Arcadia

by James Treadwell

  He cleans himself up with leaves and freezing water. Despite what Kate said it’s as wild as ever outside. His feet are encased in their own little skins of wet sock and swampy rain. He thinks of Parson’s, the stove, his bed, his stacks of comics.

  He’s got nowhere else to go. It’s a tiny world. A prison.

  He slams the bucket back in place with a bang and stares moodily down the track.

  There’s someone there.

  Only for an instant, the blink of an eye. He pushes wet hair away from his eyes, rubs them, and the person’s gone.

  “Hello?”

  He thought he saw a face looking over the hedge at him. He was sure he did. But he can’t have, because who’d be in the field now? And he knows everyone in the world, and everyone in the world knows him, so who’d disappear like that, so quickly it’s like they weren’t there at all?

  “Kate?” Why’s he thinking of Kate? He thought he saw the shape of a head, just a face. No hair. But it wasn’t Kate. He knows exactly what Kate looks like. He knows exactly what everyone looks like. It can’t have been anyone. A bird, perhaps, or just a trick of the eye. The driving rain makes everything fuzzy. He rubs his eyes clear again. There’s definitely nothing there, just the ivy flapping at the top of the hedge.

  He hurries back to Parson’s at a clumsy run.

  * * *

  By the time the storm blows itself out it’s almost dark. He’s at the Abbey with everyone else, dried out and warm enough. Viola came to fetch him since his mother won’t be back until tomorrow now. He can smell food cooking slowly downstairs. Kate’s gone to see where any blowdown is—she and Fi’ll be out with axe and saw as soon as it’s light—but otherwise the whole surviving population of Home is there, apart from his mother. She won’t risk the Gap in the dark. She’ll stay with the Maries people overnight, eating whatever they give her to eat, sleeping wherever they let her sleep.

  The mood isn’t good. Viola’s already yelled at him for going off like that. Laurel’s cross because she had to ride all over Home in the rain looking for him. They can hear Ali coughing in the warm room above the landing. Molly sits red-eyed and upright in the corner and won’t eat anything. People take it in turns to go over and murmur to her, each one looking like they’re marching to the gallows as they cross the big room.

  It’s only a matter of time before someone mentions The Future. Like the weird green light before a storm, there’s a particular atmosphere which comes over the big room in the Abbey when a conversation about The Future is about to break. It’s the atmosphere of people thinking. When there’s not enough chatter, when Missus Grouse isn’t forcing someone to play Scrabble and Fi isn’t talking about new places they could try growing things and Pink isn’t shouting for everyone to watch her doing handstands, Rory can see all the faces go quiet and sort of out of focus, and he knows the thinking is starting. They’re thinking about what it’s really like being them, here, what it really means to be completely alone in the world, digging and scraping and fetching and carrying and struggling all the hours of every day just so they can keep themselves fed. The atmosphere’s heavy in the room this evening.

  Esme’s the one who starts it. This is a surprise. Esme’s the quietest of all of them. She’s a dreamy old lady with a dotty smile. Ol says—said—she believes in fairies, which was meant to be a mean comment (you could always tell by the sneer) though Rory never actually understood why.

  “The thing is,” she says, “it won’t be so bad this winter.” She’s got a nice throaty voice. “We’re much better prepared this time.”

  Molly looks up suddenly. “What about next winter?” she says. “And the winter after that?”

  Everyone’s so startled to hear her speak aloud that the whole room goes completely still, even Pink.

  “Do we just go on?” Molly’s voice is crackly with the despair they all spend so much time trying not to feel. “Look at us. Getting older every winter. Until.”

  There it is. The Future. Molly makes her hands into fists and pushes them into her lap like she’s trying to squeeze out her own juice. She crouches over again, flinching away when Doreen tries to comfort her, and stops talking, but it’s too late now, the cloud in the room has broken.

  “It can’t go on forever,” Viola says. “It’s just not possible. Think of all the people in the world.” She doesn’t sound like she believes herself. “Someone will find a way to get things going again.”

