by Terry Tyler
I look out. The view makes me swoon with rapture. But why should it be just for us? It should be available for everyone on the island.
I don't say this. I will later, but not now.
He wraps his arms tight around me. "What d'you say we go and christen it?"
And so we do, but I don't feel the same joy as I felt on that day in Shipden. He's rougher than usual, and he's not with me; he's somewhere else. I don't get much out of it, but he doesn't seem to notice. That's new, too.
Before going home we wander down to the lime kilns and out to the beach, on the far side of the island.
"I've thought it all out," he says. "I'll get Stef and Gareth to move some furniture up, and they can fix the place up with lanterns and a generator, so I've got power. I want bookcases; I'll make one of the rooms a study, a library; that lad Jonas was a carpenter, so I can use him, and I'll get Kara's group to find me some rugs." He puts his arm around me and squeezes me to him. "Big sheepskin ones, furry throws for the bed—the whole medieval castle experience!" He laughs. "Don't you fancy that?"
I know that excited gleam in his eye. I saw it when Unicorn was on to something big, or, long ago when he was my English tutor and we started studying a new book. This time, though, I think he needs to hold off.
"Dex, Stefan and Gareth are needed for supply runs, the watch and farm work, first of all. This is a vanity project; remember what you said about Steve and Rachael's mural? The needs of the community have to come first."
He doesn't like that. "And they will. Come on, Vicky, don't you have any vision? Living here is not just about survival. It's about quality of life, too."
I can see his point, but I can see mine better. "Agreed, but I think we should concentrate on essentials for now."
He pulls his arm out of mine, mumbles something I can't quite hear, and tramps back up the sand without waiting for me.
The cold, wet wind whips my hair across my face, and I hurry after him, my boots sinking into the wet, heavy sand. I've dampened his enthusiasm; I back-pedal as I catch him up, tugging at his arm, breathless. "It's a great idea. Sorry. I didn't mean to be so negative; you know what a worrier I am." But it's too late; I've annoyed him, and he's 'off' with me for several hours afterwards.
There's a new couple of whom I didn't take much notice when they arrived at the end of February: Travis and Aria. Travis works at the farm, Aria goes on runs. Recently, though, they've come into my orbit.
Phil brings Travis home one evening after a hard day with the trowels and hoes, and it turns out he worked on a project analysing data provided on social media sites, which he believes went some way to determining who received the bat vaccine. He and his colleagues were kept in the dark about why they were doing what they did, as per Major Charles Ridgeway's 'need-to-know basis' ; Travis guessed, later. We tell him about Project Renova, and he in turn provides us with information both fascinating and terrifying, about how we were categorised—and he is able to tell us that Unicorn was 'red flagged'.
"I think I actually remember your names," he says, to me.
"Really? That's amazing. It'll make Dex happy, anyway."
Dex was convinced that Unicorn was under government surveillance, about which I took the piss. I'm ashamed about that.
When I tell him, though, he's not interested.
"None of it matters now, does it?" he says, hardly looking up from his book. I'm surprised, and say so.
"It's all over, Vick," he says, with a weary sigh. "It's finished. We didn't find out in time, and that's that." He puts the book down. "Look. I was planning to tell the other Unicorns this before mentioning it to you, because they knew him, but I haven't got round to it yet." He takes a deep breath. "I drove out to Jeff's bunker the other day, just to see how he was, and he's gone. The place was open and ransacked, but I'm ninety-nine per cent sure Jeff had already left, because his car and survival gear were missing and—well, not to put too fine a point on it, I didn't find a body. What I'm saying is, we didn't make any sort of difference, and we were never going to. Jeff is living out his life somewhere, same as us, and all that investigation, the meetings, the blog posts, trying to warn people, the waste of Gia's life, it was all for nothing. This is where we're at. Right here, right now. I rarely think about Unicorn any more."
I'm even more surprised. "Really? How can you not?"
