Lindisfarne (Project Renova Book 2)

by Terry Tyler

  "Er, excuse me a minute, Paul." Rowan puts her hands on her hips. "Weren't you one of the people who voted for Dex to take over as leader, because Marcus couldn't do the job properly?"

  "Yeah, well, that was before he started thinking he was king of the blinking castle—literally! Oh yeah, and he ain't the leader, he's the Jarl, ain't he?" He laughs, and shakes his head. "Bloody pillock."

  "I keep expecting him to turn up at meetings wearing one of them Viking helmets with horns sticking out of the sides!" Gareth laughs loudly at his own wit, Rowan explains that Vikings didn't really wear helmets with horns sticking out of the sides, and I decide I've had enough. I'm not on the clock. I'll come back and help later on, when they've gone.

  On Saturday evening, our group troops over to the priory. Lottie is gabbling on about Avery being super-nice to Paul so he'd agree to them going. I tune out until I hear the words 'he doesn't know she's knocking off Christian now,' and open my mouth to say something, then decide against it. It's their business, not mine, and I'm just enjoying us all being together, minus Heath, who is on watch. Our gang. Except that Dex has taken Heath's place. Ah, well.

  I ask Ozzy where Myra is, and if he's going to move in with her.

  He puts an arm around me. "I prefer living with friends, babe. I'm not really into the coupledom gig. I'm like you, with Dex; it's good to be together when you want to be, but once you move your stuff in, it's making a statement. And I haven't yet met the woman I want to make that statement about."

  I smile. "Perhaps she doesn't exist."

  "Perhaps not." He grins, broadly, and then I lose his attention as Ruby, Ray and Will come out of their house, and he watches Ruby's neat denim arse sashaying up the road.

  I'm glad I'm not Myra. Dex tells me she's crazy about him. Ozzy's not my type but I can see what women see in him; surely nothing can be more soul-destroying than being in love with a free spirit, if you're not one yourself.

  It's a chilly, cloudy evening, pale grey clouds rolling in from the sea, covering the patches of blue sky that managed to cling on in the morning but gave up the fight mid-afternoon. I zip up my hoodie, and shove my hands in the pockets. We pass the churchyard, and my favourite tree with the trunk and branches bent over from years and years of harsh winds. Lottie calls it the Hangman's Tree because she thinks it's spooky, and says you can imagine people hanging criminals from it, but I think it's beautiful, like the coastal erosion in Norfolk: evidence of the power of nature that man can't control.

  The entrance to the priory ruins is amazingly intact, still. Beyond, there are the remains of old rooms, some with ancient steps that lead to nowhere. I narrow my eyes, and try to see the monks walking up them, then look out to sea, and imagine the Norse ships approaching. Must have been terrifying.

  I want to be quiet here, and just look around; it seems wrong that a bonfire is burning amongst these ruins. Disrespectful, but no one else seems to mind, or if they do they're not saying. Dex told me that Wedge has nicked artefacts from the museum to put in his house; will all these ancient, historical sites be left to rot away, or vandalised or pilfered, now that there's no one to protect them? Wedge is nowhere to be seen, which surprises me, but Dex says he's very much a law unto himself.

  "I think how sociable he feels depends on what substances are pumping around his brain, to be honest."

  The bikers have brought out tables and chairs from the hotel, and barrels holding bottles of lager, cider, and alcopops. There's a large tub containing a dangerous smelling homebrew that Dex tells me is moonshine. I taste it. It's disgusting. Dex, however, fills one of the ornate goblets set out on the table and tells me it's 'good stuff'. I'm sure I see him wince with each mouthful.

  Most of our community are here, some joining in more enthusiastically than others. Nicole and her friends Siobhan and Zoe steam into the booze and kid around with Cleary, Bill and Ash, who look pleased to have some new female company.

  The Fosters—Eric, Lacey and their son, Cal—arrive, along with Avery and her family; I see Paul look around with disapproval, and mutter into his wife's ear; her eyes glaze over as though she's heard it all, many times before. He's not too disapproving to head straight for the beer, I notice, and wanders around the ruins reading the old information plaques like a tourist. I enjoy seeing him put his hands over his ears when they turn on the music, even though the guitar riffs of Angus Young and Dave Mustaine waft away on the coastal breeze.

