*
Real history is a mass of conflicting stories. According to the official records, Helen Mildred Bostall was tried and found guilty of the murder of Edwin Patrick Dillon and was sentenced to death. The execution was carried out on August 14th, 1928. History seems content with this judgement, though there are many, including myself, who would argue that capital punishment is never justified.
There are also anomalies, if you care to look for them. The Library of the Sorbonne records the publication, in 1941, of a pamphlet by Ellen Tuglas with the title On War: the imaginary reminiscences of hell’s survivor. The work was originally written in English, although a French translation was provided by Ivan Tuglas, a Russian exile resident in Paris since the 1920s and Ellen’s common-law husband until his death in 1952.
On War is a peculiar work. Lodged halfway between fact and fiction, it has aroused some interest among scholars of World War Two literature because it appears to predict the nuclear destruction of Hiroshima. I remember where I was when they told me, states the unnamed narrator. I have never before felt able to speak my feelings aloud, but what I wanted, when I heard, was simply to be there. To be not guilty of this thing, to help one person up from the rubble, even if such an action brought about my own destruction. I yearned to haul myself across bleeding Europe with my coat in tatters and no money in my purse. You will say that these feelings were selfish and I would not blame you for saying so. Some crimes are so huge there can be no recompense.
On War is dedicated to Ellen’s daughter, Isobel Elsa, who was eleven years old at the time of its publication.
*
I knew Ray’s mother was called Isobel, but she was old, and living in Paris, and I never met her. She died three years ago. I know that Ray sent her photos of you when you were born. I imagine they were there beside her bed on the day she died.
Ray was always meaning to take you over there, so she could get to know you. It’s too late now, but that’s Ray all over. He loses track of time.
Dearest Clio. We can only cheat time for so long, and I knew when I went back to Milliver Street that final time it should be the last.
Your great-grandmother, though: Ellen Tuglas, whose name was once Helen Bostall. I should have guessed she would find a means of letting me know our escape plan succeeded, and that her name would be Clio. Clio, the daughter of memory, the muse of history. I should have known that – through you, Clio – Helen and I would one day meet again.
*
I carried on writing the book, of course I did, my account of Helen Bostall and how she was hanged for a crime she didn’t commit. I’d come so far with my research I didn’t feel like giving up – and as a story, as I say, it had everything: bomb plots, political feuding, affairs of the heart, as many double crosses as you might find in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. My editor at History Recollected even thinks she’s found a publisher for it. I doubt it’ll make me rich but it should do all right.
*
You can read the book when you’re older. Make of it what you will. Godmothers can be boring, can’t they, especially godmothers who also happen to be lawyers? At least you can tell yourself that your boring lawyer godmother once changed the world. A little bit, anyway. I don’t imagine you’ll be telling anyone else.
Front Row Seat to the End of the World
E.J. Swift
Day Ten
The water is up to my neck. Immersed in its warmth, the thought of slipping further down, letting it close over my head and invade my mouth, is almost attractive. As if surrender is something noble. But that would be preemptive. I jam my feet against the end of the bath and gaze at my toes. Chipped red nail polish, the last evidence of Michelle’s hastily rescheduled wedding. That, and the headache. I settle back into the bubbles, trying to ignore the uneasy stirring of my stomach and the memories of last night’s consumption. I’m repenting now, but what else are you supposed to do when you’ve got ten days left?
When the water’s drained away I swaddle myself in my dressing gown and turn on the TV. Professor Brian Cox is on again, talking about the force and velocity of the asteroid, the asteroid which should have missed us by some millions of kilometres had it not collided with the other asteroid. Cox sounds surprisingly mellow about the asteroid’s malignant trajectory, but then he sounds pretty laid back about everything.
