Winter Smith (Book 1): London's Burning (3 page)

              “Are you Winter Smith?”

              Winter considered saying no. Her eyes flickered to the magazine, where a headline read her name. She cast an eye around the room, wondering if there were any secret reporters watching her.

              “Yes, I am,” Winter said. “Have I been naughty?”

              The boy with the laces grinned.

              “Can we get a picture?”

              “Course,” Winter said, wanting desperately to say no.

              She posed for the photos. One with lace boy, the other with the second. Then another with them both in shot.

              “Thank you,” Lace boy said.

              “No worries.”

              Winter watched them leave, saw them grinning, looking back at their photos. She then looked around the coffee shop; saw a man glaring at her. Winter nodded in his direction.

              Her thoughts drifted back to China, to the stories in the recent weeks.

              There were a lot of things hushed up in the world. A lot of things went unnoticed, and if they were noticed they were sometimes swept under the rug. Skeletons were being added to the closet every day. Conspiracies sometimes held a lot of truth.

              Shit happened.

              She thought of the night ahead. It was Saturday, and almost every Saturday her parents held a grand party with all of their rich friends. Her parents, who were jewellry designers, had sent Winter out to buy ‘glasses of the best design’. Winter was trying to delay going back. She would have to face interviews with Vogue, make up and designers desperately trying to force her into their clothes.

              The couple stood up and left, holding hands and grinning to themselves. Winter wondered where they would go next. Did he have anything planned? Did she expect something to be planned? Were they expecting too much of each other? Didn’t everyone expect too much from each other? What would people do if all of this were gone?

              She drank down her coffee, listening to the hum of people chatting away. The business people stood up and left together, all in dark charcoal suits, the females in skirts with polished black shoes. Winter noticed that not one of them held the door open for the other. It was a fickle world, business.

              Before they disappeared, Winter heard one say: “Hell, that was Winter Smith.”

              And the other say, “I’m surprised she’s sober!”

              Winter picked up the magazine with her name on and saw the report, one she had seen many times.

              WINTER SMITH IN DRUG FUELED-BINGE.

              Winter had never taken drugs in her life. They were not her style. A lot of her so-called friends had, but Winter had stayed away from them.

              Before she could read the rumours spread about her, she sensed someone standing above her. She looked up to see a waiter. He was tall, and had a bit of muscle, but was mainly just thin. His brown hair was swept back, messy. He wasn’t the best looking boy Winter had seen, but she could see why others would be attracted.

              He was holding his order pad in his hand.

              “I don’t want anything else,” Winter said politely.

              The boy laughed. He scribbled something down, ripped it off the pad and handed her the thin sheet of paper. Winter saw the shadow of a number and when she glanced on it she saw she was right.

              “I get off work at four thirty,” the boy said quickly. “It would be good to get a coffee. Or not.”

              Winter couldn’t help but smile.

              “I’ll think about it.”

              The boy breathed a sigh of relief. “Cool. Cool. See you soon. Maybe.”

              Winter pocketed the number. She drank the dregs of her coffee and stood up. She left the shop, catching the eye of the boy at the counter beforehand. He waved and she waved back. Keep them wanting more, she thought.

              She wondered if she would call him. She didn’t see why he was interested in her. She wasn’t anything special, in her opinion. Maybe he could save her from the party her parents were hosting. Yeah, maybe that was what he’d be useful for.

              Winter decided now to go searching for these cups her parents wanted. She could imagine her delay was driving them crazy. They wanted cups and they needed them now. They couldn’t wait.

              Winter decided she would take a look at all the shops first, before prioritising the cups. Yes, it would be a relaxing day.

              One of the last relaxing days she would have in a long time.

Chapter Two

              What was the reason behind Winter’s parents inviting other rich socialites and a few celebrities to their eight bedroom home? Because Nathan Smith had installed a new floor.

              Her parents always found reasons to host parties: a new light fixture, new carpets, new bedspreads, and now a new floor. They changed something in the house every month, and nearly always there was a party involved. Winter couldn’t help but think that if they weren’t so keen on keeping up appearances, Winter wouldn’t be invited to these parties.

              It was no secret that her parents didn’t think Winter was a perfect daughter. They hated the way she had turned out. They had always wanted a daughter that they could pamper and bring into the family business. Her mother had desperately wanted Winter to be a girl with princess status. Olivia Smith, Winter’s mother, had hoped that Winter would have some sort of modelling career that all of her fake friends had. She had been taken to a few modelling jobs, forced to stand in front of a sleazy old man that made her pose provocatively while wearing barely anything, while his pants struggled to contain an erection.

              Many girls would have loved the life Winter had. They would have loved to pose in front of a camera for a career, wearing nothing, being exploited. Winter may have even liked it, if it wasn’t for what had happened to her when she was fourteen. After that, she hated being so exposed.

              As Winter headed home, carrying cups that had cost six pounds, she thought of how to escape this party tonight. There would be a lot of press and paparazzi, and a lot of people she hated. Missy Founder, for example, was one of them.

              Deciding she would enjoy it better if she had a date, she called the boy at the coffee shop.

              “Hello?” A voice answered.

