Time Zero

"The end is nigh, the end is nigh..."The chant was familiar, but he was not the billboard-wearing caricature: old bearded man in long dirty raincoat. He was young, clean-shaven and neatly dressed. He said the words in a tired monotone voice as he stamped his well-oiled leather boots on the pavement at the street corner. A small speech-bubble of fog opened with each word. His accent was distinctly local and his looks did not distinguish him from thousands of other Londoners. One hand was dug tightly in a corduroy pocket while the other held a pole on which a sign was mounted. Neatly painted in red it said: Golf Equipment, Sale Ends Friday, The End is Nigh. An arrow pointed north-west along Oxford Street. Nearby, a woman sat strumming a guitar and singing through long matted hair that obscured the left half of her face like a torn veil. What could be seen of her skin was fashionably pale. She sounded like an American, as singers of popular songs often do. Beside her on the ground a black hat contained three coins she had placed there herself. Across the road, a department store display-window paved the ground in yellow light. Pedestrians in heavy coats walked quickly. Many carried plastic bags with brand names crumpled by gloved hands. It was January 1999. The start of a year and the end of a millennium. Where were you?Maliphant Dee's spy thriller takes us back to a year the world dreaded as much as celebrated. As the months tick down so do the seconds. It would all end at midnight: Time Zero.