  I see Bette sharing a joke with Audrey Willmott.

  This is so surreal. This bunch of people, thrown together after a global pandemic, having a party amongst the ruins of a forgotten world. The sun begins its slow path to bed, the sky pink and orange, sending a strange light through the lonely, still arches of the priory. I feel as though those ancient walls are observing us. The light is heavy, like you get with a rainbow; I hope it's not going to rain. I don't like the thought of us all crammed into the Monk's Head together.

  Someone throws more wood on the bonfire; it's oddly cosy, as the flames crackle away in the fading light.

  Dex is off talking to Kai and Parks, and I find myself alone. I'm quite happy to stay on the periphery of the action, but—uh-oh. Naomi approaches. Minus Phoenix. Laksha is babysitting so she can have the night off. Looks like she's making the most of it; she's holding a goblet and her face is flushed. Must have employed Clay's services to keep her hair in medieval minstrel stylee, too. I don't get it. I mean, what on earth would make you say, "I want a bob that stops short of my earlobes, and please chop the fringe half way up my forehead"?

  Okay, I'm being a bitch.

  I'm a bit drunk. The moonshine isn't so bad with lemonade.

  And Naomi really is heading my way.

  "Thought it was time I came to say hello," she says, clutching on to her goblet like someone is going to nick it from her. She's not smiling.

  "Hello," I say. And smile.

  She stands next to me, but looks straight ahead. She's wearing what looks like a 1940s tea dress, with a stringy jumper over the top, neat, flat, pointed lace-up shoes and grey ankle socks; everyone else is in jeans, jumpers and hoodies, boots and trainers. As we stand side by side looking out at the crowd, I have an image of us as two wallflowers at the edge of a dancehall.

  "Dexter will always have a relationship with Phoenix and me, you know," she blurts out. "You won't stop that."

  Dexter? I smile again. "I don't want to."

  "I'll always be a part of his life, because of our child."

  I yawn. "Yeah, I get that." This isn't the reaction she wants; she's looking for a fight. She's not getting one.

  "I suppose you think I lured him away from you." She taps crimson fingernails against her goblet. "I didn't. It was a meeting of the minds, first and foremost."

  "I don't think anything." Oh, what the hell. "It was you who made all the moves, though, wasn't it?"

  She throws back her head and laughs as if I've said something really stupid. "You can't steal a man who doesn't want to be stolen."

  Not that old chestnut. This one I'm not letting her have. "No, but you can have a damn good try. And getting pregnant by a man who only wants a fling is the oldest trick in the book."

  She turns to look at me. "How do you know it was just a fling?"

  I look over at the pink clouds going down behind the crumbling arches. None of this matters. "Because he told me so, and I believe him." I turn to look at her angry little face. "What do you want, Naomi?"

  Her eyes blaze with frustration and hatred. "He may be with you now, but he'll be back; right now, he's clinging on to an idealised image of the past, because it compares favourably with the hell we find ourselves living in now."

  I frown. "But I don't think he considers it hell."

  She narrows her eyes. "I'm the mother of his child. Our relationship can only become deeper."

  Something occurs to me that I'd never thought about before. Is he still sleeping with her? I'm damned if I'm going to ask, though. She'll make out he is, wha
tever the truth. I'm drunk, but the sort of drunk that instils what you believe at the time to be amazing clarity of thought. I decide it's best to remain noncommittal. "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

  Her eyes peer into mine with great venom, then she turns and stalks away.

  Weird. That was weird.

  I lean against a low wall and think. I don't always believe him, but what he said about having little feeling for her rang true.

  Something else is bothering me more, though, and it's this: the thought of him still sleeping with her did not upset me that much. Maybe because it's so unlikely.

  I wander back into the throng and find Phil and Scott talking to Louise from over the road; I join in.

  Our conversation is brought to an abrupt halt by the banging of a gong.

  We all turn round, peering through the half-light to see what's happening.

  Torches made of sticks with the ends wrapped in oily rags have been lit around a small stage of pallets piled on top of each other. The Kaiser stands, holding up his leather goblet and smiling around at us all. More torches are lit and the music is turned down; everyone turns to look at him.

  "I hope you're all enjoying yourselves!"