              “Hi, is that offer still on?”

              “Winter?” The boy asked. She could hear him smiling. “Yes, that offer is most certainly still on.”

              “Good, meet me at the bottom of my lane around seven thirty.”

              “Will do,” The boy said. “Where do you live?”

              “It’s difficult to explain. It’s a private lane. You won’t be able to get into that lane unless I meet you at the bottom of it.”

              Winter told him her address and where to wait.

“By the way, I didn’t get your name.”

              “It’s Connor Getty.”

              She thought of the look on Missy’s face when Winter debuted a new date. She wondered if anyone would photograph her happy, or would instead spike her drink and photograph her drunk and spewing. Of course, people couldn’t see Winter Smith doing well.

              Should she be bringing Connor Getty into her world? Did he want to have his face plastered in magazines? Did he want his privacy abolished? Winter knew, if she were faced with this opportunity, she would not take it. Not now.

              “Cool, see you tonight. Dress smart!”

              She heard Connor laugh as he hung up. She found herself smiling as she strolled through the streets, unaccompanied.

              Winter thought back to the last shop she had visited. She had spotted an odd stand, full of items that had never usually been in such high demand before.

              There had been rope, shovels, garden spades, first aid kits, nails, wood, torches and batteries, all close to selling out. She wondered if they were being bought out of panic, with all the news warning of ‘The Dead Years’ to come.

              Seeing these items bought now, Winter wondered if she should be working out what to do in case The Dead Years came to greet them. She had considered buying essentials from the stand, but then had seen a married couple looking at her like she was crazy. Were people just being stupid?

              If ‘The Dead Years’ were true, Winter thought that by now the government would have started warning them. If this threat were inevitable, like the media claimed, the government would be forced to admit the truth. Winter thought that by now safety leaflets would have been distributed, full of information on where to get to safety and who to contact if they were to be witnesses of an attack. It didn’t really look like London had anything to worry about.

              But what about the attack in China? Why would a whole street be massacred, their bodies ripped apart, blood spilling down drains?

              The only signs of what was upon them in London were frantic buying of essentials and the break down of shops. Winter wasn’t entirely convinced that The Dead Years were real, yet the feeling that something could happen became stronger every day.

              But if it was the so-called zombie apocalypse, then Winter decided she needed more proof. 

              As Winter walked through the town, she spotted the clothes shop she had been planning on going to being shut early. The metal grills were sliding down over the windows, and the shopkeeper was outside looking tense and moody. He saw Winter approaching and spoke before she could.

              “They’ve shut me down,” the man said with anger. “The council have shut me down.”

              “Why’s that?” Winter asked. She thought maybe he had been found with drug possession, maybe a weed factory in the back room. Or maybe he had broken the law, imported all of his clothes from slave labour sweatshops in Argentina.

              “They’re saying some bullshit about things looking bleak,” he said. “That it’s no worry, there’ll be nothing left soon anyway.”

              Winter thought this was odd. The council were beginning to warn people. Was this anything to worry about?

              “Said they’re going to shut down the whole street soon,” the man scoffed. “It’s no wonder there’s a recession going on if people from the council are running businesses. And why start with mine first? There’s a dodgy kebab place down the road, why not get rid of that?”

              Winter left the man to moan to any other people unfortunate enough to pass. She thought about what he had told her. He may not see the reason behind the decision, but if the council was getting involved in shutting down businesses maybe it meant there really was something to worry about.

              Winter decided to keep her eye out on the news for any suspicious articles; sudden deaths, cannibal murderers. Were they all supposed to wait for The Dead Years to start before something was done, or were they going to be moved along before it happened? Winter saw the dilemma people were facing. If it was true, then moving somewhere else would have been a good idea, but who was to say where you moved was safe, too? If you moved, and the story was all hearsay, well you had lost everything. Your home, your job, your lifestyle. It made sense that nothing was being confirmed or announced. It would probably cause unnecessary uproar.

              It took twenty minutes on average to walk from the town to the private lane where she lived, but today she got there in fifteen. The lane was blocked off by a gate, which could only be opened with a pass. Winter dug in her pocket and pulled out the pass, swiping it on the black box until the gates began opening slowly, clanging and groaning as they moved.

              Winter thought the whole idea of this gate was pointless. You could have already sneaked in a whole army by the time it took for them to fully open. The gates separating the houses were a little better, but anyone could vault the walls.

              There were seven houses up this lane, all of which were owned by the rich and heavily protected with CCTV, alarms and the odd security guard. Every house had a pool outside, which could hardly ever be used because of the cold weather. One pool, however, had been fitted with heaters, and that pool was the envy of the neighbourhood.

              Winter lived just up from one light pink house where Missy Founder lived. As Winter walked past, she heard her name called. Looking up, she spotted Missy Founder sat up on her balcony, which overlooked the lane perfectly.

              “Where have you been?” Missy asked, standing up and leaning on the railing of the balcony. Winter found herself wishing the balcony would break and Missy would fall to her death. Harsh, but possible.

              “Just getting cups for the party,” Winter said, making her way up the lane. But Missy stopped her from going any further.