by Stuart Evers
‘What’s that, Natey?’
‘You’re cheating. No way you could have avoided my properties this many times.’
‘How on earth can I be cheating?’
‘I see it when you roll. I can see what you’re doing.’
‘Why would I cheat?’ Tom says. ‘I don’t even want to play.’
‘Why don’t we take a break from Monopolizing?’ Nate’s father says. ‘We can pick it up later.’
The players stand as one, stretch legs and arms, a warm-down.
‘Let’s play cards,’ Nate says to Thomas. Thomas laughs and shakes his head.
‘I’ve played enough games for one day,’ he says.
‘Scared you’ll lose?’
‘How old are you, Natey?’ he says. Tommy sighs and puts a hand on Nate’s shoulder.
‘Look, we’re all in shock,’ he says. ‘If it helps, take a swing at me. It looks like you’d like to, though God alone knows why. You want this to be Lord of the Flies? Fine, we can do that. Go on, son. Lay it on me. I won’t fight back.’
He smiles. That smile. Smug the smile, knowing the smile.
‘Thought not,’ Thomas says. ‘Let’s not say anything more about it, okay? It’s over and it’s done. Pals again?’
Nate looks at the floor.
‘Pals?’ Tom says.
‘Yes,’ Nate says. ‘I’m sorry. I just . . .’
‘You don’t need to explain,’ he says. ‘I understand. I really do. But don’t take it out on me. Okay? Never, ever take it out on me.’
They join the men by the radio, waiting for the next broadcast. Thomas yawns first, then his father, then Drum.
‘You should get some rest,’ Gault says. ‘All of you. We’ll take it in shifts to listen out for news. Let me take the first one.’
‘He’s right,’ his father says. ‘Time for bed.’
Nate does not argue, says goodnight to his sister, to his parents. He has an erection, one that will not abate, no matter the images of destruction and death he can muster.
The report repeats the same information. Stay indoors, do not leave your place of residence: a come-on, these words. Natasha’s bra is sometimes visible when she bends down and the sight of the strap is also enough. He watches Daphne, drunk and sloppy on the sofa, and wonders if she has ever been fucked in her arse. He has stuck his fingers in his own hole several times, experimentally, up to the knuckle. He likes the sensation, the smell of his fingers afterwards.
‘Goodnight,’ Nate says to Thomas.
‘I’ll be through in a little while,’ Thomas says, eyes on him, a warning, as though he can see his purpose.
Nate closes the door and undresses, takes a sock, the whole thing messily over as soon as he touches it. He puts on pyjamas, hides the wet sock down the side of the small bed, gets under the blanket. He punches himself in the arm, then on the leg. Hard blows. You stupid twat, he says, punching his arm again, you dick, as he slaps his own face, beats at his head, you twat.
The door then. The door and he freezes as the corridor light shines through.
‘I don’t want to hear anything,’ Thomas says. ‘You understand?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says.
‘Then that’s understood then,’ Thomas says.
Thomas gets undressed in the half-light, a well-toned body, defined around the abdomen and torso, lithe, rather than athletic. Tom wears shorts rather than pants, his arse flat, a small patch of hair, a perfect rectangle at the base of his spine. He pulls on a T-shirt and a pair of long-johns, gets under the blankets.
‘You okay?’ Thomas says.
‘It doesn’t feel real,’ Nate says.
‘I know,’ Thomas said. ‘But it is real. It’s real, but it won’t be as bad as people make out. The Earth will keep spinning, and we’ll live long lives. We’ll start a new world. A better one.’
Tom shifts over in the cot, leans over the divide between them.
‘Don’t have nightmares about the bombs,’ Thomas says. ‘Just think about the day we get out. What that will feel like. Like the first day of the summer holidays. Just think of that. Think of that and sleep well.’
Nate looks at the walls. He closes his eyes. He thinks of the irradiated. He thinks of football. He thinks of Chris Birch, of the first day of the summer holidays and the bomb blasts. He thinks of all of these things, sees them all in dreams. Long, riotous dreams of pornographic intensity.
