They’ll come for us, you know?
Why will they come for us?
We must have left evidence there.
We picked up all the bits of the brick. We even took pieces out of the mess that used to be his head.
We think you thought of everything.
We did think of everything. Clothes, shoes, gloves. All taken care of. They’re not coming for us.
They’ll make links between us and him.
But they won’t make links between us and the others. They’re looking for a serial killer. We’re not a serial killer. We just wanted him out of our life.
Well that’s happened. Why haven’t we disposed of the knife?
We can’t stop now.
We can’t? Why not?
If we stop, they’ll ask why. They’ll realise he was the target after all. We have to keep the murders going to throw them off the scent.
Are you crazy?
It seems logical to us. Who can we target next?
I made myself comfortable on my bed, sharpened my knife, and gave it some thought.
SCRATCHING IN THE DUST
I slipped sideways on a loose pile of iron shavings and concrete shale as I crested the final mountain of debris, jarring my knee. Sucking in my breath in annoyance, I paused to stretch my leg out and catch my breath. Ahead of me lay the market—what remained of it—and beyond that the grey rubble of the ruined city sprawled in every direction.
I wheezed and hacked and coughed up a wad of thick infected phlegm, spitting it to the side of me with a grimace. The dust was ubiquitous, and it was ruining my lungs. I suppose I’d been one of the lucky ones though—at least I remained alive. These days, everyone’s life expectancy had been severely curtailed. Most of us would be lucky to make it past forty. I had eight years maybe.
Twenty years after The War, and over eighty per cent of the population had perished. The maternity rate continued to be negligible. We humans were a dying breed. It had been the poisoning of the water after the initial onslaught of bombs that had been the final straw. Everyone needs water to survive—regardless of the make of car they once drove, how many mistresses they had kept, or how deep the bunker they had dug.
I didn’t want to stay up here for too long. The stench of rotting flesh had dissipated years ago, corpses and carcasses had been picked clear by carrion, but occasionally, the putrefaction of something long buried far among the shifting rubble beneath my feet inveigled its way through air pockets and made me gag. I hefted my rucksack and carefully started to slip and slide my way down into the dip, the location for the daily market.
I’d had a good day at Gulliver’s, where I was employed. All the new industry took place outside the city now, in abandoned factories and warehouses. I worked as a ‘cleaner’. Not that anything was clean, or even a close approximation. I suppose a better term for the job I did was a dismantler. The foragers brought in mechanical items, or anything that could be stripped down, and my job involved carefully taking things apart and filing each component, no matter how tiny, into the correct storage bin to be sold on to our Overseers and their team of engineers. I’d dismantled a vacuum cleaner and a hairdryer this morning, and an old-fashioned radio this afternoon. I preferred the really antique stuff, the parts were complicated and intricate. It made the job more interesting, albeit fiddly, whereas twenty-first century hair dryers were simply constructed from plastic. Nobody wanted or needed plastic anymore. The damn stuff was everywhere.
My boots scrunched on the ground as I headed into the market. It was a covered area, dulled plastic sheeting had been roughly tied over scaffolding, and warped wood had been laid out to serve as counter tops for the twenty or so stalls here. Merchandise was minimal though, and what there was of it was limp and grey, coated with dirt. As we all were. This was the state of the world we inhabited.
I kept my chin down and eyes on the floor to avoid the looks of resignation, boredom, or pure desperation from the traders I didn’t frequent. The market wasn’t busy, so I had little opportunity of blending into obscurity, and while none of them were looking at me, I knew they all saw me. I headed straight for Joanne, as usual, an old acquaintance, she would treat me well.
“Lucie,” she greeted me. “Good day?”
I nodded shyly, then lifted my hand and uncurled my fingers. A number of old coins nestled dully on my filth-encrusted palm.
“Not bad,” Joanne agreed, and her lips curled slightly.
