Under the Blue

by Oana Aristide

Jessie shakes her head again.

  Then, an awful thought. ‘Were the two of you there when it happened?’

  ‘What does it mean, to be too angry?’ Jessie says. ‘I mean, what is too angry in response to that?’

  He is thinking, wants to say something, but just then Ash opens the car door and throws up, almost falls out of the car. Once the panic has subsided and Ash is again lying flat on the back seat, he is still struggling to find something to say; something useful. To at least acknowledge to Jessie that this is one more of those unfixable things.

  His back pain is worse. He wakes up in the mornings tired, in pain, wanting to sleep more, but when he sees the girls’ faces, the blank looks, that they wouldn’t mind staying or going, whatever, he steps out of the car and stretches out, sets about making breakfast.

  He worries that one morning they won’t want to get out of the car at all.

  When they’re on the move, he drives fast, as though they’re being chased. Despite the speed, progress is slow; it’s the long meal breaks that take up most of the day, him and Jessie coaxing Ash to take a bite of this or of that.

  He doesn’t know if Ash overheard his and Jessie’s conversation, if she knows that he knows. Several times he wants to bring up the subject, feels that he should, then stops himself at the last moment. The thing is, he doesn’t know how to talk about it without revealing what he feels: that the two of them finally make some sense this way. Motherless. Which they won’t fail to notice is very sad indeed.

  ‘Ash?’

  She’s lying on the back seat, sleeping, as she has done for the last four days. He thinks he can hear the plop of her eyes opening.

  ‘What if I need help navigating?’ he says. ‘What if I’m tired? What if we’re lost?’

  Jessie turns to him, slowly. He has the feeling that he must do something truly outrageous if he is to stir them out of their torpor. Murder, rape. Self-immolation. He could stare at the sun until blinded.

  ‘Well?’ he says. ‘Why can’t you help?’

  After a long while, Ash says, ‘I’m sorry.’ Her lips are dry and the words have that stickiness of a very dry mouth. She sounds old.

  ‘If some helicopter shows up again and we need to make a run for it, you’ll be too weak to make it. And you’ll get me and your sister caught as well, because we won’t abandon you.’

  Silence.

  There’s a forked road ahead of them, and an electricity pole in the middle. He decides about it on the spot, or rather, he decides not to do anything, not to turn the wheel. Jessie next to him is watching the road. It takes three, maybe four seconds, time in which it’s obvious he should have turned the wheel, he shouldn’t be heading straight for the pole, not at this speed anyway. Time in which Jessie should shout at him, grab the wheel and avert the danger.

  He turns away at the last split second, hitting a pothole and banging his head against the window.

  Jessie has not made a sound. Not stirred, not grabbed the wheel.

  ‘Chicken,’ she whispers. Tears are streaming down her face. He has the germ of an idea then. The thought shocks him, its clear ring of truth, the momentous implications, so much so that he forgets about the bump on his head, and lets pass Jessie’s surrender to hopelessness.

  ‘We’ll make it,’ he says. ‘Don’t you dare give up. You’ll make it.’

  13

  The next morning Ash starts whimpering as soon as the car is moving; something is hurting her. They carry her out of the car and lie her down in the shade. Jessie takes her temperature and pulse, presses her stomach and looks into her eyes while he stands over them, afraid and useless.

  Ash is in a half-conscious state, she mumbles nonsense in reply to Jessie’s precise questions.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, for something like the tenth time.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jessie says.

  ‘Look, you’ve got to get her to eat. We won’t get anywhere at this rate.’

  He has spent the night thinking, and that inkling of an idea has become a fully fledged plan. He will leave the girls to continue on their own, towards the safety of the mountains, and he’ll go in the opposite direction and attract their pursuers, just as he did before. If they catch him, he’ll lie to them that the girls have died. He has gone over it in his mind the entire night, and there’s no doubt that it’s the course of action that gives Ash and Jessie the best chance of surviving.

