by Terry Tyler
Wedge nods. "Whass this place called? Just so's I remember it, if I'm looking again."
"Look for Haltbridge on the signposts. We call it Club Tropicana. Drinks are free-ee!" He laughs, and winks again. "Bit of a mouthful. Club Trop for short, mate."
Wedge parks his bike, and saunters down the road.
Wedge heads for Club Trop whenever he feels the urge for a woman or hit, or just someone to drink with. Most of the time, though, he likes to ride out alone.
When he broke down the back door of Seal Cottage he was surprised to find it well stocked, including a wood store and piles of clean towels and bed linen, but Cleary visits each night with more supplies, and he has been instructed to inform Wedge the minute the Kaiser and Bette return. When all is dark and quiet, Wedge wanders around the island. In the museum shop, there is much to interest him. Bottles of wine and liqueurs, the chocolate, fudge and biscuits he loves when he's on a comedown, rugs, throws and cushions to keep him warm and comfortable in his new abode. Metal tankards and goblets, some made of leather, too; he particularly likes these.
"Aye, we use them in the pub," Cleary says. "They're canny, aren't they? Make y' feel like a Viking!"
In glass cabinets there are ancient Viking and Saxon stones and tools, and Wedge takes them to put by his fireside. He takes books, too, about the Viking invasions. He discovered reading in prison; it was not something he would have contemplated before, but boredom was his greatest enemy during those long months. One day, he picked up a book from the library trolley called The Last Kingdom, about Northumbrian Saxons and Vikings, because he liked the picture on the front. He lay back on his bed, and began to read. By the time he closed the book, he understood. He was born in the wrong century, that was all, a throwback to an ancient time. If he'd lived back then, he'd have been revered as a proud warrior, not treated like an outcast.
He went to the prison library and found books about the Vikings, including one about their invasion of the North East. The clouds cleared. He was a descendant of these fierce conquerors. Had to be.
Now, on days when he doesn't feel like tearing up the countryside, Wedge sits at home with a fire crackling in the grate, bottles of liqueur at his side, and reads about his forefathers.
Four weeks after his arrival on the island, Cleary appears at the door, more on edge than usual.
"Jez and Parksy know you're here," he says. "One o' them lads on the barricade said summat. And Zoot an' Mac, they seen you, 'n' all."
Wedge doesn't look up from his book. "They'd need to be deaf and blind not to have. S'not like this is a big place."
"They were going to come down and see you, but I said not to, is that right? They said you oughta come down the pub."
Wedge looks up. "They said owt about the albino?"
"He's not an albino, he's just got blond hair—"
"Have they said owt about him? And her?"
"No. Nowt."
Wedge doesn't believe him. He looks back down at his book. "I'll come when they're back."
Cleary clears his throat. "Jez—he feels bad that we never went down the prison for you, he said Bette should've waited for you, and that you don't treat a brother like what Kai did."
Wedge frowns. "So why d' you say they said nowt?"
"I meant they hadn't said owt bad." He fidgets. "Y' know, like."
He puts the book down and flops back. "Aye." If he's going to take his club back, he's got to keep them all on side. The ancient leaders, they were respected, as well as feared. He lifts up his bottle. "Come an' hoy a bit of this down y' neck, it's good stuff."
A day or so later there's a knock on the door, mid-afternoon, when Wedge is boiling water over his fire for coffee. Can't be Cleary, he only left ten minutes before.
Wedge waits until the water's boiled and his coffee is made, during which time whoever it is knocks twice more, harder each time.
Not a good move.
A skinny cunt with a beard stands on the doorstep; he reminds Wedge of Boyd, the shitbag who told him about Bette's betrayal.
"Marcus Willmot." He holds his hand out. "I don't think we've had the pleasure!"
Wedge ignores the hand, and looks over his shoulder. Behind him, there's a tall blond guy, and a good looking chick with long curly hair. He looks back at Willmott, who's trying hard to keep the smile on his pink face.