He frowns. "When I think back to the old life, it's like I was half asleep. Days spent trying to get kids to appreciate the literature of a hundred years ago, fiddling around on the internet to discover what the arseholes who run the world were really up to, but never actually doing anything. I didn't have the guts. We never took any real action. Now, life's all about action, isn't it? The fight." He clenches his fist.
"The fight?"
"Yes. The fight to live. To keep my people fed, healthy and safe. I'm finally fucking alive, not hiding away in warmth and comfort twittering about a load of shit that I can't do anything about. Who cares if some government that no longer exists was analysing what we said on social media for nefarious purposes? It's done, everyone's dead, and doesn't the internet itself now seem like a self-indulgent irrelevance?" He pauses, waiting for my reaction. "What we're doing now is the real fight, Vicky, and I love it. I love the challenge, love the courage I'm having to find in here." He beats his fist on his chest. "I'm not the same person I was back then. I've found a side of me I didn't know existed. This so-called crisis has given me the opportunity to lead, to organise, to be a strength for the weak in the next phase of our world. And I love that."
He looks exhausted after delivering this speech, and stares at me for a minute. Then he gives a little laugh, shakes his head as if assuming I don't know what he's talking about, and goes back to his book.
Travis and Aria are a strange match. He's quietly intelligent, rather posh, I think, while she's sharp, fidgety, and brash. Very pretty, with gorgeous big green eyes and yards of hair. She's friendly with Heath. I'm jealous. Pathetic, I know. She's always roaring off on his bike with him. I wonder if Travis minds, but I'm guessing not. Presumably he's sure of her love for him, or he'd kick up. Then again, what the hell do I know? My infidelity detector doesn't work that well.
I hate that I'm jealous. The other day I was walking down from the hotel after a long day washing bed linen, and I saw them zooming into the coach park on the bike, getting off with their backpacks filled with supplies, and I felt like the dowdiest frump in the world. Aria's one of those women who looks great whatever she's wearing, and she was in full bike leathers, with that fabulous hair streaming out in the wind; they looked so damn good together. And there was me, with my shiny face, straggly, half-blonde-half-brown mop, in one of Dex's hoodies and half-mast leggings.
I need to take myself in hand. I made my choice, and I love Dex, I do. He loves me, he knows me, and I need that stability.
I just miss Heath. And I feel stupidly nostalgic about Elmfield. What am I like? All the time I was there I longed to be with Dex, and now I am, I'm hankering to go back. This isn't me; I've never been discontented before. When we lived in Shipden, I was totally happy with my life. What's the bloody matter with me?
Eight o'clock on a cold, dank and dismal April morning. I leave Dex asleep; he was up until the early hours studying books about nutrition and planting methods. After a quick wash I pull on some new clothes that Kara found for me: jeans, a once-expensive pair of tan leather boots, a navy shirt and a big waterproof coat. The new clothes cheer me up; I put on lipstick, too.
I walk back to our house in Sandy Lane to look in on Lottie. She doesn't want to move in with Dex; she likes living with our friends, and I am putting her first, now. Aside from this, I want to make sure Dex and I are going to work out before we make a home together again. Not that this would mean choosing furniture and decorating. I can't remember what it's like to have so little to worry about that you actually care what colour your living room walls are.
The others are already out and about, and Lottie's aslee
p; I know better than to wake her up. The house smells of wood smoke, damp and cooking, so I open the windows and light some oil burners. Outside, I wave to Louise and her little boy, Seth, as they step out into their front garden.
I look over to the castle, shrouded in the mist of early spring rain. There aren't many sheep left in the fields; they're being slaughtered on a regular basis for meat. I thought there would be lambs, but there aren't. Phil said maybe someone nicked the ram.
At the hotel I hear much bustling about as soon as I open the door. Rowan is calling out instructions to Lacey Foster and Davina Lincoln, who are boiling water for the wash. I follow her into the kitchen, where there is a whole heap of tins, packets and bottles to be labelled and stored in date order, and catalogued, so we know what we've got. All this, without spreadsheets. Everyone writes down what they take; at the moment it's working, and there is enough to go round if we're not greedy, though we know some will start squirrelling away supplies or entering into private bartering when times get harder.
