The End of the World Running Club Read Online Free Page A

was thin. Only two sheets thick, not the usual hundred leaf wad you get on a Sunday. There was nothing on the front apart from the Times logo and a single headline taking up the entire page.
    Two blunt and terrifying words.

    STRIKE IMMINENT

    Then I remembered. I remembered everything.
    I remembered the night before, pushing myself up from the sofa and knocking the dregs from the second empty bottle of Shiraz onto the carpet. I remembered scrubbing the stain with a cloth. I remembered the light in the room suddenly changing as a giant BBC logo filled the television screen. I remembered the silence in the studio, the flustered looks on the newsreaders’ faces. I remembered that the female presenter had no make-up on, that the male had his sleeves rolled up as he leafed through the stacks of A4 sheets on his desk. I remembered that he stammered, sweated, blurted out words like data , miscalculation , trajectory , then indoors and vigilant. I remembered him putting his head in his hands, his co-host covering her mouth, then a loud thumping sound and the camera seeming to wobble, footsteps running away on the studio floor. Then the picture flickered and a high pitched tone sounded like a test card. I remembered words appearing on the screen, white letters on primary red:

    STRIKE IMMINENT
    STAY INDOORS
     
    I remembered blundering up the stairs, blinking, trying to stop my head from swimming, wine and bile rising in my throat. I remembered calling Beth’s name. I remembered falling through Arthur’s door, falling against his cot, Beth’s face full of recrimination as she looked up from the chair where she was sitting feeding him. I remember struggling for words, slurring, trying to explain something even I didn’t understand. I remembered her disappointed eyes and her face flat as she told me to get out of the room. I remembered protesting, trying to explain. I remembered her shaking her head, telling me that I was drunk and she didn’t want me near him. I remembered staggering through to our room, waiting for Beth to come through, trying to make sense of things, knowing that I should be doing something.  
    I remembered closing my eyes. I remembered waking up to Arthur’s cries.
    Strike imminent. A multiple asteroid strike on the United Kingdom is imminent.
    Mark and I stared at the words for a few seconds before they made sense and I had processed my own dull memory of the night before.
    “‘Strike’?” said Mark. “Does that mean what I think it does?”  
    I didn’t answer. Simultaneously we ran back round to the front of the shop. We started banging on the shutters.
    “Jabbar! Jabbar! Open up! Fucking open up!”
    We kept hammering and shouting until we saw those eyes again behind the door. Jabbar hiding. We hammered louder.
    Jabbar started waving us away with his hand. His eyes were set, determined, no longer the genial face of the local tradesman. We kept banging on the shutters and Arthur and Mary joined in the game with squeals and shouts behind us. Eventually the door behind the counter opened and Jabbar stormed up to the shutters.
    “Go away!” he said, flicking his hand at us. He looked terrified. “Go on! Clear off! I’m not open!”
    “Look,” I said. I held up the paper and pointed at the headline.
    “What’s this? Are there any more papers?”
    Jabbar stared at the words and then back at us. His fat cheeks were damp with sweat. Behind him I could see a woman looking at us, cowering in the doorway to the house. She was holding a crying baby. Behind her were Jabbar’s two brothers. Close living.
    One of the brothers was holding a portable radio close to his ear, his fist pressed against his lips.
    Jabbar shook his head violently,
    “No,” he said. “Nothing.”
    I looked back at his brother.  
    “Mark,” I said. “Look.”
    He was looking down at his feet, the radio still pressed to his ear and his hand across his eyes.  
    “Jabbar,” growled Mark. “What do you know?”  
    I