by G. B. Hope
‘I thought you’d like that, honey,’ said Mrs Grainger. ‘I heard you talking about him yesterday.’
Charlie kissed Mrs Grainger’s cheek. ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Grainger. Can I keep this?’
‘Of course you can keep it.’
Charlie sat down on the porch at Mrs Grainger’s feet, staring at the photograph.
‘I miss him so much, you know, Mrs Grainger.’
Mrs Grainger cackled, good-naturedly. ‘Jesus, anyone would think you didn’t have a proper boyfriend out there.’
Charlie smiled. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think of my boyfriend constantly. But… you know… look at Harry. Just look at him.’
Both women laughed.
They watched Mr Grainger and Jonathan talking animatedly.
‘I would have thought you’d get close to that young man,’ suggested Mrs Grainger.
‘I think Jonathan only has eyes for Ana.’
‘Oh, is that a fact?’
‘Mrs Grainger, can I ask, what do you miss? Since this all silliness started? Do you miss your favourite television show? Or being able to drive to the store? What?’
‘I’ll tell you the truth, Charlie. I like it like this. I had nothing as a child, growing up in rural Pennsylvania. I hate all the technology of today. Oh, I have the latest cell in there, and could Skype on the computer to relatives in other States. But this suits me just fine. I know it’s really cruel on you youngsters. But, there you are, there’s my thoughts. I hated all that texting with the thumb, and don’t even get me started on those bores with their tablets, or whatever they were called.’
‘How long have you been retired? What did you do before?’
‘Let’s see, I retired from being a school administrator in 2001. Since then I’ve been writing novels. Of course, sales have completely vanished.’
Charlie was surprised. ‘You wrote novels? Wow. What kind of novels?’
‘Oh, erotica, dear.’
‘What!?’
‘Yes. And here’s another good thing to come out of all this - no more total assholes posting one star reviews on my books. And some who moan at me and they haven’t even finished the copy they were reading. I’m so happy those fuckwits have thrown themselves off a bridge. I mean, if you don’t like something, just forget it, just go away, go back to your fucking knitting, or something. Why do they feel the need to say “it just didn’t work for me”? Really, please, who gives a shit for their dumb-ass opinion?’
Charlie stared gobsmacked at sweet old Mrs Grainger.
Everyone came together happily (as could be in the circumstances) for the evening meal in the Grainger’s house. After the recent incident of the unpleasant trespasser, there had been talk of taking turns on guard, but they had decided not to live as if under siege. So it was like a family gathering, passing the potatoes around the large table in the kitchen, lots of chatting, with young Louise Cross feeding Ben in his high chair, while husband, Peyton, proudly watched on. It had been a poorly Ben who had kept Mr and Mrs Cross at home on the day the situation started. They felt very blessed to have been kept together safely as a unit.
Mr Stickford, next to Peyton, worked as the manager of a fast food restaurant not far from home, so was able to walk to his daughters’ school to collect them when it dawned on him what was happening. He had since been back to gather what supplies he could, and they had gorged on burgers for the first few days. The Graingers were at home, of course, and Ana, although she had use of a little Volkswagen car, had also been home with the Springsteen boys. She had gone with the children over to the Grainger’s house when it started to get dark and the power had not come back on.
After the evening meal, Charlie decided to take some air on the front porch. There she encountered Jonathan and Ana, talking intimately. While it was lovely to see the two of them hitting it off straight away, she did feel a bit sad for her own circumstances. She smiled at them, then took herself off to a different place to be with her thoughts.
TWENTY SIX
On a glorious day in Connecticut, Michael found himself invited to play golf with Mr Ferguson. Michael considered himself a jack-of-all sports, average at everything but not good enough to be professional at any one thing. He did possess the hand to eye co-ordination to play golf, but he didn’t particularly like it, and had not played for about three years. It was also unnerving to have armed henchmen, actually in mirror sunglasses, following along behind. Michael kept thinking back to a film he had watched, just prior to flying out to America - it was about a man in Iraq, forced to become the body double to Saddam Hussein’s son, Uday. Uday was clearly a psychopath and it was fascinating watching this poor man having to live through insane and horrible events. Michael had the same feeling being in the presence of Ferguson. Ferguson, with his permanently cheery demeanour, failed to recognise that 90% of the people at the Country Club despised him.
The previous day had confirmed Michael’s suspicions that he had stumbled into a nightmare. If it wasn’t enough that a complete stranger in the person of Taylor had offered him her body like a slave, he had met up officially with his “people”, his group, to find out who they were and what exactly their jobs entailed. The laundry work, apparently, involved only a few hours a day, so they were not too distressed with that. What did upset them, talking with the oldest man, Phillip, was the segregation from family members put in other groups. Phillip’s wife of thirty years was expected to work under the control of one of Ferguson’s people. During the day, they managed to see each other, but had to part at night. Nicholas, a thirty-two-year-old accountant, was in the exact same boat - his girlfriend worked in the kitchens. The youngest man, Jerry, was single, but clearly very unhappy too - thoroughly demoralised, in fact. The man looked tired, with dark rings under his eyes. In normal life he would have been a handsome teenager. Michael knew about Jane Flynn, but hearing Sienna’s story put the cap on matters. She had come to the wedding at the country club with her older cousin, Olivia, who was now in Ferguson’s group and had not been seen since. That simply galvanised Michael’s plan to “go over the wire” as soon as possible. But, as he had already decided, he must bide his time and wait for the right opportunity.