Rowan looks cool and efficient as ever; groomed, even. She's in lady-of-the-manor-striding-around-her-estate mode, in a cable knit jumper, silk scarf, jeans and boots.
"Coffee first," I suggest.
She agrees with me that it's just as easy to make a cafetière filled with decent filter coffee as crappy old instant, so working here is worth it just to get a decent kick-start each morning. I'm leaning against the old dresser and closing my eyes in bliss as the Java hits the spot, when the door is flung open.
It's Bette. King Biker's girlfriend. I've seen her around, but we've never conversed. She bursts in, then stops, and looks around, a bit wild-eyed.
"Um, hi."
Rowan assumes her best, 'who the hell are you and what do you want?' expression. "Can we help you?"
Bette's still clutching the door knob. "Aye, I hope so. Someone told me this is where you keep supplies, is that right?"
Rowan's holding her clipboard, which makes her look doubly officious. "We do, yes, but I wasn't aware we shared them with your group."
"Aye, I know, pet, but it's a bit urgent."
I step forward. "What are you after?"
"The morning after pill. You got any?"
I smile back. "We don't have them here. They're with the medical supplies."
"Okay, where's that, then?"
Rowan looks down at her clipboard. "We don't have very many. They're hard to come by."
"I'll trade. Come on. Whaddya want?"
I touch Rowan on the arm. "Can't we just let her have one? I wouldn't wish being pregnant on my worst enemy right now."
Rowan gives a long, loud sigh. "Oh, okay. I'll ask Audrey for one."
When we hear the front door slam, I ask Bette if she wants coffee.
"Aye, please. That'd be great." She inclines her head towards the door. "She got a poker up her arse, that one, then?"
"Oh, she's not so bad when you get used to her. Hello, anyway—I'm Vicky."
"Bette." She frowns. "You're with Dex, right?"
"Mm-mm."
"He's the only one of you lot who talks to us. And him with the dreadlocks."
"Ozzy."
She grins. "Yeah. Ozzy. The weed scrounger."
I laugh. "Dex is mates with that guy who lives apart from the rest of you—Wedge."
She shuts her eyes. "He's my ex."
"Yeah?"
"Aye. I was a bit surprised when he turned up."
I smile. "Awkward! Did you part on bad terms?"
"No. Well, I mean, we didn't part." She sips her coffee and stares off into space. "He was the president of our club back home, but he was inside when the virus kicked off. Kai got us all up here and, y' know, took over." She shrugs. "Well, we thought Wedge musta died in that prison. But he broke out, came looking for me. Discovered I'd fucked off. Not good, man." She frowns. "He didn't catch it. Can't work that one out."
"Some people are naturally immune. A tiny few. He was lucky."
She gives a short, sharp laugh. "Don't know if it's so lucky for me. He's been canny so far, says he's okay 'bout me an' Kai, but I'm not buying it; he's too calm and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know?"
She's jittery; her face is drawn, her eyes hollow and tired, but underneath that she's attractive. Long, badly dyed blonde hair, skinny legs in leather jeans.
"He might have accepted it," I say. "Maybe he thinks we've got more important stuff to worry about than broken relationships now."
"Aye. Mebbies." She laughs. "He's not, like, someone you want to get on the wrong side of."
That puts a shiver up my spine. Hope Dex is remembering to return his books on time.
Rowan returns with the required pill, and dispenses it to Bette with an air of authoritarian disapproval. As is her wont.
I go back to Dex's at lunch time, and he tells me he's going on a ride out with Wedge, a mate of his called Cleary, and Ozzy. I'd never have pictured Dex and Ozzy hitting it off, but he's got to know him when he goes to visit Phoenix. Says he likes his attitude to life. I'm not sure which part.
