“Write up the new Rule,” he says again and gestures to the ladder, tall and rickety. For Dad, his latest edict doesn’t properly exist until it’s been added to the scrawl of the others.
“When everything is in its place,” I say, tidying away our meal of a can of peaches. Snack? Supper? Breakfast? It doesn’t matter.
I’m calm.
Resolved.
I know what I must do.
This is my new reality. With Dad till the end. Following the Rules. It’s the only way. I should never have resisted.
I finish unpacking my Grab-and-Go Bag, putting my last items where they need to be, while Dad mutters on about Will and stares at the blood on his hands like Macbeth, his eyes half closing.
He barely acknowledges me or my voice now as I climb the ladder in the darkness, struggling with the open paint pot. My feet slip on the rungs as I edge my way to the very top. The candles flicker as I look down. Dad’s enclosed in a circle of lights, bright against the dark earth. A stage set.
I paint the new Rule on the wall. The last Rule. Slowly, carefully. Doing the job in the best way I can. Like he taught me. Everything is as he taught me.
“There, Daddy. See. Rule: There’s no way out. Just as you wanted.”
All is calm, my voice is muffled. He doesn’t reply. I wait.
I edge my way back down the ladder, breathing heavily, my face hot and clammy. I look back up at the sprawling handwriting, the curve of the brush, the words large enough to read from the ground.
I admire my handiwork.
My father is quiet. His eyes are closed, his head slumped. He doesn’t appreciate my craftsmanship.
I tidy up. I add logs to the fire.
He looks uncomfortable. I give him a jumper to use as a cushion.
And carefully, oh-so-carefully, I remove the key from his pocket, ready to release myself from the Ark, back into the real world.
The first hints of orange light are prickling the horizon. It’s the winter solstice – the shortest day of the year. The sun won’t rise until half eight. The morning reveals a scattering of snow and my torch picks out trees from a Christmas-card scene. My boots crunch on the snow in the quiet, making the first footprints through the paddock. Like I’ve stepped into a picture, through the advent-calendar door.
As I reach the house, I half hope that what happened to Will can’t be real – that it’s not possible when the world looks so beautiful. But his dead body, now with a layer of decorative white frosting, still lies unmoving by the trees. I look away.
I need to let Josh out. I brace myself for the stream of questions. Prepare myself to break my silence, to have to talk again, to speak.
His first few words don’t register. He’s concerned for me, my cuts and bruises, he’s relieved that I’m OK. I nod but don’t really hear him as I help him up the stairs. He’s made a makeshift crutch from a broom, proud of his ingenuity. “I’m getting the hang of this prepper business,” he jokes weakly. I check my watch. “I opened your advent calendar. Didn’t think you’d mind. A Christmas cracker going bang. Seems pretty trivial after what your dad did. Will didn’t deserve that.”
I tune him out, focus on getting him up and out of the house.
“Amber!” He’s looking me straight in the face, demanding an answer. Interaction. “Amber, you’re not listening. Where’s your dad now?”
“Sleeping. In the barn.”
“Where’s the gun?”
“He’s not going to shoot anyone again.”
“You won’t mind if we get out of here before we put your theory to the test? Here’s hoping Neville set his alarm clock and made that call.”
I help him out of the house, the door still thrown wide open from my arrival. He sniffs at the air. “Is that … burning?”
We turn the corner, looking out across the paddock. I stand transfixed, my hands cupped across my face. Josh gasps. The barn is ablaze, clouds of flame and smoke billowing from the roof. Flames are licking from the doorway, a giant beacon lighting up the early-morning countryside. A couple of explosions send sparks up into the morning sky. “Shit,” says Josh. “Your dad. Is he in there?
I make my legs move. I dash back down to the basement, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the shelves. I run across the field, towards the searing heat. Josh is shouting behind me, “Amber! No! It’s too dangerous!”
He doesn’t want me to try to put the fire out. Doesn’t want me to risk myself. He’s using his crutch to hobble closer too, to drag me back. I cough and pull my jumper up over my mouth and nose.
“Amber! It’s hopeless.”
