The Quiet at the End of the World

by Lauren James

  “Really?” I say, surprised.

  He nods. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Thinking about what might survive after we’re gone. It’s never the things you’d expect.”

  “Yeah! It’s odd that an old paperback might be readable long after a tablet breaks down.”

  Mitch jogs over to me and holds something out. I take it, bemused. It’s half of an old CD, cracked down the centre and bearing the words GEANT PEPPER in bubble letters. It’s covered in sand.

  Thanks!” I say, confused but delighted. It’s a useless gift, but I’m kind of pleased he likes me enough to give me something at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  I smell the crash site before I see it. There’s a line of smoke meandering through the air from the smouldering wreck of Big Ben, and small patrol drones are circling above it. It’s even worse than I’d been imagining. The ancient parliament building has collapsed, and Big Ben’s tower has crumbled into the water, exposing the charred innards.

  I try to work out how deep the crater might be judging by the radius, but my maths isn’t good enough. Deep, anyway. The only part of the helicopter that’s visible is one long rotor emerging from the water.

  Mum and Mrs Maxwell are standing on the edge of the explosion perimeter. After leaving William and Elizabeth loose to graze the grass and weeds growing from crevices in the cracked tarmac, we pull off our riding hats and walk over. “Hi, Mrs Maxwell!” I call.

  “Hi, Lowrie, Shen!” she says. Mrs Maxwell has completely white hair, from root to tip. I’ve always wondered what it would look like if it was dyed teal or pink or indigo. When she’s not policing, she writes nostalgic novels with titles like The Only Way Is Love and A Child for Us All. I stopped reading the last one at the line “The question, unasked on everyone’s lips, was obvious: how could a child be born now, so long after the last birth? And who amongst them could possibly abandon such a precious life?” Far too cheesy for me, but Shen loves her books.

  “Grab a hard hat from the pile and come over,” Mrs Maxwell tells us, before turning back to watch Mum, who is holding some sort of device out over the water.

  “Uh-huh,” Shen says, smiling and walking straight past the helmets.

  I grab two helmets and push one into his hands. “You didn’t hear that, did you?” I say in an undertone. “She wants us to wear these.”

  “No,” he admits. “She always talks in a mumble.” He wanders over to Mum while Mitch stands at the edge of the crater, staring down at his reflection in the water.

  I start to follow Shen and then turn to ask Mrs Maxwell something. I’m surprised to see that she’s gone pale and looks a little queasy. “Are you all right?” I ask, alarmed.

  “Excuse me. I’m feeling hot all of a sudden.” She fans her face.

  “Do you need to sit down?”

  She shakes her head firmly. “I’m fine. It’s just a passing hot flush.”

  Mum looks over at her, frowning.

  Mrs Maxwell smiles and shakes her head very slightly at her. “I feel better already,” she says with another smile. “Let’s go and see what your mum’s doing, shall we?”

  She still looks pale, but I decide not to say anything. I clear my throat. “So, what are you looking for?”

  “The black box,” Mum answers. “We’re hoping it will have recorded the last moments before Alexei’s crash. The hard drive is designed to be indestructible, so it should still be readable – if we can find it in the water with the scanner.”

  “So there is a way to preserve data for the future,” I say, and shoot a look at Shen.

  He beams at me.

  “I hate this thing,” Mum mutters, jabbing the screen of her device.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s a sonar imaging scanner, although that’s as much as I can tell you.” Mum is not the best with technology. She’s more of a books person. She so rarely has to do anything with complicated tech that it doesn’t usually matter, though.

  Shen peers over Mum’s shoulder, hooking his aviator sunglasses over the first button of his shirt. When he pokes at the screen, she nudges him out of the way. “Don’t do that, you’ll break it.”

  “I don’t think I will.” He taps the screen again, and the device makes a noise that sounds encouraging.

  Mum pushes the device into his hands, looking relieved. “You do it, then. I can’t get the bloody thing to work.”

  Shen taps it for a moment, then holds it up to show us a model of the helicopter below the surface of the water.

