by Alex Scarrow
‘I never could read bloody road maps.’
Nathan sighed impatiently. ‘If we just head south, man, we’ll, like, hit the Thames, right? S’all we need to do.’
Leona shook her head. ‘Heading south from here won’t take us to London.’ Her finger brushed down the page from Bishops Stortford. ‘We’ll be going more towards the east of London and then we’ll have to turn right to head in along the Thames estuary. That’s a lot longer.’ She looked up at him and Jacob. ‘We should just follow the road into London. It takes us right into the centre. That’s far quicker.’
And Shepherd’s Bush would be a couple of hours from there. Nearly journey’s end.
Jacob frowned. ‘But we might miss the lights Mr Latoc saw . . . we might go past them.’
‘You told me he said the sky was glowing, Jake. Right?’
Jacob nodded.
‘Well, if he was telling the truth, then you’ll see them for miles. I’m sure we won’t miss them.’
‘He was crossing the river. He said he saw them to the east.’
‘Yeah, Jake, but where was he crossing?’
Jacob shrugged. ‘He just said it was somewhere near Big Ben.’
He looked down at the map, recognising the familiar blue loops of the Thames. ‘We should head down to the river and just follow it.’
She looked again at the map. ‘That means,’ she said running her finger across the page, ‘we’ll come off the M11 onto the M25 until the Dartford Tunnel . . .’
Nathan nodded. ‘S’right, then turn right an’ follow the river into London. Easy, man.’
‘We won’t get lost,’ said Jacob, ‘if we just follow the river.’
The idea of keeping to the Thames certainly felt a little more appealing than heading into the bowels of the city, which might still be - most probably was - a ghostly necropolis of dark and abandoned office blocks and shopping malls. To have the open river to their left would offer some reassurance. A less direct route though and it would probably add another day to their journey, given the sluggish pace they were making towing the heavy trailer behind them.
Another day won’t hurt, will it? She could hang on another day. She realised she wasn’t in quite the same hurry to get home and pop a bottle of pills as she had been a few days ago.
‘All right, then,’ she sighed and shared a quick conciliatory smile with the boys. ‘Along the river it is.’
Jacob placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, maybe, if it’s not too far we could drop by our old home. See how it is.’
Leona wondered if Jacob was probing; had somehow sensed her resolve to go home for good. ‘I don’t think so. Best we leave Dad in peace, eh?’
He looked up at her. ‘I miss him.’
‘I know, but he’s not really there, Jake. It’s just a body now. Just like all the others.’
They’d seen the desiccated remains that had once been dads and sons, mums and daughters, still clad in football strips, jumpers, summer blouses and teen fashion tops. And Dad was going to look just the same; a dried husk in clothes stained a dark sepia.
‘All right,’ he said eventually.
She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘Let’s just head towards Dartford and see if those lights are there somewhere along the Thames, eh? Just like Mr Latoc said.’
Both of them nodded.
She folded the page of the road map over and then snuggled down into her sleeping bag, watching the flames dance and sparks flutter into the night sky. She fell asleep listening to Jacob and Nathan discussing comic book superheroes.
Chapter 36
10 years AC
‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea
Jenny caught herself absent-mindedly tugging the tattered drape partially across her cabin porthole to dim the room slightly. She could hear the clack of feet on the metal steps up to her floor and then the softer tap on linoleum as they approached her door. She chided herself for fretting about how she looked. There were more important matters at hand.
She heard the rap of a knuckle on the door.
‘Mrs Sutherland?’
It was Valérie Latoc.
‘You can come in,’ she said, pulling herself up on the cot to a comfortable sitting position.
He stepped tentatively into the cabin and offered her a warm and friendly smile. It seemed like an eternity since she’d last seen his face; another lifetime. In fact, just a month and a half had passed. She remembered wanting to look good for him because she’d found him attractive. Right now she felt painfully self-conscious of the livid ripples of healing skin on her face and her hair now clipped uniformly all over to a less than feminine short dark fuzz.