  He fidgets around the car, he can’t stand still. Some optimism, at last. He’d forgotten what it feels like, to know that there’s something he can do, that it’s within his powers to influence events. He wants to tell the girls, to communicate his excitement, but of course he can’t.

  He tries to calm his nerves. For any of this to make sense he needs to first make sure that Jessie and Ash really will keep going on their own.

  They stop so many times that day, Ash mumbling that she’s feeling sick, asking for water, that in the end Jessie reluctantly gives her a pill that makes her sleep. Jessie is worried about covering up the symptoms of something worse than motion sickness, but they can’t afford all the breaks.

  ‘At least we don’t have to force water down her throat,’ Jessie says.

  By the time they stop for the night, the mile-count shows they’ve advanced fewer than 150 miles.

  Paul I would like to remind you of my revolutionary idea.

  Lisa ?

  Paul To have a life.

  To act like we’re alive.

  To leave this place.

  Lisa ah that

  we had a deal

  first we try to restart talos

  not long now

  we’re almost there

  Paul Did you see the news?

  Everybody died.

  Lisa it’s a small sample

  Paul Still. It shouldn’t have happened.

  Lisa see

  the dangers lurking in the real world

  at least we’re safe here

  Paul I’ve a bad feeling.

  Lisa

  cause of smtng that happened in siberia? light years away

  *

  The following day Jessie has the idea of making Ash a shake: they purée a tin of peaches with a fork, then water it down some more and shake it in a bottle until it’s a thick, lumpy juice. Together they sit Ash upright and tell her that’s all they have to drink. She’s too confused to ask about the ins and out of having juice but not water. She still doesn’t want to eat, but she’s thirsty, and slowly she drinks the whole bottle. He and Jessie exchange glances over her head.

  What he has done, so far, is think of his plan entirely in the abstract, a beautiful scheme that he can see will work. He’s somehow avoided the notion that it will be him leaving, that he will be alone, either never to see another human being again or to face God knows what fate at the hands of those people.

  It’s easier to focus on the girls.

  ‘The first town we come across,’ he says, ‘we have to find a decent roadmap. I’m only driving south now, but you, we, can’t keep doing that.’

  Ash is still dozing in the back seat. Jessie is looking out of the window. Neither seems to pay attention to anything he says. He wants to shake them awake, make them take notes. He promptly stops the car, says, ‘Radiator water,’ and tells Jessie to step out, he needs her help.

  ‘Ah, there it is,’ he says, pointing to the front of the engine, making sure Jessie is watching. ‘It looks all right. Don’t ever pour water if steam is coming out, it will boil instantly and burn you.’

  Jessie shrugs and ambles back inside. ‘It’s good to know these things!’ he shouts after her.

  Lisa i don’t understand

  how does it get everywhere

  so fast

  The thought of leaving brings out many feelings, most of which he needs to steer clear from, but one thing he can indulge in: he wants to know more about the girls. He has spent the last few months with them yet he knows so little. Why haven’t they spoken about music, ab
out films, about games they played as children?

  ‘What did you use to do in your spare time? Before?’

  He is being uncool, he knows it. Has Jessie softened so much that she’ll let this pass? Would that even be a good thing?

  ‘I used to think I had no spare time,’ he volunteers. ‘That I was working non-stop.’

  ‘I played volleyball, on and off. Ash was always doing some artsy course.’

  ‘Ah. She did seem interested in my work.’

  Jessie takes a deep breath. ‘I stayed in her flat once, about a year and a half ago. We had just moved into our separate flats, and they were doing up the bathroom at my place. I think I saw your nephew a couple of times. We just said hello, that’s all. I remember thinking that his hours are as bad as mine.’

  All this time, he has pictured Ash encountering Tim, had somehow been jealous of both of them for knowing each other, when in fact it was Jessie who had noticed him.

  ‘I don’t have anything more useful to say, sorry. He seemed nice. Polite.’

  He guesses it’s an apology, of sorts. He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze, and Jessie, looking straight ahead, nods. She looks like a kid who has just answered a difficult exam question.

