by Adam Watts
I search my mind for a diversionary riposte, but it’s useless; Frida shushes me before I can utter a single word.
‘Empty stomach, empty head, that’s what I say, and I’m not sending you down there empty-headed,’ she says, plonking a plateful of bread and jam down in front of me.
All I can do is smile and do as I’m told. Frida seems happy to sit and watch me enjoying what she’s made. She doesn’t say a thing until I’m finished, and even then she only gets half way through her sentence before she’s abruptly cut off from the voice at the doorway.
‘Looks like I got back just at the right time.’
INSTANT JOY.
Frida momentarily lingers between the extremes of rapturous joy and a boiling fury, like she doesn’t know whether to hold him to her bosom like a baby, or slap the cocky little grin clean off his face. So she does both.
Stan winces. ‘What was that for?’
‘That was for wandering off to God knows where in the middle of the night without so much as a word to anybody,’ she says, pointing a finger squarely at him. ‘And if you dare excuse your behaviour you’ll get another of those across your backside.’ Frida bursts into tears, and even though Stan immediately puts his arms around her, I feel compelled to add a second pair. I shake my head and mouth the word twat at him, even though I’m ridiculously pleased he’s back. After all the worry, all the grim scenarios I’ve imagined him facing, it seems so unlikely that he should be here in this room, like nothing’s happened. Though I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s unharmed and grinning; it’s a very fine line that separates the born survivor and the shameless blagger.
We let go of Frida, and sniffing away the tears, she holds Stan’s face to check it’s really him. She smiles and shakes her head.
‘Brought you a present,’ he says before lowering his bag onto the kitchen table. Frida and I exchange a cautious glance. The only thing Stan has ever gifted to Frida are dead animals for her cooking pot, so I half expect some expired creature to plop out; some mangled pigeon he’s stumbled across whilst pissing about in the woods for the last couple of days. But I’m wrong. With an enthused flourish, he produces not one, but two jars of instant coffee from his bag.
Frida throws her hands up in joy, grabs a jar and then grabs Stan. From her reaction you’d be forgiven for thinking he’d brought her a puppy that could poop caramel, but I guess it goes to show how much we’ve all come to miss such humble commodities. Eventually, she lets him go and studies the jar, turning it over in her hands and reading every word on the label as if it were an adored but long-forgotten story from her childhood.
‘I’d offer you both a cup, but I don’t know if I can bring myself to open it,’ she says with a giggle, holding the jar close. But then her face hardens. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘Town,’ Stan says, casual as you please.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Town, as in… town?’
‘Yeah. Town. There’s a tonne of stuff sitting around out there ready to be taken. I wish both of you would wipe those worried looks off your faces, it’s like Wade said, the place is empty. No zombies, no crazy folk, no nothing. Just a bunch of empty streets and a whole load of mess.’
Frida narrows her eyes. ‘You risked your life for a jar of coffee?’
‘I didn’t risk my life. Like I said, there’s nothing out there. Don’t you like your present?’
‘My darling, of course I do, of course… but I’ve been so worried and I can’t bear the thought of you putting yourself in danger just to bring me some coffee.’
‘There’s no danger. I didn’t see a soul out there. I had half mind to fill a van up with supplies and drive it back here.’
‘Now that would’ve been dumb,’ I say.
‘Yeah, I know… hence me not doing it.’
‘Harry’s fuming at you for cutting through the fence,’ I say, folding my arms.
‘He can fume all he likes,’ he says with a grin. ‘You not got a hug for me then, grumpy-chops?’
‘You don’t deserve a hug,’ I tell him. But he lunges at me and takes one anyway. The charming little bastard.
‘Did you see how happy Frida looked when she popped that spoon through the seal on the coffee?’ Stan says.
‘I reckon a jar of coffee was the least you could do for all the worry you caused. Given a few more days she’d have ended up making some bizarre effigy of you to fuss over.’
‘A what?’
‘An effigy. It’s like a dummy…’
‘Right… well, I was never gonna be gone long.’
‘Then you should’ve told her. And me for that matter.’
‘Sorry, mate. Was in a bit of a mood.’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ I say. ‘So where are we heading in such a rush? Must be pretty important for you to have turned down another cup of coffee.’
‘We’re going back to mine,’ he says. I stop right there in the middle of the road. Stan stops too. ‘What’s up?’
‘Please tell me we’re not going back to yours so we can grab a bag full of home-made weapons and head out on some fantastical adventure beyond the fences.’
‘Nope,’ he says. ‘And even if I was planning on taking you out for a wander, the last thing we’d need is weapons. I’m telling you, it’s double-dead out there. You’d find more action at a church jumble sale.’
‘You’ve clearly never been to one of our church jumble sales. Carnage and bric-a-brac of the highest order.’
Stan frowns. ‘Sometimes I wonder what the fuck you are.’ He turns and starts walking again. ‘Come on. I’ve got something to show you.’
I hurry towards him. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, that sounds a little ominous.’
‘Everything sounds ominous to you. Even jumble sales.’
‘Can’t you just tell me what it is?’
