He knew.
He knew.
He knew.
He pulled over a couple of times to retch. His whole body convulsing.
Another gate. Another lock.
At the house, I walked in ahead of him. He made me strip to my underwear. He went through my pockets and took back the cash. He saw the lumps in my bra and made me hand over the jewellery. He threw my damp clothes back at me and I turned away embarrassed and pulled them back on. I moved towards the stairs and my bedroom, hoping this was over.
“Your Grab-and-Go Bag is by the door.”
I had a glimmer of hope that he was chucking me out.
I even thought about the next train to Swansea.
But they say: it’s always the hope that kills you.
He had something else in mind entirely.
“Scenarios can arise at any time,” he said.
No, no, no. Not that.
He pulled on a jacket and handed one to me.
“Pick up your bag,” he said calmly.
He was scarier when he was calm than when he was screaming.
I hung back.
He reached into the hall cupboard. I knew what he kept in there.
He pulled out the shotgun.
“I sure hope you’re not going to take advantage of my sickness to run away again, Amber.”
I swallowed. I shook my head. He wiped his sweaty forehead with a shaky hand.
The fever was making him worse.
“Dad,” I started to plead, but he placed a finger on his lips.
“No more talking. Shush.” The shushing came out as an angry hiss, spittle landing on my sleeve.
“But—” I didn’t finish because he slapped me across the face. The way I’d seen him do to Mum. I instinctively grabbed at his arm to resist, but he flipped my hand and bent my arm up my back, pushing me against the wall. His classic, practised manoeuvre. Even sick, he was too strong for me. I flailed with my other arm, knocking a picture to the floor, cracking the glass.
“I am the Rules and the Rules are me,” he whispered in my ear. “What are the Rules?”
He applied more pressure to my arm and my cheek was pressed further against the wall. I squeezed the words out. “Rule: Trust no one. Rule: Prep for the worst. Rule: Honour thy father.”
I recited them on a loop out of the house, carrying my bag. He walked behind me with a half-cocked shotgun, a faded baseball cap on to shield him from the rain, like he’d stumbled out of a movie. I just needed the sheriff or a superhero to come and stop it.
No one came.
I was drenched but I barely cared. It seemed appropriate. The world was stormy, raging, weeping. As if it shared the terror I didn’t dare to show.
That’s the thing. Keep your own thoughts. He could make disjointed words come out of my mouth as we slipped our way up through the woods and hillside. “Rule: Never break the Rules. Rule: Everything has its place. Cans and jars should face forwards and be exactly one centimetre apart. Sets of clothes should be laid out in order, ready to put on in an emergency. Cutlery must be perfectly straight at right angles to the edge of the table. Glasses must be a fist’s distance forty-five degrees from the edge of the knife.”
But inside, deep down, so deep that sometimes I’d feared she’d gone and left me too, there was still Amber.
Me.
I was in there.
Somewhere.
And I was screaming back at him.
When we reached the bunker, I figured he was going to make me spend the night there. As punishment. Petty, petty punishment for my unspoken crimes.
“Rule: Kill or be killed. Rule: Survival is everything.”
But he was rambling on about stress testing, about how I could redeem myself by testing it for him. Prove myself.
Save myself.
He took out his notebook and pretended this was a rational, scientific way of behaving.
He switched on the video camera as though this was proper research rather than locking me in a stinking, dark cave. For punishment.
I was calculating, thinking twelve hours, twenty-four hours maximum. That’s how long they run stress tests for. I could do it. I could sleep for most of it, eyes tight shut. I’d spent whole days in there before, working on the place.
Now I was inside, I shivered. My clothes were still damp. The temperature in the bunker was a steady eleven degrees. Perfect for storing cheese or wine. Not people.
It gets in your head, being locked up like that.
It changes you.
Forever.
Dad’s been even touchier than usual today. He questions me about Josh. About how he knew to look for me in this area. Who does he work for? What’s his real name? Dad’s had all night to build a huge web of conspiracy theories.