The Guardian has already published its ‘Greatest Feats of Humanity’ and the comments section is in overdrive. I should probably make my own list. I get out my iPad, and then decide paper is more appropriate for one of my final acts, not that it will ever become an artefact. Literature. That was one of the Feats. ‘Feats’ sounds far too epic for the common homo sapiens. I write ‘Achievements’ instead. I sit for a while, humming, chewing the pen lid, filtering my memory for evidence of worth. On TV, slow-motion graphics show the asteroid connecting with Earth’s atmosphere. I press mute.
I don’t suppose when Cox was playing keyboards in D:Ream that he ever imagined he’d be narrating the end of the world. To be fair, in my aspirational teenage years I didn’t imagine at age forty-four I’d be living alone in a studio the size of a mouse, earning less than I had in my twenties and facing death by incineration.
Manchester is quieter this morning. With the advent of day ten, the official countdown has begun broadcasting from the Shanghai World Financial Centre. Ten has always been a symbolic number – nothing and everything, the universe encapsulated in two strokes of the pen. I’ve got the app on my phone. It’s frightening how easy it is to become mesmerized by the neon seconds ticking down. To let everything else slip away. The more attuned I am to the quiet, the more aware I become of those digits and the blankness of the paper in front of me.
Finally I write: Katherine.
For God’s sake, Mum, how many times –
I cross her name out and write Kat.
I turn the page over and write ‘Failures’. Underneath that I write Kat again.
Day Nine
My ex-husband is the last person I expect to call me. I let the phone ring, not inclined to talk to the condescending prick, but no sooner has the phone gone dark than it lights up again.
“What do you want, Oliver?”
“Nice to speak to you too, Nell.”
I wait.
“Listen,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about things.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been reflecting.”
“If you’ve found God, I’m not interested.”
“Jesus, Nell, for once will you just hear me out. I mean about us.”
“There is no us.”
“That’s the point. Everything that happened, I keep thinking about it – wondering how we let things get that far. Aren’t you?”
“No,” I say, which is true. “It was over a decade ago.”
There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, there’s a note in his voice which I’ve never heard before. Panic.
“I don’t know what to say to Kat.”
“She’s an adult, Oliver. It’s not like you can spin her a fairy tale.”
The words rush out. “It’s all going to shit. I can’t face her. I can’t – I can’t protect her.”
So that’s what this is about. My suave, charming, self-assured ex-husband has finally come up against something he can’t control. When I first met Oliver, he looked like a young Idris Elba – not that anyone knew who Idris Elba was back then – which could have gone on the Achievements list had our marriage endured. These days Oliver runs his own law practice, and still looks like Idris Elba.
“Come to London,” he says.
“No.”
“Please. Please, Nell, I’m asking you this.”
“You know what she said. She never wants to see me again. You backed her up. Besides, it might have escaped your notice but there are no trains and I’ve got three litres of petrol in the tank, that is if someone doesn’t torch the car between now and D-day. The Merc over the road made a hell of a bonfire.”
/> He rallies.
“I know you, Nell. It might be over a decade but I still know when you’re taking evasive action. You do care. She’s your daughter, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, don’t do that to me, Oliver. Not now. I’m the one who left, remember? I’m the bad mother! Isn’t that how the story goes?”
He goes quiet.
“You should talk to her. Think about it.”
“I have.”
I cut the call.
My face is hot and when I look at my hands they’re trembling.
“You bastard,” I mutter.
*
Two years, a blink in the spectrum of humanity, is a hell of a long time in your own head. Two years erodes things. Memories. Certainty.
Now I’ve got two hundred and eight hours left.
After the incident, Kat sent me an email detailing the events which I could not remember. My mind had closed around them like a shell. I read what she wrote with a sense of detachment. It wasn’t that I couldn’t believe what I’d said. I couldn’t believe she believed I had meant it.
Kat didn’t recount the things she had said, which was probably for the best.
I deleted the email.