  Lots of raised glasses, and shouts of agreement.

  "I'm not one for speeches, but I'd like to raise a glass to us all—one community, the good people of Lindisfarne, and a better future where we can make our own choices and live our lives as we want, with no fat cats and rich fuckers making the rules!" He lifts his goblet high. "To the new world!"

  Some, like Nicole, Ozzy and the rest of the Hadrian, echo his words, but others mutter in doubt; this is a speech for anarchists, whereas Marcus and Audrey, the Fosters, the Lincolns and co have as much in common with anarchists as I have with Naomi.

  "Let's eat, drink and be merry," Kai continues. "Food's on its way, if anyone wants to go and give a hand, and we've got fireworks!"

  Kara, Rowan and Lacey Foster go off with Bette to help with the food (why's it always the women who volunteer?), and it comes out twenty minutes later—huge caterers' pans of chilli, and a tomato thing with pasta. People surge forward, like when the buffet is uncovered at a wedding. I ladle out some chilli, because that moonshine needs soaking up, and it turns out to have meat in it. Minced up, but definitely meat, not the soya substitute we've used in the past.

  "What's the meat?" I ask Dex.

  "Rabbit, I think," he says. "Or squirrel. I don't know."

  Oh well, it tastes okay.

  "Dog, maybe," he says, after I've just swallowed a huge mouthful, but when I look up at him he's laughing.

  "You are kidding, aren't you?"

  "Yes, but it wouldn't matter, really, would it? The Chinese eat dogs, the French eat horse; it's only what you're used to."

  Maybe, but I'm put off, and I don't eat any more; I help myself to the tomato thing, instead.

  We ooh and aah at a meagre display of fireworks; I like the colours, lighting up the stillness of the ruins against the sky. I wonder if the monks of Lindisfarne are turning in their graves.

  The drink never stops coming, and the music becomes louder; as the party becomes raucous some drift off, back to the safety of their houses—I hear a tipsy and tearful Avery yelling at her father that she's never allowed to have any fun. People dance; Lottie and Jax headbang with some of our new friends. Others sit round the bonfire, talking, lying back on blankets stretched over the damp grass. Spliffs appear; as soon as I've passed one on, another comes my way. The orange flames crackle away as more logs are chucked on, and it's warm and cheerful.

  I'm sitting with Dex, Phil, Kara and Scott, and they're talking about Unicorn, and what might have been, had they known about Project Renova earlier; Phil shuts the conversation down with the conclusion that they probably couldn't have made any sort of difference anyway, because no one would have believed them (which is kind of what I always thought), and our attention is distracted by the sight of Naomi doing a peculiar dance that reminds me of free expression classes at school. Flailing arms, head thrown back, a little unsteady on her feet. Dex looks embarrassed, and no one says anything; we turn to watch Myra dirty dancing around Ozzy, instead. She's very good at it, and I enjoy Suzanne's expression of disapproval.

  "Reminds of me of VH1 Classic Rock night," says Phil, wistfully.

  Travis and Aria sit quietly, talking to each other. I wonder if Heath chose to be on watch tonight because it hurts to see his new love with her official partner.

  One person is still absent: Wedge. I might have forgotten, but Dex mentions how strange it is.

  My friends go back to discussing Project Renova but I'm too stoned to discuss anything properly (as are they, except they don't realise it), so I look away, up into the quiet darkness, and have a strange sensation that we're being watched; not by someone or something nearby, but from far away. Maybe it's a hangover from the internet; if this night was back then, live footage of our antics would've been beaming around cyberspace via twenty Smartphones by now.

  Or maybe I'm just stoned.

  The tower on the top of The Heugh is silhouetted, inky black, against the silvery haze of the moon and, just for a moment, I think I see movement up there, a person. When I look again, though, there's nobody there.

  Mac, Jodie and Nicole plonk themselves down, and tell us that they spiked Paul Lincoln's drink with speed, which makes everyone laugh; I don't envy Davina, listening to him rabbiting on all night. I volunteer to go for more beers (I've given up on the moonshine), and as I walk back to the tables I see Myra being sick behind a wall, and further on, Ozzy talking to Ruby, she of the neat denim arse and black stetson. His hand is on the aforementioned arse. I laugh to myself. So the coupledom gig is already getting too stifling; if that dirty dance hasn't kept him hooked, I'm guessing nothing will.

