toned shoes in a darkened bowling alley full of creeps, she was five pounds and ninety pence closer to achieving her ultimate dream.

  The parking lot was full when she arrived and she felt her shoulders drop. It was bound to be busy this close to Christmas. There weren’t many options for Christmas parties in Little Haven. It was basically Pizza Hut, the Harvester, or Thunderballs, and you couldn’t sneak your own bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 into Pizza Hut or the Harvester. At least not without being really stealth.