“I have this too.” I offered her my other hand. “I snuck it out.” She reached for what I held, but I pulled my hand back in alarm. She jumped. “Sorry. Sorry,” I said in a rush. “Be careful. It can bite you.”
Puzzled, she indicated that I should place the item on the counter. I did so: a thin sliver of wood and a couple of pieces of metal.
“What is it?”
“Gulliver told me it’s a mousetrap. It’s spring loaded. Look,” I demonstrated how to pull the lever back. “You load food here. The mouse tries to eat it. The pressure of him doing so makes the trap slam shut, and he can’t get out. See?”
Joanne laughed in delight. “Ain’t that quaint?”
“A forager found a whole box of them somewhere and brought them in. I swiped this one. You want it?”
Joanne shrugged, but I could tell by the twinkle in her eye she did. I didn’t. I happily traded to give the awful contraption a new home.
“I could use it, I guess. Beats laying poison everywhere, don’t it?”
I nodded and looked at what she had on display, a pitiful collection of odds and sods. Joanne hastily picked up a few potatoes and a turnip. “I got these,” she said, “and there’s these lentils. You like lentils. And here, you can have a few twists.” Joanne twisted salt, pepper and any other herbs she could get her hands on into tiny packages. They were a godsend, really helped to flavour the mundane day-to-day vegetables and bland rat meat we had to survive on.
I accepted what she offered. I wasn’t unhappy with the trade, given so little choice. I packed the goods away in my rucksack. Joanne watched me. I started to walk away, when she stopped me.
“Wait,” she said in a low voice. “Have this. Put it away, quick.” She passed me a small round tin, cool to the touch. Hurriedly I stuffed it in my pocket and scuffled away. If she didn’t want anyone else to see what she had given me, I wouldn’t betray her confidence. Not so long ago, before The Organization took charge, people were killed for morsels of food. I remembered those days and remained watchful at all times.
I trudged homewards on what passed as a road. The rubble from office blocks and shops—destroyed during The War—towered above me on both sides, towers of concrete, twisted metal, and rusting iron that blocked half-demolished buildings from my view. The foragers occasionally picked through the piles here, and although less and less was of any use to us, I still found the occasional treasure: twisted teaspoons or bicycle wheels with rusted spokes, so I scanned the ground as well as the horizon.
A quick small movement down one of the intermittent alleyways drew my attention. I wouldn’t normally have dared to look, but whatever had caught my eye moved low to the ground. I paused and peered into the shadows. The thing moved again, watched me watching it. A dog.
I tutted and moved on. Dogs were rare these days. Straight after The War they had roamed the streets in huge numbers, but they—like everything else—needed water to survive. Dogs and humans alike had been poisoned or gone mad with thirst. Those canines that had managed to survive had been hunted down and used as meat, until the farms had been established way out of town beyond Gulliver’s. Maybe dogs were making a comeback. I didn’t care. I continued my walk home.
The dog followed me. I studiously ignored it. It would be seen and that would be the end of it. It would be someone’s dinner.
A quarter of a mile farther on, I ducked down another alley and followed a twisting path through the rubble. Beneath the overhang of a ruined Victorian hotel, I found the dwelling I called home. I pushed the do
or and peered in cautiously. Little point in locking up when I left, I had nothing worth stealing.
I dropped my rucksack and turned to push the door closed. The dog stood on the front step watching me. I scowled.
“Go away,” I said, and then felt cross that I’d connected with the damn thing. It tilted its head and stared at me with soft brown eyes.
“No.” I shook my head. “I have nothing to give you. And I don’t need you here.”
The dog stood and padded into my room, climbed onto my bed and curled up there. I watched in disbelief.
“Are you kidding me? Get off there. You’re filthy.”
But that was a lie. The dog was relatively clean. I could see his brown and white coat clearly. He was cleaner than the faded throw that covered my bed.
Puzzled, I approached him and put my hand out tentatively. The dog didn’t move. I held my breath and touched him. His fur was soft, a little gritty, but otherwise clean. He smelled fresh. He’d had a bath recently. Where had he found enough water for a bath? Or who had given him one?
