by Simon Clark
I shrugged, but I was puzzled by Rick’s interest in the bizarre piece of writing. ‘Grey men? I don’t know. If he is mentally ill it could easily have been blue gorillas or green Martians. Rick? You OK?’
‘Sure, yeah…fine, fine.’ He stood up and handed the papers back to me. ‘Hell, it’s hot.’ He smiled, but it seemed a trifle forced to me. ‘I’m going to get a drink. Fancy one?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll have one when we eat. Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Rick walked away in the direction of his bag where he’d have kept his water bottle, but clearly there was something on his mind. Instead of opening the bag, he stood with his elbows on the gate in the wall and gazed out across the adjoining field. His eyes were fixed on something on the distance. As if he saw a figure approaching. When I looked I saw there was no one there.
Chapter 26
I followed Kate Robinson down to the lake. I, Rick Kennedy, age nineteen, was going to do something stupid.
I was going to make a pass at her.
Here we were, nouveaux refugees, making tracks from Fairburn, escaping forty thousand other refugees who would soon be on the brink of starvation. The Earth was getting hot from the inside out, triggering volcanoes, toxic gas leaks, quakes, tidal waves, and I, Rick, brain rooted solidly between my legs, was going to make a pass at the beautiful girl walking down through the beautifully sun-washed meadow.
I followed about a hundred paces behind her. She hadn’t seen me. In her hands, a pair of four-litre plastic water bottles.
It must be one of God’s belly-aching, pant-wetting jokes: that He can inflict disaster and death on a global scale; He can bury New York under a billion gallons of Atlantic Ocean and Paris boulevards hip-deep in hot ash. But here in Swallow Dale, West Yorkshire it was a watercolour artist’s idea of a green and pleasant land: bumble bees bumbled lazily amidst the clover at my feet, skylarks sang, a baby rabbit popped its head cheekily out of its hole to watch me stroll past with one thing on my mind.
To slip my hands behind Kate Robinson’s head, luxuriate in the wash of hair over my fingers and press my lips to hers.
I walked faster. I’d catch her up before she reached the water’s edge.
She wore a straw hat against the sun; a loose cotton blouse protected her shoulders and arms; her cut-off jeans hugged her behind in a way that seemed nothing short of miraculous.
Stephen had told us to take a one-hour lunch break; we’d made good progress on what was Day 2 of our journey to Fountains Moor. The first night under canvas had been problem-free. I’d only woken once. Then, half-awake, I’d seen someone crouching in the entrance of the tent, one hand holding back the flap. And I recollect seeing a big head, an absurdly big head in silhouette against the starry sky. The head had been angled to one side as if it had been studying me closely.
Then something came down solidly across my face.
In terror, I’d sat up, pushing it away with both hands. Straight away I’d seen it was only Howard’s arm that he’d flung across my face as he’d turned over in the confined space. By the time I looked to the entrance of the tent the flap was back down. I’d meant to mention it to Stephen but in the bright light of day it seemed trivial. It might (I rationalized desperately) have just been someone who’d taken a midnight leak, then stumbled back to the wrong tent.
Now I’d got something more important to grab my attention. I was perhaps fifty paces behind Kate as she walked into the thick bank of trees that fringed the lake.
‘Do it now, Ricky boy,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Don’t be shy, just go for it.’
‘Hey, Kate,’ came a voice from the trees. ‘Did you bring the bottles?’
Damn.
I cut off left. Through a gap in the bushes I could see Kate. She’d joined Ruth and another girl I didn’t know at the water’s edge. They were sitting on a fallen log, soaking their bare feet in the water.
Damn, damn, damn.
I cut into a clump of trees, suddenly embarrassed by the idea of being seen and knowing the three girls would instinctively guess what I’d intended. ‘Oh-ho, Rick.’ I could just imagine Ruth’s teasing voice. ‘Have you been following Kate?’
I moved away deeper into the fringe of trees. Maybe if I hung around out of sight the other two would leave Kate alone. Then I could—
‘Hello, Rick. Remember me?’
