by Heide Goody
“Physically. You look like her.”
“Oh,” said Prudence, uninterested.
“And you’re stubborn. You don’t complain. Your mum complained, but she directed that energy. Even in the face of the end of the world, she didn’t fall to self-pity.”
“Huh.” The noise was non-committal, as though the girl needed to digest Vivian’s words before she could comment.
They emerged from the tunnel into eye-wrenching, ever-changing daylight. The world was falling apart in ways that defied natural language. Distance and space and causality were fraying and whipping about. Very little beyond the immediate made sense anymore.
“What happens when we get to the cathedral?” Prudence asked.
“I’ll finish the book. I have very little left to write.”
“And then what?”
“Then what?”
“When the book’s finished,” said Prudence.
“I will stop and rest.”
Prudence’s feet pattered next to Vivian’s in disjointed syncopation. “Do you know how it’s going to end?” asked the girl.
“How would you end it?” said Vivian.
“If it was my story?”
“Yes.”
Prudence Murray had never written or told a story before. “And then Prudence woke up. It was all a dream. And she and her mummy went out for KFC and Krushem milkshakes.”
“That would be a deeply unconvincing ending,” said Vivian.
“It’s a great ending,” said Prudence. “You could write it now and it would work.”
Vivian shook her head stiffly. She considered explaining why it was the wrong ending, but her attention was arrested by something in the sky. A bhaldis traverser was climbing a thread between one portion of the sky and another. The iridescent shimmer of its green-purple wing casings was startling and beautiful.
“I rode one of those,” Vivian said, unprompted.
“The big beetle thing?”
“It’s even bigger than it looks. There are whole towns and communities living on its back. I rode it across Leng space to the fortress of Hath-No.”
“Cool,” said Prudence.
Vivian thought ‘cool’ was an empty and uncouth word, but did not correct Prudence. She was struck by the measureless length of experience between her old life on earth, her sojourn in hell, and this current existence.
“It was cool,” she agreed. She began to look away and saw something else. “Look. There.”
Across a landscape of demolished buildings she pointed out an imposing red brick building with two prominent spires.
“Is that the cathedral?” said Prudence.
“That’s St Chad’s. And it’s still standing. As good a place as any to seek shelter. This way.”
Vivian made for the steps leading up to the roadside.
08:39am
The five of them (eight if one counted the donkeys, nine if one counted the unseen King in Crimson) must have made an unusual sight as they moved across the city. Rod walked as point. Pupfish and the schoolgirl Yang walked behind and to the sides, the three forming a loose triangle. All carried rifles taken from the dead of Forward Company.
Nina and Steve the Destroyer followed with the donkeys, the tail of a loose arrow. Nina had waved away the offer of a rifle, preferring the crooked wand she carried. Steve had demanded a rifle, but Rod firmly pointed out that even the ammo magazine was too big for Steve to carry. Steve’s suggestions that a rifle be tied to a donkey’s head where he could use it as a mounted weapon were roundly ignored.
Rod eyed Pupfish warily. The samakha lad carried the assault rifle like he was Arnold Schwarzenegger on a jungle mission, cocky and sloppy. By comparison, the mammonite girl carried hers like a true professional; her discipline regarding her lines of sight and firing arc was faultless.
Back at the canal, when they’d left the pathetic remnants of the Fish Town community, Rod had been foolish enough to check with Yang if she was familiar with the functions of her weapon. She’d given him a furious look from her one good eye and snapped, “What do you think they teach us at school?”
They had passed through the remains of Centenary Square and looked at the space where the Library had once been. No words were exchanged. No suggestion of searching the rubble was made. They moved on, across the city, exploring but aimless.
St Philip’s cathedral had been reduced to an indentation in the middle of Pigeon Park as though a giant foot had come crashing down on it. Rod thought he could see car length claw marks at one end. Banks and businesses had been swept down like dominoes. Black cabs and city buses were buried under it all.
