‘Stay calm!’ Nigel shouts. ‘Everton two… Wycombe Wanderers…’
The music starts again. The strength of their numbers forces us back. The retreat is instinctive – it happens because it has to. None of us want to fight. None of us want a broken nose. It’s not part of our terms and conditions. Nigel makes an attempt to call the unit base; he holds his phone with two hands and speaks into it like it’s a short-wave radio. ‘Nigel to unit base… can you hear me? Nigel to unit base… prepare the docking station. Mission aborted, I repeat… mission aborted…’
The trumpeters’ tune gets more euphoric. We do our best to tread backwards without falling over. We’re confident enough that we won’t be captured – more like driven out of town. There’s an order to our chaos. The brass band seems to enjoy our retreat; the pace of the music quickens with each backward step. Our scampering has its own soundtrack.
Nigel scrambles himself to the docking station. He holds the rope in his hands, ready to let it go. He’s always dreamed of being an admiralty officer of some sort. He’s used to this scenario, in his head. He waves an arm to make us hurry. He wags a finger at each of us and starts counting aloud. The only option is to embark. Kendal beckons the photographers and gestures for them to take pictures. She knows what the front page headlines will be. Lingua Franca will be famous for being a shambles, incapable of keeping its empire in check. She knows how to bring about our end. Nigel understands this too. Far better to limit the damage than to allow our total destruction.
They watch as we clamber aboard; we no longer recite football scores. They pipe up with their version of ‘La Marseillaise’, substituting the words for ‘da dada’, which is permitted. Then we hear a drum roll, which continues until Nigel turns the key on the motor boat engine. The roar is enormous! They hug one another, swing scarves, jump up and down, high five, and in perfect unison, give us a sarcastic cheerio wave. We drift into the sea. Even after a few minutes, we can hear them belt out another chorus. We’re silent, which no doubt would get their approval.
The rain doesn’t relent. For a while we can see nothing but grey mist. All we have is our instinct. I keep hold of the oar but the current threatens to take it off me. Darren tries to grip the rudder thing. The wind starts to whistle. We angle our bodies to try and veer the boat in a straight line. Our boat begins to swerve – it rides over waves like they’re speed bumps. The wind picks up – it seems to increase our speed by a hundred knots. We ride the waves and the feeling in my stomach is like being in a rising elevator.
‘Hold on!’
The storm sweeps us along. We can’t move the boat as well as the sea can move us. We can’t turn back, but neither does it seem like we can carry on. In the fog, we meet great resistance. A sudden backlift hits the waves and seems to raise us into the clouds. We land on the water and somehow we’re spat out into the blue, still sitting in our seats. We traverse the dock and we’ve settled, it seems. We can see right across the channel.
‘Darren? Are you okay, Darren?’
He mumbles that he’s okay. He’s splayed on the back seat; he looks like someone’s thrown a bucket of water over him. He tells me that I’m drenched. I feel secure enough to crawl forward and get a better view. In the distance is a red light which we think is the sun. We want to get to it, whatever it is. Behind us, most of the boats bob along, waterborne. We can see the motor boats and fishing vessels, but none of the pedalos. Nigel will be seasick. In front of us we can see that the red light is a red flare.
‘One more push, Darren!’ Together we heave, pulling the oars through the water. We’re happy to grunt and sweat, which is worth the goal of getting ashore. ‘Keep going!’
It gets cold for a second, then it gets darker as we see the shadow descend. If we were sitting at home, this is when the teacups would start to rattle.
‘Oh God…’
‘Keep going!’
‘Miles!’
Behind us we can see the curled wave rising. I cling to my knees. We’re sitting at a steep angle, and the boat begins to tip. The only blessing is that we don’t have time to think. Someone slowly dims the lights.
I wake under a mass of splintered wood. At first I think the dampness is blood, but it turns out to be engine oil. I can taste sea salt. The seagulls seem to peck around me, disappointed I’m not a dead rotting carcass. I can twitch my toes but not my legs. Through a gap in the ceiling – or what constitutes a ceiling – I can see the sky. I’m alive. For the moment at least, that’s enough.