  “Excellent!” Mum studies the image for a moment and then says to Mrs Maxwell, “I think if you approach from this side, it should be safe.”

  I realise what they’re planning to do when Mrs Maxwell peels open a large carry case to reveal a scuba-diving kit. I gasp so loudly that Elizabeth comes over to check up on me, nosing at my shoulder in interest. “Mum!” I say, “Oh, Mum, can I go instead? Please? I’ve dived loads of times, and Mrs Maxwell isn’t feeling very well!”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lowrie. You’re here to observe, not to get involved. Besides, you don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

  “It’s probably a box that’s black – right?” I grin. “Come on, otherwise you’ll have to go, and you know you don’t like getting your hair wet,” I tell her slyly. “It dries frizzy afterwards.”

  Mum doesn’t look convinced, but Mrs Maxwell smothers what I think is a laugh.

  I tilt my chin at a precise forty-five degree angle and stare down my nose at my mum, disgruntled.

  Mum sticks out her tongue at me. “All right,” she sighs. “You can go. Shen, do you want to go too? There are two kits.”

  Shen nods several times in a row, delighted.

  “Was that a yes?” Mum asks, grinning.

  I pull off my hacking jacket, which is an antique I’d rather not soak in murky crater water, while Shen rolls up his shirt sleeves. He reveals wide forearms covered with a smattering of dark hair. On the pale underside, blue veins trail the bulge of muscles. For some reason, the sight of them makes me feel a bit warm. I look away and focus on taking off my boots.

  “Don’t go inside the helicopter, that’s too dangerous,” Mrs Maxwell says, projecting a diagram of the helicopter on the ground using her tablet. “You should be able to get the black box out from a hatch on the outside.” She points out where it should be.

  “Got it,” I say.

  “You know you can’t keep the black box, don’t you?” Mrs Maxwell adds. “The footage will show us what happened in the last moments before Alexei crashed. It might be … upsetting.”

  My gut twists. I don’t want to see that anyway.

  “What if we find something else? That isn’t connected to the crash, I mean,” Shen asks.

  I nod at him, impressed by his negotiation tactics. I bet there were loads of forgotten treasure vaults inside the Palace of Westminster. We might even find some jewels under the rubble.

  “That’s all yours.” Mum fishes a sugar cube out of her pocket and holds it out to William on the palm of her hand.

  “How about you two get yourselves ready, and I’ll tell you if you go wrong?” Mrs Maxwell passes out tubes and masks to us. “You both did well the last time I took you out diving.”

  Shen and I both have a million hobbies because our parents have always let us try anything we wanted – and there’s always someone around who can teach us things. As well as scuba diving, we’ve had lessons in pottery, croquet, ballet, dressage, fencing, punting, cricket, golf and a dozen other activities. Most of our experiments didn’t stick, but Shen tried bass guitar once and never stopped, and I box with a punching bag in the orangery whenever I can’t sleep.

  I think that everyone is so eager to teach us about their passions because otherwise their hobbies will die with them. No one in the future will ever experience the joy of playing darts if they can’t manage to get Shen and I interested now. Even if Jia finds a solution to fix the sterility, these skills might sti
ll be lost for ever, like extinct languages disappearing with the oldest members of a small community.

  It took a long time for me not to feel guilty when I disliked something (see: painting, dressmaking, extreme frisbee), but I realise now that it’s not my job to shoulder the entire weight of humankind’s creativity and passion. I only have room to carry my own, and scuba diving is something I love doing.

  Under Mrs Maxwell’s careful watch, I attach the oxygen tank to the buoyancy jacket, opening the valve to make sure the pressure is full.

  “Don’t forget to check the mouthpiece is clear,” Mrs Maxwell says, when I put it on. “Shen, I think your tube is a bit twisted.”

  When I’m certain the equipment is working, I make the “OK” sign at Mrs Maxwell before turning to Shen, who looks bug-eyed in his mask. A tuft of his hair is caught under the strap, making it stick upwards in a plume.

  “Good luck!” Mum calls.

  We step off the edge of the crater into the water. It’s cold and it trickles down my back, making me shiver. I wish we had our wetsuits.