The heat is overwhelming. The noise. Cracks and hisses and pops. Another canister ignites with a bang and a section of the wooden building blows out.
“Amber! Get back!”
The fire extinguisher is empty already. Even the patch I sprayed by the doorway flares up again, the heat unbearable against my skin. It’s made no difference.
The Ark is a living, hissing ball of fire.
Josh is grabbing my arms, pulling me back, pulling me far away. We tumble down into the cold grass at the far edge of the field. “Enough,” he says, wrapping his arms round me. “Think of yourself.”
I am.
The fire is raging.
It’s majestic.
Apocalyptic.
I stretch out my legs in the waiting area at the police station and pick at the corner of the dressing that covers the burns on the back of my hand. I’m tired of going over the same story again and again in hushed-tone interviews. Doctors, police, social workers, chaplains. Repeat. Repeat. All with the same pitying looks for me. The same words whispered: ordeal – trauma – shocking – brave – victim. Endless do-gooders with their lanyards hanging round their necks like backstage passes – they all want a piece of me.
The paramedics treated me and Josh at Centurion House, sirens blaring as the barn still blazed in the paddock. They wrapped us in shiny foil shrouds. But it didn’t stop me shaking. From just the two of us curled up in the paddock on the snowy ground to police cars and fire engines and ambulances and so many people.
All prepared for emergency.
They helped us get our things from the house and led us to the ambulance. Black ash swirled across the terrace and caught in my hair and throat. The fire fighters were dampening down what was left of the barn.
And Dad.
We drove out past the solemn ring of uniforms around Will’s body. A different sort of ambulance was called for him.
At the hospital, a kindly doctor said I’ll need a lot of time to process what I’ve suffered. I nodded. I cried. I took the offered tissues. The shoulder to cry on.
We got off lightly. Everyone said so. A touch of smoke inhalation, minor burns, cuts and bruises. Fading already after a night in a crisp-sheeted hospital bed. Even Josh’s ankle will soon be mended. Physical injuries are easy to patch up.
But some things you never get over.
They’re following their procedures, their rules. My words are treated reverently by the police and arranged into neat pages of statements for their files. Ready for the truth to be paraded when the inquests come, to be relayed to Will’s weeping mother.
Rev Neville nods over at me and Josh as he’s ushered into another interview room. “I’ll be taking us home after this one, Josh. Promise.” His smile’s still wonky on his swollen face, but he’s here to play his part.
The family liaison officer nudges my arm. “Touch of divine intervention from that vicar, eh?” she says. “Good job he called 999 and got the emergency services to you. A place as remote as that, the fire wouldn’t have been seen.”
“But they were too late to put it out,” I say. “Too late to…” I cough slightly as I stare down at my injured hands.
I’ve had enough of talking now but she mistakes my silence and adds, “You certainly tried your hardest to save your father. No one can say otherwise. Even though he’d…” Her sentence trails off as she thinks better of spelling it
out. Even though he’d what? Murdered Will. Imprisoned me at gunpoint. Been the survivalist who didn’t survive when the shit really did hit the fan.
“And you a tiny slip of a lass, as well. Could have been a lot worse for a hero like you than a night in hospital, eh?” She fetches me another lukewarm drink in a plastic cup. It’s been her answer to all uncomfortable silences today. She’s called away and leaves me to contemplate the swirling coffee.
Josh is uncharacteristically quiet. I guess even he gets tired of repeating the same thing. “Divine intervention – is that what it was?” he says. He flicks through the magazines on the table, not settling to read anything properly.
The sympathetic officer is back, clutching my sorry bag of belongings. “Got someone who’s come to collect you. Drink up while we get through the paperwork. After all you’ve been through, pet, we’ll get you out of here as soon as.”
I recognize her footsteps before I see her – those sensible shoes of hers that squeak on the tiled floor. Julie’s wearing a ridiculous knitted hat with earflaps and a padded duvet jacket that looks like an actual king-size duvet with sleeves. It does her no favours. Except that, when she envelops me in the soft, pillowy warmth of it, I crumple into its folds.
When I turn back, after fielding all her questions about how I’m feeling, the chairs are empty. Josh is gone. His back is disappearing through the swing doors. I leave Julie to her expertise with bureaucracy and hurry after him.
