Like Rats

by Adam Watts

‘We were married three years when it all kicked off, so it’d have been five by now. Crazy… seems like just yesterday I was gliding down that aisle in my big meringue dress. On the other hand, it feels like it never happened at all, like it was an entirely separate life.

  ‘In a way, it was a different life. I doubt anyone could’ve predicted this,’ I say, gesturing out into the dark beyond the fire. ‘Well, apart from Harry ‘We’re Doomed’ Cobden.’

  ‘Odd how things turn out. Shit happens but life rumbles on.’

  I take a gulp of my drink. It’s warm and nasty, but it clears the lump in my throat well enough.

  ‘So, when you say you were married, did you mean happily married?’

  She shrugs. ‘I wasn’t unhappy. We got on well, had stuff in common, all that normal stuff couples are supposed to have. House, holidays, friends over for dinner, Netflix marathons with too much wine. Nice, but kinda hollow. Like I said, it seems like another life. I can’t quite fit myself into those memories anymore.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Again, she shrugs. ‘No idea.’

  ‘You lost each other?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she says, staring blankly over her glass. ‘I was at work, doing my best to act normal, waiting for the madness to blow over. Ever the optimist. But it kept getting worse and I figured I needed to get home and find him, get gone, it didn’t matter where, just so long as we were gone. Except when I got home there was a note on the stairs that just said ‘sorry’. Like he’d used up the last of the milk or forgot to get something out the freezer for tea. And that was that. Turns out I married a chicken. Last time I saw him he was sat on the sofa in his pants, scratching his nuts.’

  I make an awkward grimace, because what can really be said?

  To my relief, Eve manages a smile. ‘Not an image that lingers for the right reasons.’

  ‘Sorry.’ This is the best I can manage.

  ‘Don’t you bloody start with the sorrys! I’ve had a big falling out with that word, y’know.’

  ‘Not sure what else to say. He sounds like a jerk,’ I say, feeling glad that he wasn’t some god-like figure to whom no candle could be held.

  ‘Yeah… he was a bit of a jerk. I loved him, though. But I don’t miss him anymore. Sorry… that makes me sound really awful.’

  I shake it off. Nothing could make her sound awful to me. ‘Do you think he’s still out there?’

  ‘Unlikely. The boy couldn’t even heat up soup, let alone survive the end of the world. But I hope he’s out there somewhere. I hope he’s happy and safe. I think, if nothing else, fleeing for your life and surviving what’s effectively a shitty Hollywood plotline gives you a sense of perspective. I kinda forgot about the sorry note and the fact he was a bit useless, and was just quite thankful that I was still breathing and still sane.’

  ‘Did you ever feel like leaving here and going to look for him?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘No. Not really.’

  Relief. It may be served with a generous side of guilt; but still, relief.

  ‘I do miss my home, though,’ she says, once again looking over her glass. ‘Mostly I wonder what happened to my parents and my friends. My whole life was in that town. It’s funny really, but the thought that upsets me most, even more than losing my husband or not knowing if the people I loved are still alive and thinking of me, is the thought that my parents’ house might be trashed… all those memories…’ Her voice starts to break.

  This is the point where I should go to her, offer a warm embrace and a dependable shoulder upon which to cry. This is my chance to be there for her, to be her man. But instead – and despite my better judgment – I stay put and say nothing. I can’t bear to look at her in case there’s tears in her eyes. It’s easier to pretend she’s managed to hold them back.

  ‘Was there anyone special in your life?’ she says, breaking the silence with her quiet question. She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper.

  It takes a moment to gather some words from the ridiculous clod that sits in lieu of a working human brain. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not a girlfriend, someone you just liked a lot?’ she says, still sniffing and dabbing, compounding my guilt and regret at having done nothing. Again!

  I shrug, unsure of what to say.

  ‘Didn’t you ever fancy finding your other half?’

  ‘Nah… not really. I only really felt whole when I was by myself.’

  ‘Maybe you just didn’t find the right one.’