"What do yous want?"
"I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news. I'm going to have to ask you to vacate this property; it's designated as one of the residences available to our community, as agreed with the, er, the Kaiser."
"You reckon?" Wedge clenches his fists, squeezing and flexing in an effort not to slam them into the beardy fucker's ugly mug.
"I'm afraid so. If you'd chosen another house I'd have let you stay, even though you have, strictly speaking, flouted our community code, but Seal Cottage is one of the most desirable properties on the island, which I'd personally prepared for the next new arrivals." He coughs. "You will have discovered the amply stocked wood store, basic foodstuffs, toiletries and household necessities."
"Aye."
"I know the Kaiser is taking a brief sojourn on the mainland, but when he gets back he'll be able to confirm what I'm saying—"
"Yeah, well he's not here now. And I don't see no notice on this house saying it belongs to you."
He goes to shut the door, but Willmott puts his foot against it so that it can't be shut without doing him a serious injury.
Bad move.
They both look down at his foot, then Wedge looks into Willmot's eyes. Stupid fuck. He's brave, got to give him that. Or just stupid.
"Get y' frigging foot out of me door."
"I'm sorry, but I do have to insist. In order for our two groups to cohabit in peace, boundaries were agreed upon. I now wish to give this cottage to Travis and Aria."
The chick doesn't look at all nervous, and Wedge likes that. He winks at her.
"You can shift your stuff in any time you like, darlin'."
She laughs, and Willmott looks from side to side.
"I did actually mean that you need to move out, so they can move in."
"I'm not going nowhere."
"Well, we'll see what the Kaiser says."
That riles him. "I'm nowt to do with the Kaiser."
The beardy shit folds his arms, like he thinks it'll make him look scary. "Well, if you're not part of his group, you're part of ours, and we vet prospective residents; I don't believe you've attended an induction meeting."
"I'm not movin', I'm not part of no group, and I'm not going to no meeting."
"Rules of the island." Willmott stands his ground. "My intuition is that our community might not be the right fit for you."
"An' that bothers me why?"
"How about I come in and have a chat about it?"
"How about you don't?"
Footsteps. "Marcus, do you want to let me do this?"
Wedge looks up and sees another fella walking over to join them. He recognises him. Seems to be in charge; he's seen him ordering people about in the fields by that farm, out on the road.
"Who are you, when you're at home?"
"Dex Northam. Can I come in?" At least he doesn't try any of that handshake shit. Wedge is surprised to find himself opening the door.
"You can tell that twat to sling his hook." He turns and walks back to the fireside, and hears Dex close the front door behind him.
"I'm not moving," Wedge says. He downs his coffee in one go, and fills his pewter goblet with honey liqueur. Smiling to himself, he fills one of the tankards he keeps by the fireplace and hands it to Dex, who doesn't flinch, or make any dickhead comments about drinking liqueur out of tankards. Fella's earned himself another tick; Wedge wonders if he knows.
"No, of course you're not. Marcus led this group in the early days, and hammered out some agreement with the bikers about who could live where. It's not cast in stone."
"Should hope fucking not. There's no rules now. You live where you're
strong enough to defend."
Dex drinks. "I agree."
"I'm not part of no group."
"No. I get that."
"Seems a bit of a cunt, that Marcus."
Dex laughs. "Yeah, he is."
Wedge nods, and raises his goblet to Dex. "So I won't get no more hassle?"
"No."
"That's good. For him, I mean."
Dex laughs again. He leans over and looks at the books on the table. "I've been meaning to do more reading; well, there's the time for it now, isn't there?"
"S'right."
Dex picks up a book about Viking lore. "Fascinating people."
"Aye."
"And it wasn't all about raping and pillaging. They've had a bad press; they weren't all berserkers, they were traders, craftsmen, with a strong code of hierarchy and honour, who managed to create a civilisation in one of the coldest and most agriculturally unfriendly areas of the planet. Maybe they were hard and tough because that was what their land demanded of them."
