by Liam Brown
‘Please…’
‘The bags,’ I said again, this time punctuating my point by thrusting the knife in their direction.
After that, everything happened so quickly I hardly knew what was going on. The older boy decided to make a break for it, barging past me. As he did, I managed to turn and grab hold of his bag. We tussled for a moment before the black polythene split open, scattering his haul of chocolate bars, crisps and fizzy drinks across the pavement. He took a step towards a can of Coke, but I lunged at him with the knife and he let out a squeal, scampering off down the street empty-handed.
That just left the younger boy. As I turned to confront him, he too tried to bolt. He was too slow, though. I threw myself at him, pinning him against the shop window by the lapel of his coat. Up close I saw how young he really was. He couldn’t be more than ten years old. He looked terrified, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. A sour, vinegary smell filled the air as a trickle of urine soaked through his jeans. Still I didn’t let him go.
‘Please… Please don’t kill me.’
‘The bag,’ said the psychotic woman who appeared to have inhabited my body. ‘Drop the bag.’
He didn’t move.
The woman took the blade and pressed it to the boy’s throat, just below the tiny bob of his Adam’s apple.
A speck of blood appeared, red against white.
The speck became a trickle.
All it would take was a little more pressure and…
I snapped out of it, lowering the knife and stepping back.
‘I’m sorry,’ I began. ‘I didn’t mean…’
The boy didn’t wait for me to finish. With a whimper, he took the bag and ran to join his friend down the street.
‘You bitch!’ the older boy called back to me when his friend reached him. ‘You crazy fucking bitch!’
I tried to say something. To apologise again.
When I opened my mouth to speak, though, I realised I was crying.
DRIVING BACK TOWARDS the cottage, I kept glancing over at the small mound of junk food that was piled up on the passenger seat. After the boys had left, I’d salvaged what I could from the road, hurriedly stuffing the food into my pockets and handbag, before I’d given up and fled to the car. What an idiot I’d been. There was hardly enough there to last us a week. I hadn’t even gone back to search the shop. There might have been fresh food there. Stuff with actual nutritional value, rather than this pile of crap. But no, I’d panicked, too jacked up on adrenaline and drowning in shame to think clearly. I shook my head, trying to clear the image of the petrified boy from my mind. Was this who I was now? The kind of woman who’d threaten to stab a child over a couple of kilos of artificial colours and sweeteners? Or was this just the price of survival in the new world?
By the time I spotted the little cottage perched on the cliff edge, I was consumed with self-pity. Moments later, though, I forgot all about the boys at the shop.
Because as I pulled onto the driveway, I discovered there was a new car parked in front of the cottage.
But that wasn’t all.
As I killed the engine and got out of the car, I noticed the front door to the cottage was wide open.
It was hanging off its hinges.
As if it had been kicked.
SEVENTEEN
THE BOAT WASN’T functional. At least, it wasn’t functional yet. This was the first thing Jazz told me as he led me into the school hall. He was still wearing the white collar he’d found in the priest’s quarters, though as he came out to greet me I saw he’d dispensed with the black robes, instead tucking the white card into the neck of a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, which was speckled with paint and sawdust. As he spoke, he waved his hands around excitedly, pointing to the boat as he explained that he had nothing to treat the timbers with.
‘She wouldn’t last more than a few minutes on the water, even if I could figure out how to tow her there. Which, of course, I can’t.’
I nodded along gamely, though in truth I was so taken aback by the absurdity of the situation I was having trouble focusing on what he was saying. Night after night I had spent restless hours poring over satellite imagery of the school, trying to guess what his home might look like inside. I guess in a way I’d romanticised Jazz as a sort of desperate fugitive. And while I hadn’t exactly expected a hidden cave complex and a cache of guns and explosives, I certainly wasn’t prepared for this. Not that the boat wasn’t impressive. It must have taken hundreds of hours to complete. A month, at the very least. Even so, I was utterly bemused by its presence in the hall. ‘But what’s the point ?’ I asked, almost before I could stop myself. ‘If you’re not planning on sailing it, why spend all this time on it?’