  ‘Maybe. I mean, I did have girlfriends. I had a girlfriend of sorts just before the end, but nothing serious. Just for fun, y’know?’

  ‘How long were you and her having fun for?’ Now she’s the one pushing back the jealousy.

  I think back to what seems like decades ago. ‘Three months? Maybe a bit more… not sure now.’

  ‘Three months? And that’s the longest you ever stuck it out with anyone?’

  ‘Yep. High standards, I guess.’

  ‘No shit. So what was this girl’s name?’

  ‘Michelle.’

  ‘Michelle…’ she says to herself, rolling the name around in her mind. ‘You say Michelle like she was a bit of a...’

  ‘Twat?’

  Eve laughs. ‘Not the word I’d use, but yeah, close enough.’

  ‘Her main goal in life was to own a Dyson vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘Well they do have excellent suction,’ Eve says.

  I clear my throat and smile a little. How to respond to that? ‘Yeah,’ I say, clearing my throat again. ‘But men tend to aspire to an altogether different type of suction.’

  ‘A fact I’m all too aware of, having been married,’ Eve says with a grin. We both laugh but my attempt at some mildly smutty flirting has left me a little shaky.

  ‘It wasn’t just the Dyson thing that was buggy, there was other stuff too.’

  ‘I should hope so! Because do you know who else owned a Dyson?’

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘I know,’ she says proudly. ‘It was one of those ones with a ball instead of wheels.’

  ‘You hussy!’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘I honestly never took you for that kind of girl.’

  She takes a deep breath, bites her bottom lip. ‘Wanna know one more secret?’

  My heart picks up again. Is this going to be it? Will she just tell me that she wants me and make it impossible for me not to make my move? ‘I would love to know another secret,’ I say, steeling myself. I will not allow myself to fuck it up this time.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone, though? Nor about being married?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, meaning it.

  ‘Say it then.’

  ‘I promise not to tell anyone about you being married or about whatever it is you’re going to tell me right now.’

  ‘Ok. My real name isn’t Eve.’

  Now that I wasn’t expecting. ‘Oh… so-o-o-o, what is it then?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘I really do.’ And I’m genuine in saying this, although there’s something a little unsettling about it.

  Eve – or whoever she is – narrows her eyes and lifts just the very corner of her mouth. A slight smile, but a knowing one. ‘Guess.’

  ‘Oh… shit, I don’t know. Mavis?’

  ‘Nope, not Mavis.’

  ‘Deidre?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Err… Barbara!’

  ‘Wrong again. Keep guessing.’

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘No! It’s not an old people name!’

  ‘Margaret was my mum’s name…’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘She was old, though.’

  ‘Ok then. It’s worse than an old people name,’ she says. She seems to be enjoying this game.

  ‘Beyonce?’

  ‘Close.’

  ‘Seriously?’

 
‘Yeah sort of. Keep going.’

  ‘Erm, some kind of misspelled variant of Beyonce…’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But something related to shit pop music?’

  She grins mirthfully. ‘Keep guessing, it amuses me to watch you squirm.’

  ‘Tina… as in Tina Turner.’

  She shakes her head, takes a drink, shudders a little bit; hers is obviously going warm too.

  ‘Shirley.’

  ‘No! That’s an old person’s name again.’

  ‘I was thinking of Shirley Bassey.’

  ‘She’s old! Think younger.’

  I take a moment to run some pop-strumpets through my mind, which is difficult since I was never all that interested in pop music, or music of any kind really.

  ‘It’s an obvious one,’ she says.

  ‘What, like Kylie?’

  She hangs her head in mock-shame, confirming that I’m correct.

  ‘Kylie? Seriously? Your real name is Kylie?’

  Even though she’s now covering her head with her arms, she manages a pained, muffled scream.

  ‘You don’t… look like a Kylie. You don’t have a bad perm. Please don’t tell me your surname is Minogue.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s Knight. I’m Kylie Jade Jasmine Knight,’ she says, revealing her face once more.

  ‘Or KayJayJayKay for short,’ I say.

  ‘You see why I changed it?’

  ‘At least you were named after a hot pop star.’