Wedge nods. This Dex bloke has put into words what he's been thinking; he wishes he could articulate his thoughts in that way. "That's what I think, aye."
"You know they invaded this island?"
"Aye." Wedge points to some of the artefacts on his hearth; Dex is amused.
"I suppose they might as well be here, rather than hidden away in a museum that no one will ever visit again."
"'S' what I thought." He tips more honey liqueur into both their cups. "You the boss of this lot, then?"
"I am now. Marcus was elected out; he doesn't have the skills necessary for the job, now its description has changed." Dex smiles. "And, as you so rightly said, he's a bit of a cunt."
Wedge nods. "He is that." He studies his visitor. "You been out and about much, round here?"
"Not really. I was in a bunker for a while, then I came here."
Wedge nods. "Different world out there now."
"Ain't that the truth. I've had a bit of a scout around, up towards Edinburgh, but I haven't explored as much as I want. I have a group I send out on supply runs; I'm usually needed here."
"There's a good place down near Morpeth. Group o' lads taken this village over. Gambling, chicks, that sorta thing. Bit of gear. You could come over some time. You just gotta bring 'em some stuff. Fuel, ammo, food, whatever."
Dex raises his tankard. "Count me in. Long time since I've had some fun."
Wedge is just about to tell Dex more, when there is another knock.
He looks up. "Better not be him again."
But it's Cleary, red-faced and sweating; he stands in the doorway of the living room, catching his breath. "Just thought you should know. I came as soon as I could."
Wedge knows what he's going to say, before he even does. "They're back, are they?"
Cleary is nodding, panting. "Yeah."
Wedge stands up, and knocks back his drink. "Well, don't tell them I'm here. And make sure no fucker else does. I mean it. Put the word out." He points at Dex. "I'll see you later. We'll go to that place."
He doesn't hear Dex's reply, doesn't see him go. Doesn't see Cleary go, either.
He sits, and he thinks.
He thinks some more, and he smiles.
Chapter Eight
Aria
The end of civilisation: the ultimate escape.
When I went to work at BDC to snoop on people's social media profiles all day long—which is way more boring than it sounds—I thought I'd done well to close the door on my fucked up life. Now, though, that door is locked, with the key chucked over a cliff. Result! All those I've ever wanted to escape from are dead, I should think. Hope so. I'm a clean slate type of girl.
If people ask, I tell them that I'm called Aria because my father was an opera singer. It's not true. He was the sleazeball landlord of a South London pub who poured his first drink when he opened the doors at eleven each morning. Mum was a feeble drudge who put up with the abuse that came with it. You get the picture.
I left when I was sixteen. I was taken in by my best friend's family, but I couldn't resist helping myself from her mother's purse, and I got too greedy, so they chucked me out. Another friend, another sofa bed, a hostel or two, even the odd shop doorway, then a Devon hotel which was good for a time, but that little jaunt ended abruptly one night—the boyfriend of the hotel owner's daughter fancied me, I was game, and so there I was, out on my ear once again.
I made a lot of mistakes when I was younger, but I don't beat myself up about them because I was a kid, and kids do stupid shit. I grew up, I got smart. That's not to say I don't still make mistakes, but once I've fucked up I just get the hell out. It's pointless to stay, to attempt to repair the damage, because all people remember is that one bad thing you did, not any good that came before or after.
I've been in good situations, I've been in bad situations, but none ever lasted long. I applied for BDC because I wanted to go to the other side of the world, and because the girl whose spare room I was sleeping in was a bitch. I didn't like what the job entailed, but sometimes keeping a roof over your head is more important than your principles. When it went south, I knew either Doyle or Travis would be the best bet, and Doyle was much too sharp.
It's turned out well.
