Lindisfarne (Project Renova Book 2)

by Terry Tyler

  "Did you ever think of coming to see us at Elmfield?"

  "I drove there quite a few times. Sat outside. I never saw you, but I did see Lottie and Kara—and those other people. Fella with a bike, and the one with the dreadlocks—I wondered if you were with one of them." He's looking at me for an answer. "Are you?"

  Why should I tell him? "I was too busy being cut up over you. I actually thought there was a good reason why you never arrived—I made a total fool of myself, when all the time Kara and Phil knew what you'd been up to." I look him in the eye. "Do you realise how stupid that makes me feel? You humiliated me."

  "You would have thought less of me if I'd abandoned her."

  I laugh. "Oh, nice try. I think less of you for shagging her behind my back, full stop."

  Then he says it again.

  "I don't love her. I love you."

  I hate myself for it, but his words make me happy.

  I can't weaken, though.

  "You're going to be a father in six weeks, all going well. If that doesn't mean something to you, it should."

  He leans forward, elbows on knees, examining his fingernails. Looks up. "Shall we go for a walk? Like we used to?"

  "No. It's cold and wet, and I don't want to be seen with you." I get up and mooch around the room. A few things remain on the shelves; jars of homemade lemon curd, tea towels, stacks of recycled paper cups.

  He says: "It's like that place in Holt, d' you remember?"

  I know him so well that I can hear his smile, but I know what he's doing, so I ignore him. He carries on. "Twenty-somethings in beanie hats called Tobias and Damian behind the counter, and you can't tell the flapjack from the hessian tote bags they sell for your take-outs."

  I stop myself laughing just in time. I look out of the window.

  "I don't love her," he says, again. "You may not understand this, and condone it even less, but I feel very little about the fact that she's having my baby. I never wanted kids, as you know; okay, I may feel differently once it's born, but right now I just feel burdened. If that makes me a terrible person, so be it, but I'm fed up with pretending, day in, day out, and I don't want to lie to you any more." Pause. "We were always honest with each other, before, weren't we?"

  I turn, and lean back against the window sill. "We were. Until we weren't."

  He gives a big, weary sigh. "Naomi—she makes constant emotional demands on me, but then she’ll start banging on about women not needing men to give meaning to their lives, with Suzanne and Myra—they're her two friends here. It drives me nuts." Another sigh. "They've moved into the cottage next to ours so they can pop in every five minutes to give her sisterly support and remind me of my shortcomings. I get snitty looks if I'm not doing everything in my power to keep her spirits aloft, because obviously she's scared shitless about having the baby, given how many women used to die in childbirth before modern medicine."

  "You can't blame her for that."

  "I know, but I never asked for it."

  "What we get is usually a result of our actions."

  He laughs. "Fair enough. Oh—crap."

  "What?"

  "Suzanne's coming down the road. I think she's seen me."

  "Does Naomi know you were coming here?"

  "Yes, but I asked her not to tell S and M."

  Oh dear, that makes me laugh. "S and M!"

  He's pleased. "It's apt. Suzanne's a bitch, and Myra's anti-men stance comes from a history of allowing herself to be walked all over. Naomi thinks it's childish."

  "It is." We smile. Oh dear, indeed; it feels good. Nice. Companionable. Like it used to.

  "So you're not with either of those two guys?"

  I can't resist. "Heath and I are close."

  He tenses. Good. "Which one's Heath?"

  "The good looking one with the long hair and the bike."

  He frowns. "I asked Scott if you were with anyone, but he just looked embarrassed."

  I remember how Scott hated me asking him about Dex and Naomi. "Yes, he's not very good with relationship stuff, is he?" This is weird. We're chatting. I suppose you don't suddenly stop being in tune, just because one of you has done something unforgiveable. "How long have you been here?" I feel a need to catch up, like you do with anyone you're close to and care about. I want to know how he's coped, too.