13
Natasha sleeps as if dead. Anneka cannot hear her: it is almost as if she has erased herself, teleported back to the aboveground world, the real world; whatever that now means. Anneka dozes, wakes, sleeps, wakes, mentally arranges her drawers and wardrobe. She opens her eyes and closes them, reminds herself where she is, what has happened. No breath in the room, no breath and then breath. Something panting, almost.
In the shadows, she is sure it is Heathcliff come again. Heathcliff in the shadows, the shape of him by the doorframe, cur-like and huffing, face and body obscured, but him, for certain. She can feel him there. She holds her breath, closes her eyes; no way he can see her, no way to know without her breath, her open eyes. Eyes closed, breath held, stiff as board under blankets. The burst in the lungs, the fire, the slow exhale, gently, softly through the nose. Eyes still closed. Blink open, quick, quick the blink, enough to see him still there, alone in the shadows. No Cathy. No Kate. No Natasha either, her bed a nest of blankets missing a hen.
Not Natasha, by the door. Can tell that. The breathing is male, large of lung, the breath over the tongue. Breath inching closer, foot by foot, slow, slow steps, the lips pursed and teeth behind, shush, shush, from his lips like a parent’s comforting of a child; shush, shush, darling quiet now, darling, that’s enough, my love.
Travelling the shush, coming near, and with it scent and heft, a body-smell of groin and sheet-cooled sweat. Closer, the shush, and the body and its smell lying down beside her, the mattress gulping, settling, the body not quite touching hers, but close, so close, almost touching. Shush, shush, through the lips, her hands by her sides, protecting nothing, ready to scratch perhaps, but the body on the top of the blanket and her trapped under it.
Shush, shush in the ear, shush, shush, as the hand roams over the blankets, palms on her breasts, layers between his palms and her chest, the hands resting there, as if searching for the beat of a heart, the hands not rough, not the Heathcliff hands she has fought and pawed away, his smell not the smell of ash and fire and damp hair. Not her Heathcliff. Something real, tangible. Weight to the hand, weight to the fingers, wandering down, settling around the crotch, resting there, fingers grabbing down, trying to find a hole through the blanket, any hole.
‘These are the days we’ve waited for,’ the body says. ‘Are they not, Annie? It’s just us now. The two of us. It’s all down to us now, the two of us. No choice now, Annie. Just the two of us. Down here, it’s you and me. It’s going to be months, months down here. And we said we’d look after each other, didn’t we, Annie? We said we’d take care of one another, didn’t we, Annie? We said we’d do that. We made a promise, didn’t we, Annie? Signed our name on that promise. We wrote our names together behind the piano, didn’t we, Annie?’
A more forceful grab with the hand, pushing the fabric of her pyjamas almost inside her.
‘I know you’ve always wanted me. I’ve always known. It was always going to be this way, war or not. Bombs or not. It’s fate. I said what I said to protect you. You going with that man at Fernando’s? That should have been me. You know it should have been me. You no longer need to be scared. You no longer need to mess with scum like that. It’s us now, Annie. This is our world now, Annie. We will populate it in our image, Annie.’
Anneka spits in his face. Reaction as a grass snake, projectile towards the assailant, surprise the only weapon. He moves his hand from her groin, wipes away her spit. He drags his spitty fingers down her cheek, four wet track marks down to her chin.
‘Or maybe you’d prefer to spend y
our time with Gault? He’s the only other option, Annie. That’s the reality of it all. You have a choice, Gault or me. Some desiccated old bastard, or me.’
He puts his arm across her chest, heavy like a log.
‘Or maybe it’s your father you want? Perhaps that’s it. You’d like to fuck daddy, is that it, Annie? Is that your filthy little secret?’
He laughs and she tries to move her arms, nails ready to scratch, fists ready to punch, but the blankets are tight over her.
‘Shush,’ he says. ‘I’m joking. Just joking around. I know it’s hard. I know it’s difficult for you, but why make it harder? Why not just accept it? We’ll be together. The two of us will be together. Our children will repopulate the earth. We will be heroes. We will be gods.’