  Bette rushes up to me. She looks worried.

  "Vick, have you seen Kai?"

  I shake my head. "No, why?"

  She's staggering a little, but sounds coherent enough. "I can't find him. He went back to the hotel to get tabs, but that was half an hour ago. I've been back, and he's not there. No one's seen him."

  I touch her shoulder. "He's perhaps just wandered off."

  "Could be. He was canny pissed."

  "Well, he could've passed out somewhere."

  "Aye, that's what I thought, but I've looked and I cannit see him anywhere." She bites her lip. "I'll send the lads to look for him if he doesn't turn up soon."

  She walks off to talk to Cleary and Parks, and I get beer and wander back to my group; the conversation has moved on to the farm. I don't join in; I feel oddly detached, but comfortably so. Huddling into my hoodie and moving closer to the fire, I look up at the darkness and think how strange our life is. We know nothing about what is happening in the rest of the world, and there is no way of finding out. It's as it was hundreds of years ago. I still can't quite get my head round the fact that we've gone back to that. Then I think about what Major Charles Ridgeway told Scott, about there being places the virus hasn't touched, and I wonder if somewhere, thousands of miles away, civilisation continues. If the people who were taken to safety are still sitting pretty, or if their safe havens have collapsed around them.

  And I think about my mum and dad.

  The sound of a horn blowing jerks us all away from our conversations, our thoughts, our dancing and laughter. It's long, and loud, a deep, resounding noise.

  All heads turn to look in the direction from which it came, the open field over to the left of the ruins. It sounds again, and the patter of conversation ebbs away; all that can be heard is the crackle of the bonfire and the music beating away in the background.

  Dex says, "Wonder what this is." People crowd together, smiling, expectant, waiting for whatever this surprise might be, but my stomach is churning.

  We hear movement between the old walls, and I can just make out the shapes of two people coming towards us.

  "If it's Father Christmas, I'll have a Victoria's Secre
t model and a Lamborghini!" shouts Gareth, and a few titter, but many look bemused, too; the two figures move nearer, out of the shadows, and I hear a collective gasp.

  It's Wedge, and Kai.

  Their faces are lit by the glow of the bonfire, and Kai's expression tells us this is no entertainment.

  Wedge is holding him round the neck and as they walk into the centre of the crowd, we see that he has a gun at his back.

  Oh, my God.

  Silence; everyone is still. I make out the shape of Parks, a few yards away, reaching out to turn off the music, and now the only sound is the soft crackle of the fire.

  "Kai!" Bette rushes forward, and Jodie tries to do so as well, but Cleary and Jez hold them back. The two men appear calm, and I realise what is happening is not a surprise to them.

  Wedge moves in a full circle, so we can all see him holding Kai tight around the neck, and the gun at his back.

  Jez is still restraining Bette and Jodie, while Cleary and Parks come forward with torches, holding them up, the space where Wedge stands lit like a stage.

  Cleary and Parks stand so still, like sentries.

  Yes, they knew.

  The night has taken on a dreamlike quality; I could be watching it unfold through a screen, or from high up. I've never been this stoned before; everyone else must be stoned and/or drunk to some degree, too. Do they all feel as I do?

  I hear a few gasps of horror, but no one speaks. Bette wails, pleading with Wedge to let Kai go, Jodie sobs, but they've both stopped struggling; Jez is stronger than the two of them put together.

  I clutch Dex's arm. "Can't you do something?"

  "Like what?" He's calm, like Cleary and Parks; his expression is one of rapt interest, not shock or worry. "It's not my call. Whatever this is, it's got nothing to do with me."

  "But you're the boss round here—"

  "Not of them."

  The fire crackles, Bette and Jodie sob.

  Wedge holds his head high.

  "This man," he says, looking from side to side, and his voice sounds different, deeper, louder. "This piece of shit stole my woman, sneaking in through the back door soon as I was locked up. He was my VP, he should've come to break me out when the virus kicked off, but he led my club up here without me. He hoped I'd die in that gaol cell, so he could take what was mine." His bald head shines in the light from the torches, and his eyes are piercing, his black beard pointed.