Afterlight

by Alex Scarrow

  It was quiet for a moment, save for several whispered exchanges amongst the crowd.

  ‘So,’ Jenny sighed, ‘that’s how it still is, then.’ She was tempted to turn around and say I told you so. To direct that at Alice and her small circle of nay-sayers. Even to direct that at her own son, who seemed so certain the world was putting itself back together without him. She could have scored some cheap and easy points saying those things right now. Instead she shrugged. Valérie Latoc’s story argued her point - that the world beyond their little island was still a dangerous place.

  ‘I . . . I would very much like to stay here,’ said Valérie. His voice strained and stretched, the voice of a man not too proud to plead. ‘I do not want to go back. I have seen enough of . . . of . . .’ A pitiful tear rolled down his sallow cheek and lost itself in the dark thatch of bristles. ‘Please . . .’

  Jenny found herself reaching across the table again and gently patted his thin forearm. The gesture seemed to weaken his resolve and more tears rolled down into his thick beard.

  ‘Okay,’ muttered Jenny. ‘Okay, that’s enough for now.’

  ‘Please may I stay?’ he asked.

  Jenny glanced back over her shoulder, keen to get a feel for what the others felt. She could see eyes that regarded him with pity, eyes red-rimmed with sympathetic tears. Heads that silently nodded their approval at her.

  Let the poor sod stay.

  She turned back to look at him. ‘We’ll see, Valérie. You can stay for a while, whilst I give it some thought.’

  ‘For a while?’

  ‘A probationary period. We’ll see how things go, okay?’

  His face crumpled. ‘Oh, thank you!’ he sobbed, grasping her hand. ‘Thank you!’

  She smiled awkwardly and pulled her hand back. ‘All right.’ She turned around in her seat. ‘Right, the show’s over, folks. We’re done here.’

  Walter clapped his hands together. ‘Come on then, ladies and gents! Come on! You heard her, jobs to go to!’

  ‘You like him,’ said Leona softly, ‘don’t you?’

  Jenny turned on her side to face Leona across the narrow floor space, the cot’s springs squeaking noisily beneath her. She could hear Hannah’s even breathing in the darkness, coming from the other end of Leona’s cot.

  ‘I suppose I feel sorry for him.’

  Despite her initial knee-jerk reaction at the first sight of him, the poor man didn’t seem to have either the masculine swagger of a predatory male nor the dangerous glassy-eyed stare of a nutcase. He seemed beaten, tired, dispirited . . . perhaps even broken. Years of travelling, he’d told them, years of bearing witness to what was left: the ruined shell of the old oil world had taken its toll on him.

  Jenny could only imagine how much worse conditions must be on the continent. She’d been hoping he had a more heartening tale to tell but deep down she’d always suspected it was every bit as bad as he’d described.

  Poor bastard.

  She’d seen some awful things over the last ten years; once, the blackened and twisted carcass of someone tied to a stake in the middle of the ash-grey mound of a bonfire; someone she could only hope had been dead long before being burned. Once, a row of desiccated corpses lined up along the bottom of a wall riddled with bullet holes. Perhaps they’d been looters shot by soldiers or an armed police unit.

  She could only imagine what other sights this poor man could add to that. Many more, no doubt.

  She realised that there were also a few selfish reasons to let the man stay. Perhaps Valérie Latoc might be someone that Jacob would actually listen to. Perhaps in time the man would be ready to talk about what he’d witnessed in greater detail and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to convince Jacob that there was nothing out there but empty towns disappearing beneath spreading weeds . . . and dangerous, armed people.

  ‘You going to let him join us, Mum? We could do with a few more men here who, you know, aren’t old age pensioners.’

  ‘We’ll see, Lee.’

  Mr Latoc had been found a space out on the drilling platform. Howard and Dennis lived over there. David Cudmore and Alice Harton - who were a couple, she was almost certain of that - and Kevin whom they seemed to have adopted between them. The Barker sisters bunked there, all four of them very quiet and introspective. She suspected they held prayer meetings, but at least it was kept over there and in private. Mrs Panhwar, her mother and her two daughters, they spoke a little English - the daughters doing a better job at picking it up. The drilling platform was as good a place as any for the man to find peace and quiet and recover.