I shout for some time, calling my own name. ‘I’m Miles Platting! I’m here!’ I wish I could pull an emergency alarm and wait for more information. I’m alone with the garden gnome and porcelain rabbits. And I realise it makes no difference whether it’s called a garden gnome or a rusty spoon. When you’re buried underground, words mean nothing: anything can be anything. The broken pipe is a piano. The metal bolt is a giraffe. I just need to find a tortoise and dig my way out of this milkshake.
I have time to think, which means I think about Kendal. I decide that raging married couples should just trap themselves underground. No need for therapy. All you need is rocks and darkness. I think about Kendal’s approach to the search-and-rescue mission. She’d look through her binoculars in case I’m clinging to a buoy. She’d inform the officials that I don’t like getting my toes wet. She’d find me, somehow, and I’d ask whether there’s still time to visit Costa Rica, and make another world, or something.
*
‘And then you guys rescued me.’
The nurse continues to pace around. I thought she would be sitting round my bedside, gripped by the details of my story. She doesn’t seem to care very much. The patients are just as silent as they’ve ever been. It’s no use trying to talk them out of it. I click the cap onto the pen. I relax into my lying position and close my eyes. I resolve to let sleep do its thing, and we can see what happens next.
I can hear them scribbling something onto paper. The grey squirrel compares two different clipboards. Gerry’s eyes are closed and his mouth is agape. If he’s dead, no one seems very worried about it. I recognise the security guard, who mouths something to the doctor. Together, they lift Gerry by his arms and hoist him to his feet. Gerry doesn’t seem to mind. He lets them adjust his body position and turn him towards the door. It’s like it’s a familiar routine, and he’s going for his weekly beard trim. They look pleased with him. Whatever he’s done, he’s done a good thing. They pull his arms into a red robe. They adjust his collar and tighten his belt. They check to make sure his sandals are fixed tight to his feet. They spin him around to ensure his legs and waist are fully covered. Then they upturn his palm and place a candle in his grip. It’s like he’s being prepared for his own funeral. They look at me and offer no explanation. If I ask what’s happening, they’ll stare at me like I’m stupid. The guard opens the door and I watch them lead Gerry on the start of his procession. The other patients get on with the business of keeping their eyes closed. None of them seem to care, which makes me doubt myself for a moment. It’s like I’m in a dream, but somehow I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen the robed men, the candlelit path and night-time cinema screenings. I’ve seen it, and I want to know what’s going on. I want a bowl of cherries and unexplained chocolate. I want a hot-water bottle and a copy of something (not the Telegraph). I want to be told I’m doing well, and I want to be robed. I want to know where Darren and Nigel and Kendal have gone, what their story is, and how it’s going to end.
16. BANANA REPUBLIC
The plan is to do nothing and think of nothing. The good thing about a self-imposed coma is that it removes you from responsibility. If someone were to call my name, I wouldn’t have to say anything. I transfer all my energy into thinking about Kendal, and whether we’ll ever be reunited. I think about Costa Rica, the Wordsworth Institute and whether she’ll be sitting at home with a blueprint. You would think the nurses would pass me a phone – mine’s out of battery – and put Kendal on the line, with
special dispensation to talk. You would think I might have heard from Nigel or the tech team. Perhaps the hospital has strict confidentiality procedures, and doesn’t disclose details of each patient until it deems it necessary. It’s possible that Lingua Franca has been destroyed, that no one made it back ashore, that the tech team will have been washed away. I think about logistics, like who’s going to reset the out-of-office emails, and who’s taking the expression sessions. I think about our clients, and whether they know I’m lying in a hospital bed in the outskirts of Birdseye-in-Furness. I think about these things and it makes me frown. I’m excited, though, by the prospect of doing nothing, and seeing where that gets me. I look at the ceiling and then the window. I can see a tree blowing in the wind; for once, the sky has decided to be blue. I look at the clock on the wall and it occurs to me that time doesn’t matter very much. I get into a relaxed state. The muscles in my legs have begun to soften. I’m perfectly still, a fallen tree trunk. It doesn’t seem to matter that I don’t have any books to read or programmes to watch. I like the sound of my own silence. I lie with a straight back. The ache in my shoulder has gone, and I don’t have any pain in my legs. Even the bruising on my arm is starting to heal. If anything, I want to get up. I ought to ride a bicycle, or go fell running in the Cumbrian mist. I get a look from the nurse, but I don’t bother to engage. Better to stay silent. I should get a sign to drape around my neck: please knock before disturbing.
