Chapter 4

"Andrew! Come on, wake up! You'll be late!"

The sound of his mother calling for him interrupted his blissful slumber. As usual, he was dreaming of one day becoming a cameraman. It was the one thing that sustained him through the dreary days of his childhood, which seemed to be dragging on for decades. In fact, he was thirty two, but it was the short trousers he always had to wear that especially made him feel like a bored child.

He heard the distant sound of screaming outside his bedroom window.

When would his mother realise that he was ready for long trousers? And in fact that short trousers were quite unusual even for very young schoolboys these days, let alone men in their thirties? But she had her own very strong views, and it was sometimes very difficult, if not impossible, to get her to appreciate his feelings.

His internal whining was interrupted by a brick and two books flying through the window, smashing the pane into thousands of tiny pieces and showering him in deadly glass fragments. He was so surprised he didn't even shout, "Ow, my eyes," even though some glass might have got in his eyes. He heard his mother running up the stairs. She burst in.

"Oh my God, Andrew, are you alright?" she said, feeling him for damage. There didn't appear to be any. She wondered to herself whether he might be protected by angels, like some kind of miracle child, and whether he'd been a virgin birth... but no. What about all that shagging she'd been doing around that time? Even so, it was nice to pretend. She stroked his hair kindly.

"Mother!" said Andrew. "You mustn't burst in on me like that. I could have been masturbating."

She tutted absent-mindedly and stopped stroking his hair. "We are proud of our long words this morning, aren't we." She tapped him on the nose, softening her tone. "Anyway, you'd hardly be able to concentrate on... dirty behaviour, what with a riot going on outside." She looked out of the broken window. "Something's happened to the library. Looks like a lorry has crashed into it."

He went over to the window and looked. Sure enough, the library had been reduced to nothing but a heap of ruins. A lorry was crumpled up in what was once the romance section, and the hideously dead face of the driver was poking out of a pile of Mills and Boons. Some people were climbing out of the back of the lorry, screaming continuously.

"They look mad," said his mother. "What are they up to, driving a lorry into a library? It's not normal."

"I don't think they are normal," said Andrew, thoughtfully. "Look at that man there, next to that car. He's jabbering to himself."

"Come away, dear," said his mother. "Your toast will have gone all cold and dry by this time, and your tea will have cooled to well below the optimum temperature for enjoyment of its flavour. No doubt the pot of tea I prepared earlier will have brewed for well beyond the recommended five minutes, resulting in an overly bitter taste in successive cups poured, and necessitating an entirely new pot to be started. This in turn will require the kettle to be re-boiled from scratch, as the water within it will long ago have ceased to be anywhere near what could be described as boiling point. Ah, well. A mother's work is never done!"

They plodded down to the kitchen together. "She's crazy, but I love her really," thought Andrew to himself. "Or perhaps I just like having my breakfast made for me every morning with expert precision by someone who's had years of practise, rather than putting up with my own ham-fisted efforts. Either way, no sudden lifestyle changes for me, no sir."

His mother put the radio on. John Humphries was talking. "And if you just joined us..."

"... Which we have!" said Andrew and his mother together, laughing happily.

"... the main story this morning is the total and utter collapse of society," continued Humphries. The kitchen became quiet, save for the distant sound of rioting.

"Everything has gone completely wrong," Humphries went on. "People are running around, pissing everything away in an orgy of destructive madness. I myself am currently setting fire to several items of stationary. And James Naughtie just rang me to say he's not getting out of bed because he's drawn a face on his tummy and he can't stop laughing."

Andrew's mum began to tremble. "Oh no... my poor Andrew, what will you do?"

"I don't know." He really didn't know. "Hang on, the BBC must still be partly working, because the radio..." They both looked at the radio, which had suddenly cut off as if it had heard his words.

"Oh shit-bags!" shouted Andrew's mum.

"Mother, there's no need for that," he said, genuinely shocked. She put her hand to her mouth, ashamed.

"Look, I'm going to go to work as usual," he said firmly. "Obviously things have gone very wrong somewhere, and maybe I can do my bit to help steer things back on to their proper course."

His mother looked on him with overwhelming pride. "Andrew, you are wonderful. I always said you were wonderful. Your father said you'd turn out to be a good-for-nothing homosexual layabout, but I knew, from the moment I first saw you that you'd be a good, hard-working heterosexual-"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Andrew. "Well. I'd better be going."