  There’s hope, he thinks. They will have to come to their senses; they’ll have no choice once he has left. They’re not callous: they’ll know he did it so that they may live.

  That evening, again under the same ‘we have no water’ pretext, they give Ash a glass of puréed beans, and afterwards she asks for a second one. In the morning she is actually properly awake, sits upright in the back seat and squints at the rocky landscape; looking none too pleased.

  ‘We’re in the same place?’ she says.

  ‘Not for long,’ he says, and steps on the gas.

  The following day they come across a fig plantation, and Ash eats four of the sickeningly sweet fruits. He watches the sisters sit on the ground in the shade of the car, and tries to commit this image to the many others in his memory. Ash’s slightly upturned nose, the monkeyish white of their palms, the way Jessie has forgiven his constant attempts at sowing discord between her and Ash. Ash’s always considered responses, the way she won’t assume any ill will. He wonders why it has taken him so long to make this obvious leap, to see people and the world the way he sees them as a painter; the same honesty of gaze, the lack of judgement. The same care: he knows that when it came to work, he has been capable of quite extraordinary care, and from very early on. Then, a whole life, just to learn this other basic thing.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says, ‘about that helicopter. Do you remember all the stories about rich people, seriously rich people, building end-of-the-world bunkers?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jessie says.

  ‘It might have been one of those.’

  ‘Why would they be after us?’ Ash says.

  ‘Well, that’s what I’ve been wondering. But imagine some of them still have the opportunity to carry out research. For the cure. But almost everyone is dead. They’d need, well, guinea pigs. No?’

  Jessie shrugs.

  ‘I can’t think of any other reason why anyone would be after us,’ he says.

  ‘I’m pretty sure the kind of people you are thinking of are not the kind who’d be risking their lives to find a cure,’ Ash says.

  ‘They don’t have to do it out of the goodness of their hearts; they could just be doing it for themselves.’

  The sisters look sceptical.

  ‘And anyway, this is an extreme situation. Even the worst bastard might have a change of heart.’

  ‘Change of heart? You are talking about someone who will hunt down and risk killing healthy survivors,’ Jessie says. ‘We almost died.’

  ‘Well, to be honest, they didn’t have much choice if they wanted to communicate with us. We shot down their drone.’

  ‘What …?’ Jessie starts, and he raises his hands, tries to calm things down.

  ‘I guess my point is that if, for whatever reason, someone is still trying to find a cure, that’s a good thing.’

  ‘I’m not volunteering for research,’ Jessie says, ‘if that’s what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘And you shouldn’t. You two should, you know, help repopulate the earth.’

  Jessie throws a fig at him.

  ‘Wish we had something to drink,’ he says.

  ‘I have a feeling,’ Ash says, ‘our cocktail days are behind us.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that.’ He has an idea then. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

  Jessie eyes him warily. ‘Everything you want is impossible.’

  ‘Just don’t take it the wrong way. It’s not as odd as it sounds.’

  ‘I can already tell this will be extra impossible.’

  ‘Especially you, Jessie. Show some patience.’

  ‘Try us,’ Ash says.

  ‘It’s an exercise in imagination. It’s something to put up against this … whatever this is. Disaster. End of world, end of lightness.’

  ‘Come out with it.’

  ‘I would like us to have a chat the way we might have had a chat before any of this ever happened.’

  ‘Not sure I understand,’ Ash says.

  ‘Imagine we had met at a dinner party. Or a birthday party. Months before. We might have had some common acquaintance. Imagine, I don’t know, that you come across me in a friend’s kitchen, trying to sniff out the decent wine. Don’t give me that look, Jessie.’

  Ash sighs. ‘Harry, I don’t know how we could do this.’

  His impulse is to insist, to try to talk them into it, but is this right, what he’s asking for? Or has he just invented some novel kind of torture for all of them?

  The sun has set behind the rocks, and the low, dense fig canopies loom oppressive.

