Meet the Street
Meet the Street: Arthur & Mags
Everyone had a life before.
Arthur
My name’s Arthur.
People look at me now and think I’m strange. I don’t correct them. I was strange before. It’s just more noticeable these days.
Before everything fell apart, I was Special Forces. A long time ago. I don’t talk about it much because it turns into something else once people start listening. Stories get simplified. Edges get sanded down. The truth is mostly waiting, preparation, and knowing how badly things go wrong when someone hasn’t thought something through.
I like building things. Always have. Proper things. Improvised things. Things that shouldn’t work but do if you respect the materials. I used to make gnome grenades. Garden gnomes packed carefully, sealed properly, designed to make a mess of a situation without killing anyone who didn’t need killing. People laughed at the name. That was fine. It meant they didn’t underestimate them.
The night the world broke, I wasn’t surprised. Not really. I’d been listening to the wrong silences for weeks. Watching systems wobble. When the bang hit the window, I was already cataloguing what we had and what we’d need.
After that, I started building again.
Barricades. Trip lines. Frighteners. Things that buy time. Things that remind you that survival isn’t about bravado. It’s about preparation, discipline, and knowing exactly what you’re prepared to do — and what you’re not.
People think I enjoy this. I don’t. I enjoy people being safe. I enjoy seeing kids sleep through the night. I enjoy the sound of a street that holds.
Mags says I make things more complicated than they need to be.
She’s wrong.
Mostly.
Mags
My name’s Mags.
Arthur is exhausting.
He’s brilliant, infuriating, meticulous, and completely incapable of leaving well enough alone. If there’s a simple solution, he’ll improve it until it’s unrecognisable and then look offended when you ask why.
He’s also my brother.
Before all this, I was used to watching him from the outside. Dropping in. Checking he was eating properly. Making sure he hadn’t turned the shed into something that might explode. Again. I learned early on that Arthur doesn’t need managing so much as monitoring.
The night everything went wrong, I knew exactly what would happen. Arthur would get busy. He always does. Building, planning, thinking ten steps ahead. Someone had to watch him while he did it.
That’s where I come in.
I don’t build grenades. I don’t draw maps. I watch people. I listen. I notice when someone’s about to say yes because they’re scared, not because it’s right. I notice when Arthur hasn’t slept and thinks he has.
I’m blunt. It saves time. Kindness doesn’t have to be soft to be real.
Arthur pretends not to need grounding. He does. Everyone does. Especially people who’ve spent their lives being trained to compartmentalise fear. I remind him to eat. I tell him when to stop. I stand next to him when things get loud so he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.
He annoys me constantly.
I love him without question.
Queen’s Road survives because it has people who plan for the worst — and people who make sure those planners don’t lose themselves in the process.
That’s us.
Everyone had a life before.
Welcome to Queen’s Road.
