He recalled how his Grandmother had described the ninth wave, a mystical barrier which divides the lands of the mortals from the land of the dead, of how it lay somewhere between the ocean and the Isles of Paradise, where suffering and contempt are absent and how these were lands inhabited by immortal beings. Between dusk and dawn an immortal would come forth and return with a soul. The awful possibility occurred to him, that Bull may have experienced a premonition? Was “The Walker” his visitation? Had he come for him? Was this the end and now was the time for his redemption? Were they already dead and this was some form of Purgatory? Andrew wrestled with his galloping psychosis. He even wondered if he had already crossed over the ninth wave into the Otherworld. Ashley’s voice raced through his brain like a herd of wild horses to save him from the brink. Oh don’t be so ridiculous, would you listen to yourself man. Have you gone quite mad? There is no such thing as an Otherworld or spirits crossing from other dimensions. Andrew’s Mother now joined in the discussion. Poppycock, balderdash and country bumpkin talk! Only a fool would listen to your grandmother’s fairy tales. For once I have to agree with the skinny chain smoking bitch. You are barking mad my boy if you believe in such nonsense...
The hooded shapes maintained their distance, but always with the white shrouded figure in the middle. He imagined the safety of home in a fruitless attempt to counteract his conscious nightmare. If only he could get one last chance to make his life good, he thought. He would beg Ashley’s forgiveness for acting like a maniac, he would kiss his children’s foreheads one last time, smell their sweet skin and cradle them in his arms. If only God would take pity on him, show him divine mercy by allowing him one last chance to put things in his life right.
All night he stayed awake, watching his breath condense before him and staring back and forth from the sea to the far side of the raft where he wanted to believe Bull lay sleeping. He waited for his assailants to end their tormenting game and finally attack en masse, but curiously they kept their distance. He passed the hours praying for the sun to rise, even to see the diurnal illumination of twilight and to stare into a liminal world. The gates to the Otherworld would close and his life would be spared. Only signs of daylight on the horizon would bring him some comfort now. Andrew cursed Bull and castigated himself for waking him from his nightmare. He denigrated his grandmother’s superstitions, and then he began to feel sick. His mind was beginning to ferment in new depths of paranoia, twisting interminably with fresh inventions to explain away the images in front of him. He cursed the manufacturers of the raft for not properly securing the emergency pack, for not making the pontoons resistant to being punctured by a sharp multi-tool and for not making the satellite responder more robust. He cursed them for not providing rations, for surely the lack of food was driving this hallucination. He wondered if he could send a letter of complaint to them from the Otherworld.
Later, he became conscious of the changing colour of the sky, now holding some of the diffracted light from the other side of the planet. The blackness dissolved and faded to a grey, and the sun poured its red light onto the seascape. He watched as the warm glow cast off the darkness and spread out on the emerging horizon. He concentrated his listless eyes on the shapes, refusing to disappear back to their Otherworld. The light increased by the second and Andrew found that his mystical apparitions were a pod of killer whales. Andrew sighed, “Oh thank God, thank you God,” he said. The reprieve was short lived. Andrew now faced a more rational, earthly fear as he contemplated the prospect of the whales ramming against the raft. He looked towards where Bull lay, curled up sleeping in his white, faux fur coat and foil blanket, still snoring like a hibernating bear. He was, for the first time, glad to see his face. Malcolm still lay motionless like a crash-test dummy, but at least he was still alive. The pod of whales continued to swim only metres from the raft. It was obvious to Andrew that the shrouded figures had been the shapes of their large dorsal fins rising in and out of the water. In the middle of the pod there was one white fin. Andrew stared in disbelief. His mouth was cast wide open, aghast at the sight of an abomination of nature, he thought. He wondered if his eyes were still playing tricks on him, but as Bull awoke and joined him on his side of the raft, he too could see the white orca. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost mate,” said Bull.
“It feels like I have. It’s a pod of whales. They’ve been following the raft all night. Do you see that one in the middle of them? The white one. I’ve been staring at it all night.”
“Is that your ghost? A ghost orca, that’s an interesting thought. Perhaps the other whales don’t even realise that it travels with them? Perhaps the ghost whale doesn’t even know it is dead, itself.”
“It’s been a long night. I’m in no mood for your banter.”
“Well you would insist in leaving the canopy down and staring at the sea. Seriously, that will be that albino killer whale that’s been in the news lately. It’s been spotted a few times but some marine scientists say it’s not possible, but it clearly is. Shows you what they know.” Andrew’s nerves were still raw and on edge. He said,
“Don’t killer whales ram small boats thinking they are seals?” Bull put a comforting hand on Andrew’s shoulder and said,.
“They would have probably attacked us by now if they had wanted to. There are two types of killer whale - one hunts fish and the other sea mammals. I think these are fish eaters so I think we’ll be alright. Maybe the raft has attracted some fish and that’s why they are following us?”
“There was something else, when you were asleep, there was…”
“What?”
“It was nothing. I need to sleep. Can you take the look out?”