  They all become intensely aware of Kate’s absence. When they’re floundering around like this it’s Kate who steps in and cheers them up, mainly (it occurs to Rory) by stopping the thinking. Missus Shark makes an effort, standing up briskly and saying something about getting on with the whelks, but it’s not the same.

  “No one’s out there but Them,” Molly says, in the direction of her lap, as if Missus Shark hadn’t even spoken.

  “Molly dear,” Missus Grouse says, with a hint of reproach.

  “When They’ve finished with the men perhaps They’ll work on starving us.”

  Doreen casts a panicked look at Rory. “Molly!”

  Rory can’t stand it. He hates being in the room when the women get together. It’s like they have the same conversation over and over and over again. Someone gives up, someone else tries to jolly them into keeping going, then next time they swap over and the comforter becomes the comforted. He puts down the chess piece he’s been fiddling with and gets up from the window seat.

  “I’m just going back to Parson’s to get some comics,” he said. When Viola came to get him he was so put off by being yelled at that he forgot to bring any.

  “Now?” Viola says, astonished. “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s nearly dark!”

  “I know the way.”

  “I’ll come with you, then.”

  “I want to go by myself.”

  “Rory, your mother wouldn’t—”

  “Viola,” Esme says. The room’s gone quiet again so everyone can hear her.

  Viola folds her arms. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Esme says, smiling her dotty but oddly magnetic smile. “Off you go, Rory. Don’t dawdle, though.”

  There’s one of those wordless grown-up arguments going on. Rory doesn’t know exactly what it’s about but he takes advantage of Viola’s hesitation. “I won’t,” he says, and hurries away before the mood changes. He grabs a sweater and some gloves in the back hallway and goes out the side door into wet leaves and darkness.

  The storm-rinsed air’s such a relief. He feels his way across to the shed where the bikes are. It’s not full dark yet but the trees that protect the Abbey and its precious gardens from the salt winds are thick overhead here. He has to fumble around to find a bike that’s not too big and has a dynamo.

  Electric light.

  In The Old Days he remembers rooms full of it. It doesn’t seem real when he thinks about it. It’s like remembering how there used to be people everywhere, spilling out of buildings. The crowded island and the places full of color, without shadows: they feel like they’re somewhere else, vivid unlikely fantasies from the panels of a comic. He pedals fast to escape the Abbey in case Viola’s sent Laurel to follow him after all, and the faster he pedals the louder the dynamo on the front wheel whirs, and the wobbly yellow gleam in front of him fills and stretches and goes whiter and whiter. There are two buildings on Home with working solar panels, the Abbey and the old Laundry, but the power has to be saved for things like the fans they use for winnowing or the rechargeable clickers that make sparks to light fires, no one wants to waste it for lamplight, at least not until the middle of the winter. So Rory only sees the glare of electricity when he’s cycling at night as fast as he can. It’s hypnotic. It’s like he’s got lightning powers and he’s blasting through the darkness, making the edges of the road look brilliantly sharp and strange. The twigs blown down by the wind snap satisfyingly under his wheels. Everything
smells of soaked earth. He races down the Abbey road and out under the not-quite-invisible sky. The shallow water in the Channel’s muttering, fidgeting, still agitated though the storm’s passed. He weaves through the Club, smelling the rampant honeysuckle as he brushes around tight corners. He can go as fast as he likes: there’s no one else around and he knows every turn like the back of his hand. At the Pub he swings up the Lane. The light fades to dirty yellow as the slope slows him down, pulsing visibly as he turns the pedals over. He’s breathing hard.

  A huge ghost-pale shape appears with no warning at all at the edge of the light and springs in front of him. Rory gasps. He grips the brakes. Everything goes completely dark. The same instant he’s knocked off the bike. He hears it clatter on the road but he doesn’t fall on top of it because something’s got hold of him. Something’s breathing harder than he is. His flailing arms thud against it, right in front of his chest. He goes rigid and cold with shock. There’s a little moment of stillness, enough for him to register his pounding terror. Then he’s pulled up and he can feel that something’s right on top of him, in his face.