I lie. Unconvincingly.
He steps up a gear late afternoon, talking about intruders, spies, the need to defend ourselves. He does an inspection of Will’s hastily deployed electric fencing and isn’t impressed. His disappointment with the site’s op-sec is gone over and over, like yesterday. He can’t let it go. Will’s electric fencing is for stopping livestock roaming – not humans. Dad wants it modified to make it stronger. First light tomorrow, he wants Will back on it. A ring of steel. Even Will, the disciple, is looking uneasy, as Dad cleans his hunting rifle and dons his full-on prepper-in-the-woods outfit.
“Survival is everything, folks,” he says, adding rounds of ammunition to his utility jacket pockets. “Kill or be killed. That’s the Rule. If that hippy hobo comes back, I’m ready for him.”
“Now, hang on a minute, Mr Fitzpatrick,” says Will. “He’s harmless.”
Dad’s blue eyes fix on me and a chill runs down my spine. “That’s just where an attack can come from. Someone you believe to be harmless. Stay one step ahead. That’s the Rule.”
“And what if you decide tomorrow that I’m a threat?” says Will. “Or Amber. Or the other preppers joining us. Do we get exiled beyond the electric fence, beyond the wall?”
Will then makes the mistake of mentioning what’s legal in this country rather than in the backwoods of Ohio. There’s no point using reason with Dad. That makes things worse, not better. I leave Will to learn that for himself. The hard way.
I back slowly out of the room as they argue. “I’m going to check the food store,” I say. “To make sure everything is in its place.” But no one hears.
He’s already made me put everything in its place. The cans and jars are now facing forwards, one centimetre apart. I know exactly what’s there if I need to use it. I’m beginning to think just running away from Dad isn’t going to solve anything. It’s gone too far for that. It’ll never be over with him. I’m going to have to play this a whole new way.
I turn the key, flick on the lights, go down the steps and feel an uncharacteristic cold breeze in the usually stuffy room. There’s a scuffling noise and I grab the broom, ready to do battle with a harvest mouse or rat again.
The windows are small and high and I can’t reach them, but I can see that one of them has been forced from the outside, splintering the wooden frame. The culprit’s not a mouse. Behind the last shelving stack is a heap of green coat and gangly limbs, eating a can of sardines with his fingers: Josh.
“Finally!” he says through a mouth full of fish, oil running down his chin. “I thought you’d never come. Are you all right? I’ve cut my arm and knackered my ankle from breaking through that stupidly small window. It’s low on the outside but then there’s a massive drop in here.”
I hug him instantly.
“If they’ve laid a finger on you…” he says.
“I’m all right, honestly. But Josh, they mustn’t know you’re here. Dad’s gone nuts since you came.” I gather the contents of the first-aid box he’s managed to scatter around him, and the opened bottle of whisky.
“Ha! I’m not stupid. I got that impression yesterday when the gym bunny marched me back to the gate. I waited until he drove off later before I tackled th
e obstacle course of getting back in. Why do you think I haven’t shouted for help?”
I’m touched that he’s come looking for me but his arrival – in this state – has complicated my life somewhat. I help him to a chair in the furthest corner of the basement, well hidden by the last racks of equipment.
“I can tell when someone’s lying, Amber. It’s my special talent. That and buses.” He smirks. “Said I was Sherlock Holmes and you were Watson, didn’t I?” He taps his head. “My BS monitor was on full alert. And I saw your advent calendar on the hall shelf. I’d recognize those polar bears in scarves anywhere.”
“This is all very sweet,” I say. “But Sherlock Homes didn’t ‘rescue’ people by knackering his ankle and getting locked up with them – did he?”
