“Hello.” Adam called out, and everyone sank into themselves in relief.
I shouted towards the closed door, confirming that it was indeed Adam.
“Yes. Excellent.” He replied, proceeding down the stairs and opening the door to find the six of us shattered, sitting on the floor.
“Where's Edwin?” Rosie asked immediately at the sight of him.
“He's all right my dear, he's on my yacht.”
“Why?” She said confused. “Why didn't he come back?”
“He'll be back, don't you worry.”
“But why didn't he come back?” She repeated again her desperate tone giving way to anger.
“He wanted to take care of something. He'll be back soon, he promised.”
“No.” She said now standing. “What is he doing?”
“He asked me not to tell you, I’m sorry Rosie. But he will be back soon.” Adam said apologetically.
“No. You tell me.” She stuttered. “You tell me now! Where is he?”
“Okay, okay.” Adam conceded. “Your brother thinks he knows where Roger was shot from. He swam to shore. He has gone to find the men.”
“No.” Rosie burst into tears. “How could you let him? How could you?”
“It was the only way to ensure the safety of everyone here.” Adam replied.
“So it was your plan? It was your plan!”
“No it was your brother's, but I agreed with him. He is right.”
“No.” She shouted back. “It suited you! Why aren't you out there, why aren’t you the one?”
“Your brother is doing this for you, he is doing it for all of us.”
“Don't you dare make this about me. It suited you, and you're too much of a coward to do it yourself, so you sent my brother.” She paused and began to shout again. “You're a coward, you're a fucking coward.”
“I'm sorry Rosie.” he said maintaining eye contact with her.
“Don't give me that, where are they? Where is he?”
“He thinks they are in the first house on the mainland”
“I'm going to see, I need to see.” She said and then pushed passed Adam and ran upstairs.
I stood up and looked at Adam, he nodded at me and then gestured upstairs and I followed her. I followed her as she leaped up pairs, holding herself up with the bannister, and I followed her to the top floor and into the room at the end of the corridor which overlooked the mainland.
She fell to her knees in front of the window and pulled the curtain around her head and stared out of the window into the darkness. I joined her under the curtain and she grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly. The moon reflected off the slate roofs and the white painted houses in the distance and we watched and we listened in silence to nothing at all but the waves crash on the beach below.
An infinite amount of time passed and Rosie didn't say anything to me. She occasionally closed her eyes and pleaded with god and without intent I found myself looking down at the windowsill, repeating the word, “Please.” Over and over again in my head.
Then, in a silver window in the distance came one, two and then four more flashes in quick succession and Rosie screamed, a deafening painful screamed that tore straight into my hollow chest. She rocked back and forward screaming, now with tears flowing down both cheeks. I pulled her into my chest and hugged her, and rocked with her and she kept screaming her tearful scream now muffled in my shoulder.
Over the top of Rosie's head I saw the door open and Adam peer around. I shook my head and he left. Rosie eventually pulled her head from my chest, leaving three wet patches.
“They're all cowards.” she said repeatedly. “Its always Edwin, he's always fighting for other people. Why him? Why does it have to be him?” She begged and I knew there was no answer I could give her so I just squeezed her hands in mine. I wanted to tell her that he might be fine, that we don't know for sure what happened, I wanted to tell her that Edwin's actions are and have only ever been to protect her, and that it was his choice, above anyone else's direction, it was his choice to go and find those men for the simple reason as to keep her safe. That, from what I could tell, his entire life had been spent in some way or another through his own rationale, to keep her safe. But I didn't tell her, I consciously, selfishly, couldn't bear the thought of making her cry any more.
It was small at first, just a flicker in the distance. A small flame crawling up the side of the window. The flicker and the flame grew and the window revealed a room of orange. Then it spread to the window next to it, growing and glowing until the slate roof became incandescent, and smoke, amber at its belly and silver above seeped into the firmament.
I told Rosie, who was now sitting with her head in her hands against the base of the bed.
“What?” She said tearfully through her running nose and crawled across the floor and lifted her head under the curtain.
“It's Edwin!” Rosie screeched excitedly. “He's there.” She pushed my shoulder down and propelled herself onto her feet and ran out of the room shouting. “It's Edwin!”.
I looked back out of the window and at the burning house trying to see him, but there was only fire, black trees, moonlit waves, blank sand and switched off houses. I kept watching, nothing, until, alone in the middle of the tidal path was the dark outline of Edwin walking towards the hotel and Rosie appeared after a minute, she ran towards him and hugged him with both arms and sunk her head into his shoulder and I tried to imagine what it must be like to be overcome with love and relief, to explode with emotion as to quash all reason and fear.
I spent the night in green postulation, smoking out of the window and hoping to hear a knock at the door. I eventually went to bed without seeing her again that night.