  “Where do I go?” snaps a voice. It’s strange in a hundred different horrifying ways. Almost the strangest of all is that it’s the voice of a man. “Where is quiet? Nobody sees?” The grip is hands on his sweater. It shakes him urgently. “Hmm? Where? Tell me this!”

  At last Rory grasps that he’s being attacked. He lifts his hands to try and pries the grip away. “Get—!”

  No sooner has he opened his mouth than it’s covered, fiercely. “Sssss!” A hand’s squeezing his jaw. “Silenzio! You shout, I kill you.” The hand pushes his head back painfully. “Kill you! You know?”

  Rory’s eyes are wide as a cat’s, but it’s too dark to see what’s happening. Someone’s got hold of him tightly and his neck’s beginning to hurt so he can’t breathe, that’s all he knows. A man. A stranger. There are no strangers and all the men are dead.

  “I need place to go.” Another strange thing is the man’s accent. It’s foreign. It’s from somewhere else, somewhere not in the world. “You show me. Quiet place. Hot. No person. You know this place? You show me quick.”

  The hand’s very strong and very angry. He’s going to choke soon. “I can’t breathe!” he tries to say, but it’s muffled by the hand. “Get off me!”

  The hand relents. He gasps.

  “You know, ragazzo?” He gets shaken again, not so hard. The looming presence recedes a bit. “House. Deserta. I need this place. You show me.”

  The voice is speaking very fast and very hungrily. It’s the urgency that gets through to him.

  A house. The man wants to know where there’s an empty house. “There’s—” He licks his lips. His mouth’s like sawdust. “There’s lots of empty houses.”

  “Va bene.” The man straightens. Rory can sort of see his outline now. He hardly looks tall enough to be a man at all. He can’t be one anyway because there aren’t any. Fear’s making Rory’s brain shake as well as his hands and he can’t think properly at all. “Now. Show me.”

  Where is he? He’s lost his bearings. “They’re all empty. Everyone stays at the Abbey.”

  “No persons?”

  “Anywhere. You can go anywhere.” He needs to say what the voice wants him to say or the hands’ll hurt him again. It sounds dangerously furious.

  “You show me.” The grip relaxes further. It’s about to let him go. His legs take some of his weight. They’re wobbling like leaves. The shadow leans in and he has the impression of a face. He thinks it’s bald. “Listen, ragazzo. You shout, you run, I kill you.” Without sound or warning there’s a hand at his neck again, throttling. It happens so fast he can’t even gasp. “Like so. You know?”

  Absolutely terrified, Rory nods.

  “Va bene. Good.” The hand lets go. He crumples to his knees, gulping. “House here, this ones. No one comes? All deserti?”

  Something clicks. The man wants a place to hide in. He’d have to if he’s a stranger. Rory points ahead, his arm trembling. “That way,” he says. “Down the hill. Past the church. After the church no one ever goes there.”

  “Chiesa, si. I know this. No one comes? You know this?”

  “Me and Mum use the white house at the corner. The others are all ruined.”

  “Ecco, no one? Is all quiet?”

  “Yeah. After the church.”

  “You lie, I kill you.” The man seizes his shoulders.

  “I’m not—”

  “I see you. I see in the night, like this. Where you go, I find you, I kill you.”

  Rory’s completely certain this is true. “I swear,” he says.

  “Now. You listen. Domani, you bring clothings, food. Next day, si? Yes? You say nothing. To no one.” The man shakes him hard to emphasize each word. “You. Say. Nothing. You say one thing, I kill you. You bring clothings and food, near here, put here. You know?”

  His heart’s twisting and untwisting itself in his chest. “You want . . .”

  “Vestiti. Clothings. Food. You bring, alone. Put near here. Say you do this.” An arm curls round his neck and the voice is in his ear. “Say it!”

  “’Kay,” he croaks.

  “Say it! What you do!”

  “I . . . I get you some food and clothes. Bring them here.”

  “Si si si. Next day. Morning.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Domani, si. Listen. Attention. You say nothing. You don’t say you see a person. You don’t say you bring food. All quiet.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you lie—”

  “I won’t! I won’t tell anyone!”