“Aha. You’ll remember I also said that terrible life choices were my speciality.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“I was mightily hacked off with you after the B&B. I went to visit Rev Neville. He looked terrible. On the plus side he’s had a constant stream of lady visitors bringing him casseroles and bottles of wine. I helped him clear the backlog. But I got to thinking, what sort of a sort-of brother would I be if I ran off when the going got tough? You and I, Amber, we both push people away. We can be so bloody difficult that people don’t want to help us. Because, and here’s the important thing, we fear rejection. Deep, huh? Ow! That stings.”
I tackle the cuts on his arm. He’s had a go himself but I reapply antiseptic and steri-strips and dress it properly. While Josh, being Josh, tells me his entire recent life story since our argument, in whispers. He wants to start at the beginning and tell it all. He can’t jump through to an executive summary. He wants me to hear all his cleverness. He still doesn’t get that this is not a game. The clock is ticking and Dad’s walking around upstairs with a rifle.
“It’s wild up here. There’s no mobile signal, no big shops, haven’t even seen a petrol station yet. Hardly any houses,” he says. “Though that’s a good thing as I’ve been traipsing about the district, phoning in to Neville when I can. He’s been plotting the search on a map from his sickbed like GCHQ and telling me where to try next. He’s loving it. Speeded up his recovery no end. We have given meaning to his dull existence.”
I interrupt his flow. “I need to get back upstairs, Josh, before I’m missed.”
“We had a method. Neville has all these contacts in the local history society or something. Turns out Centurion House is a pretty common name up here because of the Romans and Hadrian’s Wall and all that. We drew up a shortlist of possibles near the reservoir. I look at a house, suss it out, speak to any occupants, rule it out and move on,” he says. “I was suspicious of this place because it had so little happening, and I saw a light before a blind was rolled down. Blackout blinds. I remember you said they were a real prepper thing so you don’t give away that anyone’s living there when the zombies are roaming the district or whatever. And all that over-the-top security at the gate.”
“And all this time, I thought you never listened to me.”
“I listened. I just didn’t take it seriously.”
I put a gas lantern and a pile of food around him and place a bucket nearer for peeing in. “Blimey, you think of everything,” he says. “That makes you my favourite kind of prepper. I slept in a stable the other night, like baby Jesus. Except my stable stank of horses and no one brought me any presents. Ow!” He flinches again as I examine his ankle.
“I think it’s sprained, not broken. But without an X-ray…” I bandage it for support.
“I’ve been self-medicating with the booze, to be honest. Whisky seems to work better than the paracetamol.”
“Dad’s getting crazier. If he finds you here, he’ll really hurt you – you’ll forget all about the pain in your ankle. I’ll do my best to stop anyone coming down here.”
He clocks the bruises on my wrists from yesterday.
“Shit, Amber. Now I see why you preppers need to know first aid – you’re always beating the bejesus out of each other.”
“Things are kicking off between Will and Dad. Just stay here and don’t make a single noise.” I give him some strong painkillers. “Take these. Sleep off your medicinal hangover.”
“Don’t worry, I can’t even stand by myself, let alone manage all those steps. Prepared. Shit scared. When are you coming back?”
“When it’s safe for you. And for me. At least Neville knows you’ve found me.”
Josh clears his throat. “No, not exactly. I wanted to definitely see you before I called in the cavalry.”
“OK. You’ve seen me. Have you called him?”
He pulls out his phone from his pocket and waves it. “No signal. I’m nearly out of charge too. There’s a phone box about three miles away. I left my gear in a hedge right by it. Though that won’t be so easy now…” He looks down at his ankle. “I guess there’s no landline?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Jeez. I never thought of that, Sherlock,” I say. “Of course there isn’t.”
“The Rev does have an action plan to call the police if he doesn’t hear from me by eight tomorrow morning. He insisted. What’s your Plan B? Smoke signals?”
“Amber?” Dad’s angry voice echoes through the house. My stomach twists.
Josh grimaces through a flinch of pain. “What are you going to do, Amber Warning? Nothing dangerous. I’m kind of fond of you.”
“I’m kind of fond of you too. We’re practically siblings, remember. The great unwanted ones. I’m working on Will. I have a Plan B and C brewing. I’m waiting for my moment when…”
“When the SHTF?”
