by Chris Yeoh
“Doctor Copenhagen?” he asked finally. He did not know where in the group to look.
“Yes,” the doctor replied, stepping forwards.
“Phew, glad to see the place still running! A message from the top brass, sir. For immediate broadcast,” the young man darted forward under several pairs of watchful eyes, and handed Copenhagen a transcript typed in duplicate.
Copenhagen wiped his eyes as if he could not believe it. He caught a smile as he read the note, but then grew graver.
“What's going on, Mr...?” Enoch asked.
“Private Alawy,” the man said, looking at the farmer. “We're going to battle.” He caught a glance at a rifle Harold was holding. “Are you boys army?”
Before they could answer, Church pushed forwards, slow on the uptake, last to wake.
“At ease, Private,” he said.
“Major!” the boy spluttered. “I'm sorry, sir. Cor, sure is nice to see an officer round these parts – top brass will be most pleased to see you, I say.”
“What's the situation?”
“We're mobilising sixty miles of this position, North-East, we've got one hundred thousand men, sir, including support. Going in hard, a glorious push back, sir. Hadn't you heard?”
“I've been escorting refugees,” Church said, playing along. “Never you mind, when does it begin?”
“Got to deliver messages to other stations down south, but the sooner the better. You'd better talk to General McIntyre yourself,” he was well-spoken, and well-suited for his scouting position. His face betrayed no lines, nor any heartache. He was clearly new to the battle, Neven noted.
“Very well, give me map co-ordinates and I can be there by week's end.”
“That's not all,” Alawy hesitated.
“Oh?”
“I'm to activate all men of able-body, and to command their immediate presence,” he regarded Miles, Thougnhough and Brunswick, lastly he turned to Neven. “You know, orders from the top.” His voice sounded as though it were shrugging apologetically as he spoke
“Two days, Private,” Church considered the boys words. “Give me the co-ordinates and we'll be there. Go to your commanders, and tell them Major Church is coming.”
“Not necessary sir, there's a column of transports rolling through here later today, I'll radio in, they can pick you and your boys up.”
The Private and the 'Major' saluted, and then the former kicked his bike back into life. Church turned as the man disappeared over the crest of the hill. He looked at Copenhagen, avidly reading the note over and over as though it were manna from heaven.
“You had better get on and deliver those instructions, don't you think?”
Copenhagen looked up, beaming. The old man, with a purpose once more, rushed inside and locked the door to the booth.
Church looked at the rest of the group, and they at him.
“Jones,” said Frank. “You cannot be serious, after all that we, and they, have been through.”
“I'm going,” Church said with grim finality. “You should all come. Harry, Miles, Toby. Neven.”
“Who are you, giving orders?” Phillipa asked.
“Someone who gives shit.”
“I liked you better before,” she retorted.
“We've fought like hell for this country, for ourselves. We need to finish this,” Church was impassioned. “Besides, it sounds like you men won't have a choice in a few hours.”
“There's always a choice,” Phillipa said, walking off. Neven followed after, quickly. His mind was racing – time was repeating itself, and he could see himself back in London as quickly as he had left it. Church turned back to talk to other men experiencing a predicament. Resignation was in the air. Not from duty, but rather to fate.
Neven reached his tent, and found her packing a suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. So are you, grab some clothes, but not too many. We'll have to leave some things behind.”
“We can't do this.” Neven pushed into the tent to catch her, but she shook him off.
“Says who? That's old you. Hang your notions of duty! And hang Church.”
“What's he got to do with it? He just received the message.”
“Received your sentence, more like. He's swimming in lies, look at him pretending to be a Major. Wolf in sheep's clothing. Why do the filth always float to the top?” She turned back to look at him. “We can't let them get away with it, hang the rules!” she continued.
“The war will spread,” he said. “It will come and find us no matter what.” He was kneeling beside her now as she packed more and more clothes and possessions. “We have a responsibility to our country, surely?”
“Britain is as dead as the Baton who carried it on his shoulders, our only responsibilities are to each other – and the rest of them should stay. A young family, an old man – what good could come to them out there? It's safer here, for most at least - just not for soldiers.”
She looked back again, milky-eyed, “Let's be free. Please.”
“You'll go even if I don't, won't you?” he said finally.
“Probably.”
His face became stone. “Then let's go.”
*
Within the hour they were off, sneaking away from the camp.
“Please stop,” Church said. He had been waiting for them. In his right hand, a revolver swung freely – he had not the will to grip it properly.
Neven pushed Phillipa behind him, and stood strong.
“Come with me, please,” Church said. “Don't leave.”
“It's not for me, Church. This world is not for me. We're different, you and I,” Neven said.
“No – we can both be soldiers again.”
“I don't want to,” Neven explained. “Church, this is where our journey ends. With everything.”
“Don't make this all meaningless. All this killing. Don't make it all worthless!”
“It's meaningless if we gain nothing from it. We gain our freedom,” Neven replied.
“What about me? What do I gain?” He said, and for the first time Neven picked up a scent from Church the likes of which he had not yet smelt: desperation. Pleading.
