Chapter 3: Security
Tuesday I stayed in. There were fewer sirens on the estate but more people on the streets. Online, the big story was the actions of parliament. The previous day COBR had invoked the emergency powers in the Civil Contingencies Act 2004 and were creating new regulations left right and centre, to keep the electricity, gas, and water running and protect fuel deliveries. The BBC had a picture of just a handful of politicians, gathered around a table, looking earnest. I was reassured in one way but also alarmed; I didn’t know much about politics but weren’t those emergency powers usually reserved for wars or natural disasters? It seemed the government also thought that the outbreak was deadly serious.
Wednesday the riots began. I had been expecting them, and was only surprised they hadn’t started earlier. One of the central London hospitals had closed and the locals had organised a peaceful demonstration outside parliament to get them to reopen it. I watched the BBC livestream on and off during the day, as the small group of demonstrators swelled with grieving relatives, demanding answers. It quickly turned ugly. There was a lot of activity on social media, which brought out opportunists who started the looting. The disorder spread to other areas, and although the police around parliament quickly restored order, in other regions, they were so short staffed that they abandoned entire districts. As usual the BBC had a pretty graphic, this time to show the areas that people should avoid.
It was Thursday afternoon and I was reading an article on ‘home hardening’ when I heard the knock. I froze, listening intently, and the knock came again. I didn’t get up; the article had been about home security and had made me nervous. Who would come knocking on my door without texting me first? I waited and then slowly got up out of my chair and moved to the window. There were two youngish women walking down the road, dressed in summer dresses, bags slung over their arms. Had they knocked on my door? I didn’t recognise them. What did they want?
One of the women crossed the road and stepped onto the driveway of the bungalow three doors down. I frowned, were they knocking on particular doors? I had a clear view across the road as an elderly man answered her knock. They spoke for a bit. Was she asking for help or offering it? It seemed odd that she had left her friend behind. The man shuffled away and then, after about thirty seconds or so, came back with something that she put in her bag. She walked back to her friend, took the package back out, opened the top, and handed her something small. Was that a biscuit? Well, that was one way to get food. It seemed risky to me, and also rather shameless; they hadn’t worked for that biscuit, paid or traded anything for it, just asked and been given.
The women didn’t seem dangerous or desperate but I didn’t want strangers, who were potentially infected, knocking on my door asking for help. My car was out front, tomorrow I should probably move it to the side road, then the driveway would be empty… like next door. I would pretend to be out if anyone knocked. It was selfish but also felt like the sensible course of action.
After that, the knocks came fairly often, several times a day. I never answered the door, but sometimes I watched them from behind the net curtains at the kitchen window, as they made their way down the street. Some of the knockers offered money to people, but others were quite intimidating. I saw an elderly lady answer her door and shake her head to a young couple. She began to close the door as they shouted and swore but they shoved it open and barged past her into the house. Luckily a dog began barking from inside, and they backed out pretty quickly. I was tempted to go over and check she was ok; I waited for the road to clear of knockers, but when I looked an hour later, her car was gone. People were leaving, the streets were unsafe, and with the shops closed, and the bus service unreliable, I saw very few of my neighbours anymore.
Not having to go to work, I got into a routine; early mornings were spent in the garden. The knockers wouldn’t arrive before mid-morning, so I would get up early, have a quick shower, get dressed, and set the hose to a quiet trickle whilst I weeded around the plants. It was peaceful. Like a holiday. Later on, when there was more activity on the streets, I would stay indoors and read, or do some of the house upkeep that I had fallen behind on. I still phoned home every day.
On Monday, after I had been at home a week, Vik phoned me late in the evening. ‘Hi Z,’ he said. I was surprised, as I had phoned earlier in the day for my usual chat.
‘Hey Vik, what’s up?’ I asked, swivelling on my chair in front of the computer.
‘I don’t want to worry you,’ he began, ‘but some of the older kids have taken to hanging around the top of the road and accosting people as they go past.’ he continued. ‘They’re not asking for money; they’re asking for food.’
I stopped spinning and sat upright. ‘We have people knocking on the door asking for food.’ I replied. I hadn’t told them about the knockers as I knew they would worry. ‘They canvas whole streets and carry shopping bags. Some can be quite intimidating.’
‘Yeah, these kids are pretty intimidating also,’ he said, grimly, ‘this afternoon Jenny, from across the road, was tripped as she walked past, and fell quite hard. They helped her up and accompanied her home, but then ransacked her kitchen, filling bags with food and valuables. She’s ok but has decided to leave London to stay with family in the country.’
As he spoke, I could faintly hear shouting in the background. I was alarmed. Individually young people were generally nice, but as a teacher, I knew how quickly a large group could get out of control. I hadn’t always worked in good schools and I could distinctly remember how kids could gang up, when they were together in the playground.
‘Are you keeping the lights off?’ I asked, ‘And maybe you should talk to mum about staying inside for now.’ Mum had been regularly visiting with the neighbours, as she had a lot of friends on the street. Because their place was in an affluent neighbourhood, I knew that mum and Vik felt they were safe. Although they were happy about all the precautions I was taking, they didn’t see the need to do the same at their house. If Vik was phoning me though, he had to be more worried than he was letting on.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Vik replied. ‘Anyway I just wanted to let you know. Mum’s making dinner so I better go.’ We said our goodbyes and rang off. I was worried, although their house had enough food to last for at least a month, mum didn’t grow many vegetables. She grew chilli plants, herbs and spinach, but you couldn’t really live off those. I wondered how I could get her to come and stay with me, but deep down I knew that was impossible. She would never leave her house. It was her home.
In the garden, the roses had put out a lot of new growth, and I put some thought into weaving the long stems so they would fall over the wall and deter any of the knockers trying to climb up. The brick wall made the garden fairly secure, and in the corner I had planted a large pyracantha bush, also known as a firethorn, to deter thieves from climbing over using the neighbour’s trees. The only weak point was by the house; the flimsy side gate leading to the driveway.
I stood at my front door, looking up at the sky. The air had that early morning crispness, and the atmosphere was one of undisturbed tranquillity, but I was out front for a reason. I had been home a week; the school wasn’t re-opening and the food shortages were getting worse. My research on home hardening had made some things quite clear; I lived in a bungalow in the suburbs, not a cabin in the middle of the woods or a castle with a moat. My bungalow had few features to protect it. The only way to stay safe was to be invisible. Not actually invisible of course, but to blend in, not showing anything of value, and to make it as unappealing as possible.