  He could remain on probation until the anniversary celebration was out of the way, and then she’d have to make a decision. She smiled. The celebration party was just a week away and exactly what they needed after hearing Mr Latoc’s depressing account. There’d been some silly rumours going around over the last year, that a UN force had landed on the south coast of England and was even now organising a major humanitarian effort. A silly rumour that had found traction because one of the women was picking up intermittent signals in Spanish on long wave on one of their wind-up radios. And, of course, there’d been that supposed sighting of a vapour trail in the sky last spring by one of the children. Things like that made everyone feel unsettled; made people want to put down their tools, forget their work assignments and go rushing ashore.

  Valérie’s words seemed to have completely scotched those hopeful rumours. Shot them down in the most brutal way. Jenny had felt her heart sinking just like everyone else as he’d told his story.

  The party at least was something for them to look forward to; a celebration of Walter’s wonderful methane-powered generator, a reminder that despite all the hard work, the cold winter nights, the monotonous diet, the discomfort, the damp, the wind, the rain . . . they were very lucky. That they were safe, and that slowly, little by little, things would get better again.

  ‘He seemed really nice, in a sad kind of way,’ uttered Leona.

  Jenny sighed. ‘I’ll decide after the party. Anyway, get some sleep, Lee. Don’t forget you’re on morning-chickens tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Leona huffed, and turned over noisily in her cot.

  Chapter 15

  10 years AC

  ‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea

  27 May

  It’ll be a lovely celebration this year. Walter brought back dozens and dozens of strings of Christmas lights on this week’s shore run. We’re having it on the production platform because of the open deck space and I’ve had Martha, Leona and Rebecca help me drape the lights all around there. Walter’s run a cable feed off the walkway lights and while we know it all works, we’ve yet to see how pretty it’s going to look when we switch it on.

  Our new arrival seems to be mending well. Dr Gupta says the gunshot wound looked worse than it was. He’s stitched up and bandaged. Mostly, she tells me, it’s malnutrition that’s weakened him. He does look a lot better now he’s had a chance to clean himself up and trim that awful beard - at least he doesn’t look like some mad Rasputin character.

  Hannah’s very taken with him. She’s really quite sweet, helping him over the lips to doorways. I think she likes the idea of playing nurse and has made Valérie her pet project. She can be a bossy little madam, though; last night in the canteen she was really laying into him for not finishing up the fish in his broth.

  Poor chap.

  The rain is getting me down. So far this summer it’s been almost constant drizzle and overcast skies. Good for all our crops, of course, and good that we’ve spent less diesel having to refill the freshwater tank so often, but the endless tapping on every porthole, the dripping of water from leaks seems to be everywhere. It depresses me. Reminds me that this is a prison just as much as a safe haven. When there’s enough of a break in those bloody clouds the helipad is usually almost full to bursting with people grabbing a little sun. Not exactly bikini weather with that North Sea wind tugging away at you bu
t it’s so nice to feel the warmth on your face. Close your eyes and dream of a sun-kissed beach, sangria and topaz-coloured water - what I wouldn’t give to walk away from this fucking place.

  Anyway, I’m looking forward to tonight, those Christmas lights. They’re going to look lovely.

  ‘So, it’s our first anniversary of having power,’ announced Jenny proudly. Some of the audience around her cheered and whooped.

  Jenny stood on the main deck of the drilling platform, lit by the faint amber glow of several plain bulbs in wire safety cages from the walkway leading across to the production platform. The deck was filled with expectant faces standing amidst the stacked Portakabins, sitting on them, hanging out of open windows, squatting in rows on those gantries not cluttered with growbags and foliage, and all of them waiting, full of excitement, for Jenny to get on with proceedings.