14th December
Months passed, and summer descended through autumn into winter without any more incidents, major ones at least. Roger recovered, slowly. I took over his job of disposing of the organs by the gate and he would stand next to me and watch. He hated being trapped in the hotel and he loathed Rosie acting as nurse, in front of him, she would tell me off for letting him come outside in the freezing cold and then make him sit down by the fire and she would hand him cups of tea and watch as he drank them. Each morning and evening when Roger and I went outside to hack at the organs with the axe and dump the remains on the mainland Roger would say, “There are more of them today.” I would agree, and then we wouldn't talk much more, tacitly appreciating that understanding one another's position was conversation enough.
After the shooting we rarely drove off of the island, and the others comfortably ignored the organs as long as someone was there each morning and evening to dispose of them. I discussed with Adam that there was no cause for them to keep coming, that we were no longer leaving a trail of breadcrumbs back to the hotel with constant trips into towns and that there must be another reason for them to keep on coming. Still, comfortable that they posed no immediate threat, the question subsided and we carried on. Killing tens of them each day. One morning there was one the size of a small car making its slow crawl across the sand towards us. We had to set it on fire. The bigger ones when chopped in two with the axe would continue with carnivorous intent, both halves, until finally when split again or sometimes a third time they would eventually give up.
As it got colder and the waves picked up, Adam spent less time in his yacht, moving his study into one of the guest rooms. He locked himself inside for hours at a time, hunched over books and fiddling about with the rudimentary science equipment that Edwin had found for him in a local school. Annabelle took a keen interest in Adam, when he was around, first thing in the morning and late at night, when he would sit by the fire, reading, holding a glass of brandy, she would sit opposite him with red wine trying to pull thoughts from his mind, trying to get his little eyes to peer over his round glasses. I liked her, she was in her own world and ignored most of us most of the time, keeping herself busy, painting and reading. She maintained the look that at any time she might just
up and disappear, leaving only an elegantly written note on soft yellow paper on a table somewhere.
I often played chess with Guy and Al would sit across the board looking over us with his face like a hairy toad, raising an eyebrow every so often and inhaling loudly through his teeth whenever one of us made a move. In a jestingly manner, but seriously, I told him that he should leave us and that he made me uncomfortable, but he kept sitting there, game after game. Guy was all right, I liked him in fact. To some extent he reminded me of me when I was younger, an age where nothing said bore consequence. We traded stories about university that Al greedily absorbed. I told him about my uncle who taught me chess, and all the peculiar anecdotes that came with each lesson. He took his own life in his garage, it failed to add any poignancy to his stories. I grew to like Guy, inversely to my distaste to Al, it seemed as through whilst the three of us sat hunched over the chequered board that a purple ether was flowing up into the air above Al, curling and twirling in an arch, turning almost pink and sinking into Guy's back. Mostly I think it was because Rosie and I had become closer with each passing day and I began to feel guilty that Guy had no one. He talked about leaving sometimes, going in search for his friends, or just to see what else was out there, but he would say it within the confines of the subjunctive, a glazed over look of a man dreaming of the impossible, which was saddening.
Edwin, the hero who inspired awe amongst the others was like a caged bird, raging against brass bars. He eventually, with the consent of Rosie, who could see his obvious frustration, began to walk to the mainland and drive off. He always had a practical reason to go, more wood for the fire, more tins of food, more equipment or books for Adam, but I knew he was looking for life, suitable life. He had told me one night when everyone else had gone to bed and we sat opposite each other with amber glasses in front of the fire that there had to more out there, that what we had now was not enough, and how it was not enough to move forwards. If Rosie was to have children, there needed to be other children for them to grow up with, they needed a proper education, they needed a future that reached beyond the cell by date of the cans in the stock room; his monomaniacal lust for progress resurfacing.
When he would return, the group would gather around him with bated breath for news of the outside world. I always selfishly hoped that he would say that it had descended into chaos, a dangerous anarchy, hoping that I would not loose my role, my purpose in the group, and Rosie. He told us, practically, of towns and villages he had visited that had no sign of life at all, and others where he wouldn't enter because gates or cars blocked the only roads in. Some had warning signs others didn't, but either way he would just pass by. On a few occasions he ended up in conversation with other survivors through open car windows. They talked of groups, some small, others reaching almost a hundred. It seemed almost all of them had been prisoners and many of them were harmless but strictly guarding what supplies of food and water they did have. Women seemed to be the most valuable commodity of them all, as Edwin repeated the questions that was asked of him on each occasion, “How many women you got?” Disguised in some form or another. One of these conversations had revealed that the female prison population is about five percent that of the male population, and a lot of them were suffering short term sentences, meaning quite a few of the women in prison had suffered the same fate as everyone else. The news made everyone uneasy and furthered my own feelings of guilt for having Rosie.
Rosie and I continued to walk along the shore each day, she would pick up shells and smooth stones. Sometimes, her fingers would wriggle out of the bottom of her jacket sleeve and find mine, and we would walk near the crashing waves hand in hand. When we got far enough, she would turn to me and look up at me with her beautiful open face, and her hazel eyes peaking out from under a woollen hat, and sometimes she would bite her lip, and other times she would hold my other hand.