  I swim in breaststroke behind Shen. His tuft of hair has disappeared now that it’s wet, to my disappointment. I carefully extend my arms and legs in slow motion, in case there’s something sharp out of sight. The mud hasn’t settled after only one night, and the water is dark and cloudy. Wriggling insects swim past my mask.

  There’s a fast movement ahead of me, and I almost jump out of my skin, until I realise that Mitch has dived into the water too. He spirals around us, his path lit up by beams of white light, making it easier to see the way ahead. When I wave at him, he waggles skinny metal fingers back at me.

  The twisted hull of the helicopter appears in the darkness ahead of us. We shine our torches around it, searching for the compartment of the black box.

  The whole craft has been bent out of shape by the crash, but there’s something bright orange sticking out. When I swim closer, I see that it’s a tab. I run my finger along the edge. There’s a compartment, about the size of a tea tray, set into the side.

  It doesn’t open when I pull at the tab, so I use a chisel from my utility belt to ease it open where the distorted metal has sealed it shut. I tap the sharp edge along the seam of the hatch, hitting the end of the handle with my fist. Slowly I manage to ease the door loose.

  Inside, there’s an orange metal box with the words FLIGHT RECORDER – DO NOT OPEN written on the side in black letters. Success.

  I wave to catch Shen’s attention, and he swims over to help me slide out the black box. It’s heavy, even with two of us, and I’m wondering how we’ll manage to carry it to the surface when Mitch tugs it from us and shoots off.

  He is so cool, in a weird way. I’m glad the robot has decided to hang around. There are so few people I can be friends with that it’s nice to have him around, even if I can’t understand what he’s saying.

  We swim after Mitch back to the surface, and I pull myself on to the ground, shaking the hair out of my eyes and spitting out a mouthful of pale green water. It tastes thoroughly organic, in an unpleasant way that reminds me of algae.

  “Good work, kids,” Mrs Maxwell says, handing us towels. “That was all very careful and cautious. Lowrie, keep an eye on your legs when you’re swimming, though – you nearly kicked Shen in the face at one point.”

  Shen shakes his head in mock disappointment at me. His shirt is sodden, clinging and almost see-through. He rubs his forehead with the back of his forearm. Sunlight spills over him, dripping down the lines of his shoulders.

  “Right, let’s take a look at this box,” Mum says.

  “It’s not even black,” Shen says, bemused, crouching to inspect the orange wrought-iron box.

  “How do we get inside?” I ask, brushing a wet leaf off Shen’s wrist. The hair on his arm is dark and sleek against the skin. I rub it idly, watching it go fluffy and soft as it sticks up. I wrap myself up in a towel, shivering at the cool breeze.

  “You don’t,” Mum says.

  I frown, but I don’t argue.

  We’re helping to pack up the scuba gear when Mrs Maxwell abruptly sits down on the ground. She looks dizzy again. “I think —” she says, and falls forwards, shuddering. Her head jerks to the side.

  “Mrs Maxwell? Are you OK?” I ask, running over to her.

  She blinks, and her eyes take a moment to focus. Her hand is trembling. “I need to…” She shakes her head, as if unable to speak. “I feel a bit … funny.”

  “Lowrie, Shen, go back to the house,” Mum says, eyeing Mrs Maxwell with concern. “I’ll take Mrs Maxwell to Jia, so she can check her out. I’m sure it’s fine.” She rubs Mrs Maxwell’s arm kindly. “Just tiredness.”

  Mrs Maxwell nods. Her face is scored with worry, though, as she lets Mum help her to the car.

  “I hope you’re OK,” I call after them, but Mum’s already starting the car and pulling away. “That was weird,” I say to Shen, when they’re gone. “Do you think she’s getting sick? Or perhaps she’s epileptic?”

  “She might have just not had any breakfast. But imagine what could have happened if she’d gone diving.”

  I hiss through my teeth, very relieved we went in her place.

  “Mama will sort her out, though, I’m sure,” Shen adds. “Come on, we’d better get back. Your dad’s lesson is starting soon.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “I think I have a new best friend,” I say, as Shen and I ride the horses back home. I point at Mitch, who’s still following us. He is definitely planning on coming home with us again, and I can’t help but feel slightly smug about it. It definitely means he likes us!