Bull erected the canopy. He crept towards the aperture to take up his position as look out for the morning. The pulse of the sea was beating faster and harder. Waves pounded the raft. He gazed out, watching as the natural illumination of the morning drained from the sky. On the horizon a wall of black. He spent the day counting the elapsing seconds between the forks of lightning cascading down the skyline and the rolling claps of thunder. A storm was approaching.
Chapter 15: Change
2036. Six months earlier
Bull’s father believed that most of the obstacles his son traversed in life were self-inflicted, and that one way or another he would resolve them in his own time, hopefully learning from the experience in due process. He was of the belief that a solution to a problem should only be derived from knowledge, and as he had only modest association with his son’s particular difficulties, it was better to change the subject. The notion of people talking openly about their personal issues was something he found difficult to comprehend. He would describe himself as from the old school.
Bull had returned to Manchester on hearing that the family home had been flooded. A storm surge had breached the river Mersey flood barrier, sending a tidal bore inland, and coupled with the 390 mm of heavy rain which fell in one day, the river Irwell flood defences were overwhelmed. Salford was underwater. Bull's father was recovering at the National Football museum in Cathedral Gardens, Manchester, which had been turned into a rescue centre. He sat at a table wrapped in a foil blanket and was playing muggings with an old man. Bull’s father looked at his son’s face. He coughed and said,
“You’ve got a face like a bulldog chewin a wasp. What’s up with you?” Bull talked about Saffron and how his life was going through a period of turmoil and change, Bull’s father listened, sipping his tea. Finally, he said, “A change is good in some instances, but some people don’t like the idea of change. Take the Luddites for example, they smashed all the textile looms right here in Lancashire during the Industrial Revolution. Some thought they were just opposed to progress but they claimed they were only protecting their livelihoods. It’s all about adjusting to a new set of circumstances lad.” He then returned to the game of muggings he was playing with his friend.
Bull turned to Deirdre and making circular motions with his forefinger towards
his temple lobe proclaimed incongruously,
“Dad seems to be taking it well.” Deirdre whispered back,
“He doesn’t know how bad the flood damage was and that the house is being demolished, so don’t mention that to him, not yet anyway. I don’t think he could cope. He’s only coming to terms with finding out from Patrick that most of his possessions and that wooden box where he kept all Mam’s personal stuff floated out the door.”
“It’s about time he moved on. Keeping a box of faded photos and an old dress which he would occasionally take out and sniff was surely not healthy.”
“You have a cheek telling anyone to move on, and how the hell did you know about his photograph box? Did Patrick tell you?”
“He might have done.”
“That was between me and him. He’s a fucking gob shite and so are you. All my stuff is on the top floor but its just cheap shite and I wouldn’t have given a toss if it had been flushed away, but that junk of Dad’s, that really means a lot to him, its all he’s got to connect him with Mam.”
“I know the feeling.”
Deirdre sighed then said, “Don’t be going comparing Mam and Dad’s decades of marriage with some hippy bint you shacked up with for a season or two.” A look of hurt glinted in Bull’s eye. He said,
“Talking of chieftains of the understatement, where is Patrick?”
“He’s back at the house trying to see what he could salvage. He was hoping that you would help him but he couldn’t wait any longer for you. What was up with the trains this time? Software failure? Flooding? Vandalism? A dog shat on the line?”
“Industrial action.”
“I thought striking was illegal during a state of emergency?”
“The unions have a different opinion.”
Bull’s father stood up and greeted a man who had just limped into the rescue centre on a set of crutches. Together they shuffled towards the canteen. Bull moved to assist his father in carrying the two cups of hot tea but was told firmly to mind his own business. Deirdre put her hand on Bull’s shoulder and said,
“They had been down the pub all day, thinking the flood defences wouldn’t be breached. The emergency services had to forcibly remove him and his mates from the Squealing Pig. He refused to get on the rescue boat because he was winning a game of Muggins and that’s when it all kicked off.”
“Another fight?” Deirdre nodded.
“Did the fight involve the old fella he’s talking to, the one with the crutches?” Deirdre nodded again and then she said,
“Dad’s developed this horrible cough ever since he was rescued. I’m not sure if it psychosomatic but I’m going to get it checked out at the hospital, once the trouble dies down.”
Bull’s father helped the man with the crutches back towards his table and together they sat down and started a new game of Muggins. With tears welling up in her eyes, Deirdre turned to Bull and said,
“Anyway, he won’t be here for long. Patrick is sorting out a nice bungalow for him in Croker Hill.”
“And he agreed? I didn’t think he would ever leave Salford?”
“There’s nowt much of Salford that isn’t under three metres of water Faerrleah. Have you been to see the damage? The whole of the Mersey Basin including the Irwell Valley was flooded. We got six months of rain in one day. They’ve been pickin bodies out the river all night. It’s much worse on the east coast. It wasn’t just all the rain, there was a big tidal surge. Did you not see it on the news? What about the prison, the riots? All the prisoners at Strangeways thought they were getting left to drown so they all went mental. There’s been riots all over the city. The police opened fire on a group of protestors in St Peter’s Square and I’m not talking rubber bullets either. They said that were trying to set fire to the town hall. Didn’t you even see that? The whole country is in uproar. There’s talk of an armed revolution. Where have you been recently, living in a fucking cave?”