At night we would sit around the large oval mahogany table. Tom would serve us supper and Sally would ramble on with her weasel voice about her dull life and what we should be doing. Then we would sit around in armchairs drinking, I would smoke in the windowsill, and Roger would be forced to sit by the fire, and sweat would trickle down his face until he took himself upstairs. Sometimes everyone would go to bed and Rosie and I would stay up, drinking and sharing cigarettes.
“Do you think it is true that cigarettes really do hurt babies when they are in the womb?” Rosie asked, taking the cigarette from in between my fingers.
“Yes. I think it must. Why do you ask, you're not pregnant are you?” I replied with sarcastic concern.
“No but.” She paused to take a drag.
“But what?”
“I'm not saying right now, but, I think about it you know? Some day I would like to have children, even if the world has fallen apart, I want a normal life, of sorts. I still want to have children. I still want to get married.” She exhaled and the smoke lifted into the room. “Don't you?”
“A normal life.” I repeated, smiling.
“Yes. Obviously not a completely normal life, but the good parts. I want all of the tradition. We can't let the traditions die out. We need to fight for them Harry. I know my parents are looking down on us and I want to show them that I have not been defeated, that I have not given up.”
The whiskey had warmed through my veins and my cheek was hot from the fire. I watched her, cupping her glass of wine, two red stains just above her lips, her eyes focused beyond the fire, the thoughts, probably of her parents flowing through her mind, comforting or perhaps nostalgically pressing upon her. Maybe I thought, maybe this is what love was supposed to be, I wanted her to be mine, to stamp her with a seal to ward off anyone else. In this world, where the population of women was so minuscule, I needed to, whilst she was seemingly interested in me, I had to confirm it. I wasn't in love with her, but at least I knew there was no one else I’d met so far that I’d rather spend time with, rather while away the hours with, rather sleep with. And as if from above I watch myself slide the signet ring off my little finger and clumsily pull myself off the chair and onto my knee.
“Rosie. I love you, I think I have since the moment I met you and you were just an outline in the shadows on that staircase in London.” I paused, nervously building up the courage to look into her eyes. “Will you marry me?” My heart was racing and the sound of pumping blood pounded through my ears and behind my eyes.
“Yes.” She said. “Yes, thank you.” She gracefully joined me on the floor and put her hand out with separated fingers and I slide the ring onto her hand and kissed her on the floor in front of the fire. Then she stood up and holding my hand, we ran upstairs.
15th December
The white morning light pierced through the curtains, my head hurt and I closed my eyes and willed the beating pain to go away. I remembered the previous night and I smiled into the pillow. I felt Rosie's side of the bed, hoping to whack her in the stomach playfully, but she was not there. I hid under the duvet and recounted thoroughly to make sure it had been real. I felt my left hand and my ring was gone and I smiled into the pillow again and clenched my fists with excitement. I suddenly panicked and looked up at the bedside table, but it was bare, she had not left the ring on the side, and I smiled again and tangled myself in the sheets.
Edwin sternly congratulated me on the stairs with a firm handshake and I smiled and patted him on the shoulder and assured him that, “I really loved her.” I felt embarrassed and hurriedly chased the stairs.
“Finally!” Adam said holding a glass of champagne in front of him. “Here he is?”
I grinned, unbearably. “Good morning.”
“Congratulations.” He said and everyone repeated it, and Rosie was to my left and she passed me a glass of champagne.
“Thank you.” I spoke to my shoes. “I was worried Rosie would have come to her senses in the night.” I said and the room laughed.
“Cheers.” They all said and drank some champagne and Rosie kissed me on the cheek. I knew
I was red, I didn't know what to do, I clenched my left fist and opened it over and over again as if recovering from pins and needles, and Rosie must have seen as she gently slide her hand into mine at the perfect point between open and clench so that I had no choice but to be holding her hand.
Roger walked towards me and patted me on the shoulder. “Congrats.” And I thanked him. I wanted to hug him but I didn't.
“So when is the wedding?” Sally weaselled out, and for the first time her existence didn't fill me with disgust.
“Um?” I muttered and looked at Rosie.
“Spring.” She said and took my other hand. “The first day of spring?” And then she looked at me for approval.
I removed my hand from hers and put it around her shoulder and pulled her into me. “Yes, the first day of spring.”
“We don't have a priest?” Rosie said, looking up at me with her hazel eyes, pleased, as though she had already discussed it with the others.
“Adam. Will you? You are the captain of your ship, I’m sure I heard somewhere that qualifies you?” I said
“Well, I would be delighted to conduct the ceremony, I will have to look into maritime law however.”
Roger said another congratulations to Rosie, and she hugged him, not forgetting about his shoulder, and then he left to start the mornings work on the organs and Guy congratulated me and said he would help Roger and that I should have the day off.
The rest of us spent the morning around the table discussing the wedding. Al told me I was a lucky man and sat next to me. Sally, Rosie and Tom talked enthusiastically about flowers, Adam said he would be able to get lobsters for the meal and Annabelle mentioned she could play the piano and that she would be delighted to learn how to play a number of hymns, and the whole time, under the table Rosie was squeezing my hand.
The Days After Page 12