Taylor told him her background and, from her eyes, he realised he was still thought of as just as bad as Ferguson. So be it, thought Michael - they must keep thinking of him as their boss. He must act like he was in charge. Anything else would be picked up on by Ferguson, then he would be watched, and his chances to flee diminished.
They only played seven holes, with Ferguson winning them all without any help from Michael. It was becoming too warm, and Ferguson happily suggested “tiffin”. Being English, and a fan of the Carry On films, Michael knew what that meant, and joined Ferguson on his regular shaded verandah for iced tea and cakes. Technically it was probably not what the people at the time of the Raj would call tiffin, but it was highly refreshing. Ferguson enquired how Michael was settling into his new role. Then he informed him to gather his people after lunch because there was to be an entertainment arranged. That puzzled Michael but he decided not to ask for details, just discussed the golf when the subject moved quickly to that.
At least, being in charge of a group who did the laundry, brought some benefits for Michael; he was in freshly washed and ironed clothes. He was also clean-shaven, well fed, and with a suntan, after all his wanderings. Taylor was “on duty” with him, ready to provide anything he needed, and he still fretted over her indecent proposal. Michael so wanted to change the girl’s uniform and put some pants on her. That was a mistake, he realised, with her cold expression after she caught him looking at her legs.
‘How are you today, Taylor?’
‘I’m fine, sir.’
‘Is everyone ready for this meeting?’
‘Yes, sir. We never like to miss a meeting.’
Sarcasm. Great. Michael led them away from his room. He glanced back at Taylor once, his imagination trying to catch her making a rude face at him, but her su
llen eyes just stared him down. Maybe he could take her into his confidence, assure her he wasn’t going to take his appointment seriously? But he decided to hold his tongue - besides, if he left, they would be given to a different man, which Taylor would hate even more. At the laundry, his people were waiting for him. He gave an exaggerated fist pump and led them towards the foyer.
They trooped outside to the gathering of people in the warm sunshine, to Ferguson’s chosen place in front of the flags. Michael noticed Taylor scanning all the faces, then being disappointed not to spot someone. A boy? A parent? He would have to ask her again whether she had a loved one in the club, with a view to getting them transferred to his group.
Phillip, the oldest man in Michael’s group, waved to someone in the crowd; clearly it was his wife. Michael witnessed the pathetic attempt at communication and felt real anger at that point. But he had to focus his mind as someone was calling for order. It was Bill shouting for quiet.
Ferguson strode out, and was actually helped up by two of his men onto the brick wall, from where he looked over everyone.
‘Hoarding!’ he bellowed. ‘Can you actually believe it!? One of our own, found hoarding food.’ He touched his right temple with two fingers, as if the strain of the revelation was too much for him. He wasn’t an obvious actor, but he would have fitted in well to the world of professional wrestling or television evangelism.
Michael was keen for this nonsense to be over with. In all his jobs back in the real world he disliked pep talks and petty rules thought up by middle-management cretins in a loud tie. He saw that someone was being brought through the crowd. Surely this person wasn’t going to be told off in public and made to apologise? Hearing Taylor gasp beside him made him look over the heads, seeing a young chef, in his whites, being manhandled up alongside Ferguson. Perhaps a chef should be publicly dressed-down if he was hoarding food. Michael looked at the faces around him, all quite stern. Then, making him jump with the shock, a shout from Taylor brought him back from his reverie.
‘Leave him alone!’
All eyes turned, horrified, to Taylor, then to Michael, for not controlling her. Michael now saw that the young chef had been stripped of his top and been tied to the “Welcome to Fletcher Ridge Country Club” sign. To Michael, it was not immediately obvious what was happening. Later, he would chastise himself for being so vacant or naïve. He realised that the chef was to be flogged.
Of more immediate concern, was that Taylor was being stared at by Ferguson. Ferguson, who had rolled up his sleeves and been handed a black cat o’ nine tails. Michael was mortified at the scene in front of him but, nevertheless, his self preservation kicked in and he ordered Taylor to hold her tongue. She glared at him with total hatred.
Ferguson continued with his speech condemning hoarders, then began to flog the back of the terrified chef.
TWENTY SEVEN
Mr Manning went fishing from the stern of the Maria while they were at anchor, under a causeway off the coast of Long Island. Mrs Manning, Liam and Sabrina happily sat in the shade and watched him, while Allison attempted to salvage her nails with a file she had found in the cabin. Watching Allison, Liam took hold of Sabrina’s hands and examined her nails, giving her an expression of mock-horror, before pronouncing his love for them. She giggled at him.
‘Liam, do you think I’m pretty?’ Sabrina whispered.
Liam smiled, his heart swelling at the vision of the cute face by his side.