Travis is in love with me. I'm not in love with him, but that's okay, because as long as I'm with him, he's good. He's undemanding, and a total hunk. Always a bonus if you have to sleep with a guy you're not in love with; I have absolutely no problem keeping him happy. The only problem is that he's a bit slow when it comes to taking initiative (ah—sorry, I've moved on from talking about sex!), but I'm proactive enough for both of us. And I can play him like a fiddle.
I've stuck with him because you need two of you in this world, now. At least.
It was my idea to come here, and I'm optimistic so far. We were shown around by this nondescript called Marcus; he had a house lined up for us, but unfortunately there was already a Son of Anarchy in it, so he found us another. It's called Duck Cottage, up one of the main roads. It has better furniture than anywhere I've ever lived in, and is kitted out with basics. Of course it's freezing cold, and we have to collect rain water and make fires, but we're used to that.
I wonder about all these empty houses, what happened to the people who lived in them; did they all die? I ask Audrey, who is Marcus's wife, when she brings us what she calls 'the welcome pack'. Like we've arrived at a conference. It's not glossy brochures and logo-imprinted pens, though, it's a basket with shortbread biscuits, chocolate, a bottle of wine, and fucking Airwick scent diffusers. She says there were less than a hundred people permanently resident here; most of the houses are holiday cottages or second homes. They would have made the ideal escape from the virus but none of the owners turned up, so she assumes they're dead.
Serves 'em right. If you were rich enough in the old world to own a second home, you've already had your share of good luck.
"There was just one couple still alive when we got here," Audrey tells me. "Mr and Mrs Woolley. A few residents left, but someone came across from the mainland to escape the disease, and brought it with them. Mr and Mrs W survived by staying in their house with the doors and windows shut and having no contact with anyone. They still keep themselves to themselves; they're wary about socialising in case they catch it." She gives a tinkly laugh. "They nip into the hotel to get supplies first thing in the morning, when there's no one about, wearing surgical masks and rubber gloves."
"Have you had any deaths since you've been here?" Travis asks.
"A couple." She dips her head with appropriate sadness. "We bury them in one corner of the churchyard; our friend Louise had the brainwave of planting a tree at each grave, as there won't be any proper headstones. I like that idea, don't you?"
I do. Better than all that cross shit. Audrey seems nice. I would have liked a mum like her, instead of my moron mother who wouldn't protect her seven-year-old daughter from her father, the filthy bastard.
But I don't talk
about the past.
Travis loves it here and wants to explore the island, but I think there are more important things to do first, like get the measure of the place, so today we meet Dex, the man in charge, who lives on his own in a house at the top end of this road.
Apparently he used to live with his girlfriend down by the harbour; she's just had his baby, but he left her before she gave birth to go back with his ex, who turned up here in January. We've walked into the middle of a soap opera! He tells us this in an unashamed sort of way, so that we don't get the wrong story via the gossips.
That word makes my spirits plummet. Gossips. Just what I don't need. Somewhere along the line I am bound to do something that pisses someone off, and I don't want to have to leave because the witch hunts have begun.
"Aren't people too busy staying alive to bother about tittle-tattle?"
Dex just laughs. "Let's hope so, eh?"
He tells us about the jobs we can do as part of the community. The term 'part of the community' makes my heart sink, too. Travis wants to be involved in the growing of food; they're using some fields in a farm down the road as they're worried the soil might be too salty on the island.
"It's all guesswork, and trial and error," Dex says. "We gain as much knowledge as we can from books, but, alas, we don't have any farmers or agricultural experts on hand. Using the farmland has to be a safe bet, though."
Travis lights up when Dex talks about growing crops; it's sweet. And good for me, because the people on the farm team leave the island at first low tide each day in a minibus. Which means I shall get lots of time on my own.
I ask if I can go on supply runs, because I like being out and about.
"Tell me," Travis says, "what do you do about strangers who arrive? Like us, I mean? Do you take everyone in?"
Dex shrugs. "There's room here, but it depends if they're going to work out or not. We've got the barricades, as you've seen, but they need to be more extensively manned, even when the water's high, in case a whole group fancies taking the place over."