They worked their way down to Edmund Street. Segmented insectoid things the size of cows crawled in and out of the skeleton of an office block. Pupfish wasted a magazine on full auto shooting at the things. Yang picked off two with single shots, and the others vanished.
A Warrior personnel carrier half-blocked the road, its nose embedded in a wall. There were the pulverised remains of army soldiers here and there. How many was impossible to count; they were more of an undifferentiated ragù than individual bodies.
Rod stepped round the vehicle and gave an “Ah-ha!” of satisfaction.
“What is it?” said Nina, from behind.
It was the Old Contemptibles pub, mostly standing. Rod went straight for the door, found it was locked and immediately shoulder barged it with the determination of a man who had been denied alcoholic sustenance for too long. By the time the others entered (including the donkeys), Rod was behind the bar, wiping down the pumps and looking around for clean glasses.
“Is this where you were heading all along?” said Nina.
“I said as much,” he replied, ignoring her deeply disappointed tone.
“I thought you were speaking, you know, figuratively.”
“Flaming miracle this place is still standing. Now, what’s everyone having? Only the manual pumps are still working. But that’s fine. We’ve got some Beavertown Neck Oil. That’s a lovely, no-fuss IPA. Real crisp. Beavertown Gamma Ray. That’s a much fruitier pint. Something special. Got Victory Brewing’s Dirtwolf. Powerful stuff. I personally fancy a pint of the American Sister. Anyone?” He looked to the others as he put a glass under the pump and drew a stream of golden pale ale.
Nina swore under her breath, making sure she was just loud enough for him to hear. “You can have one pint and then we’re going,” she said. “A swift one.”
As the pint settled, Rod grabbed crisps and nuts from beneath the optics and tossed them onto the bar in the direction of Pupfish and Yang. He fished around in a dark fridge and pulled out a couple of bottle of J2o juice and snapped off the lids. He put them on the bar for Yang and whoever.
“Where would we go after this?” he said candidly. “Everyone’s dead. They’re all dead.” He topped up his pint to a nice head. He was a drinker rather than a barman and was pleased with his first effort.
“They might still be alive,” said Pupfish, after taking a big swig of juice. Rod knew the boy was talking about his girlfriend and mum, lost in the Fishtown tragedy. “And if they’re dead – ggh! – I want some payback.”
“On who?” said Rod. “On what? Revenge is a pointless business.”
When no one seemed inclined to take him up on the offer of a drink, he took his pint round to a corner table, brushed the worst of the fallen plaster off a stool, and sat. A human, a samakha, a mammonite and three donkeys watched him take his first sip. He wasn’t going to let them stop his enjoyment and he smacked his lips defiantly.
“You don’t give up,” said Nina. There was real surprise in her voice. “You don’t give up.”
“I’m not giving up,” he said. “I’m just stopping.”
“The man’s a coward,” jeered Steve.
One of the donkeys stretched out its neck and nibbled the edge of a packet of crisps on the bar.
“Our only half-baked plan,” said Rod, “was to get that donkey – one of those donkeys – and
maybe with the help of Vivian – who might still be in hell for all we know – perform some theoretical magic ritual which might, just might, turn back the clock and stop this thing.”
“And we have the donkey – one of these donkeys! If we can find Vivian or Omar—”
“Omar’s dead,” said Rod. He said it bluntly. He meant it to hurt. He knew he was being a selfish, mardy bugger for saying it, but he was beyond caring. “Omar died in the Cube. And that ritual—” He laughed and took a gulp of beer. “I saw the play.”
“What play?”
“The play. The King in Crimson. I spent an afternoon, or a day or a week, in Carcosa—”
“Bull-muda.”
“I did. And I saw the play. I saw what happens. Your ritual involves killing the child. Morag’s child.”
“Oh, you picked up on that?” said the King in Crimson, sliding into the seat opposite Rod.
“Child sacrifice,” said Rod. “Which, under the circumstances, you might think is a price worth paying. But Vivian didn’t.” He looked at the donkeys. He didn’t know which one he was supposed to be looking at. The one eating crisps, the one doing a silent crap on the floor, or the one nudging Pupfish to have its ears scratched. “You never thought to ask who turned Mr Grey into a donkey?”