What will the historians say about Lingua Franca? Perhaps someone will continue our life’s work, and complete the task of renaming every town until nothing’s left but Middlesbrough. No one wants Middlesbrough. They’ll associate us with tragedy, and name towns in our honour. They’ll name a boulevard after Darren, and a swamp after Nigel. They’ll name a bridge after Eden, near where he fell. They should put a plaque on the paving stones where he used to walk to the station. He should be referred to in the local history books as an agitator, someone who couldn’t bring down the system, so brought down himself. They should preserve his letter in the National Archives, provided I come across well. Perhaps I’ll be immortalised through legend. Chipping Norton will be renamed Miles Platting. This train terminates at Miles Platting, change here for local bus services to Miles Platting International Airport. I’ll be revered as a pioneer of change, or hated as an agent of destruction, depending on the whims of the moment. I could always make a deathbed conversion, and renounce my throne. Kendal would be proud.
The nurse is tending to the patient opposite, a young male whose leg is suspended in a cast. In all this time, he’s not displayed anything resembling a personality; he’s been silent on the subject of everything. He’s spent a long time reading books like The Spirit Level. Behind the silence, he’s a thinking creature. To someone who doesn’t understand his culture, his long, curly haircut invites prejudice from those who’d call him a hipster or a hippie. He’s happy enough to sit and read his books, occasionally pressing the bell and writing a message to request some water. He seems to approve of the salads they serve, and the only thing you could say for certain is that he doesn’t want to talk. The nurse looks at him. She opens a small bag of candles and hands one to the doctor. The security guard emerges and it happens again; they lift the patient to his feet, put his arms in a robe, place a candle in his palm and walk him towards the door. He looks glad. It’s like he’s finally being allowed to board a flight after a long delay. I rise to my feet and immediately become the focus of the nurse’s attention. She thinks I’m going to run, or do something wild. I make a toilet gesture, the shoulder tap, and she lets me proceed. I walk to the gents and lock myself inside the cubicle. I open the misted window and watch the robed patient exit the building and walk along the path, accompanied by the security guard. They walk at a slow pace like they’re in a carnival procession and the public need a moment to take pictures. The patient doesn’t look like he’s going to run anywhere. By the way he walks, he seems pretty happy about the whole thing. In the other direction, another robed patient passes them and nods. If I stand for much longer, I’ll arouse the suspicions of the nurse, who doesn’t want me to do anything unusual, ever. I walk back to my bay and ignore the nurse, who seems glad at my return to bed-stricken normality. I lie back and do the whole silent thing again. I close my eyes and sense that my body needs to shut down. I’m lying in a hospital bay with two empty beds and nothing to do. I’m conscious that I’m smothered in my own words, the countless notes and letters I’ve written, most of which have been ignored (until the National Archives obtains them). I put a hand to my forehead and I seem to sigh by instinct. The nurse puts a glass of water by my bedside. I sit upright and some of the paper sheets flutter onto the floor. The nurse lifts one of the sheets, leans on the window ledge and writes something. She gives me a sheet and there’s another tick.
You’ve been better this morning. Keep it up.