  ‘Ding ding!’ Jessie suddenly says, a mischievous look in her eye. ‘Our guest is at the door.’

  Ash turns to her. Something passes between the sisters and for a moment the whole thing is up in the air. Then, just like that, ‘Harry, this is my sister Jessie,’ she says. ‘Jessie, this is my new neighbour. He lives just across the hallway.’

  To Harry she says, ‘I would have invited you over sooner but, you know, it never seemed the right moment.’

  It sounds plausible. It sounds like she means it.

  He takes a moment to compose himself. The girls look amused. They are waiting for him to speak. To admit that it can’t be done. ‘Tell me something, Jessie, is there a funny smell in the building?’

  Jessie sniffs the air.

  ‘Nope. Should there be?’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  Without missing a beat, Ash explains to Jessie about the turpentine, the complaints.

  ‘I’m already persona non grata,’ he says to Jessie. ‘Your lovely sister is my only defender.’

  ‘Anyway, in here it should only smell of cooking.’ Ash actually winks at him.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he says. ‘It smells wonderful.’

  ‘Sis loves cooking,’ Jessie says. ‘She makes some pretty amazing meals.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing many dinner parties at your place,’ he says.

  ‘Are you spying on her?’

  ‘No, I mean … I would just hear if there were half a dozen people on the floor.’ He turns to Ash. ‘You know the walls.’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t like cooking for lots of people. Stressful. And you’re always too busy to notice if they enjoy it or not. This is perfect,’ she says, and Harry is compelled to look at his lap, as though expecting to find some spectacular dish.

  For God’s sake, what would he have been saying? How would he have coped? From thirty seconds in the lift to a whole evening. He stares helplessly at his splayed hands, at his fingers sticky with fig.

  A thought finally comes. ‘Hang on, I brought you something. It’s just a drawing. To thank you for standing up for me against the building management.’

  He hands over an imaginary rolled canvas. Jessie is quicker than Ash
and mimes taking it from him. She unrolls it, a sceptical look on her face.

  ‘I suppose it’s OK,’ she says, looking at him, daring him to take offence. Then her face lights up. ‘Oh look,’ Jessie says, holding up a square of thin air before Ash, ‘it’s you, sis.’

  Jessie smirks at him.

  ‘It might be. Yes. I might have done it in a friendly, non-spying way.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Ash says. ‘It’s nice to have something by you.’

  She is looking at the space where the drawing would have been, a shadow of a smile on her face.

  ‘So, are you drawing all your neighbours, Harry?’ Jessie asks.

  He will answer this, he will answer any question just to keep the game going, but Ash gives Jessie a nudge with her foot, and says to him, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you – how did you decide to become a painter?’

  He has a prepared answer to this question, many times rehearsed; one that is not quite a lie. But he suddenly thinks he will be sick if he hears himself say it again. ‘My parents were very religious, and I spent a lot of time as a kid being bored.’ This is better, he no longer feels like gagging. ‘At some point I must have got the notion that artists never have to endure boredom. That the profession is boredom-proof. Think about it – the thing relies entirely on inner resources. If the whole world has for centuries happily stared at one of Michelangelo’s sculptures, then thinking about sculpture has probably kept Michelangelo himself entertained through church Sundays.’

  ‘Boredom, wow. A very low-key creation myth,’ Jessie says.

  ‘It is what it is. What’s yours, Jessie? What made you become a doctor?’

  Jessie shrugs. ‘The usual stuff.’

  ‘I think it’s the bossiness that appealed to her,’ Ash says. ‘Every doctor I know is terribly bossy. You know as a child someone had the brilliant idea of giving her a huge inflatable plastic hammer, and she would go around and whack people over the legs if they didn’t do what she wanted. They were inseparable, Jessie and her hammer. Whack!’

  Ash mimes bringing down a giant hammer.

  He laughs. ‘I can imagine that.’

  Jessie whistles. ‘Wow. Maybe I should live up to expectations. Start a fight, right here over this lovely dinner. I know – d’you think Trump is a good idea? Brexit?’