“How the hell is that up to me?”
“Ah,” he said, lifting the pistol a little, but lowering it immediately.
“Coercion is a cowards tool, and we left those people dead in Chiswell house. You wear the coat of a man who died for the same principles you're trying to force us into. And look where that got him.”
“Then we have to fight, for better things.”
“Or we can say we're done with fighting, and die on our own terms,” Phillipa said.
“Fuck,” Church said. He cast an anxious glance back to the studio building, everyone was inside now. Low in Eden Vale, the trucks were pushing through; no doubt one car would come up the hill soon.
“You can either kill us both, or let us go.” Phillipa remarked, shifting the weight of her bag back up her shoulder. She began to turn. Church had his revolver out, but could not bring himself to lift it, nor to aim. He brought it to his face and tapped his head with it, thinking.
“Ah shit, ah shit,” he looked pained, physically in agony at the decision. “Okay, just go. But don't let me see you again or I'll kill you, or put you in jail for desertion.”
“Then you'll be a hell of an officer, yet,” Neven said derisively. “Enjoy your command, Major. Tell everyone we said goodbye.”
They started off down the hill, not looking back, avoiding the path, up which two army vehicles now traversed. They slipped into the woods and were gone from Church's sight before he could even change his mind.
He turned back to the building. Privates Thornhough and Brunswick were loading their rifles, and dressed in uniform once again.
“Where's Plumsworthy?” they asked. Church didn't reply, instead he went straight to Miles and looked down at him.
“Miles,” Church said. “Be brave, we'll have you back by Chr
istmas.”
Miles snivelled; never had he looked so young. He cast a thousand-yard stare out of milky eyes past Church and at the first car, which had ground to a halt, much in the same way the motorbike had. Two men in fatigues climbed out, and Church approached them.
“Major,” the sergeant said. “I heard there were five.”
“Your boy was mistaken,” he said.
“Very good. Well, the column's not waiting around for us, so we'll have to catch them back on the road. Soldiers!” he said to the men behind, who looked on.
Behind their blank faces, a world of emotion existed – Harry and Toby shared a look, and nodded to each other.
“Good luck, sirs,” Hercule said in his listing accent. “We shall take care of everybody here; I can make an ultimate guarantee! Miles, you must be the pride of your home country, you are blessed!”
Margaret, Enoch, Polly, and Frank didn't wave, they didn't cry. They stood still as statues, heartbroken.
Inside the locked radio booth, Copenhagen didn't even stop to take a swig of water to alleviate his dry mouth; he had been there since the morning re-reading the message. He was catatonic, staring fixedly at the clammy piece of paper. Leaning forward again, he adjusted his stance and his smile, and began to broadcast the message to the Home Counties far and wide. Disregarding his previous meticulous procedure, he had lost none of his storytelling ability, even if the content was shockingly different to his previous fictitious propaganda.
“Breaking communiqué from the British high intelligence and logistics STOP A message from Field Marshall Jack McIntyre to all citizens of Britain STOP So follows the message STOP England expects every able-bodied man, of service-age to do his duty in the defence of his country STOP Every soldier and man fitting this description is to report to the following co-ordinates for further instructions within three days of receiving this message...”
So began the next phase of the war.
Chapter 19
This new society is not where we left it
"Did you find anything?" Neven called out. He was perturbed by a lack of answer.
"Cans of food, and some cleaner bedding and bags," Phillipa emerged from the house. "Quite a haul."
She was grinning. She lumbered out of the looted shop front and onto the cobbled street. Neven went to help her, his rifle swung at his shoulder. He helped her lay her booty out onto the street.
Eden Vale had been mostly destroyed, as they had predicted. The buildings that still stood were awning, awful as though they had been made to watch by the violence that had proceeded down its street. Through-Bridge, the sister town three miles over, however, was more deserted than devastated, and for that, Neven and Phillipa were thankful.
In the townspeople's haste to go wherever they had gone before meeting their maker, they had left a bountiful supply of food. The trappings were incredible, and would suit them for many days.
Neven found an automobile; it lay unused in the forecourt of a manor house. The whole estate looked mostly untouched, as if the privilege of money had afforded the owner a reprieve from the whole affair. It reminded Neven of how he had first seen Phillipa's house. When one took in only this building into his gaze, it looked as though the war had never happened.
"Look!" Phillipa said, having shared the beautiful vision. "Put the things in here!"
She rushed to the car and began to clap and laugh.
"Can we take it, Neven?" she asked sweetly. "Oh goodness, please! It would be so much fun. I can learn how to use it, it'll be an adventure!"
Neven couldn't help but laugh.
"Why not?" he said.
"Woo!" she clambered in.
Neven was left with the task of opening the main gates to the house, and pushing the little machine out on to the street while Phillipa steered shakily.
As they finished packing the boot of the car, they both climbed into the front seats. It took more than a little while to navigate the ignition, but they decided that they had nothing but time. Between them, the grief and awfulness of the past months had been washed away. Companionship was the most important part of that.