She opens a drawer and puts a bag of sweets by my side. I want to say thank you, and strike a conciliatory note, but it’s hard when you’re not allowed to speak. I don’t know why she’s being nice. I might be getting prepped for being told something terrible. This might be the Mental Resistance Unit, where you’re prepared for the terrible news that’s about to follow. They’ll lead us to a room where we bear witness to a tragedy. Everyone’s gone, Miles. They drowned at sea. You’re the last survivor. Please accept the recovered property we’ve collected from the shore: Nigel’s briefcase and Darren’s video game console. I’ll take it all home in a van and cry into my pillow while Ptolemy eats my hair.
The nurse refers to her clipboard, looks into my eyes and makes a couple of notes. I’ve done a good thing. I’m not sure what I’ve done, but it’s good I’ve done it. I should keep it up.
*
The days pass, and they continue to say I’m doing a good job. They seem determined to praise me incessantly for doing nothing. They make notes on a clipboard and they tell me I’m getting better. They smile at everything. On every sheet of paper, I get a tick. If they gave out red stickers, I’d be covered in them. They respond to my requests – all handwritten – with an unfailing courtesy. They’re apologetic when they’re being too slow. They seem glad to bring me pens, and they always ensure there’s enough paper in case I want to write something. They serve me salad and top up my water; they plump up the pillow and pull down the retractable TV. They bring me trays of tea with lots of different options: camomile… Earl Grey… They insist I can’t do without a hot-water bottle (and I agree). The only time they show any disapproval is when I laugh at a joke on the TV. It’s not a problem if I laugh, so long as I don’t accompany it with actual words.
I start pressing the bell with a greater frequency. I press it when the temperature’s too cold, and when I want water. I make no apologies for wanting a better duvet, and it doesn’t seem rude to ask if they can put on the football. The one thing they don’t have is a phone charger, which means I’m unable to contact the outside world. I can only presume that text messaging is permitted under the silent state.
The nurse approaches with a catering tray and silver dome. Even when she’s at her smiliest, a small part of me worries she’ll pull out a gun. She lifts the lid to reveal a selection of cheeses: Stilton… Brie… and BT Sport, formerly Wensleydale. The nurse cuts a bunch of grapes at the stem and puts them on the plate. Then she removes a corkscrew from a drawer and grimaces as she opens a bottle of Gazprom. I smile in order to show my gratitude. I raise my glass as if to say cheers. If Kendal were here, she’d flick my forehead and say, ‘You idiot! You hated them a few days ago.’ I would point out to Kendal that no one’s offering her any cheese, so it’s easy for her to say what she likes. I would cite this as a major flaw in her argument. The nurse watches me cut the BT Sport. She makes a sign gesture, which I take to mean how is it? It’s good, but it tastes more like Barclays. I nod and raise my thumb. She smiles and writes, Well done, Miles. She leaves the room. I make a gurgle at the back of my throat, just to check my vocal chords are
still functional. I avoid saying anything in words; if she overheard me, she’d confiscate my cheese and I’d have to start all over. It’s like I’m playing a wire buzzer game where you’ve got to move around the circuit with a steady hand. One small mistake will send me back to the beginning.
I lie in my bed and await my morning coffee, which is supposed to arrive at nine. No one’s brought my out-of-date copy of The Guardian, let alone a croissant. I might have offended them, or I might have entered a new phase: a weaning phase, where I’m deprived of food and drink to teach me a lesson. I press the bell and no one comes. Should I make a complaint if it gets to twenty-past and there’s no sign of coffee? I set my expression to a frown: a solid frown from which I don’t intend to relax. There’s a noise in the hallway, a man shouting. I can see the guard attempting to pull him along. It’s like he’s pulling a piano and sizing up how to get it through the door. There’s a momentary struggle and finally the man is relinquished. I know the face. His arm is in a sling and someone needs to straighten his blue patient gown. His lip seems to be healing from a cut. But still, I know the face.
‘Miles!’ You could read Nigel’s expression a number of ways. He simultaneously looks happy I’m alive, angry I didn’t call him and confused by the whole thing. He doesn’t seem to know what to think, or which emotion is best. ‘Thank God! We need to shut these people down. These people are animals, Miles.’
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