A few days later I tried calling, and got her voicemail. Unlike my daughter I have never been afraid of scenes, so eventually I turned up on her doorstep, only to find Oliver there barring the way like an incarnation of Azrael. It’s the only time I’ve ever known Kat to shout. In a strange way, it was a relief – as if we were finally admitting ourselves to each other. This is who we are. Kat, I thought, had been preparing for this moment. She had needed a justifiable reason. She was – is – that kind of girl. Getting so drunk I couldn’t remember the terrible things I’d said was an infallible reason. Adults were not supposed to do this. I was an adult. A failed one.
*
I stand at the sink, stirring a teaspoon in a cup of instant coffee. I’ve started taking it black – can’t get used to the taste of UHT milk. From the window I can see the skeleton of the burnt-out Mercedes in the carpark, and spaces where other cars have disappeared, their windows smashed in and their engines hotwired. My ancient Volvo is so decrepit-looking I don’t suppose anyone thinks it worth stealing. For a week or so we had the army in situ, but even they’ve left now.
I think about writing Kat an email, then discard the idea. What will Kat do with her two hundred and eight hours? She’s still in London, that much I know through Oliver. I start another list: Things I Will Do If The Basher Works. Get Kat back. Then I screw it up. What’s the point?
The Basher (even journalists have given up on the technical name) is an international effort, but NASA has been quick to remind everyone that it has been developed under American leadership. If the Basher succeeds, they’ll have saved the world, and President Trump will become even more intolerable. Yesterday he claimed the asteroid is a Chinese plot. The Chinese retaliated by blaming the Americans’ inferior space programme. North Korea blame everyone and are threatening to unleash nuclear weapons. It’s possible the end of the world will come even sooner than we expect. Twitter has christened the asteroid Trump, so our planet’s greatest cosmic defence has become the Trump-Basher. Oh Twitter, I’ll miss you when I’m dead.
My phone vibrates. There’s no way I’m speaking to Oliver again, but it’s a text from my friend Bee.
HAVING PANIC ATTACKHELP
I tap out a reply.
Deep slow breaths and head between legs remember?
GOING TO DIE
Not necessarily. Basher might work
NOT helping
Prof Cox said so, it must be true
Tosser
Tosser with an astrophysics degree. Or some shit like that
Don’t give a shit about ducking degrees it’s a ducking asteroid and that’s not the point anyway
*FUCKING fucks sake!!!
Want me to come over?
Yes
No
Better now
Going to watch made in chelsea
Good plan. Love you Bee xxx
Love you too nellie <3 xxxxx
Where Kat isn’t involved, the words come so easily.
Day Eight
This morning’s eminent physicist is talking about our astronauts in their escape pods. As the footage shows them jettisoning away from Earth, he laments the fact that we have so few women trained for space.
“And that’s what you get for the fucking patriarchy,” I yell. The pods are a gesture, anyway. What chance do they have against the debris of a planet?
I haven’t left the flat since the wedding and my food supplies are running low. I’ll have to face Tesco’s – an actual, brick-and-mortar Tesco’s, as opposed to the nice delivery man who has brought my groceries to the door for the past five years. Is anyone still going to work at Tesco’s? Surely not. I may have to commit a raid.
A maudlin mood descending, I flip through social media feeds. Trending on Twitter is #trumpbasher #rapture #prayforearth #greatestregrets and inexplicably, #taylorswift. It transpires that Taylor Swift is doing an end of the world gig. Tickets for ‘Apocalypse Now: The Farewell Tour’ start at two grand. I picture the scene: Taylor Swift strutting in denim hot pants and a gold fringe top, framed by pyrotechnics whilst the sky turns from amber to incendiary and the meteor showers begin. It’s a theatre designer’s wet dream.
My inbox is also encouraging me to think about my last living night, with 50% reductions from a dozen retailers – free, guaranteed delivery included. Who the hell are they bribing at DPS? I browse dresses idly. That red maxi is perfect for Michelle’s and Hayley’s would-have-been wedding in three months’ time. Poor, hungover Michelle, last seen in a borrowed bridal gown hugging the toilet in a half-staffed Pizza Express. Even the dough balls were disappointing.