I looked round to see Caroline pushing through the bushes towards me.
‘Hello, Caroline…I thought I’d come down and wash in the lake.’
She smiled, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight dappling through the branches. ‘We’ve plenty of time. Why don’t we go for a swim?’
‘Swim?’
‘Mmm…’ She slipped off the man’s white shirt she wore. Beneath that she wore a white T-shirt. ‘Don’t be shy. No one will see.’
‘Great idea…but Stephen’s expecting me. We’re working out a new route to Fountains Moor.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Caroline?’
‘Yes.’ She moved so close she had to tilt her head back to look at me.
‘You didn’t by any chance come to my tent last night?’
‘No, sadly. Why? Do you wish I had?’
‘It’s just I thought I saw someone looking in at me during the night.’
‘Maybe it was Kate Robinson. You know, isn’t she amazingly tall for a girl?’
‘No. It definitely wasn’t Kate.’
‘Stephen posted sentries to keep watch last night, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘They saw nothing?’
‘They said not when I asked this morning, but if you ask me they might have dozed off.’
‘Well…’ She never took her brown eyes off mine as she spoke. ‘I heard some, ahem, activity in nearby tents last night. Maybe they deserted their posts for some late night, ahem, target practice.’
‘Which tents?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious and trying to remember which tent Kate had slept in.
‘I’m not sure, Rick. To the left of mine, I think.’
‘Maybe I should tell Stephen about this, after all—’
‘No, Rick. Don’t walk away from your Auntie Caroline.’
‘I really must be getting back to—’
‘No, no, no,’ she said softly.
‘Caroline—’
‘Auntie Caroline.’
‘OK…OK.’ I grinned but it felt forced. ‘Auntie Caroline.’
‘Mmm…it’s good to be alone with you again.’
‘And you.’ Again I felt that dizzying swirl. On the one hand I wanted the Hell out of there. I didn’t want to be involved with this woman who was nearly twenty years my senior. But when she got close like this…Those brown eyes. That husky voice. The soft froth of hair. The petite and somehow perfectly compact body. Jesus…I started to feel that burn again.
She moved closer until she was pressed against me. ‘You never spoke about what we did on Saturday night in Ben’s house.’
‘It was wonderful, Caroline. It really was.’
‘You should have told me how you felt. You like?’
I smiled, warmer this time. ‘I like a lot. I didn’t expect it.’
‘Do you want to spend a few minutes with me now?’
‘I’d love to but—’
She ran her fingertips across my stomach. ‘But what?’
‘Just now it…it’s awkward.’
‘Awkward? Why awkward, darling?’
‘Perhaps if we wait until we reach Fountains Moor.’
‘You’re not writing me off as…shop-soiled goods now?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘I didn’t choose what happened to me on Friday night.’
‘I know…I’m sorry.’
‘I’m past my best by date at thirty-seven years old?’
‘No, Caroline, you’re not.’
‘Still pretty? Mmm?’
‘Yes…very pretty.’
‘Do you
find the bruises here off-putting?’ She lifted her T-shirt to show me her breasts and the now pale green bruises. ‘Are you afraid—’
I did it to shut her up as much as anything.
I suddenly reached forward, gripped her head in both my hands. She gave a small gasp. Her eyes widened. I pulled and I felt her bare breasts slap against my chest. My hands were around the back of her head, tightly crunching her hair into my fists.
Then I was kissing her full on the mouth. Emotions erupted inside of me. All conflicting. I wanted to get away from her. If I became close to her…God forbid, if I fell in love with her…that was an impossible situation. It wasn’t the age difference. Maybe it was because we had nothing in common above—above being cast out into the world to survive somehow. With the whole poxy planet turning incandescent beneath our feet.
As I kissed her she panted; she grabbed at the belt of my jeans, unbuckled it, dragged my jeans down with a desperation that gave her the strength to pull me off balance.
We tumbled down onto the ground.