  There’s a pause. The man breathes in his ear, rapidly. He has no smell except an air of violence, the smell of threat. Though everything’s dark but the deep indigo sky, Rory has the impression the man’s naked like an animal.

  “You come with yourself. If I see one other person—”

  “I won’t.”

  “You see bird kill ratto? Small animal.”

  “Rat,” Rory says.

  “Rat. Bird kill a rat. I am like this.” Nails dig into the skin of his neck. He whimpers. “Subito, you are dead. So. You don’t lie.”

  He’s so frightened he’s tearing up. He can’t speak.

  “You know?”

  Shoulders hunched, he gives a tiny nod.

  The man lets him go. “Next day,” he says, withdrawing a little. “Or you are dead.” There’s a very soft noise, like a bird in a hedge. The shadow passes him, swift and certain, and disappears ahead. The sea shuffles and grumbles in the distance and his breath scrapes in his painful throat. Otherwise it’s quiet. There’s no one there. He takes a small step backwards. Nothing happens. He’s alone.

  He finds the bike in the road. It takes him a while to work up the courage to mount it. He wheels shakily down the hill and follows the telltale yellow gleam back to the Abbey.

  5

  There he is!”

  “I thought you were getting comics!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He’s been trying to think of what to say. All he can come up with is this:

  “Nothing.”

  “Rory?”

  Something soupy and vegetably is cooking. Faint light’s trickling into the back hallway from the big room. Laurel, Pink, and Viola are carrying buckets of warmed water up from the kitchen.

  “Did you fall off your bike?” Laurel asks, with a kind of disappointed sigh.

  Yes, that’s what happened. His hands and trousers are badly scuffed. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, Rory.” Viola puts her two buckets down and hurries to inspect him. “You twit. Are you all right?”

  “Didn’t you get comics?” says Pink.

  “I’m fine.”

  “What happened to your neck?” Viola’s hands gently turn him towards the best of the weak light.

  “I . . .” He puts his hands up. “I fell on something.”

  “You haven’t cut yourself, have you? Come in here.
” She shepherds him towards the big room.

  “Pretty stupid to go riding around in the dark.”

  “Laurel, don’t.” Laurel’s been cross with him all day. Or is it that he’s been cross with her? It seems incredibly unimportant all of a sudden. He needs to get away from them all so he can work out what’s happening to him.

  “I’m fine. Just need to lie down for a bit.”

  “Take those to Ali, you two,” Viola says over her shoulder, ignoring Pink’s squeal of complaint. “Come on.” She’s steering Rory along. “I should never have let you go.”

  “Just an accident,” he says.

  “You looked shell-shocked. Was it a bad one? Did you hit your head?”

  “Is the bike all right?” Laurel says nastily.

  The bike’s in the shed where they keep the bikes. Why shouldn’t it be? His head’s whirling stupidly. He doesn’t know what he ought to say and what he can’t say. There’s a man on Home, a stranger. He ought to tell them. He ought to warn everybody. It’s the most astonishing thing that’s ever happened, so astonishing that he doesn’t really believe it himself. But he can’t say anything or the man will kill him.

  “It’s nothing.”

  There’s a small room farther back in the Abbey with a light that’s plugged in, one of those bendy arm ones. Viola frowns everyone else away, takes him in there, and switches it on for a few precious seconds. In the hesitant electric glow he can see how spattered and scratched he is. Viola peers around his collar.

  “You’ve got horrible bruises. What did you do, ride into a branch?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I did. A branch.”

  “Looks like no cuts, thank God.” She smiles a little. “Still your mother’s going to kill me.”

  He winces.

  * * *

  Everyone else is asleep. Even the coughing’s stopped. The upstairs floors of the Abbey are perfectly dark and full of wheezings and mumblings and snores. Viola’s put him in the room with Laurel and Pink, making a bed with cushions from the sofas downstairs. He had to pretend to be asleep when the girls came in so they wouldn’t want to chat. Laurel knew he was pretending but he kept his eyes shut anyway and ignored her nasty comments.