‘You are much better?’ he inquired.
‘I’m mending, thank you.’
There was someone else behind him. Martha stepped into the room in his wake, her eyes lighting up with joy at the sight of her. ‘Jenny!’
‘Martha?’
Jenny hadn’t asked for her to come up. In fact, she expressly asked Walter to tell Valérie she wished to speak with him alone. The woman stepped around him and towards the cot, her broad dark face beaming kindly, genuinely relieved to see her friend awake and getting well.
‘Oh, Jenny, love, I’ve been so worried for you,’ she said, extending arms to embrace her.
‘Please . . . don’t!’ she said holding up a hand to stay Martha. ‘My skin hurts.’
Martha froze where she was. Her full vibrant voice faltered. ‘Oh, love, I’m so, so sorry about Hannah. She was such a wonderful little—’
Jenny reached out and grasped one of her hands. This wasn’t the conversation she wanted to have right now although she was learning to accept that everyone who’d so far been allowed to see her insisted on opening with an awkwardly offered condolence; genuinely heartfelt, of course, but always awkward and faltering. Each time for Jenny, behind her weary smile of gratitude, it was another painful tug on the stitching of her broken heart.
‘I know . . . she was,’ she replied. ‘Thank you, Martha. I know you were fond of her.’
Martha’s eyes filled as she nodded silently. ‘One of God’s little angels,’ she whimpered. ‘She’s in a better place now, Jenny, love. So much better.’
Valérie nodded. ‘Yes. We prayed for her soul. And yours . . . and that you would heal very quickly.’
Jenny grimaced. She felt that a ‘thank you’ was perhaps the right thing to say under the circumstances, but then, prayers - that was exactly what she’d wanted to talk to Valérie about, alone.
‘Yes, and look, that’s why I wanted to see you. I’ve been informed, Mr Latoc, that mealtimes in the mess have become an opportunity for an open prayer meeting.’
Valérie made no attempt to deny it. ‘Yes, I have been saying a prayer before meals, this is correct.’
‘Are you aware that it’s one of the few things I ask people in this community not to do?’
His eyebrows arched, his smooth voice rose in surprise. ‘To pray?’
‘To pray aloud in a shared space like the mess room, yes.’
‘It is just a blessing,’ he smiled. ‘That is all; a thanks to God for feeding us.’
Jenny was surprised by the sudden jab of irritation she felt. ‘No, well you see it isn’t God that has to shovel human shit onto our potatoes every day, is it? He doesn’t water them every day with rainwater we’ve carefully collected or fetched by tug from Bracton, does he? He doesn’t do any of the things we all have to do each and every day to survive.’
‘We are here, alive and well,’ he replied calmly, ‘because He wills it. A little thank you at mealtimes, is this so much to ask?’
She stared at him, then at Martha who was nodding silently. She knew Martha had faith, was a Baptist, prayed every day and every night, but it was nothing she’d ever tried to press on Jenny. It was a personal faith, between her and her God.
‘He wills it?’
Valérie smiled as he nodded.
‘Jenny,’ cut in
Martha, her voice still trembling with emotion, ‘I love you like a sister and it breaks my heart to think how much pain you’re going through, love. Hannah, Leona and Jacob all gone. My boy, Nathan, left with them. I spend every night worryin’ after them.’ Her cheeks shone with tears. ‘But it helps, love. It helps if you’ll accept Him into your heart. His love will make things right for you again. His love—’
‘Martha,’ she raised her hand again, wincing from the pull on her tight skin, ‘Martha, please.’
She hushed, clasping her hands together in front of her face.
Jenny could feel the salty sting of a tear rolling down her own tender right cheek.
Dammit. She didn’t want Valérie to see her crying. She didn’t need him to see her weak like this. It was only going to embolden him.
‘God isn’t going to bring back Hannah,’ she said, struggling hard to keep her voice even. ‘She died because a single fastening clamp came off the generator. It wasn’t attached tightly enough and it came off. She died because we overlooked safety—’
‘No. It was because He wanted her with Him, away from this dark world,’ cut in Valérie.