‘I love you, Rick, I love you. Promise me you’ll look after me. I’ll do anything…anything…mmm, that’s good. Bite me…harder. Don’t worry, I’m not made out of china. That’s it, bite…me…harder, harder—ahhh!’
Now naked, we were a frantic tangle of arms and legs. My face wet with kisses. I massaged her tight little breasts. She wriggled and lifted her legs high at either side of me.
I paused, panting, looking down into her brown eyes. She gazed up at me with such tenderness and trust that the doubts I had melted clean away.
The dappling of sunlight and shadow on her camouflaged the bruising on her throat and shoulders.
‘I’m ready for you now,’ she whispered.
‘But—’
‘I told you. A woman’s body is more resilient than you think. Please, Rick…now.’
‘Look, Caroline, don’t feel as if you have to let me—’
‘Hush, darling. Auntie Caroline knows best.’ She pulled my head down until she could whisper into my ear. ‘Now. Do as you’re told: fuck me.’
I found myself gritting my teeth, anxious she might still be sore, but as I pressed down onto her, feeling the tip of my penis press lightly against the lips of her moist vagina, I only heard a grateful sigh.
I was doing the right thing, I told myself. Perhaps in this way I could atone for ignoring her screams for help on Friday night.
Down.
And in…
‘Oh, Rick, don’t stop!
I didn’t stop. There might have been a dozen spectators, Kate included, watching us from the bushes. But with Caroline naked beneath me I made love to her as the shadows danced across our bodies. Every few seconds her expression would change. From an intense look of concentration, her eyes tight shut, as I drove gently into her, to a look of wide-eyed surprise as I shifted my position to pump with short vigorous stabs into that sweet softness between her legs.
Chapter 27
‘What the hell’ve you been doing, Rick?’ Stephen’s eyes were hard.
‘I’ve been down to the lake,’ I said, feeling as guilty and as embarrassed as Hell. Someone must have seen Caroline and me, then run up here to tell Stephen I’d been shafting her.
‘I could have done with your help to go through this route again. I don’t know this area at all.’
‘But Ben worked out—’
‘But Ben’s route’s all wrong. Look, we’ve got to keep out of the valley bottoms—that’s where Ben’s route would have taken us. I know the guy did his best. But we need to follow the ridge of these hills. That way we can see the lie of the land, and see anyone creeping up on us.’
I realized his question What the Hell’ve you been doing? was just rhetorical. But still, his irritation at me seemed more like he was looking for some fool to dump on. And it sure as jiggery wasn’t going to be me.
‘We broke for an hour’s rest,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve been gone thirty-five minutes.’
‘Thirty-five minutes is sure a hell of a long time to splash some water on your face.’
‘You didn’t stipulate any time for me to talk to you, Stephen.’
‘So I need to book an appointment to speak to my own brother? You wanted to wash your face. You’d been gone thirty-five minutes.’
‘You’d been gone five years but you didn’t hear me whining.’
We were some way off from the rest of the group who were sitting on the grass but they’d all heard the row brewing. Heads turned this way.
‘Oh…so that’s been under your skin all this time.’ His nostrils flared; the blue eyes glittered. He bunched his fists. ‘Five years. You’ve been building up one God Almighty grudge, haven’t you? Now you stand there and say…damn. Damn.’ He suddenly raised his hand, then slapped.
It wasn’t me, though. Fingers splayed out, he slapped his own forehead. ‘Stephen, Stephen, whoa, whoa,’ he said to himself. ‘What the hell are you playing at? Jeez!’ He breathed out hard and looked at me. I saw tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, kiddo. Christ, I’m sorry.’
I didn’t know what to say. I just didn’t know what to say as my brother stood there and put both hands to each side of his face as if he’d just slapped an old lady and couldn’t believe what he’d just done. ‘I’m sorry, Rick.’ He spoke under his breath, ‘I really am sorry, forgive me. It’s just not so easy playing this Noah, or Moses, or whatever role I’ve been railroaded into. Jeez, this whole thing’s going to send me nuts.’