  ‘Never took you for the Kylie Minogue type.’

  I shrug. ‘Guess there’s still a lot we don’t know about each other. So when did you change it to Eve?’

  ‘When I found Tuesday in the woods. Don’t even know why I did it. It popped out of my mouth and I figured there was no going back.’

  ‘What made you choose Eve?’

  ‘There was a band called All About Eve that I liked. I used to get jealous of girls with nice names. Proper princess names like Catherine or Charlotte or –’

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘Even that would’ve been better than Kylie. People used to ask me where Jason was all the time. Took me years to figure out what they were going on about.’

  A brief silence falls; we occupy it well together. I look up at the clear night sky, at the stars Eve (or Kylie) loves so much, and she follows suit, letting out a happy little sigh. Not such a bad night after all.

  ‘Funny isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘How even when the world’s gone to shit and things can’t possibly get any worse, people still carry secrets, and even make new ones. For all we know, everybody in this whole village could be living a complete lie and we’d have no way of knowing.’

  ‘I think the same could be said for any village. Nice respectable people in nice respectable villages all living behind a well-polished veneer of respectability. But what bubbles beneath? What manner of damp filth threatens to lift said veneer?’ Eve wiggles her eyebrows. There’s mischief in her smile.

  ‘All kinds I should think. Starting with whatever occurred between Stan and Tuesday last year.’

  ‘Oh yeah… did he ever tell you what that was?’

  ‘Nope. His lips are well and truly sealed on the matter.’

  ‘Probably best left alone,’ she says. ‘Things are awkward enough between those two without anybody else knowing the gory details. I suppose that’s what happens when you go messing around with girls in a confined social space. No escape from the consequences if things don’t work out. What do you reckon?’

  My heart just about stops. Is that really what she thinks, or is she testing me? She’s not smiling. She’s not looking at me expectantly. It’s like she’s simply stating the facts. Romance in a confined space creates awkwardness, makes people feel trapped, turns things sour and horrible, just like Stan and Tuesday. That’s what she’s saying. She’s warning me off.

  I watch her for a moment, hoping for something akin to a wink. But she seems serious. I must’ve blown it. Only thing left to do is salvage a little pride. ‘Yeah… that’s what I tell Stan. He was a fool to get involved. I mean, all of this will be over one day and maybe we’ll all get out of here… legitimately, I mean, and then who knows what. You’d have to be an idiot to get involved.’

  Eve smiles, but it’s weak and wounded. I’ve clearly told the wrong lie.

  ‘But Stan is Stan and Tuesday is Tuesday. That was never going to work,’ I say, trying to dig myself out of a hole I swear I never meant to dig. My kingdom for an able tongue!

  ‘Yeah. I suppose it won’t matter when the fences eventually come down and we all go our separate ways,’ she says, her voice uncharacteristically flat. ‘We could pretend none of this ever happened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what, Preston?’

  ‘Why… why would you want to pretend none of this ever happened?’

  ‘Because all of this is just a nightmare, so there’s no point in making the best of it, is there?’

  ‘I didn’t mean –’ I stop, try and shake some sense in to myself. All I want is to tell her everything I feel. I want to tell her that despite all the death and darkness, despite being trapped and without certainty, despite every day feeling like the same day working the same patch of tired earth, she is the best person that ever came into my life and it breaks me apart that I can’t find a way to tell her this. But I can’t, because there’s too much at stake. At least as friends I can never fail her.

  Nothing much else is said. We both finish our drinks and go home to our separate abodes. I spend the night wishing to be pulled apart and reassembled in an altogether different manner. Maybe as somebody else, with a less ridiculous mind. Perhaps as somebody else, I could do better by her.

  IN GRATITUDE TO DAD.

  Bullshit and zombies. Neither stay dead. Last night it was the former that kept me from the comforting embrace of sleep. All night long I could hear my dad’s cold and assured advice: ‘There’s nothing wrong with a calculated risk, just so long as you get your sums right.’ Thanks Dad… but you never did teach me the mathematics of the heart.