Jazz’s face fell slightly. ‘Well, for one thing it gives me something to do. A sense of purpose. That’s important, you know? Three of my grandparents died in the first year of their retirement. You’ve got to keep busy. That’s apocalypse 101, right?’
‘I guess. But this? I mean, surely you’ve got enough on your plate with just trying to… you know?’
‘Stay alive? Sure. But this is fun. I was training to be a carpenter when everything fell apart, so this helps me keep my hand in. And who knows, maybe some day I’ll work out a way to get her onto the water? Either way, you have to admit she’s a beauty.’
It was tough to argue with him. Functional or not, the boat was a work of art. I pictured Jazz crafting it from scratch, scouring the city for the right pieces of wood, as if pulling together a jigsaw puzzle, then fitting it together, sanding it down. As I admired it, I found myself reassessing this strange, feral man. It took dedication to build something like this. Vision. Sensitivity. Sure, he might be a little rough around the edges, but the person who built this boat couldn’t be all bad. Could he?
Then I remembered the reason I was there. Because he’d tricked me. Stolen from me. Any warm feelings I had for him evaporated instantly. ‘So about my camera…’
Jazz frowned. ‘Ah. That. I’m afraid not. Sorry.’
‘So what, you’re just going to steal it? You know, it doesn’t even belong to me, right? I got in a lot of trouble because of you. And that’s without even getting into the fact you touched me to get it.’
‘Oh come on. Don’t make it sound creepier than it was. All I did was give you a hug. And it didn’t hurt you, did it? You’re not staggering around clutching your throat, are you? Anyway, you’ve got your funky space suit. Isn’t that supposed to protect you?’
‘That’s not the point. You violated my personal space. You could have killed me.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. But you didn’t leave me with much of a choice. You were filming me without permission. So if you want to talk about stealing and violating, let’s go there.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it? And what about putting my life in danger? Because you know that’s what would happen if that footage got into the wrong hands. Not that I’m accusing you of anything. I know you wouldn’t deliberately spill the SpaghettiOs. You’re no snitch.’
I felt my cheeks redden. ‘No… I mean… Of course not. It’s just… It’s just that I could really do with getting that camera back.’
Jazz smirked. ‘And I could really do with a tin of lacquer and an electric sander, but sometimes we’ve got to work with what God’s given us.’
We were each silent for a moment, the air between us thick with hostility, along with however many deadly pathogens.
‘You know what, forget it,’ I said at last. ‘I’m leaving. You can keep the stupid camera.’
To my surprise Jazz looked genuinely hurt. ‘You’re going?’
‘Yes. I shouldn’t have even come here. I don’t know why I thought you might act like a reasonable human being.’
‘Well that’s harsh. I was going to show you the boat first, but if you’ve got to go…’
I didn’t answer for a moment. Having come all this way, it seemed stupid to leave without some sort of ev
idence. Perhaps if I hung around for a while I’d get a chance to slip the camera away from him.
‘Fine. I’ll stay ten minutes. But after that, I’m gone. Understand?’
Jazz frowned, cupping his hand to his ear. ‘Huh? What was that? You know, if you’re going to insist on wearing that mask, you’re going to have to speak up. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’
I took a deep breath, raising my voice as I tried again. ‘I said—’
‘I’m kidding ,’ he laughed, before turning back to the boat. ‘Now, follow me. And please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. The tour is about to begin.’
‘IS IT SAFE?’ I asked, as I clambered uncertainly up the ladder after Jazz.
Standing on the deck, I could see the boat was appropriately named. The structure was far more ramshackle than it had appeared on the ground, the wooden planks that lined the floor evidently salvaged from dozens of different sources. Here and there were repurposed items I vaguely recognised. A sandwich board had been sawn into strips and nailed to the side to create a railing. The mast appeared to be fashioned from a wooden telegraph pole. The sails made from old duvet covers. The entire thing was stitched together from rubbish.