  The middle of the deck was open to the sea sixty feet below. When the rig had been active the drill core had descended through that opening to the cellar deck and down to the sea. Thick support struts ran across the open space now and sheets of metal grille were welded on top of them to fill the gap and create sturdy additional floor space. They’d done that a couple of years after settling here, after they realised this platform was the most practical outdoor space on which the entire community could assemble together. It was their public forum, their civic space, a place for announcements, celebrations and, so far occasional, burials at sea. According to Walter the metal-grilled floor was secure and utterly safe, however, Jenny found it disconcerting standing on the mesh and seeing the water, a long way down, churning menacingly beneath her feet.

  ‘A special day for us,’ she added her voice croaking already as she did her best to be heard by everyone congregated around her. ‘A celebration of our ability to make our own electricity. And, you know, it’s also a reminder that things will get better; get easier for us. We’ll get better at the business of survival . . . and maybe one day soon, when we know for certain it’s safe enough, we’ll all return to the mainland.’

  She heard several voices amongst the crowd muttering. She’d like to think, just for once, that sour-faced cow Alice wasn’t sticking her oar in.

  ‘So, that’s why we’re having this anniversary bash, to remind ourselves that these rigs are just a temporary home . . . that things will improve. I promise you.’

  Several voices called out in agreement. Another good-natured voice heckled her from the back to get on with throwing the switch.

  Jenny laughed. ‘All right.’ She gestured towards Walter, standing beside her.

  ‘As always, Walter’s been working tirelessly for us. We have some homebrew booze that he’s managed to distil.’

  ‘Not from chicken shit I hope!’ cried someone.

  A peel of laughter rippled across the crowd. Jenny smiled. ‘Potato peelings . . . so he tells me.’

  Several people groaned at the thought.

  ‘I’m sure it tastes better than it looks.’

  Walter strode forward to stand beside her. ‘That’s right, ladies and gents! Several gallons of the highest quality Spudka. So you’d better bloody appreciate it!’ he chipped in gruffly. The crowd rippled dutiful laughter.

  ‘And, of course, we have our wonderful Christmas lights. Shall we get them on now?’ She smiled at the gathered rows of faces in front of her; pale ovals fading out into the dark night.

  The chorus was deafening.

  God help me if this trip switch doesn’t flippin’ work.

  She turned to Walter. ‘Walt, would you like to do the honours?’

  He grinned as he reached down to his feet and picked up a length of yellow flex with a junction box attached to it.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen and children,’ he pronounced grandly. ‘Happy anniversary!’

  Around the edge of the drilling deck hundreds of tiny coloured bulbs, strung across from one side to the other, suddenly winked on, lighting the platform like a Christmas tree.

  The night was filled with a collective gasp.

  Jenny found herself joining them. Even though she’d done her bit threading the power cables and strings of lights around the metal spars this afternoon, and took turns standing guard, banning anyone else from coming down on to the deck so that it would be a big surprise for them all; even though she had a rough idea where all the lights were strung and how many of those twenty-five watt bulbs were going to come to life, her breath was as much taken away as anyone else’s.

  Oh, God . . . it’s beautiful.

  Impulsively, she reached out and hugged Walter, looking over his rounded shoulder for her kids in the crowd.

  Leona’s gaze drifted along the strings of bulbs; red, blue, green, orange; beautiful carnival pinpoints of light that fogged and blurred with her tears. Hannah was chuckling with delight and swinging on her arm.

  ‘Hey, Lee? Why you crying?’

  Leona laughed, shook her head and wiped the dampness away. ‘I’m not, Han. It’s . . . it’s just . . . so pretty!’ She felt her throat tighten and knew that saying anything else right now would mean she’d probably end up blubbing like some old dear. She noticed amongst the other faces around her, turned upwards to gaze adoringly at the lights, the telltale glint of moist eyes.

  Not just me then.

  Hannah’s attention returned to the lights and she whooped with joy, then tugged Leona’s hand. ‘Can I go give Nanna and Uncle Walter a “well done” hug?’