  Shen huffs a sigh. “You replace me so quickly? How fickle your affections are, Shadow.”

  “What can I say? He’s got more stimulating conversation than you.”

  “He can’t even speak.”

  I shrug lazily with one shoulder, guiding Elizabeth around an old fossilized tree trunk emerging from the silt. “And?”

  Shen shakes a fist at Mitch. “You won’t get away with this, you blaggard. I’ll win her back yet, just you wait.”

  Mitch is busy examining something in the sand and doesn’t even seem to notice. We startle a heron as we pass. It jumps into the air, crossing to the other side of the river with slow, sweeping flaps of its wings.

  I wonder if Mum will try to get into the black box, once Mrs Maxwell has recovered. I wish she’d let us help with that.

  “Do you think a black box would work – as a way of preserving data for the future, I mean? Could humans use one to leave some kind of message? For a future species on earth?”

  “You think another species will evolve to that level of intelligence, after we die?” Shen asks.

  I shrug, watching a dolphin jump in the river, spraying water behind it. “It’s happened before, with humans. It’s not entirely impossible. My bet is on corvids. Crows are, like, crazy smart.”

  “Octopi,” Shen suggests, warming to the subject. “I read this thing that said they evolved totally separately to mammals, so they’re very intelligent, but their brains work completely differently to ours. They’re as close as we’ll probably ever get to communicating with an alien race.”

  “I hope an octopus finds a black box one day, then,” I say, twisting in the saddle to grin at him. “Think how confused they’d be when they tried to read it.”

  I can’t even imagine how hard it would be for aliens or octopi to understand English. It’s almost impossible for archaeologists to reconstruct ancient Egyptian recipes or put long-lost Roman songs to music. And that’s humans trying to understand other humans, whose brains worked in the same way.

  “What an oversimplistic transcription system,” Shen says, in a high-pitched, wavering voice which I think is supposed to be an imitation of an octopus. “Don’t they know how much more information they could record with an eight-dimensional coordinate base?”

  “Why would you create a writing tool that only uses one tentacle?” I add, in the same voic
e. “What were these creatures doing with their other seven?”

  “Why did they stare at these tiny glowing screens all the time? What a strange god to worship!” Shen laughs, snorting.

  There’s a screech above us and I peer up at the sky, wondering if it was a crow. I’m suddenly feeling a little paranoid about what they might be plotting. Octopi might be smart, but so are crows – too smart for their own good – and there are hundreds of them around here, according to our last annual wildlife survey.

  It also revealed that central London is home to four families of wild boars, one hundred and seventeen pheasants, approximately fifteen thousand pigeons and a set of highly argumentative badgers (they picked a fight with Victoria, and she was not the winner). If the crows are going to take over the planet, they’re going to have a lot of competition.

  We’re nearly home when Mitch flashes a bright crimson and hops from foot to foot. “What is it?” I ask, startled. “Are you OK?”

  Mitch signs something in a long series of coloured lights of varying lengths that are clearly instructions.

  I nod, pretending I have any idea what he is saying.

  Then he swerves across the sand like he is sniffing something out. Finally, he stops at a dip in the ground. His head swivels around a full 360 degrees, like an owl. He flashes green at me in a way that very clearly means, Well? Come on, then.

  I dismount immediately. Even though I’m desperate to get home and change out of my wet clothes, I can’t resist the call of treasure. “He’s found something!”

  I duck my head, eyes straining for any sign of incongruity in amongst the clay and stones and lumps of concrete.

  Shen retrieves his metal detector from his rucksack and waves it over the area. It beeps loudly. He grins at me, and I smile back. The excitement of finding something is irresistible. Every single time, my tummy flips.

  I dig at the ground with my trowel, prising out a chunk of slabbing and a curl of plastic. Finally I pull out something hard and round encased in a lump of clay. A chunk of soil slides away, revealing a silver necklace, inlaid with pearls, caught on a tangled chain.