My phone lights up. Oliver again.
Call her.
It’s tempting to reply with something snide, but I ignore it and hop over to Reddit for the latest in the conspiracy thread.
Conspiracy 1: Scientists have known about the asteroid for over a decade, but have been sworn to secrecy for fear of global panic. Space stations are orbiting distant reaches of the solar system. They carry geneticists and millions of frozen eggs.
Conspiracy 2: A sub-thread of Conspiracy 1. The (evil) United Nations has identified the asteroid as an opportunity to reboot humanity. There’s a long list of people who have died (‘died’) or disappeared (‘disappeared’) over the last year. High profile scientists, engineers, doctors, writers, even artists. People who have been deemed worth saving. According to the thread, they are all on route to Mars. Michael Jackson is among them. There is debate as to whether Michael Jackson is a) alive and b) worthy.
Conspiracy 3: The asteroid is a fabrication. The real attack will come from our own leaders – entire populations will be nuked. There’s too many people on the planet. Something has to be done, and this way, the troublesome countries can be removed.
Conspiracy 4: The asteroid is a fabrication specifically by the Tory Party, in a final endeavour to remove Jeremy Corbyn and reclaim England’s green and verdant hills, untarnished by wind turbines, for fox hunting. This seems credible.
Conspiracy 5: The asteroid is aliens.
Please let it be aliens.
Day Seven
Nila’s kitchen is a warm haven of enticing aromas. Today Nila has excelled herself. After the initial crack of pastry, her samosas melt in the mouth.
“I really should have learned to make these,” I say. (Cooking: one for the Failures list.)
“They’re amazing, Nila.” Michelle takes another.
“Your best ever!” agrees Bee.
Silence falls. A panicked look creeps into Bee’s eyes. She starts breathing heavily. I put my hand on her knee.
“Hey, hey. It’s all right. We can talk about it.”
“I used up everything in the kitchen,” says Nila, ever practical. Nila would never leave a mess for the asteroid. “We’re going ov
er to Bradford tonight. Mum’s on her own, so...”
Bee gets her inhaler out of her handbag. Inside, I see an owl-print tea towel wrapped around something silver.
“Jesus Christ, Bee, is that a fucking meat cleaver?”
“Language,” says Nila hastily. Her kids, thirteen and fifteen, are in the next room on the X-box, but the door is open.
“It’s dangerous out there!” Bee, immediately defensive, hefts the cleaver. “Haven’t you seen the riots on TV? All the lunatics are coming out! In London there was a prison break, serial killers and rapists, they’re all out there!”
Michelle agrees. “We’re getting out of town as well. I don’t want to be here – I mean – I don’t want to be in a city.” I have a vision of Michelle, Hayley and their kids crouched in a rustic barn around a picnic basket.
“Are you going to your sister’s, Bee?”
“Yeah, what about you?”
“I’ll be here.”
Bee drops the inhaler.
“Nell, you can’t stay in Manchester.”
“And where else am I going to go? Mum and Dad are dead, which frankly feels like a mercy. I’ve lived here over half my life. This is home.”
“What about...?” Michelle trails off. My friends watch me warily. Even after two years, even in these circumstances, Kat’s name is a mine in an open field. I shrug.
“Oliver called. Wants me to go to London.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He got in touch. She didn’t.”
“She might be scared,” says Bee tentatively. “To reach out.”
“Fear isn’t in Kat’s nature.”
From next door there’s a shriek of delight; one of the kids has triumphed in Call of Duty. Nila checks the clock on the wall. She’ll be worrying about the roads.
“So.” Michelle looks round. “We’ll see each other on the other side, right?”
“Oh God –” Bee starts crying. Nila murmurs a few words of prayer. In this moment I envy her her faith.
Now We Are Ten: Celebrating the First Ten Years of NewCon Press Page 23