‘I think you are very pretty. I can’t wait for a time when we can be together normally and I can express how much I care about you. I want to be intimate with you so much. Not just sexually, but in other ways, such as, well, while we lounge around I could file your nails for you. And you could trim my armpit hair for me.’ He laughed uproariously, so she was left in no way unsure that he had made a joke.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hugging her, as she pulled a moody face. ‘I couldn’t resist that. I promise you we’ll be great together.’
‘I want that so much. I love you, Liam.’
‘I love you, too.’
Mrs Manning came up with the idea of playing Trivial Pursuit, while they lounged on the deck. She dug the old box out of a cupboard in the cabin and set it up. She would move her husband’s counter while he remained at his station. Sabrina was happy to play, even though she had never heard of the game. Her first question to Liam was, ‘What do Australians call Austria?’
‘Eh?’ asked Liam.
‘Oh, sorry. What do Austrians call Austria.’
They all laughed.
‘Osterreich,’ answered Liam, impressing Sabrina.
Next time round, she asked, ‘Ian Gresham wrote the lyrics to Porgy and…?’
‘Ian Gresham?’ asked Liam. She showed him the question card. ‘Oh, Ira Gershwin.’
More hilarity. Sabrina was not embarrassed. Her leg was touching Liam’s, and she was enjoying the strange quiz.
Her third question to Liam was, ‘Who wrote the classic novel, Worthington Heights?’
During the hour of the game, Mr Manning managed to catch a couple of sea bass and a flounder, which Mrs Manning prepared and grilled. It was such a fantastic meal for people in their particular state of extremis, and Liam told Mr Manning that, when the world returned to normal, he would be hiring the Maria for a long, Summer vacation.
‘You mean a holiday,’ corrected Allison. ‘No need to bloody Americanise everything, you know.’
‘For a holiday, Mr Manning,’ Liam corrected himself. ‘Without Allison.’
Allison shrugged and returned to her plate.
Liam cuddled Sabrina, who was picking happily at her fish.
‘This is better sailing than the cruise liner,’ he said to her.
She mumbled her agreement.
Mr Manning stood, looking to the shore. He had talked at great length with the woman known as Onesie, back in the New York hotel, and seemed to know where he was, which pleased Liam. They were in the general location for the address found in his sister’s room. Mr Manning pointed, for Liam’s benefit.
‘That’s the way we will go, Liam. We’ll hide Maria under the end of the causeway. I remember there being big houses there, mansions, but we should be covered from view. We head inland, once we meet the highway it’s left towards West Islip.’
‘Pretty name,’ said Allison, which made everyone look at her in surprise. ‘What?’
‘Are we all to go, Mr Manning?’ asked Sabrina.
‘Yes, honey, we stay together. Always together. Okay, finish up eating. It still might be a bit of a walk.’
They left the Maria and came up onto a deserted road which was devoid even of cars. Through high security fences they could see mansions, set well back in their grounds. Perhaps they were under observation from families who were hunkering down, but all seemed quiet, so they set off towards the highway, passing smaller, but no less attractive, detached houses. Towards the end of the long straight road they started to see residents outside their houses. A few had cooking fires on their front lawns. Liam’s group were watched intently as they passed by, but nobody spoke to them.
‘Folks are home now,’ said Mr Manning. ‘Making the best of things. We might get some conflict on our way to the location.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Allison, concerned.
‘Well, if you were going through this at your house, how would you feel about strangers passing by?’
They found the expected chaos of abandoned vehicles on the highway. Several people were walking eastward, but Mr Manning led their group west. They didn’t see any buildings on fire, which Liam and Mr Manning concluded must mean that some kind of order had been kept from the start.
‘That’s ironic,’ said Allison.
‘What is?’ asked Liam.
‘The power wires overhead. They don’t have them underground like they do in England. Now they hang there, completely useless.’
It was a good point, but Liam saw no reason to discuss it further. He watched All
ison as she walked, amazed that this woman he disliked had been with him all the way from the ship. Not once had she talked about home or family just plodded along, mostly unhappily, sometimes making a humorous comment. She was nice eye candy, however, despite looking like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. What would he do with her if the Long Island expedition was a false trail? He didn’t want to think about that, just kept hold of Sabrina’s hand and focused on the road up ahead.
They were into the leafy suburbs when they saw the first fire - a house about to become a smouldering heap. Mr Manning consulted his written directions and announced that they were near to their destination. They walked through an abandoned set of road-workings, with the red cones laid out across the road. Next, they saw a Dodge pick-up truck on its roof.
‘That’s not right,’ said Allison, almost childishly.
There were blood stains dried black on the concrete and used shell casings scattered all about, so here had been some major trouble. On they pressed, grateful for a cool day and that feeling of achievement at being so close to their goal.
Liam noticed for the first time the number of American flags flying in front of houses. It seemed to be the standard American response to wars and catastrophes. All the houses had sweeping front lawns. On one of them there was an impromptu football game, comprising about twelve adults and children, which paused briefly as the strangers went by. Liam couldn’t resist waving for a pass and pretending to run.