nods to himself. ‘In that case, do you mind if we head back to my place? I don’t like talking out here in the open. Sounds carry and zombies have a keen sense of hearing.’
‘Where do you live?’ I ask.
‘Close by. I never venture too far from my studio. Come, we can chat on the way, and I’d love to show you my work. Are you interested in art at all?’
‘Not really,’ I mutter and his face falls. ‘But if it’s drawings of zombies and the city, I definitely want to have a look.’
Timothy’s smile returns full force. ‘Excellent!’ Picking up his easel and palette, he heads down Bethnal Green Road, whistling jauntily, strutting like a peacock.
TWELVE
Timothy looks like a man without a care in the world, but I note the way he casts careful glances at the buildings on either side, keeping an eye out for zombies. He’s not as reckless as he appears, although his very presence here proves that he’s something of a daredevil.
He comes to the turn for Brick Lane and pauses. ‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he says, nodding at the street which used to contain London’s most famous string of curry houses.
‘We’re not going for an Indian, are we?’ I joke.
‘Actually I’ve made use of the restaurants quite a lot,’ he says seriously. ‘I ran out of fresh food long ago, but the freezers are still working in many places. I can rustle you up an amazing chicken madras if you’re hungry.’
‘I’m a zombie,’ I remind him. ‘I only eat brains.’
He considers that. ‘If you supplied the brains, I could probably do something with them. Mix them up in a korma perhaps.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a nutjob, Jackson?’
‘Only Mother, Father, my teachers and friends.’ He sighs. ‘But they’re all dead or eaten now, so I guess I had the last laugh. All joking aside, I love to cook, so if you want . . .’
‘Thanks for the offer, but cooking might rob the brains of the nutrients I need. As far as I know, they have to be raw.’
That’s nonsense, but it satisfies Timothy and spares me the job of telling him I’d rather eat straight from a corpse’s head than risk one of his dishes.
Timothy starts walking again but doesn’t turn into Brick Lane.
‘I thought you said we were going that way.’
‘We are,’ he nods, ‘but my studio is about halfway down. It’s a narrow, dark street. I’ve boarded up most of the buildings close to mine, but zombies could be lurking somewhere along the way. I always go down the main road and cut in from there. You have to be careful if you want to survive around here.’
At the end of Bethnal Green Road we cut left on to Commercial Street.
‘I adored the markets around here,’ Timothy says. ‘I often came over on a Sunday and spent the entire day milling around, sketching people, buying things I didn’t need, sampling the many local varieties of fine cuisine.’
‘Fine cuisine?’ I snort. ‘Bagels and curry?’
‘Oh, there was much more than that,’ Timothy insists. ‘Pies and falafel and jellied eels for instance.’
‘ You ate jellied eels?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he blinks.
‘I didn’t have you pegged for the jellied eels sort. My gran loved them, and my dad and his mates tucked into them sometimes, but I mean, come on, they were disgusting. Cold, bony bits of eel wrapped up in slimy jelly — you wouldn’t feed that mess to a dog.’
‘It was authentic East London,’ Timothy protests.
‘ I’m authentic East London,’ I tell him, ‘and I wouldn’t touch jellied eels with a bargepole.’
‘Well, to each their own,’ he says with a shrug.
We turn into a street lined with beautiful old houses. It feeds into Brick Lane and we come to a huge building, the old Truman Brewery. Timothy looks around to make sure no one – no thing – is watching, then fishes a key out of a pocket and hurries to a large, steel door. He opens it quickly and slips inside. I get an uneasy feeling – maybe
‘Where do you live?’ I ask.
‘Close by. I never venture too far from my studio. Come, we can chat on the way, and I’d love to show you my work. Are you interested in art at all?’
‘Not really,’ I mutter and his face falls. ‘But if it’s drawings of zombies and the city, I definitely want to have a look.’
Timothy’s smile returns full force. ‘Excellent!’ Picking up his easel and palette, he heads down Bethnal Green Road, whistling jauntily, strutting like a peacock.
TWELVE
Timothy looks like a man without a care in the world, but I note the way he casts careful glances at the buildings on either side, keeping an eye out for zombies. He’s not as reckless as he appears, although his very presence here proves that he’s something of a daredevil.
He comes to the turn for Brick Lane and pauses. ‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he says, nodding at the street which used to contain London’s most famous string of curry houses.
‘We’re not going for an Indian, are we?’ I joke.
‘Actually I’ve made use of the restaurants quite a lot,’ he says seriously. ‘I ran out of fresh food long ago, but the freezers are still working in many places. I can rustle you up an amazing chicken madras if you’re hungry.’
‘I’m a zombie,’ I remind him. ‘I only eat brains.’
He considers that. ‘If you supplied the brains, I could probably do something with them. Mix them up in a korma perhaps.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a nutjob, Jackson?’
‘Only Mother, Father, my teachers and friends.’ He sighs. ‘But they’re all dead or eaten now, so I guess I had the last laugh. All joking aside, I love to cook, so if you want . . .’
‘Thanks for the offer, but cooking might rob the brains of the nutrients I need. As far as I know, they have to be raw.’
That’s nonsense, but it satisfies Timothy and spares me the job of telling him I’d rather eat straight from a corpse’s head than risk one of his dishes.
Timothy starts walking again but doesn’t turn into Brick Lane.
‘I thought you said we were going that way.’
‘We are,’ he nods, ‘but my studio is about halfway down. It’s a narrow, dark street. I’ve boarded up most of the buildings close to mine, but zombies could be lurking somewhere along the way. I always go down the main road and cut in from there. You have to be careful if you want to survive around here.’
At the end of Bethnal Green Road we cut left on to Commercial Street.
‘I adored the markets around here,’ Timothy says. ‘I often came over on a Sunday and spent the entire day milling around, sketching people, buying things I didn’t need, sampling the many local varieties of fine cuisine.’
‘Fine cuisine?’ I snort. ‘Bagels and curry?’
‘Oh, there was much more than that,’ Timothy insists. ‘Pies and falafel and jellied eels for instance.’
‘ You ate jellied eels?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he blinks.
‘I didn’t have you pegged for the jellied eels sort. My gran loved them, and my dad and his mates tucked into them sometimes, but I mean, come on, they were disgusting. Cold, bony bits of eel wrapped up in slimy jelly — you wouldn’t feed that mess to a dog.’
‘It was authentic East London,’ Timothy protests.
‘ I’m authentic East London,’ I tell him, ‘and I wouldn’t touch jellied eels with a bargepole.’
‘Well, to each their own,’ he says with a shrug.
We turn into a street lined with beautiful old houses. It feeds into Brick Lane and we come to a huge building, the old Truman Brewery. Timothy looks around to make sure no one – no thing – is watching, then fishes a key out of a pocket and hurries to a large, steel door. He opens it quickly and slips inside. I get an uneasy feeling – maybe
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