“Something like that.” I run back up the stairs. “Coming, Dad!” I shut the door behind me, locking it, and put the key in my pocket.
Will pushes past me in the hall, muttering under his breath, and goes upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. “He’s effing lost it! His Rules are completely out there!”
Dad’s walking the hall – a bundle of frustration and rage, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’m going to check the perimeter,” he says. “Myself. Do the job properly.”
‘Perimeter’, as though we’re in an army camp. As though we’re at war. Maybe we are. He secures the front door after himself, leaving me a prisoner still. I hope he concentrates on his beloved electric fencing and doesn’t notice the smashed-up basement window in the dark.
Will’s thudding about upstairs. Their argument was a bad one. Is this the endgame? All this anger. All this noise. Stress. Pressure. I sit on the bottom step with my head in my hands just wanting it all to stop, to go away forever. A man in a dog collar in a vicarage miles away holds the power to call the police at eight. That’s about twelve hours before anyone comes and sees what Dad is like. A lot can happen in that time.
When Will finally appears, red-faced and tight-lipped, he’s carrying two large bags. I move out of the way and he places them by the mat. “Where is he?” he asks.
I jerk my head towards the door. “Inspecting the fence again, looking for the hordes of invaders.”
Will tuts and shakes his head. “Look, Amber. You should know that…”
I hold up my hand. “It’s OK. You’re not the first person to believe in my dad and what he’s offering. But take it from me, it isn’t as easy as just changing your mind and walking out. Not with him.”
“Sure it is,” he says, and tries the locked front door. “He took my keys back earlier – he thought I was going to let you go. But as soon as he comes back, I’ll tell him I’m going.”
Does he not understand how Dad’s mind works at all?
“You shouldn’t wait,” I say. “You and I can force this door or smash out a window together.”
Before we can try anything at all, the lock rattles. Dad’s back. He’s sweaty from his run round the boundaries, still wearing his camo utility jacket and backpack.
“What’s going on?” he says, looking from Will to me to the bags.
“I’v
e decided to go, Mr Fitzpatrick,” says Will. “This isn’t what I signed up for, Ellis. You were meant to be creating a better way of life – not this.”
“I see.” Dad nods his head and rubs his chin as though he’s carefully considering Will’s point of view. I know the fake routine. “If you want to go, go. You’ve got five seconds to get off my land.”
“What? It’s not even your land, see,” says Will, laughing slightly. “You’re borrowing it. Remember? And I don’t think other preppers are going to like what you’re doing here any more than I do.”
Dad picks up his baseball cap and fixes it firmly on his head as he begins counting. “One.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going anyway. But Amber’s coming with me.” He holds out his hand to me. “Come on.”
“Two. Amber’s not going anywhere. She belongs to me.” Dad’s calm. He takes off his backpack and kicks the mud from his trainers.
I take one step towards Will. But I know Josh is still in the basement. If I go now, what happens to him? And walking away from my dad, running, hiding from him hasn’t ever solved anything for me. I need to face that head-on.
“Three. Stay right there, Amber.” Dad undoes his backpack and draws out his hunting rifle.
“For fuck’s sake! What the hell are you doing?” says Will, edging towards the door. “You’ve lost it, mate.”
Dad attaches the scope and clicks the catch into place. “Are you too stupid to understand counting? Four.” He raises the weapon and points it at Will.
“Go!” I mouth at him.
He grabs his bags and rushes through the open door into the darkness.
“Five,” says Dad, and fires the gun up into the sky. He marches out of the door, reloading as he goes, footsteps crunching on the gravel.
I follow. I don’t like the look in his eyes. The fixed stare.
“Dad – no more!”
Will sprints off towards the trees. He abandoned his bags after the first shot. He’s fit, fast. Once he gets to the darkness and the cover of the woods, he’ll be OK.
Dad fires the gun again.
The Rules Page 17