Wedge has discovered a village on the mainland that's been turned into some post-apocalyptic version of a Wild West town. Drinking, gambling and ladies of the night, Dex says. I imagine them leaning against saloon doors in basques and fishnets.
"Don't worry; I just want to take a look," he says. "It's interesting. Sociologically, I mean."
I laugh. "Mm-mm, and my dad used to buy Playboy for the articles."
He smiles. "Do not mock, I'm actually going to write a book. An anthropological study of what's happened since July last year, as we live it. Because one day the world will recover, and this will become part of our history. Someone needs to record it."
"What a great idea. Maybe Kara can find you a typewriter."
"I want one of those old-style word-processors that prints; it'd only use a minimal amount of fuel. I've started planning the chapters out already."
I raise an eyebrow. "As long as you don't start seeing everyone and everything that happens here as subjects to be studied."
"How well you know me!" He laughs. "I'll try not to, honest. Actually, I first thought of it when I was with Naomi. She wanted it to be a co-project so she could write about the changing role of women in the new tomorrow."
"Isn't that old news? Women have been doing men's jobs since the First World War."
"Ah, no. Different tack. She has much to say about a return to old-fashioned roles, with woman-as-goddess, repopulating the world."
I just look at him, and we laugh. I think I find it slightly funnier than he does, though.
When Ozzy calls round for him, he promises me he won't let Dex get into trouble. For some reason, I am less than reassured by this.
He doesn't come back that night, and I try not to worry. By noon the next day I have stopped trying, and Phil and I are just about to go out and look for them when I hear a knock on the door.
It's him.
"Sorry," he says, "Wedge didn't want to come back till this morning. He got a bit out of it last night."
I open my eyes wide. "And you didn't, right?"
He puts his arms around me. "Au contraire, my love, I got totally wasted. I've been up most of the night, and I feel like shit. How about we go back to my place and spend the rest of the day horizontal?"
Which is what we did, and it was lovely, curling up with him all day, warm under the covers with the cold spring sun shining through the windows. He played pool for Scotch, apparently, and he's a very good player.
I go round to his place the next day after eight hours at the hotel, and find him surrounded by boxes.
"Already? I thought moving up to the castle was just an idea."
"You mean you hoped it was. I want to get in there. Start organising. I'll be able to give full attention to the book if I don't have everyone knocking on my door twenty times a day. If they have to make the effort to walk up to the castle, they might find they can solve whatever the problem is on their own
."
On the table are leather-bound notebooks that he took from the museum shop. These, he tells me, are for the island's 'charter'.
"A system laid down, as reference for all. New people will arrive, others will leave, but this way they will all understand the basis of how this community functions."
"That's a good idea." I glance up. "Not too many rules, though!"
He frowns. "Why not?"
I choose my words carefully. "Because we're still trying to find our way. Reeling from all we've lost. And although you've been chosen as leader, nobody likes to feel that they're being told what to do."
"That's where you're wrong. Societies need rules. Most people like them, even if they think they don't." He looks up at me. "Remember Project Renova's worker bees? Even if they like to have a little moan now and again, your average Joe and Josephine actively want to accept the word of authority. It makes them feel safe, gives them a structure. I've learned a lot about human nature since last July." He flicks through the blank pages of one of the leather-bound books. "We need some form of monetary system, too. Payment for work done, which can be spent on food, fresh water, laundry, and luxuries like fuel for trips out, alcohol, etc."
I don't like the sound of that one bit. "But you'd be re-creating an unfair society. What about those who aren't physically able to do so much work? What if someone gets ill? Do they starve? Do they have to 'pay' for their medication? Won't it mean a division between the privileged and the poor, just like before?"
He utters a weary sigh. "It's the way of civilisation, Vick."
"Yes, but who decides who gets paid what? Will you get the most, because you're in charge?"
"Leadership is not just about power. With it comes the burden of responsibility. I spend my days thinking about what's best for every single one of the fifty-odd people in this community. I don't just dig a field, or wash a few clothes, then go home. I'm always on call. Doesn't that deserve the odd privilege?"