Neven had changed into cleaner casual wear found in the halls of another grand house; Phillipa wore in a modest dress. Both had cardigans and kept spare overcoats about them.
The car sparked to life, and, with the greatest of hesitations, the wheels began to crunch over the fallen leaves. It bobbed and wavered as it crossed the uneven road surfaces. More than once, within the bowels of the town, they had to stop and push carts and other obstructions out of the way. The spare petrol canisters that the owner kept in the boot sloshed as they sped up along the road and out of the town.
Bouncing along dirt roads they were without a care. The trees and lakes of the shires fell away into scenic valleys, and cliffs as they reached Cornwall some days later. The country was deserted, silent. They had not seen another living soul for days.
"I keep expecting to look back and see the station on the hill," Phillipa joked.
She was right, for the first bit of time when they were travelling on foot, they would sleep in the shadow of the hill as it dominated the skyline and their field of vision. Far and away they sometimes swore (only ever privately) that they had heard the faint sounds of battle.
"What do you reckon the others are up to?" she asked suddenly. The car began crawling up the hill.
"Living," Neven said. “Whatever that means.”
They couldn't think of anything else to say. To elicit more information would be to imagine their faces, to hear their voices, to think about them and dwell upon them any more than they hoped to.
Phillipa, for her part, did not want to probe and poke at the issue. It was a throwaway comment, or so she had hoped, but it gave her an itchy feeling in her body. She continued to drive the brave car up the hill, swerving this way and that.
"I'm seeing parts of this country I could only have dreamt of before," she said.
"Oh, yes?" Neven asked.
"These cliffs, this bay..." she wondered as she stared over God's green earth. "I suppose now is the time more than ever to see it all."
Neven pondered this claim. "I suppose it is."
The rules no longer applied. His former life was exactly that. Former. Everything he could lay claim to, including some things he couldn't, or indeed would lay claim to him in turn, was sitting in this car, at the wheel, in the back seat, or in the boot.
The past few months had at first made his life incredibly more complicated, and then drastically simpler. He was sliding along the earth at a quickened pace now, his entire life travelling in one compartment of a leather-seated automobile, gorgeously ticking over.
The whole realisation, given the right circumstances, might have stopped him dead there, ceased his heart and quelled his breath. Looking at Phillipa, and at the playful smile on her lips as she battled the ignition and finally got to the plateau of the hill, told him that she felt much the same way.
The question was: what now?
He gazed out of the window. Perhaps they would keep going until they could no longer. And then they would figure it out from there. Perhaps they would sit together this evening and make a grand plan. When their destinies were their own, the future became incredibly exciting.
"Look at that beautiful hill," Phillipa remarked, looking out at the same crop of land Neven observed.
He had not even noticed it, his eyes having instead glazed over in their sockets. His tiredness was no longer a factor, his body was rejuvenated and ready for the next challenges.
"Can we stop there?" she asked. "For the night?"
Neven saw finally what she was seeing. A smoky, untouched patch of green sailed down a gentle slope, eschewing the cliffs and peaks that surrounded it until it met the open arms of the sea and the bay. Atop the hill sat two or three trees, dustily shaped by the wind over the centuries.
"Why not?" Neven said. It was fast becoming his catchphrase. "It seems as good a place as any."
From the diary of Neven Plumsworthy
I do not know what became of those I left on the hill that day. Perhaps they are still there, waiting for the next terrible event, the next terrible choice to befall them. I may not have always done the right thing, but I sleep easy knowing my decisions were proactive, that I was not merely a reactionary, hanging on the puppet strings of those who had other designs upon me.
For the most part, anyway.
The days of falling into occupancy are over. The days when my father would scribble in his diary, and fiddle with his radio in our front room, are long over. The times when he would sit with his back to me as if he could pretend that I did not exist, counting down weeks until I was to return to my boarding school, as I too would count down the seconds on the songs that played before my bed-time.
The worst thing that the aliens brought with them was an unending silence, but even that was preferable to the damned way that people of ill-stature and a disquieted mind must whistle in the dark to alleviate themselves of their insecurities.
I never got to say goodbye to them, but I will never forget them. Enoch, Margaret, William, Polly, Frank, Harry, Toby.
And Jones Church.
And so, I have nearly reached my own present day within the confines of my own thoughts. My life over the previous few months has been life-shaping and life-changing. It would be remiss of me to not allay some of the secrets to my longevity life in this, a very different world. With each passing day, more occurs and less happens.
I retrieved this very diary from the rotunda of the station, that night when we were star-gazing. While it pained me at first to take what was not rightfully offered and to tear out the pages which had already been filled in, I realised that in this world all knowledge is important. It is not just the scientists and academics and newsmakers who need to be remembered, but the people, such as myself, if you will forgive the egregiously selfish tone.
My time on this planet has been spent as best as it could be. If anyone is to find this, long after I am gone, then let it stand as a testament, a historical narrative to go along, hand in hand with the scientific hypotheses and the philosophical discussions of our species' fate. Phillipa and my discourses are just as worthy.
In the intervening days between by last diary entry and this one, we have seen several great lights in the East, and heard the sounds of war.