“Vivian?” said Nina.
“Shows what her opinion was of his ideas,” said Rod.
“Then we find Vivian and we find Morag’s girl—”
“She said she’d put in a good word for us,” said Yang.
“Great,” said Rod, throwing up his hands, irritated. He felt himself suddenly cast into the role of grumpy dad, trying to keep his cool in the face of this clan of short-sighted and self-centred individuals. “Great. Let’s do that. You start. Where are they?”
Nina said nothing. She held a tight expression on her face. Rod couldn’t tell if she was stumped or angry.
“None of it makes sense,” he said, his voice softening. “The tools we’d normally rely on, even a basic sense of reality, is gone. I thought I could rescue some people, but even that plan sank. I have nothing.” He contemplated his pint and drained it. “That’s it.”
08:51am
Mr Seth and Chad went back to the naked crowd surrounding Mrs Seth. Hasnain followed obediently, his arms stacked with shop goods.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with these people, but they don’t seem entirely right to me,” said Mrs Seth. “I’ve handed out the last of my cake, but they looked half-starved.”
“They are from the court of Yo-Morgantus,” said Chad.
“And who’s he when he’s at home?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s the mighty lord of this great city,” said one of the ginger people with sudden and automatic enthusiasm.
“He’s the only one deserving of our love,” added another.
“Oh. And why’s that?” asked Mrs Seth.
“Because—” The redhead instantly faltered. “Because—”
“There was a reason,” said another, but didn’t add any more.
“He said he would show me sights and experiences which no other human had known,” offered a woman.
“Yes? And?” said Mrs Seth.
The woman gazed hollowly into the distance. “On reflection, I wish he hadn’t…”
“He made me think I was a prime number for a whole month,” said a man.
“And how was that?” asked Mrs Seth.
“Less fun than you’d think.”
“They have been used as his personal playthings,” said Chad. “They might need to adjust a little.”
“They need to get some clothes on is what they need,” said Mrs Seth, “so why have you brought art supplies?”
Mr Seth recognised the look his wife was giving Chad. It was one of such focused disappointment it would stop most people in their tracks, but Chad blundered on.
“We have the makings of some temporary outfits for these lovelies. They all have such gorgeous colouring, don’t you think? It’s like having a pre-Raphaelite painting brought to life. You’ll have seen the paintings in the museum, of course?”
Mr Seth had no idea what he was on about.
“Hey sweetie, let’s sort you out.” Chad beckoned over one of the young women and pulled open a packet of crepe paper. “Now what I have in mind is we can make some outer garments from carpet tiles, but we don’t want them to chafe. So I’m about to invent the crepe paper bikini. What do we all think?”
Mr Seth watched his wife give a grudging nod of approval. She and Chad worked as a team to create a bandeau top around the woman’s breasts and then something like a loin cloth to match.
“How can we make carpet tiles wearable?” asked Mr Seth, thinking he should be contributing.
“Unwrap that ribbon and grab a stapler. We will make tabards.”
Mr Seth had no idea what a tabard was, but he did as he was told. It turned out that a tabard was one carpet tile in front and one behind, suspended from the shoulders with lengths of ribbon. Mr Seth got busy with the stapler and added a skirt made from more crepe paper.
“Oh my dear, you look like a picture!” Chad cried as they finished work on the first woman. “You’re like a pre-Raphaelite Amazon gladiator. Amazing! I must Instagram— Oh.”
Mr Seth did not understand most of the words that came out of Chad’s mouth, but he did understand someone who had been distracted from the fact the world has ended, but just remembered. He squeezed his arm gently.
“Good work, son. Let’s get to the others.”
It took some time to dress the entire group of redheads. It would have been a lot easier if they joined in and helped each other, but they remained mostly confused and passive, seemingly fixated on Mrs Seth. She nodded in approval at them all and turned to her husband.