  He leans back, hands behind his head. "Since October. Since I couldn't stand being in that bunker any longer. There was no way Jeff was going to leave his life's work." We both smile at that. "Naomi wanted to stay, but I didn't want to wake up in six months to find that Jeff's supplies were gone and we were totally fucked. Jeff tried to get her to stay, but—well, there was no way she was going to let me leave without her." He yawns. "I was hoping she'd chicken out, when it came to venturing outside and seeing what I'd already seen, but no."

  "It can't be that safe here, though, can it? I mean, all it would take is for one sizeable gang to decide they want to take over, and we couldn't do anything to stop them."

  "There you have it."

  "What do you think of Marcus?"

  He gives a derisive grunt. "Fucking idiot."

  I smile. "That's what we all think, too."

  "I miss them. Phil and Kara. Scott. But yeah, Marcus—he acts like it's some jolly outward bound antic. Most of his gang do. This couple called Steve and Rachael, they spend their days painting a mural on their walls, depicting the changing face of North East England over the past thousand years. Marcus says it's 'art therapy' for Rachael, who's not coping well. She lost both parents, two sisters and a nephew, and I feel for her, but she'd be better off doing something for the good of the community. We need all hands on deck, but Marcus hasn't got a clue; he lived way out of the danger zones, and moved here the minute the first shop window got smashed." He leans forward. "Couple of weeks ago I went up as far as Edinburgh with two of the guys—John and Eric—and it's like it was down south last August-September time. Honest, Vick, it was frightening. I talked to some soldiers who're running a refugee centre, and they said people are still dying in their hundreds. There was a mass exodus into Scotland because people thought it was safe, but the disease went with them. You can still catch it further south, but it's dying out, simply because everyone who's going to get it—i.e. most people—are dead. Thing is, sooner or later, those who are eking out a living round these parts will be looking for somewhere safe to be. My guess is that some will try here."

  I shiver. All of a sudden I feel very unsafe indeed. "We've met a few unfriendly types already. Military who got together with cops, and not your kindly bobby on the beat, either."

  He nods. "Well, they're only going to get less friendly, as food runs out. We need barricades at the entrance to the causeway, not the village, with those on watch who know how to hold a gun like they mean it. We ought to be joining forces with the bikers, but that doesn't fit in with Marcus's idea of his little community."

  "D'you know any of them?"

  "Yes, because our house is halfway between Marcusville and where they are. They're okay. Tough, but that's what we need. Bloke in charge is only mildly psychopathic; I think we could work with him." We laugh. "They have guns, too."

  "We've got some. Well, three."

  "Good." He shifts along the sofa. "Come on, Vicky, sit with me."

  Almost without thinking, I do.

  "Marcus is talking about growing crops, on the land up by the farm," he says, "but it's all now, who wants to be on the agricultural team? He hasn't researched how we're actually going to do it. He cares more about the kids continuing their education—I'm not saying that's not important, but it won't save our lives. If we're going to make this a sustainable community, we need a structure. An elected council, a sit down with the bikers, get them on board with us."

  "Sounds like you should be in charge."

  "Don't think I haven't thought about it. Naomi says so, too."

  I retreat. I don't care what Naomi says. "Perhaps she just wants to be First Lady."

  He
chuckles. "She'd insist on an even quota of women versus men on the elected council. Oh yeah, and don't forget the representation of people-of-colour."

  "I hate all that. So do Phil and Kara."

  "Me too. Well, you know that. She doesn't understand that it's patronising, underlines divisions rather than breaking them down, and encourages any -ism you want to name, not least of all tokenism. She's not that intelligent, actually, she just latches on to ideas and repeats all the appropriate jargon. Well-meaning, but—"

  I can't believe this. We're sitting here slagging off his new girlfriend.

  He looks at me. "If this had happened before the virus, I'd have agreed to support the child, but ended the relationship."

  "Is that not an option? Bearing in mind that she's got help from others, I mean." I look at the floor. "I wouldn't want to be with someone who didn't love me."

  "I'd be seen as the biggest arse in the world if I abandoned her now."

  "Since when have you cared what other people think?"

  We just sit for a while. He reaches for my hand again.

  "I've missed you so much."

  I don't reply.

  "How's Lottie?"