‘Safe? It’s a hand-built boat standing in the middle of a crumbling school hall in the midst of a post-apocalyptic nightmare. But if you’re asking if she’ll take your weight, then the answer is I don’t know. I guess we’re going to find out, eh?’
Tiptoeing uneasily across the deck, I followed Jazz to a small wooden hatch. With a sharp tug, he pulled it open, revealing a set of rickety stairs.
‘After you.’
I hesitated. If he was planning on hurting me, this would be a perfect opportunity. No one knew I was here. I’d never be found. I wondered how long it would take my family to realise I was gone. Weeks? Months? On the other hand, Jazz didn’t strike me as a murderer. Mixed up, sure. And occasionally infuriating. But not a killer. Well, unless you counted his penchant for close physical contact. Either way, I found myself stepping forwards into the darkness, feeling for a banister to help keep myself steady.
As I reached the belly of the boat. I looked around in amazement. The lower deck had been converted into a sumptuous bedroom. A soft glow spilled from coils of fairy lights that hung from the ceiling, which I later discovered were powered by an old car battery. The walls had been painted a dark purple, while red velvet curtains had been draped across most of the surfaces. On the floor, no less than three sheepskin rugs covered the floorboards, while in the centre of the room was a plump double bed, covered in silk bedding. I had to stifle a laugh. It was so tacky. The kind of crassly erotic décor a teenage boy might design for a low-budget porn shoot. A cross between Arabian Nights and a Parisian brothel.
Jazz looked hurt. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘No. It’s not that. It’s just… It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it, is all. It’s unbelievable. Do you actually sleep down here?’
He nodded. ‘I tried sleeping in the classrooms at first, but I couldn’t take it. All those kids’ work staring down at me from the walls? It was too creepy.’
We both lapsed into silence for a moment, thinking about the children who not so long ago would have filled the hall.
‘Anyway, that’s enough of that. Let’s get out of here shall we? I’ve still got so much cool stuff to show you.’
‘Really, I should be going—’
‘Come on. Just five more minutes,’ he pleaded, and again I was reminded of Charlie. The same whiny tone he’d use to beg for more screen time when he was a child.
‘Seriously. I really need to…’
Before I could finish, though, Jazz turned around and disappeared back up the stairs.
‘Come on!’ he called. ‘I’ll race you!’
The next stop on the tour was the school bathrooms, an area that Jazz seemed especially proud of. The water had stopped working years ago, but in one of the cubicles he’d managed to rig up a basic shower using a pipe connected to a tank of rainwater he’d set up on the roof. He’d even managed to get one of the toilets flushing. At the sight of it, I became acutely aware of the needling pressure building in my own bladder.
‘You know, I really do have to be getting home,’ I said, crossing my legs as Jazz took me through the intricacies of the flushing mechanism.
‘Okay. Sure. No worries. But before you go, at least let me show you the kitchen. It’s the coolest thing here. Then you can go, I swear.’
With a weary sigh, I allowed myself to be led through the hall. The whole time we were walking, Jazz jabbered away, proudly pointing out improvements that he’d made to the place. I hardly listened. Instead, I stayed focused on the bulge of the camera in the back pocket of his jeans. More than once, I thought about simply reaching out and snatching it. Would he chase me if I ran? And what would he do if he caught me?
Before I could find out, we arrived at a large industrial kitchen at the back of the old school canteen.
‘Now most of the time I have to make do with what I can scavenge.’ Jazz pointed towards a huge saucepan that was sitting on top of a stainless steel hob. ‘And let me tell you, that’s getting less and less. Even some of the tinned stuff is starting to go bad now, though I’ve got a fair stock of dried bits. Rice and oats and the rest of it. When I got here, though, I found they had a little garden out the back and, well, take a look for yourself.’