‘All in good time, Preston. Patience and all that shite. Now… please, for the love of God, tell me you made something happen with Eve whilst I was gone.’
I say nothing.
It’s Stan who brings us to a halt in the road this time. ‘Please tell me you did something.’
‘Sort of,’ I say, pained and apologetic.
‘Sort of? Oh for fuck sake! And there was me thinking I was doing you a favour by giving you some alone time. The only thing standing in the way of your horizontal fun was the fact that I never left you alone, figured you’d be on to a sure thing while I was away. Christ. I thought even Preston couldn’t fuck that up. Because, believe me… that girl is begging for you to say something. Tell me I’m wrong.’
‘It’s complicated,’ I say.
‘It’s not complicated, Pres. You like her, she likes you. Simple.’
‘Yeah, because look how simple things are between you and Tuesday.’
Stan clenches his jaw, taking a moment to think. ‘That’s different. You’re not me and Eve’s not her.’
‘Maybe not now, but if things didn’t work out for us, if they went wrong like they did with you two, then I’d be screwed. I don’t want to lose her as a friend.’
‘That’s weak, Pres. Even for you that’s weak. And believe me, what happened with Tuesday would never happen to you and Eve.’ He starts walking again, like talking to me offends him.
‘But still you won’t tell me what it was.’
‘Stop trying to change the subject, Pres. We’re not talking about me and Tuesday, we’re talking about your inability to act on a sure thing. Fortune favours the brave, my old son, and you’re pissing your chances out to sea.’
Don’t I know it.
‘So, from the sound of it, it’s just as well I did come back,’ he says.
‘How so?’
‘Because you’re in serious need of a wing-man. Someone to help undo the damage done in my absence.’
‘And you assume you’re the only person who can possibly save my ill-fated love life?’
‘You’re a clever boy, Preston, but when it comes to women you’re a full-fat fuck-tard.’
‘University of Life, mate.’
‘I know….’
Stan stops abruptly, his eyes widen. ‘WHAT THE FUCK!’ he yells and then starts running the hundred yards or so to his house at full tilt. ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!’
Harry is stood, hands on hips, in front of Stan’s house, the door wide open behind him.
RADIO GA-GA.
In all the time I’ve known Stan I’ve never been permitted to enter his house. Not once. Or should I say his uncle’s house. I never questioned it. After all, it’s just a house and he’s usually at Frida’s or working on his weapons in the garage. The house holds a lot of memories for Stan, as my house does for me, and I’d always assumed that keeping people out was his way of preserving them. It’s also possible that the house is in such a filthy state after being exclusively inhabited by men for the last few decades that he simply feels too embarrassed to let anyone in.
Whatever the reason, Stan doesn’t welcome visitors, least of all Harry Cobden.
‘You’re back then,’ he calls with a casual smile, not sensing the threat as Stan piles towards him.
‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE, YOU PRICK!’
Stan grabs Harry by his shirt and pulls him away from the house, though Harry’s smile suggests he’s not all that bothered by such man-handling. I run towards them, sensing that a long-overdue brawl is about to rock the peace of the village.
Stan shoves Harry to the ground. ‘I asked you a question, Cobden,’ he says, lowering his voice to a simmering growl. ‘So tell me, what the fuck are you doing in my house?’
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ I add, siding up to Stan. ‘You’ve no right, Harry. You’ve got no business going in anybody’s house.’
‘You left!’ he says, pointing an unsteady finger at Stan.
‘And?!’ Stan and I say together.
‘And… you left! You were gone!’
Stan paces from foot to foot, shaking his head, breathing hard, his jaw tense and hard.
‘You’ve got some explaining to do, young Callum,’ Harry says, trying to pick himself up.
‘No! You stay down there!’ Stan says, still pacing, but his eyes now fixed in deep thought.
‘You’ve been keeping secrets. I always knew you were. You and that uncle of yours.’
‘Stan? What’s he talking about?’
‘Shut up, Preston,’ he says without so much as glancing at me.
Harry laughs dryly. ‘So you’ve not even told your little bum-chum, then?’
‘Told me what?’
‘Just shut up, Preston. Please,’ Stan says, his voice growing quieter now. ‘You had no right, Harry. You shouldn’t have gone in there.’
‘I had every right! I have a responsibility towards this village. It may have escaped your notice but we have limited resources. Two years we’ve been here, and we’re starting to run low, so what’s the use in leaving an empty house to rot? When people leave, we redistribute anything of use. That’s the rules. You remember? It’s how it’s always been. You should know, because you were first in line to clear out Wade’s old place.’
‘I was gone two days, Harry. Two fucking days! And you go smashing your way in without giving me a fair chance to come back. As I remember it, we gave Wade a month. That was fair, this is just you being a prick. If it was anyone else, you’d have waited.’
‘That’s true. But there’s nobody else in the village harbouring secrets like you. Something about this place always made me uncomfortable, and I have a responsibility to keep the people here safe. If that means busting down the doors of crafty little blaggers like you, then you’ll excuse me for not losing any sleep over the matter.’
‘I oughta rip you in two, you crusty old twat,’ Stan says, turning towards the house.
‘You haven’t got the spine for it.’