‘She died, Mr Latoc, because there should have been a fucking lock on the door, or a more secure clamp holding the feed pipe!’ Her voice croaked unpleasantly. If she’d been stronger, it would have snapped a brittle angry bark. ‘That’s it. It was shitty, bad luck!’ She felt her voice warbling, her throat painful. ‘Just plain . . . shit luck.’
‘Accept His love,’ he urged her, ‘accept God into your life, Jennifer. It’s what everyone here needs now. God sent me here—’
‘Now stop right there!’
It was quiet in her cabin except for the far-off bustle of activity coming from the canteen downstairs, the rattle of cutlery in a washing-up bowl full of saltwater, the nattering voices of those on galley duty this morning.
‘There’s a very good reason why I don’t allow prayers over meals, why I’d rather we don’t have organised prayer meetings on any of the platforms.’ She sipped some water, taking the time to steady herself. ‘We’ve got . . . shit, I don’t know how many different faiths on these rigs. Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims . . . at least half a dozen Hindus that I’m aware of. I say “yes” to one, I have to say “yes” to all. Then you know what’ll happen?’
Valérie narrowed his eyes.
‘Whatever weak glue it is that’s just about managing to hold us together will dissolve and before you know it we’ll have a Christian-only platform. A Muslim-only platform. There’ll be people up here petitioning me for segregated mealtimes for different faiths, for periods of fasting, for calls to prayer at all times of the day. This community won’t work that way. It’ll fall apart.’
‘Jennifer,’ said Valérie, ‘we will all be so much stronger unified by Him. The message I bring from God is for everyone to hear—’
‘No!’
She wished she’d arranged to have this meeting with either Tami or Walter beside her. Just for a little back-up. ‘No! I’m absolutely not having this! You want to pray, to thank God for your daily hot meal, well okay that’s fine, but you can do it privately in your head. Or out loud in your own space before you come over here. If He’s so bloody well omnipotent then I’m sure He’ll hear you there just as easily as in the mess.’
‘Oh, Jenny,’ said Martha shaking her head sadly.
She turned her attention to her friend. ‘Martha, I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. We’ve got by very well these last few years without ringing bells and calls to prayer.’
‘Valérie has opened my eyes, love,’ she replied. ‘The crash . . . the end of the old world. It was the Lord making a brand new start. The End Times, just like He promised would come. It was the Rapture, love. And this place is our ark!’
Jenny glanced back at the man.
Ark? Just what the hell has he been preaching?
She realised Walter was right. Valérie Latoc was trouble.
‘Martha, it was an oil crash. Oil was on its way to running out and the supply choked. That’s what happened. You know that.’
‘Or it is God’s punishment for the sin of greed?’ said Valérie. ‘Allah’s condemnation for our arrogance? Jehovah’s damnation for—’
‘Will you shut up!’
Valérie did, but then he shook his head with pity. ‘I am sorry, Jennifer, but I am here for a purpose. There is much work for me to do here. Please, I ask you to open your heart before it is too late.’
She wondered if there was an implied threat in that.
She shook her head and waved for them to get out. ‘All right, we’re done. You know my feelings on this. I don’t want any more food blessings in the canteen, that’s stopping right now!’
‘Jenny?’ pleaded Martha.
‘I mean it! No more.’ She turned her hard eyes on Valérie. ‘You’re still here on probation, Mr Latoc. Do you understand?’
For a moment she considered whether to revoke his probation right here, right now. But then realised Latoc would probably simply refuse. And then he’d have to be forcibly evicted. She wondered how many people would rally round him. Thirty? Forty? And other than Walter armed with a gun, who would rally on her side? A confrontation might be exactly what he’s after; an opportunity to portray her as some sort of out-of-touch tyrant. An opportunity to discuss whether the time had come for someone else to lead them.
A stern warning for now, then. I need to get up and about and see how far he’s got his little hooks into the people.