I grunted and turned away. I needed to eat. I started a small fire in my fire pit and poured some of my own precious, rationed water into a pan, rubbed the worst of the dirt off the potatoes and turnip with a rag, then cut them up into small chunks and dropped them into the water to parboil them. While I waited, I swept my little home, as though that would make much difference, and carefully rearranged the small collection of trinkets and treasures I had scavenged: a Barbie doll, a plastic train, a few books. It was my one connection to my old life, before The War, when I had been a child.
Only twelve when The War came, everyone I knew died—my parents, my little brother, my friends. I sought shelter with other survivors, and I’d been lucky. There had been lawlessness of course. People were traumatized by so much death. But I survived, thanks to the kindness of strangers, my biddableness, my instincts, my ability to pick out good people—like Joanne—and by keeping my head down.
When the potatoes and turnip softened, I threw them in a frying pan to finish them off. Remembering the tin Joanne had given me, I picked it out of my pocket. It had no label. It would be pot luck then. I located a rusted tin opener among my treasures and with some difficulty peeled back the lid. It was fish of some kind. Tuna probably. It had been a long time since I’d eaten fish. I added it to the frying pan. Tonight I’d enjoy a proper feast.
I ate out of the pan using a spoon. It was good. Different. The dog eyed me, patiently waiting for me to finish. I didn’t save him any. I didn’t want to encourage him to stay. But as I stood to scour the pan clean with some sand, I relented and set the pan on the floor so that he could lick my leavings.
“You have to go,” I said as he finished. I opened the door. He trotted out obediently, then looked back at me. I closed the door on his gaze.
***
The following evening, he was waiting for me as I left the market. Once again he had been hiding in the alley. I didn’t know whether to feel exasperated or pleased. I decided on the former and walked on. The dog yipped quietly behind me. I stopped and turned back. It had never made a sound the previous day. Drawing attention to itself was a dangerous thing for it to do, but I didn’t expect it to understand that.
The dog and I regarded each other and then it ran back down the alley. Hesitating, I decided to follow it, at least for a way. I scrambled down the rubble into the alley, my boots slipping on loose chunks of concrete and shale. The dog trotted to a door cast in shadow at the rear of the alley, and I quickly caught up with it.
I stood and gaped. In front of me was a green wooden door, the paint fresh and bright. I reached out, my dirty fingers caressed the sheen of the paint, expecting it to be wet. It was dry, and looking closely I could see a thin layer of dust covering the door. It had been freshly painted recently. I wondered who would live here and why they would bother to paint a door that would be grey within days.
The dog whined beside me and sat, looking up at me expectantly. It wanted me to go in.
“No,” I said, imagining someone on the other side armed with a machete or similar weapon. The dog whined again. He was placing me in a quandary. What if his owner had been hurt and needed help? I should help if I could.
I tapped nervously on the door. There was no response. I tapped harder. Again nothing. The third time I rapped noisily, but no-one came. I huffed my cheeks and considered. The dog scratched the door. There was nothing for it. I turned the antiquated knob. The door opened easily, swung inwards with a satisfying whoosh. I stepped forwards into a small bare room, containing a mop and bucket, a broom cupboard, and some wellington boots. It was clean. I could smell the soap. I inhaled deeply. Cleanliness was the headiest of all perfumes.
The dog trotted happily in beside me and walked straight to the cupboard. With nothing to lose, I pulled that door open too.
And gasped in shock.
It wasn’t a cupboard at all, but an opening into a dream, or something half remembered. Outside—behind me—the world was rubble and grit, grey dust accompanied by the putrid stench of decay. But here, inside, colour lit up the world in every shade, the cheerful chirruping sounds of contented birds and the sweetest and lightest of scents drifting towards me on the breeze. Heaven blossomed in a garden such as I’d never imagined.