‘You’ll get yours,’ he mutters before disappearing through the front door.
I’m tempted to follow, to find out what terrible secret he’s been harbouring, but I stay outside; partly out of politeness, partly out of concern that I’ll be confronted by a pile of decaying bodies or God knows what else. I hear Stan crashing about inside.
‘He’s a liar, that boy, just like his uncle. You’ll see,’ Harry says, pulling himself up. He may be full of bluster, but he’s shaking.
‘You shouldn’t have gone in there.’
‘We need supplies, Preston. Food, medication, clothes, fuel. We can’t afford to squander our resources.’
‘We’re not that desperate and you know it, we’ve got plenty stock-piled, more than we need for another year or so.’
Harry snorts. ‘I’m just looking out for the people in this village. You never know who might turn up at the fences, wanting in on what we’ve got. We might have enough for the time being, but no-one can say what tomorrow will bring.’
‘I’m really not interested in your paranoid justifications,’ I say, turning my attention to the sounds coming from the house.
‘That’s the difference between me and you, between a man and a boy. A man isn’t afraid to do the right thing, even if it seems wrong to everybody else. A man sticks by the strength of his convictions.’
‘Just… shut up, okay?’
Stan comes storming out of the front door, a tangle of cables and bits of plastic casing piled up in his arms. He throws the lot at Harry’s chest.
‘Take it,’ he says.
For a second or two Harry looks a little stunned, like somebody’s just dumped a vomiting child in his arms. He looks down at the jumble he’s been handed and then drops it to the floor.
‘Take it,’ Stan says again. ‘Pick it up off the ground… go on. Pick it up and get the fuck away from me.’
Harry holds it in, but you can see the rage rolling behind those eyes, reddening his skin and pulling his jaw tight. ‘All this time you told me you didn’t have it. You told me that uncle of yours took it with him when he went. You’re a liar; a bare-faced, lying little shit.’ Stan just stares at Harry, his face hard and uncaring. ‘And you’re not even bothered, are you? You couldn’t care less. This was our only means of communicating with the outside world and you… smashed it up in some hissy-fit when your uncle left. Was that it? Like the selfish brat you are! I reckon you must be cut from the same grubby cloth as him.’
Stan continues to stare; you can see him trying to control his breathing. ‘I’m going to warn you, so you’d better listen, you stupid old tit,’ he says, measuring his tone.
‘You’re warning me? Don’t make me laugh y– ‘
‘Yes, Harry. I’m warning you. I’m warning you to get away from my house, or that old CB radio won’t be the only thing that’s lying on the floor in little pieces. So… get gone. Now.’
Harry glances towards the pile at his feet. ‘If I never see your conniving little faces again, it’ll be too soon.’
The feeling is most definitely mutual.
I decide not to ask Stan about the radio. As much as he’s a complete dick for smashing the thing up in the first place, I suppose it stands to reason. His uncle spent hours every day on that radio, and I suppose smashing it was the next best thing to smashing the man it belonged to. The man who deserted him. He never managed to contact anyone anyway, and Harry knows that. He knows how hard he tried, the hours he put into it. Quite why he thinks he’d have fared any better I don’t know. I suspect Harry just liked the importance of it all, the idea that he could be the one to make contact and thusly save us from the shackles of our purgatory. He tried a few times to convince Stan’s uncle to hand it over to him, but it never happened. It was like watching somebody price up the possessions of some distant relative in anticipation of their death.
‘What do you want me to do with this?’ I ask, kicking at the pile of wires on the lawn in front of us.
‘Burn it for all I care,’ he says, still wi
th the cold, uncaring expression.
‘I was thinking I’d maybe put it in the garage. There might be some useful parts or something.’
‘Yeah, fine. Do that then.’
I gather as much as I can carry and take it round back to the garage. I’d be willing to bet that within a couple of weeks he’ll have fashioned some sort of device from it. Something with which to mangle and maim. Specifically, something to mangle and maim Harry Cobden.
I sit myself down on what Stan calls his thinking chair. It’s a battered old recliner in the corner of the garage. It’s damn comfortable, a real treat for the buttocks. He wouldn’t be happy to know I’m sat in it, because it’s his. But he’ll never know. He’ll be too busy sulking to follow me round here.
‘No, no, no!’ Stan marches through the garage towards me. ‘Up! Get up!’
‘Have you got a sixth sense or something?’ I say.
‘Trust me, Pres. This chair… she calls out to me… she screams at having your cowardly little buttocks pressed down upon her. She cares only for my bottom. Now, come on, get out of the thinking chair.’ He clicks his fingers and motions for me to get up.
‘If you get eaten by zombies and I survive, can I sit in it then?’ I say, reluctantly pulling myself from its warm embrace
‘Slim chances. Too slim to contemplate.’
With a weary sigh, Stan lets himself collapse into the chair, and I don’t mind admitting that I feel a twinge of jealousy. I think I’d happily die in that chair.
‘Can I just say, I thought you did very well not to punch Harry in the face,’ I say, now resigned to perching on the edge of the workbench. It’s distinctly less comfortable than the thinking chair but my legs are still a little unsteady from the CB incident