*   *   *   *   *

It was easy to get to work. He didn't have to wait to cross any busy roads, because no cars were moving. It looked like people had just abandoned their cars wherever they were, on their way to work. Most of the cars had been vandalised in someway, as had most of the shops. He occasionally had to hide in a shop doorway to avoid a passing pack of rioting people. It was extremely strange because they looked like perfectly normal people, except for the fact that they were running around screaming and smashing things. Sometimes they would just stop in the middle of the road and laugh manically, or dance about waving their hands.

Although society had clearly crumbled, some things still seemed to be working perfectly. The trees, for instance. Andrew had always been fond of trees, and there they were, waving their pretty leaves at him, just like they usually did.

When he finally got to the BBC, he found yet more devastation. He always entered round the back to get straight to the accountancy department where he worked, and the car park was littered with smashed-up cars, burnt cars and even just odd bits of car here and there.

The office was dark. It didn't look like anyone had actually got to work at all. The hot drinks machine wasn't on. His computer wouldn't switch on. He would have liked a nice cup of instant soup, though he didn't mind that his computer didn't work; he hated his job. As an accountant, the main activity was outsourcing things. Originally the man who refilled the hot drinks machine worked for the BBC, and he was a nice man called Mike. Andrew liked him. But about six months ago, Andrew was outsourcing a few things, and he thought it would be a good idea to outsource the hot drinks provision services while he was at it. After that, the hot drinks machine was refilled by Simon, who wasn't as nice as Mike. This was an unpleasant introduction to the dangers of outsourcing. Andrew had wondered if there was such a thing as insourcing, and whether that might be a way of bringing Mike back, but there appeared to be no such thing.

Outsourcing was mostly just very boring. There was a lot of stuff to outsource, and he and the other accountants just had to plod through it all, outsourcing as they went. Some of the other accounts would tell scary stories about how once someone accidentally outsourced himself, and was never heard of again, but Andrew wasn't sure if these stories were true.

But he wouldn't have to worry about outsourcing ever again, by the looks of things, unless he could find out how to switch everything on.

He started wandering the corridors of the BBC, looking for some kind of on switch. He found a lot of small cupboards, and some offices, but most of them were locked, and nothing seemed to be switched on anywhere.

He found a dishevelled man sleeping on a desk in one office. The man would not wake up, however much coughing Andrew did. He finally had to resort to pushing the man's shoulder a few times, and that did the trick.

"Whuuh," said the man. "Go way."

Andrew stammered, "Um... could you tell me... do you know how to switch everything on?

The man rolled over and fell off the desk. "What the blazes," he began. Then he caught sight of Andrew. "What are you doing in my office?" he asked.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you," said Andrew, "But everything is switched off this morning. Nobody has switched anything on. It's all off."

The man looked at him curiously. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

Andrew went over to the light switch and waggled it. "See. No lights."

"Ah," said the man. "Well in that case, I shall go for a walk." He walked straight past Andrew, out of the office, and up the corridor.

"Are you going to switch things on then?" Andrew called after him hesitantly. There was no answer.

"Oh... okay," said Andrew. "I'll wait here then."

He had been sitting on the desk for about twenty minutes when Greg Dyke burst into the office. Andrew couldn't believe it. Greg Dyke was the big big boss. He'd never actually seen him before.

"Hello, Sir" he said.

"Please," said Greg, holding up his hands in a friendly way. "Call me Greg. I insist."

"Hello Greg," said Andrew.

"No, don't say Hello. Say Hi."

"Hi Greg," said Andrew.

"Excellent, much better," said Greg encouragingly. Andrew got the feeling Greg was very good with people. If he watched Greg closely, he could probably learn a lot of people skills from him.

"Are you Bruce?" Greg continued.

"No," said Andrew nervously.

"Why does it say Bruce on the door of your office?" asked Greg.

"This isn't my office. I think Bruce just left, you just missed him."

"Ah. Well, are you a cameraman?"

Andrew wasn't sure what to say. Was this his chance to get the promotion he'd always dreamed of? He'd have to play his cards quite carefully. "Well, no, but I've always wanted to-"

"Well, you are now. Come with me." And he swept out.

Andrew could barely keep up with him. "Do you know what's going on, Greg?"

"We're going to film the first ever broadcast by our new leader," said Greg.

Andrew could hardly believe his luck. He was still abuzz with excitement when they entered the studio and found Burt "Lancaster Bomber" Harris sitting behind a desk, trying to look important, and wondering what he was going to say.

Chapter 5...