  "She's great. Coped so well. It's made her grow up."

  "That's good. Better than good. Is her dad—"

  "Ryan's dead."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Have you seen Guy?" Guy's his brother; he lived with his family in Norfolk.

  "No. I'm guessing he's gone to a refugee camp."

  I frown. "Don't you want to find out?"

  "I told him where I was going. He never came up to find me. He'll be okay. And if he's not, he's not."

  "I can't imagine having family and not looking for them."

  "That's because you're an only child. And not as selfish as me." Pause. "Is Lottie calling me all sorts?"

  "Not really." I'm not letting him think we talk about him. "It's history, now, isn't it?"

  "Doesn't have to be." He looks up. "Ah."

  I follow his eyes, and see a woman in a bright yellow raincoat, with long, wavy, light brown hair, walking past the window. "There's Suzanne again. Guess she's gathering evidence. I'd better go." We stand, and he pulls me out of her line of vision.

  I don't know what to say.

  He helps me out. "I'm going to say this now because I want you to know it, whatever happens. I love you. I am more sorry than I can ever tell you, and if I could turn the clock back—"

  I touch his face. "I think we'd all like to do that." Then my eyes mist up and I turn from him, push the door open, and I'm out on the street, and it's raining, the raindrops mingling with my warm tears. I hurry down the road, because if I don't I'll rush back into the café and cling to him, tell him I still love him too, and beg him to leave the woman who is about to give birth to his child.

  That would be a pretty crappy thing to do even in normal circumstances.

  And oh my God, Heath. What the hell's going on with me?

  I feel our almost-relationship fading away like a childhood memory. I've got to grab onto it, keep myself sane.

  I had no idea I'd still feel so strongly about Dex.

  It was supposed to be over.

  I never expected any of this—I thought we'd meet, I'd read him the riot act, he'd be shamefaced and ask if we could still be friends, I'd say no, and that would be that.

  "Mum?" Lottie's at the door as I walk up the road. "What happened? Did you get to kick him in the nuts?"

  "It's not as simple as that. I wish it was."

  "I know. I was kidding."

  I follow her into the house, sit on the stairs and pull off my boots. "You'll be pleased to know that people our age make stupid mistakes, too."

  She frowns. "You seem okay. I thought you'd be either really upset or really angry."

  "I'm neither. It's just weird, that's all."

  "Still, Heath will be back tomorrow night!"

  I know what she's doing, but I need to think.

  When Heath left to go to the quarantine house on Friday afternoon, he held me tight and told me how much he was going to miss me. And I felt the same. I've been missing him so much these past few days.

  I'm even more confused than ever. Heath is real and good (and gorgeous), and we make each other happy. I know I could fall in love with him. I thought I was almost there. So why can't I just kiss Dex goodbye, and move on?

  He lied to me. He cheated on me. He left me alone.

  But he was trapped. And we all make mistakes.

  If I had two heads, I'd bang the damn things together.

  After dark we sit round the fire chatting, like back in Elmfield, but now the conversation centres around our new circumstances. Phil and Kara air their doubts about Marcus, and Rowan outlines her plans to streamline the food store. Scott talks about the possibility of rigging up water tanks outside the hotel and running it into the bathrooms for the purpose of laundry and baths. Pumps and levers and stuff. Physics is not my strong point, but it sounds as though it could work.

  The letter box does that ker-thunk thing again, and my stomach lurches. This time, though, it's a scribbled reminder from Marcus about the meeting on Thursday morning, with an agenda of topics for discussion.

  "I wonder how honest we should be," Phil says. "Should I actually say 'we don't think you could run a piss-up in a brewery', or just imply it by the sceptical raising of an eyebrow?"

  Ker-thunk.

  "Maybe that's the sub-agenda," says Scott. "With notification of a sing-song to be held in the scriptorium on Saturday night."

  It's not. It's another envelope addressed to me, in Dex's handwriting.

  I run up to my room, shut the door and light my candle.