“We need to get them all somewhere safe. They need feeding.”
“Why is this suddenly our problem?” asked Mr Seth.
She gave him a sharp look “Where is your sense of charity, Vikas? Look how thin they all are.”
He had been trying to count them, but there were too many. Together they herded the redheads onward, up the hill, away from the major conflagrations of the city centre. They scurried from one temporary shelter to another; watching the people in their makeshift garments, moving fearfully across the rocky landscape, Mr Seth was suddenly put in mind of that old cavemen and dinosaurs movie from his childhood. The only aspect of it he could remember clearly was the blonde heroine in her fur bikini.
An office block had slipped sideways, half-demolishing a combined Chinese supermarket and restaurant.
“Food!” Mrs Seth declared and led them all in. A kitchen was found. There was no electricity, but one of the cooking units had a separate gas cannister underneath. Soon there was a pan of water heating up. Packets of dried noodles were pulled from the shelves and Mrs Seth, with a serenity that seemed to come from the act of domesticity, began to whip up pan after pan of instant noodles.
Mr Seth formed the people into a line and, with some encouragement, got one of them to hand out bowls from the commercial catering aisle. As noodles were ladled out, Chad handed out chopsticks and tried to show them what to do.
“Like this,” he said. “Gather and eat. Don’t be afraid to slurp.”
The orange-haired tribe looked confused, more by the act of eating than the use of chopsticks.
“But it’s tasty!” said Mr Seth. He gave an exaggerated smile and rubbed his belly. “Come on, you must eat!”
“I think that Yo-Morgantus had some sort of umbilical cord that he fed them through,” said Chad.
“Umbilical?” Mr Seth pulled a horrified face.
Eventually, a young man licked his lips and reached for a strand of noodles, as if it was a strange idea, but he was willing to try. Once he had put it into his mouth, he smiled. He made appreciative chomping noises and soon others joined in.
Mr Seth joined his wife in the dusty kitchen, boiling water, stirring, serving. Bowls flowed through their h
ands.
Mr Seth didn’t notice when the line of people stopped being all redheads and other people joined. It was only when his hand met with that of a fishman as he passed over a bowl that Mr Seth realised they had gone from serving redheads to all manner of bedraggled people. Mr Seth froze for a moment and stared at the fishman.
“Khol-khoya su’li?” said the fishman.
“I met a … one of your lot earlier,” Mr Seth heard himself say. “Friend of my daughter’s.”
The fishman stared at him. He had big spherical eyes. His stare was unnerving.
“His name was Pupfish,” said Mrs Seth. “He had a big appetite.” She put an extra dollop of noodles in the creature’s bowl and it moved on.
Fish creatures, ragged women and even children passed before them. A boy in Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas hung close to his mother’s side and stared at Mr and Mrs Seth. He waved when they left the counter.
Those with food sat in no particular place in the restaurant seating, almost entirely focused on their food: fish people and humans of all types bunched together. Chad walked among them, distributing colourful packs of biscuits and sweets, moving about with gay abandon like some sort of gift-giving elf.
The line continued, the Seths continued, and there was a certain rhythm and peace in their work which they knew couldn’t last.
09:00am
St Chad’s Cathedral (Mrs Vivian Grey informed Prudence without being prompted) had been built in the Gothic Revival style and modelled on a German hallenkirke, a form which allowed for its impressive interior size despite it being constructed from brick rather than stone.
“You know a lot about churches,” said Prudence politely as they entered.
“I know a lot about everything now,” said Vivian.
The church was a high-ceilinged hall. Not as large as the throne room of Yo-Morgantus, but here, with the peculiar daylight pouring through the stained glass windows, you could actually see the size of the space.
“Why hasn’t it fallen down?” said Prudence.
“Chance,” said Vivian. She angled her head to one side. “During the Second World War, an incendiary bomb fell through the roof there. It would have burned the place to the ground, but it hit some central heating pipes as it fell and the water put out the incendiary. Chance.”