  Leona nodded and let her hand go, watching Hannah scoot off through the crowd towards her grandmother, realising how old she felt just then. Only twenty-eight and yet she felt like one of those sad old soldiers who got misty eyed at the sight of an RAF flyover on Remembrance Sunday. Old before her time.

  Oh . . . to hell with it.

  She let the tears roll; the lights becoming a blurred kaleidoscope. Laughing and crying at the same time as she suddenly realised all those pretty lights winding their way up the comms tower reminded her vaguely of Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve, Oxford Street at Christmas.

  There was an orderly queue already forming beside the huge plastic ten-gallon drum containing Walter’s potato brew and Hamarra had started bashing out an old folk tune on her acoustic guitar. Rowena Falkirk - a silver-haired surly stick of a woman, unsurprisingly a friend of Alice’s - joined in on the fiddle; a playful tune that instantly lifted everyone’s spirits and had toes compulsively tapping.

  Leona found herself humming along in her own tone-deaf and tuneless way before she even realised she was doing it.

  Jacob and Nathan had managed to sneak a second tumbler of Walter’s brew before Jenny spotted them both queuing for a third and turfed them out of the line.

  Sitting on the steps leading up to a Portakabin, Jacob found Valérie, smiling at the revelry going on around him. Walter’s concoction - limited to a mug per child and two per adult - had begun to weave its magic, taking the edge off the cool breeze and the damp and drizzle in the air.

  ‘It is a good party,’ said Valérie.

  Nathan nodded. ‘Walt and Jake’s mum done well cool with them lights.’

  Jacob found space on the step beside Valérie and sat down. ‘How’s your leg feeling?’

  ‘It is very sore, but it is healing well, I think.’

  He looked at the man. Valérie looked much more presentable now he’d tidied himself up a little. He’d borrowed some trousers and a thick woolly jumper from the clothes-library. If Mum decided to let him stay, he’d be able to pick a whole wardrobe of clothes from the communal pile, and those would be his to wash and repair as needs be.

  He wanted to quiz Valérie further on what he’d seen ashore whilst on his travels. Mum had said she’d heard enough from him for the moment and when he was feeling better she’d want to hear more details. But Jacob was eager to know more now. Stone-cold sober it would have felt presumptuous to corner him like this; emboldened by the drink, this felt as good a time as any.

  ‘You said there was nothing out there, Mr Lat
oc. Not a thing.’ He looked up at Nathan, standing with a foot on the bottom step and distractedly watching the party going on. ‘Me and Nate thought maybe, by now, there would be things getting themselves sorted out?’

  Valérie shrugged sympathetically. ‘In the Europe that I have seen . . . no. There was too much migration of people. Eastern Europeans, North Africans all assuming France and Germany would be better organised to cope. Too many people. It was a very bad mess.’

  ‘And the United Kingdom?’ asked Nathan. ‘Is it really as bad as that?’

  ‘I sailed across to Dover,’ Valérie replied, shuffling on the hard metal grating of the step to find a more comfortable place. ‘Then I walked through, uh, Kent? Yes. Then north towards London.’

  ‘What did you eat?’

  ‘There is still food to be found. Much easier to find food actually in your country than in Europe.’

  Jacob cocked his head. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You British died much faster at the time. The water was stopped when your power stopped, yes?’

  Jacob nodded.

  ‘People drinking bad water and getting diseases very quick. In Europe; France, Germany had much better emergency plans, reserves of food and water, and some power in areas. More people survived for much longer . . . a year, two years. All this time, they are finding food in damaged shops and warehouses, but not making new food. So, you know, eventually, we have too many people coming in, our emergency plans collapsed too. But by this time too many people had been picking for food and it is now all gone.’

  Mum had said something along the same lines once, that in a way it had been a good thing that the die-off in Britain had been so incredibly rapid. It meant there’d been much more left behind to be foraged; it had given those who’d survived a better chance of keeping going whilst they prepared to feed themselves on what they could grow.

  ‘What about those men who chased you?’ asked Nathan. ‘What was their place like?’