I stepped forwards into paradise. My heavy boots sank into spongey earth, and when I looked down, I marvelled at their clunky ugliness, compared to the delicate daisies of a neatly groomed lawn.
“You can take them off,” a young voice nearby suggested.
Startled, I clenched my fists and whirled around.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Only, if you want to, you can take them off.” A young boy of about eight or nine years jumped from a wall to the right of me and landed softly on the grass.
“Who are you?” I demanded. He seemed oddly familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. I knew most of the survivors in the vicinity, as well as their families.
“I’m Derek. You’re Lucie.”
Puzzled, I stared at the boy. He wore knee-length blue shorts and a t-shirt with some cartoon character emblazoned across the chest. His knees and cheeks were smeared with mud, and his clothes had grass stains. But his dirt was clean and fresh. It wasn’t ingrained through years of toil in the acrid city beyond.
Derek. The name rang a bell. And he knew my name too.
“Where are your people?” I asked. I couldn’t see anyone else around. Just us and the dog.
He shrugged. “They come and they go. Thank you for bringing Bailey back. He runs off.”
“I had a dog called Bailey once,” I said. The words came out of me in a rush. Memories that tasted warm and loving. I bit them back. No point in remembering what happened before. “You shouldn’t let him run off,” I said coldly. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I gazed around, deeply impressed by the quality of the soil here—everything so abundant. The farmers would love this place. I thought of the superiority of the goods they could produce. I wondered why they didn’t know about it.
Derek shrugged. “Playing,” he said.
Playing. Such a simple concept, but I was awed into a stunned silence. No-one played any more. Perhaps cards to while away the late evening, but mostly we all worked, and then we ate, and then we slept. We didn’t do any of that particularly well. But that’s what we did, that’s what it meant to survive in this place.
“Would you like to play?” Derek asked plaintively. “I haven’t had anyone to play with for a long time.” He skipped away from me, followed a winding path down the bank, Bailey trotting nonchalantly at his heels. I followed.
The garden was huge. As a child, my family had visited a stately home and I had romped in the garden there. Like that one, this space had been divided into sections: an enormous lawn, glades, a meticulously laid out kitchen garden, and most incredible of all, a small maze. But the sight that stopped me in my tracks was a small lake, surrounded by reeds and tall flowers, their heads
drooping lazily as they studied their own reflections in the clear water.
And yes, the water was clear. The sun reflected off the surface, and I fancied I could see the sandy bottom. Minnows darted here and there, gliding this way, then shooting off quickly in the opposite direction. I edged closer and reached out to dip my hand in, but instinct held me back.
“Is the water poisoned?”
“Poisoned?” Derek frowned.
I folded my arms, tucking my hands out of sight, away from temptation. The water could be pure acid for all I knew. Perhaps the minnows were an adapted species.
“It’s not poisoned,” Derek said and plunged his hand in up to the wrist, agitating the water and surprising a number of spectacular blue dragon flies. I backed away, fearful of being splashed by the toxic water. Derek watched me. I could see from the wary look that drifted across his face, he thought me odd.
But he was a child and artless. “Would you like an apple?” he cried. “Look, the ones over here are ready to drop. Come on!” He raced away. After a second I followed him, lumbering clumsily in my great boots, as he dashed sprite-like ahead of me.
The apple tree was huge and old, gnarled and twisted. Branches bowed under the weight of the heavy, ripe fruit. Derek reached up and pulled at an apple and then threw it my way. I lunged for it awkwardly and missed. It fell on the grass with a thump. I scooped it up quickly and stared at it in astonishment. It was firm in my grasp, hardly marked at all. I lifted it to my face and sniffed. The light, delicately perfumed fragrance made my mouth water.
I dropped my hand. “I can’t.” Everyone knew the only food safe to eat should be grown in the sterile environment of the undercover farms beyond Gulliver’s. It was foolhardy to eat anything that had been exposed to the radiation in the atmosphere.
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