They said there was nothing to fear.
They lied.
They said we’d never be targeted with actual bombs rather than just cyberattacks.
They lied. Or they had no idea. Which might be worse.
I saw the news images from Ukraine a few years ago. Sheffield is twinned with Donetsk after all. But nothing prepares you for seeing your own city bombed out. Places you know and love destroyed.
I head into town, picking my way through the thick dust and rubble on Psalter Lane, its beautiful avenue of lime trees now-blackened silhouettes interspersed with burnt-out cars. I don’t think I’ll ever drive my daily commute along here again. My eyes constantly flick up and down, logging obstacles threatening to trip me, then checking around for other people. I tighten the straps of my rucksack.
I slip cautiously around the perimeter of Waitrose, the grand supermarket now a gigantic pile of rocks. Armed gangs protect stalls of supplies they’ve recovered from the wreckage. A mafia-esque marketplace.
I’m taking a risk heading into the centre. Most survivors fled to the Peak District or nearby towns that weren’t deemed bomb-worthy. The city’s inhabitants are mostly gangs or oppressors now. Hopefully none of them are interested in the area I’m heading for though.
I detour off Eyre Street, nostalgia leading me towards the Town Hall. The Grade-1-listed stone-carved exterior stands in defiance against the bombs that gutted its insides, a singed skull with dark empty eyes. There’s no sign of the clocktower, the statue of Vulcan that watched over Sheffield from the top long gone, someone’s bizarre souvenir.
My heart pulses painfully as I reach the Winter Gardens, my sanctuary from bad weather during lunch hours, its planting attempting to convince me I was somewhere exotic and warm. Before heading back to work, I’d always visit the panda hiding in the bamboo and the snake curled around the Arctic Monkeys’ elephant. Everything’s flattened now, blanketed beneath twisted metal and shards of shattered glass.
“Hey, you, stop!”
I freeze instantly, my hands going up instinctively, even though it’s the first time this has happened to me. I’ve heard the stories though, been thoroughly informed by the Friends of S11 Facebook Group. Whoever it is needs to know I’m not armed, that I’m no threat to them.
The thick accent is not Yorkshire. There’ll be no telling me to “get tha sen home, duck”. The two men striding towards me, clad in black from head to toe, huge frightening guns in their hands, are oppressors.
The Mayor told us to do whatever the oppressors instruct us.
He lied.
He knows we’re rebellious, that we weren’t called the People’s Republic of South Yorkshire for nothing. That we’ll never do what we’re told to without good reason. And he didn’t give us a good reason.
“Name,” one of the men barks, letting his gun fall to his side and taking out a tablet.
“Lucy, Lucinda Brown.”
“Household?”
“Just myself, my sister and her baby. The rest of my family were…killed.”
We had to declare ourselves and our households to the oppressors. An updated electoral roll.
“Why are you here?”
I have my story prepared. “I worked at Hallam University. I wanted to see if my desk drawers survived. There are items in there,” I let my voice catch, “that are special to me.”
I doubt the oppressors give a shit but it’s a bland excuse and there might be a few decent humans among them.
The one still holding his gun scrutinises me. “The building stands but everything of value has been removed.”
“It’s just keepsakes from family and friends. Precious only to me. So that I can remember them.” I make my voice quiver and a flash of humanity flits across his face.
“Let her be,” he says to the tablet guy, then turns back towards me. “The building is dangerous. You go in at your own risk.”
“I know,” I nod, overly gratefully. “Thank you.”
He flicks his hand in dismissal and I leave before they change their minds, skirting the back of the semi-intact Novotel, along Arundel Gate to the front of the Owen Building.
I lied.
I haven’t worked at Hallam for years. Instead, I check the street is empty and cross the road to the Millenium Galleries, crunching through thick layers of glass shards to the remains of the exhibition rooms. No one’s thought about what’s here. Who needs art in a war zone?
I get what I came for and head home as quickly as I can, hoping everything is packed tightly enough in my rucksack that it won’t bang and draw attention.
My sister opens our front door before I reach it. “Are you okay?” she asks concerned, her eyes checking me over. I nod and we hug.
I stay inside until it’s dark. Until anyone who might have followed will have given up.
My son had been paranoid about possible attacks. Or well informed and sensible it seems now. He’d dug a shelter, a sizeable one, into the side of our woodland valley garden during his last summer vacation from university.
I sneak down the path in the moonlight and tap a secret knock on the metal trapdoor, hidden from sight by overgrown brambles. It opens just enough for me to squeeze in.
To my biggest secret and lie.
My household isn’t just the three of us I registered on the electoral roll. Here, in this underground shelter, live ten members of the new Sheffield Resistance.
I hand them my rucksack and watch as they pull out one item after another from the Metalwork Collection, checking off the list they gave me of things we need to survive and move forward. Stove top kettle. Two teapots. Brandy saucepan. Giant utility knife. Toasting forks and scissors. Enema syringe and bone gouge forceps. The Resistance leader holds the cucumber slicer aloft in triumph. I don’t ask.
They look over me and grin.
“Never underestimate Sheffield steel.”
Hi, I'm Mel (you figured that out already though, right?!) and this is where I chat about things that relate to and inspire my writing, as well as share some of it.