  Dearest Vicky

  I'm writing this in a hurry, so I'm going to lay it on the line. I love you. We've only got one life, and bearing in mind how precarious that life is these days, it's even more important not to waste it. I want to be with you. If this makes everyone on the island think I'm the biggest shit in the world, so be it. All I've wanted to do since July is get back to you, and today, for the first time, I thought 'fuck it'. Naomi wanted a child, but I don't see why I should make the rest of my life miserable so that she can have what she wants, when I don't love her.

  I'll do what I can to help, but I don't want to be with her.

  If you still love me, or even if you just think you could, meet me in the church tomorrow at noon. If you don't come, I won't hassle you again.

  I love you.

  D x

  Chapter Five

  Heath

  On Wednesday night, we finally get to settle into our new home. The first thing I do after dropping off my stuff is go next door to see Vicky, but she isn't there.

  A cold, dark, wet and windy night, and she's out for a walk.

  "Are you going to come in?" Rowan asks. "We have Lindisfarne mead. Hotel's overflowing with the stuff; you can take a bath in it, if you want."

  I'm completely wrong-footed; I thought she'd be waiting for me. Leaping across the room with that sweet smile on her face, and falling into my arms. I thank Rowan, but I can't do chit-chat. The only person I want to talk to is Vicky.

  "Just ask her to give me a knock when she gets back, if you would."

  She doesn't come. Maybe she thinks I'll be asleep, but it doesn't make sense. The impression I got when we parted was that, like me, she couldn't wait for the five days to be over.

  I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  She was supposed to be in it with me by now.

  Next morning I long to go next door, walk into the kitchen and talk to her while she's getting breakfast, like I've done most mornings for the last few months, but her no-show last night makes me wary.

  At eleven, we have to go to this big meeting, and I assume I'll see her there, but Lottie says she's not feeling well. She's a bad liar.

  But I do see the famous Dex. Older than I imagined. Taller than me, with the air of someone who's pretty damn pleased with h
imself. The heavily pregnant girlfriend is absent. He stares at me, long and hard, and gives me an unsmiling nod: the reluctant acknowledgement from ex to successor, maybe?

  He's got a lot to say. It's crowded, and I don't know if I'm ready for all this; I get a sudden urge to leave, right now, just me and Vicky and our kids. Find somewhere new. But Jax and Lottie are keen, because there are other youngsters here, so I've got to give it a go.

  Marcus introduces the eight of us, and we each have to stand up and say a little about ourselves. Ghastly. Hi, I'm Heath, and I'm immune. We're introduced to the community. There are families with kids: the Fosters, the Lincolns, the Joshis. Cagoule-wearing, car-washing-on-Sunday teacher types (Richard, Steve and Rachael, Louise, Heather). A mouthy child psychologist called Suzanne and her chum, Myra. A group of seven twenty-somethings: random survivors who met up along the way and stuck together. Nicole, Jonas, Siobhan, Janek, Sean, Zoe, Clay. They seem a bit more 'us' than Marcus's gang. Luke from the pub. Three newer arrivals: Ruby, Ray and Will. A couple of lone men of around my age: a geologist called Neil and a builder called Stefan.

  Stefan seems sound. Neil, not so sure.

  We're told about Gareth, currently on watch with John, who arrived here with a friend who died in quarantine.

  Ozzy's busy checking out the women, and giving me updates in my right ear about his research. He fancies Ruby and Myra; hopefully he'll get a regular leg-over soon, and shut up.

  I keep smiling and sign up for watch duty and supply runs, but I'm preoccupied wondering what the hell's going on with Vicky. As we're filing out, I ask Lottie what's wrong with her.

  "Just a seriously bad cold, I think," she says. Yes, she's definitely lying.

  "I'll come back with you, pop in and see her."

  That stumps her. "Oh—she asked not to be disturbed 'cause she feels like shit. Sorry!" Then she runs off to catch up with Kara.

  I call round in the evening, but she's asleep again. Yeah, right.

  She's avoiding me. I know she broods; maybe that's all it is. Can't be easy knowing Dex is here. But I thought she knew she could talk to me. I'm hurt, but I'm bloody angry, too. She's lying. That's no way to start a relationship, is it?