She wants to stab him. With blood, so much blood, she wants to make it stop. She can do it. She’s sure she can do it. Just a weapon needed, improvised, a blade of some kind. Talking, him talking, but her hearing the gurgle of blood in his mouth, the lurch as the blood sprays free and clear.
He kisses her. Finds her mouth and she clamps down her lips, and he surrounds them with his; strong hands around her thin wrists, erection pressed against her. She manages to move her mouth away.
‘Get off or I’ll scream,’ she says. ‘I’ll scream the fucking place down.’
‘Scream,’ he says. ‘Go on, scream. You think anyone will care? We’re all screaming. You say not tonight, but what of tomorrow? A week from now? A month? What then? Your fight will burn out. And then you’ll start to enjoy it. You’ll pretend not to, but you’ll enjoy it. With every no, there is a coming yes.’
She pushes him from the bed and he falls to the ground, a thump and whack as he hits the flooring, the edge of the bedframe. Where you find strength, where you find ire, where you find courage. He doesn’t move. She looks down and hopes for blood. His eyes are closed.
‘You’ll start to enjoy it,’ he says, eyes still closed. ‘You know that. I know that. That’s why you didn’t scream. You could have screamed, but you didn’t.’
And she screams then. All the screams, all those locked inside, flooding. She screams at him, but he is gone, out of the door and gone. She runs after him. The corridor is empty, all the doors closed, and she screams and screams.
Into the living quarters, him not there. She upends the crockery on the table. She throws a chair at the wall, starts taking books from the shelves, hurling them at walls.
‘Come out,’ Anneka shouts. ‘Come out here. I’ll fucking kill you. Come out!’
Gault watches her, but she does not notice him; does not notice her mother and her father, the two of them coming for her, all shushes and calming words. Arms around her, arms in comfort, arms in restraint.
‘Get off me,’ she says to her father. ‘You should be after him, you should be getting him, not me!’
‘It’s okay, darling,’ her father says. ‘Just a bad dream, a nightmare.’
‘No,’ she screams. ‘No. He was in my room. He was in my room and he touched me and he said things and—’
Behind Gault, her brother and Natasha, Daphne and Thomas appear. Thomas is wiping sleep from his eyes. Confused face. Strange face. Amused almost. Almost that.
‘I’ll fucking kill him,’ she says. ‘Keep him away from me.’
‘Darling, sweetheart,’ her mother says. ‘Please. It’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. No one was in your room. No one.’
‘He was there,’ Anneka says. ‘He –’ she points at Thomas – ‘was in my room. He lay on my bed.’
‘What’s she talking about?’ Thomas says.
‘Go back to bed,’ her mother says. ‘You and Natasha get back to bed. We’ll sort this out.’
‘He’s the one who needs sorting out. He was there. He was,’ Anneka says.
Daphne ushers her children from the room. Gault stands watching, observing. Like he has a clipboard, a touch of the medico about him, an intrigued consultant.
‘Can you give us some space, Mr Gault?’ her father says. ‘She suffers from terrible nightmares.’
The man nods, but does not move immediately. He keeps his eyes on Anneka. Close eyes on Anneka, shrewd eyes and reckoning.
‘What happened?’ her mother asks. ‘Did Thomas come into your room?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I just said that, didn’t you hear me?’
‘And Natasha was there?’
‘No,’ Anneka says. ‘No. She wasn’t.’
‘It was just a dream,’ her father says. ‘A terrible, awful dream.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘You have to believe me, I know when things are . . .’
The weakness there, the weakness of the words, and the weakness of herself. The troubled look on her father’s face. So many times that look, fear and shame that look, pity and anger that look. Heightened though, like the wind has changed and he is permanently stuck within it.
‘I know what happened,’ she says. ‘I know he came into the room. And he—’
‘Like Mr Hartson?’ he says. ‘Like you knew what he had done?’
And she sees the future then. The repetition. Overhearing her father tell Gault about the teacher she’d accused who had done nothing more than have the misfortune to appear in a dream. An apology to be made, the scraping and penitence. To Thomas.