‘I am seriously considering asking you to leave, Mr Latoc. If this continues, then I’m going to be forced to do that. It’s one of the few rules we have, and you’re breaking it. Do you understand?’
‘Time is running out,’ he replied. ‘Do you know right now God is judging this place?’
‘Please leave now!’ she barked, pointing to the door.
They turned and stepped away obediently, Martha glanced back over her shoulder at her as she left. It wasn’t defiance or anger on her face, just sadness and, perhaps, pity.
As Jenny listened to the soft sound of their feet retreating down the passageway towards the stairwell, she realised that she’d achieved nothing more than to harden the man’s resolve. She needed to get herself back on her feet, and do that quickly. To talk with Tami and Walter and the one or two others she trusted. In fact, she’d have counted Martha amongst them if she hadn’t turned up alongside Valérie Latoc.
This isn’t good.
Chapter 37
10 years AC
M25 Motorway, London
The motorway took them clockwise around London in a south-easterly direction. They cruised along the wide, empty motorway, all eyes cast to their right examining the distant grey urban skyline for any signs of life.
On the approach to each slip road they’d become accustomed to the familiar pattern of a build-up of abandoned vehicles, trailing back down the exit run and out onto the motorway clogging all three lanes. Each time their progress was entirely blocked they were forced to unload the trailer and lift it over the central barrier between them and proceed along the oncoming lanes until they too, became impassable, then it was back over to the other side again. It seemed like every vehicle in London had ended up becoming ensnared on this motorway, caught bumper to bumper at every exit point.
Finally they came off at a junction that would take them into the city and, eventually, down to the Thames. There had been a frustrating half an hour trying to ease the trailer through a logjam of vehicles and around a barricade; once more having to unload the trailer, lift it over and repack it. But since then the ride had been almost effortless; the gentle coasting whirr of their bicycle wheels along the empty road, the occasional clatter of chains shifting gear and catching, the crackle of glass granules beneath their tyres and the rustle of dried leaves wind-borne and stirring.
And every now and then, when she decided it was her turn with the iPod, she would get utterly lost in the soundtr
ack of her younger, happier days.
She grinned as she cycled; felt almost good - the music made the past feel tangible. For some reason it made some sort of a future feel almost possible. She began to ask herself what she was going to do if they really did see lights; whether she’d still want to part with the boys and head home.
Sunlight shone into her eyes, finding gaps through the thin veil of clouds; not too hot as they pedalled, but still T-shirt-warm when they occasionally stopped to catch their breath.
By early afternoon they took the next exit which, like all the others, was plugged with abandoned vehicles, on to another A-road heading west, roughly parallel to the Thames ten miles further south of them, into central London.
They soon discovered, though, that progress from this point on wasn’t going to be quite so easy. Although the road wasn’t so blocked that they needed to dismount and negotiate their trailer over or around any obstacles, there were enough cars and trucks left on the hard shoulder or skewed across one lane or another that it was a relentless weaving slalom for them.
By four in the afternoon, they were passing through a lifeless outer London, still and silent; terraced houses and three-storey blocks of flats lined both sides of the road, every last window smashed leaving dark eye-sockets out of which tattered net curtains fluttered.
Leona noticed how quiet the boys had become, particularly Jacob. The spirited chattering about computer games and comics had dropped down a notch as they’d left the motorway. Now they pedalled in sombre silence, listening to the soft whisper of a breeze whistle tunelessly through empty office windows. They exchanged wary glances every now and then when they heard the clatter of loose things caught by eddies inside.
They crossed a bridge over a wide estuary, watching the afternoon sun emerge to sprinkle dazzling shards of light across the still water. Tugs and barges lay askew on mud flats either side, gulls and terns stepping delicately between them across the silt looking for an evening meal. Over the bridge, the road dipped south bringing them ever closer to the Thames which they would have been able to see by now if it wasn’t for the buildings on their left: shopfronts with floors of office space perched on top and riverside warehousing.