He lifted the lid on the pot with a flourish, revealing a vat of bubbling brown liquid.
‘What is it?’
‘French onion soup. My mum taught me how to make it. Back before…’
At the mention of his family, he paused. For the first time since I’d met him, he seemed less sure of himself. Vulnerable, even. I wanted to find out more, but something told me not to push it. Instead I steered the conversation back towards the food.
‘Don’t tell me you grew these onions yourself?’
Jazz grinned, and without answering he reached under the counter and threw something at me. A small purple ball, still caked in soil. I looked down and saw a bristle of roots still attached at one end.
‘When’s the last time you saw a fresh vegetable?’
I shook my head. ‘Not recently.’
‘You can eat them raw, too. They’re full of vitamins and minerals and all the rest of it.’ To illustrate his point, he reached under the counter for another onion, taking a big bite out of the side of it, skin and all. He grimaced. ‘Although I have to admit, they taste better in soup. You want some?’
‘Tempting as it is, I think I’ll pass,’ I said, noticing the smear of dirt the onion had left on my glove.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, taking a wooden spoon off the counter and dipping it into the pan.
As he turned, I saw the bulge in his back pocket had disappeared. He must have moved the camera when I wasn’t looking. Sure enough, when he faced me again I saw the silver rectangle poking from the front of his shirt pocket. My heart sank as I realised I’d missed my chance. I decided to call it a day.
‘You know, I really am going to have to head off now. It’s getting late. And also, if I don’t pee soon, I’m in serious danger of wetting myself.’
‘You need the toilet? You can just use…’ he paused. ‘Oh, right. The suit. You don’t think you could risk it? I mean, look at me. If there was something here to catch, I reckon I’d have caught it now.’
‘Unless you can’t catch it. Unless you’re immune.’
Jazz shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s a mystery, huh?’
I decided to go for broke. ‘Yeah, but that’s the point. Don’t you want to know? You should be dead. But you’re not. You’re out here, surviving. Thriving, even. Have you ever stopped to consider how crazy that is? And you know if there is something special about you, well, you could be the key to stopping all this madness once and for all. Don’t you think you’ve got a, I don’t know, a duty to tell people about it?’
‘A duty?’ Jazz
’s face darkened. ‘To what? Turn myself in to the government? To become a fucking lab rat?’
‘No. Wait. I just mean—’
‘I know what you mean. That’s why you were so bothered about the camera. That’s why you were filming me in the first place.’
‘All I was saying—’
‘You know what? You can have it if it means so much to you.’
With that, Jazz dug around in his shirt and held up the small silver camera. For a moment I thought he was going to throw it to me. I even put up my hands to catch it.
Instead, I watched in horror as he once again lifted the enormous lid off the saucepan.
And let the camera drop with a soft plop into the soup.
EIGHTEEN
I STARED AT the mysterious car that was parked in front of the cottage. It was a wreck. An old-fashioned, fossil-fuelled 4x4. Every panel dented or dinged. The paintwork scratched. The windows frosted with filth. This wasn’t a city car. No. This was a working vehicle, designed to drag logs from the road. To transport sick sheep to the vets. To plough its way across bogs and beaches. This car belonged to a local.
I tried to stay calm. To rationalise. To breathe. Perhaps this unexpected visitor might actually be there to help us? Maybe the car was owned by some kindly village doctor, who’d taken it on himself to check we were settling in okay? Or else an enterprising local farmer had called round to sell his wares.
Only, why would they kick the door down?
I started to run then, reaching for my handbag only to realise I’d left both it and the knife it contained in the car. I kept going anyway, skidding into the hallway as I called out to my family, unable to hide the panic in my voice.
‘Colin? Charlie? Amber?’
There was no response.
As I entered the living room, I saw the place had been destroyed. The television was on its side, the screen shattered. The floor covered in broken glass. By now I was near hysterical, my breath coming in dry, irregular gasps.