‘You don’t believe me?’ Anneka says. ‘You think I just made all this up?’
Her father comes for her, with his arms and his eyes set on hers, the way he does when he means something serious.
‘I believe you believe it,’ he says. ‘But it’s hard, when you’ve said so—’
She busts out from his embrace, throws herself against the piano, screams there, kept screaming, the lung burst of the scream, so loud she feels her eyes might explode, her heart emerge from her throat.
‘Don’t come near me,’ she says. ‘Don’t you come near me, either of you.’
Anneka weeps and she heaves and she screams and it is like she is no longer in the bunker, no longer anywhere but inside the noise and the heat and the fire and the rage. It does not feel it will end.
Gault returns to the living quarters and then it does end. Quickly, perfunctorily. They watch as he puts his hand behind the radio and produces a handset. A receiver. He pushes its button and talks into its grill.
‘Site seven, a four seventeen. Concluded 4.16 a.m. Copy.’
‘Copy that,’ a static voice says. Gault puts down the receiver.
‘Can I speak to you, Mr Moore?’ Gault says. ‘In my berth, please.’
The soft steps of his slippers. The ashen face of her mother. The sheer violence of her father’s face. The rapt silence after the screams.
OPERATION MID-OFF
The plausibility was the test’s main success. Even those who knew it was a test began to wonder if the fiction had become unwitting fact. Those involved were made to sign further Official Secrets Act paperwork. The threat of punishment was draconian, even for those dark days. I left the RSG the next day and thought of all the underground survivors, mole-like, emerging into a world they expected to have disappeared. The results were catastrophic, and no further tests were ever held, at least as far as I have been able to ascertain. I still think of them now, those survivors. How they see the world, how it changed them all. I like to think that they saw life in a new way and found it more precious than ever.
Bryan Jerrick, My Cold Wars (Underworld Press, 2001)
15
Gault has the voice, the correct voice, the one of gravitas and import, sufficiently gravelled. His explanation is succinct and calm. You understand, he says, using Drum’s forename often and deliberately, you understand, do you not, Drummond? The importance of this. The absolute necessity, Drummond. The need, in times of extreme pressure, to ensure the safety of the country.
Nodding head, Drummond. Nodding head and thank-you-sirs.
‘When there are threats to safety, however,’ Gault says. ‘We have to stop. There is a clear directive. No one wants to see a
death over this. So we have suspended the exercise and you are free to go, all of you. Once the paperwork is in order.’
He takes out papers, the penalties listed in bold type. Drum signs. He signs and Gault asks him to show in the rest of his family.
16
‘You understand the consequences,’ Gault says.
‘Yes,’ Anneka says. She signs below the bold type, below the regular type.
‘I suggest you seek some help for your nightmares,’ he says. ‘You are clearly not well.’
She stands.
‘Will that be all?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Thank you for your attention.’
She shuts the door on Gault, collects her Go bag and walks to the living quarters. Her father, mother and brother are there. The bag is on her shoulder, like she’s ready to go to school.
‘Did you know?’ she says to her father.
‘No.’
‘Did Carter know?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says.
They look at each other and she knows Thomas must have known.
‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’ she says.
Her father starts to say something, but she spits in his face. Second time the spit. She walks past him, past Nate, past her mother. Saying nothing, heading for the doors, heading for the exit.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ her father says. ‘You come back here now.’
She keeps walking.
‘If you leave now,’ her father shouts. ‘That’s it.’
She keeps walking.
‘I mean it,’ he shouts. ‘You come back here right now, Anneka Moore. You do as you’re told. If you go now, that’s it. I mean it.’
She keeps walking.
‘You leave now, you never come back, you hear?’
She keeps walking.
‘I mean it,’ her father says. ‘One more step and that’s it.’
‘Please, Anneka,’ her mother says. ‘Please, please come back.’
Anneka keeps walking. She keeps walking until the voices behind her are muffled by doors, by earth, by elevation. She keeps walking until she starts to run.