  The things I said (or didn’t say) turned over and over in my mind, loud and jeering. My stomach a rolling knot of elbows and spider legs. What a chump I was. I imagine my dad would’ve told me I handled it well, and that by not giving too much away I avoided running headlong into an embarrassing debacle. He’d have been proud of how I avoided such a big decision at such an uncertain time. After all, the world could end tomorrow– even though it kind of already did. Why go putting everything on the line when it could all be dust by morning? Mum would have agreed with him. Best be safe, so hold your tongue and avoid regret. Advice I’ve no doubt brainlessly followed; a slave to the unconscious conditioning of years in this village.

  Stick to the path, lad, and be warned! A wolf stalks the moor; a damned and savage creature with an appetite for regretful souls and love gone unrequited.

  Stan used to tell me he had no regrets. I always thought he was lying to himself. He said he didn’t see the point of them; what’s done is done, cry your tears and jog on. Maybe that deal worked well for Stan, but not me. I regret last night. All the chances I didn’t take. I suppose I have to be hopeful that I can somehow make it better. Problem is, I can’t forget the way she looked at me, like she’d let go of something and given up. I don’t know whether I can face her. What if last night was my one and only shot? What if the closest I’ll ever get to being with Eve is talking about Dyson vacuum cleaners and drinks that taste like urine?

  I think about making breakfast, but given how hollow and twisted my stomach feels, it would only be a waste of what limited food I have. I’d kill for a cup of coffee, though, but we ran out of that last year. Initially, we had a few jars to hand out, but not many, so coffee became an occasional treat. Same goes for tea, chocolate, rice and all kinds of other stuff that’s easy to take for granted. I guess we’re all much healthier now, since we’re a fully self-suff
icient and waste-conscious society. And then there’s the fact that it’s impossible to grow Pot Noodles or Monster Munch; as far as I’m aware. I take heart from knowing that most things I eat have at some point been tended by Eve. It makes every mouthful taste that little bit sweeter. Maybe that’s why I can’t face my oats today.

  A morning spent thumbing through a stack of old photographs and trying to remember whether I was having a good time in them does the job of levering me from my isolation. My dad’s voice continued to ping around in my brain. I wondered what plans I must’ve been making in each of those pictures, what great ambitions I held, only to have ended up avoiding them somehow. Always that same pattern: Plan, avoid, regret. And repeat. Funny how even when you know you’re stuck in a negative cycle, it’s still possible to do absolutely nothing about it. I suppose I always planned on breaking the cycle at some point…

  But today, I have no choice. Even if I wanted to avoid Eve, this village doesn’t allow anyone to avoid anyone for more than a few hours, so I suppose I may as well get the awkwardness over and done with. Besides, she’ll be expecting me to avoid her, and I’m getting sick of sinking to people’s low expectations.

  I walk briskly for fear that if I dawdle, like usual, I’ll get distracted or discouraged, or both. I need to stick with the plan. Just this once.

  ‘Now there’s a welcome face,’ comes Frida’s voice as she leans out of her kitchen window.

  ‘Afternoon,’ I say, attempting to continue on my way in as polite a way as possible.

  ‘Where you off to in such a hurry?’ she says, looking either concerned or disappointed.

  ‘Fields,’ I say.

  ‘Fields can wait, my boy. Walk yourself this way.’

  Frida disappears back inside her house, which makes her all the more difficult to argue with.

  ‘Everything ok?’ I ask as I walk into her kitchen. It smells like freshly made bread, so I sit myself down at the table; an instinctive reaction. Even a rueful stomach such as mine can make allowances for Frida’s bread, and she wouldn’t have called me in if she didn’t intend on filling my stomach.

  ‘You look to be in a rush,’ she says.

  I shrug. ‘Not really.’

  Frida eyes me suspiciously. ‘There’s only two reasons a man would rush about like you are… they’re either acting on a woman’s promise or they’re hungry, and since you know very well I’m about to put food in your belly and you’re still looking like you’ve got ants in your pants, I’m assuming there’s something you’re hoping to say to Eve.’