‘Don’t worry. I’d have cracked long ago.’ I smiled suddenly, so moved my eyes were pricking, too. ‘You’re doing a great job.’
‘Christ, you think so? Truth is, some of the people just aren’t paying any attention to what I say. I ask nicely, but…’ He blew out his cheeks and held out his hands as if to say ‘What’s the use in trying? It’s like shovelling water uphill.’
This time I took the initiative. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Three-quarters of those people are addicted to listening to the radio news. OK, they want to be informed, but there’s half a dozen radios, they all listen to different stations. They keep cranking them up higher and higher, competing with someone’s else’s radio. Boy, will they send me nuts.’
‘We can’t spare the batteries. They should only use one radio and then only at a specified time.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Well, Stephen, let’s tell them. Together.’
‘Okay, kiddo.’ He smiled gratefully. Together. Team work.’
‘No way. These radios are ours. No one’s got the right to tell us when we can listen to them.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘It’s not as if we’re giving orders. We just think it makes sense to go easy on them. We’ve only got a limited number of batteries.’
‘So, please,’ Stephen asked civilly. ‘Can we just agree—here and now—which single radio we use?’
Some of them were definitely unhappy about being told they couldn’t use their radios. Again we argued, gently, that it was in all our interests to save the batteries; that only one radio need be used at a time.
Dean Skilton was shouting his mouth off the loudest about the right to listen to HIS radio exactly when HE wanted to and damn ANYONE who said differently. I think it was the shotgun that did it. He’d taken to swaggering around with it on his shoulder like he was Clint freaking Eastwood or something. I was reminded of that old saying again: it was like he’d grown another head.
It looked there and then as though the group would disintegrate into squabbling factions. And we hadn’t even reached Fountains Moor.
Old man Fullwood with a yellow T-shirt tied round his head to keep the sun from his neck and balding scalp tried to play the authoritative voice of reason. No one listened.
Soon we were heading into a slanging match. And I think it rankled Dean and even Howard that Stephen and I had closed ranks.
Dean’s radio was in the grass; from some studio a hundred kilometres away a voice recited ye
t more catastrophe: ‘Fires in Dublin are uncontrollable. The Irish Air Force is now bombing the city to create firebreaks. In Denmark the—’
Stamp on it! The surprise voice popped into my head. Stamp on it, then the argument’s over. But then Dean, despite the years I’d known him, might start using that shotgun on me.
Even so, I looked at the black radio chuntering away to itself in the grass and I was gripped by this urge to bring my foot down on it; to feel the plastic casing crack like an egg-shell under my feet and spill its guts of paper speaker cone, wires and transistors all over that grass.
That was the instinctive urge. Bring matters to a head so we could slug it out to decide who really would lead us up there to the promised land on Fountains Moor.
I glanced up at the faces (Rick, go on, stamp on the damned thing!) I saw Kate and Caroline looking at me. They were taking no part in the argument. But both looked at me in the same expectant way.
Go on, Rick, stamp on the radio.
Old man Fullwood flapped his arms and blathered something about common sense. Stenno stared out across the fields as if he saw ghost armies marching to war. Stephen talked firmly, quietly. He was getting nowhere.
I took a step forward, ready to lift my foot and crush the radio to smithereens.
Before I could, something hit the radio. Hit it so hard that, it knocked it flat on its back—a ‘something’ I could not see. Or at least could not recognize just then because it was so outlandish.
The force of the blow knocked the radio off station. It warbled.
‘Hey…’
Dean looked at me, anger blasting from his eyes, thinking I’d touched his precious music box.
‘Hell…’ Something hit him in the mouth.
Then we were all being struck. I felt a rap against my forehead that brought tears to my eyes.
‘Take cover!’ Stephen shouted.
‘What the devil are they?’ Old man Fullwood looked astonished.
They came down like machine-gun fire. I watched as they bounced off heads and shoulders and from the still warbling radio.