“I’ve been busy.” Bull’s father looked up and said,
“Riots? It’s not the first time there’s been riots there. Parliament sent the army in to attack the crowd at St Peter’s Field in 1819, just after the end of the Napoleonic wars. They called it the Peterloo massacre. Those Dragoons didn’t care for whoever got in their way. Women, children and all were cut down. The people were starving and protesting about the Corn Laws. They were ruthless back in them days, ruthless.” He looked at Deirdre and Bull for a brief moment and then returned to his game.
At that moment Patrick returned from the estate agents. He greeted Deirdre but ignored Bull. He said,
“Right Dad, you’re coming to stay with me until we get a new place sorted. The car’s waiting outside.” At that moment, through the glass window, Patrick noticed a group of children congregating around his car. He ran to the street and Deirdre followed. Bull’s father lifted his head. He looked concerned. He said to Bull,
“Ok, but we need to stop off at the house on route. I need to pick a few things up.” Bull said,
“The house is gone old man, didn’t they tell you? You need to be leaving now to avoid the chaos. There’s an Atlantic storm on its way and the floods will be even worse this time.” Bull’s father sunk his head into his hands and when he showed his face again his eyes were glazed. He coughed and said,
“Well not until I finish this game.” Bull patted his back gently saying,
“You need to go now you daft old bugger.” Bull’s father turned to him and looked him in the eyes. He emitted a rasping cough and clutched his chest. His breathing sounded shallow. He drew closer to Bull and said,
“I was always waiting for the right time to tell you this but now is probably as good a time as any time.”
“Tell me what?” replied Bull.
“You were adopted.” Bull’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His father put a hand on his shoulder and tapped it saying,
“Hope that brings some clarity to your life son.”
Patrick returned with his sister. He approached the table and said,
“I’ll be outside waiting in the car - it’s not safe out there…” Patrick froze. His father had grabbed his companion by the throat and the game of Muggins spilled across the table and onto the floor. The old man with the crutches was trying to join in the affray but only succeeded in falling over and taking the table with him. The pile of pensioners grappled and thumped their way across the floor until Bull, Patrick and Deirdre intervened and separated them. Bull’s father protested, “Cheatin bastards. Whole lot of em!”
After Bull’s father settled down, Patrick turned to leave. Bull stopped him. He offered him an apology for burdening him with his problems, involving his family in his complex life, and not considering his brother’s feelings during the ending of his own marriage. He offered Patrick an embrace to which Patrick declined. They stepped outside of the rescue centre and said goodbye in their customary fashion of a playful punch to the shoulder. Patrick bundled his father into the backseat of his car. Before leaving, he put two strong arms around Bull, held him and said,
“Look after yourself brother, I’ve got a feeling we won’t be seeing each other for a while.” Bull turned and shrugged his shoulders at Deirdre. They watched Patrick’s car speed off until it turned the corner at the top of the street.
Deidre linked her arm around Bull’s and they walked in silence towards Victoria train station. They took a detour at the end of the street when they came across lines of police battling with protesters.
“You’re quiet. Sommat up?” said Deirdre.
“It’s just something Patrick and Dad said. Silly old buggers. Dad’s not making much sense these days. He said I was adopted.”
“Adopted? His head’s always been ragged but he’s making even less sense recently?” Deirdre paused and then said, “Never mind him anyway, what about this decision to leave your old life behind and start afresh? What’s this life changing experience you were buzzin about on the phone?” Bull’s expression changed. He felt a rare wave o
f optimism wash over him. He said,
“I think I now understand more about myself. I now know why I responded so badly to the break up with Saffron. It’s much like the predicament with Patrick’s divorce. Different people react differently to different situations, and all in their own different way.”
“Flippin’ heck, now you’re the Salford Confucius?” Bull laughed.
“Hardly, what kind of world would it be without diversification. Look at our family - you’re the voice of reason, Patrick represents stability, and I’m turmoil.”
“What about Dad, what does he represent?”
“After that barney back at the rescue centre - anarchy by the looks of it. Not everyone is impetuous like me, or reliable like you.”
“Maybe I only appear sensible when sat beside you, and that’s an unfair comparison considering you’re such an impulsive big sod. I have my moments. My head gets cabbaged from time to time. I just don’t go around bleating on about it like you do.”
“You mean talking about stuff rather than manning up and taking it on the chin like Patrick does?”
“You don’t know for sure how Patrick is dealing with all this, Faerrleah. It’s the silent types like Patrick that ends up blowing their heads off with a shotgun. Not everyone is as open about their emotions as you are. You have an outlet for your feelings and that’s healthy, but there are others who find it near impossible to open up to anyone. They keep things all shut up and under wraps until it festers away and one day, they can’t contain the pressure anymore and it explodes.”
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 16