“Josh! Josh! I’m going in a minute.”
“I’m not big on goodbyes,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Going to get me and Neville a sandwich for the journey back.” He turns away but I pull at his arm.
“I wanted to say thanks. For coming back to help me.”
He shrugs. “I tried to help you. But I think you pretty much had it all in hand.” He pulls awkwardly at the new clothes Neville had brought him, too small for his long limbs.
“Thanks anyway,” I say. “For everything. And for, you know, the statements you gave about yesterday.” We look into each other’s eyes until I pull away. “If ever you need a sofa to sleep on or someone to play bus roulette with, let me know.”
“Amber – I wouldn’t blame you. I get it,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
I screw up my face in puzzlement. “I don’t know what you mean.” I reach up and hug him. “We’re practically family, right?”
“I said I’ve got your back. I always will, Amber Warning. Whatever.”
Julie calls me from down the corridor, “Amber, love! Time to go.”
I give Josh one last quick squeeze. “Be careful with that bullshit monitor of yours.”
“You’re going to be all right, you know,” Julie says. “You’re one of life’s survivors, Amber. Always have been.”
As usual, the irony is lost on Julie. I am a survivor in more ways than one. A prepper. At least, I used to be. I place my few belongings in Julie’s boot, keeping only one thing to hand.
“Sorry I’ve mucked up your Christmas, Julie,” I say.
She chews on her lip. Unable to tell an outright lie. “That doesn’t matter. Anyway, a wise person once told me that Christmas is just a day when the shops are shut and the telly’s better.” She smiles over at me and the corners of my mouth twitch up too. I can’t help it.
She checks her phone and jots something down in her stripey notebook. “I’ve got it cleared with the powers that be,” she says. “Want to come back with me for a few days and watch some telly?”
I nod.
“If I put my foot down, we should be back in time for Christmas Eve,” she says as she squeezes into the driver’s seat.
I sit in the passenger seat beside her and fasten my seat belt.
“Dad had money,” I say quietly. “I’d like to sort out a headstone. Despite … everything.”
A pause while Julie processes ‘despite everything’. He was hardly a candidate for father of the year. But he was still my father. My flesh and blood.
She nods. “Of course. I can help with all that. No need to worry about it now. Whatever you want, sweetie,” she says, patting my knee.
Yes. Whatever I want.
Julie crunches through the gears, manoeuvring out of the car park. A tall, gangly figure in a green parka jacket, hood up, is leaning against the wall. He raises one of his hospital-issue crutches in goodbye.
“You’ll be in the spare room,” Julie says. “I decorated it this summer. It’s pink.”
My least favourite colour. Why am I not surprised? It’ll be full of frills and polyester.
But I so want to sleep in a normal bed. In a normal house. For a million years.
First though I’ll lay out what’s left of my clothes in the correct way. Sets of clothes should be laid out in order, ready to put on in an emergency.
Because everything has its place. Even me.
I am the Rules and the Rules are me.
I unfold my crumpled advent calendar and rest it in my lap. I pull off today’s door to show a candle with a flickering flame.
“Oh, you kept that with you all the time. That’s so lovely.” Julie’s cheeks tinge red.
I’ve made her happy.
“Just tomorrow’s door left to open,” she says. “The biggest one of all.”
Carbon monoxide is a silent killer.
Heavier than air.
It kills the man with a gun sitting on the floor before the girl at the top of the ladder.
I failed with the mushrooms.
I failed with the rock.
Third time lucky.
Air-supply respirators work well for carbon monoxide emissions.
I did my research.
I replaced my mask in my bag.
I tidied up.
I pulled out my clothes that were rammed tight inside any ventilation holes and packed them neatly away.
I gave him a pillow. I placed his arms across his chest and said goodbye.
I removed the key from his pocket and walked out of the Ark.
I put a bruise on my face and a cut on my lip with a deft, swift strike with a log. Just the right amount of force to bruise but not to hurt too much. I am trained in hand-to-hand combat.
I plaited my hair while I waited for the dawn because it made me look more innocent.
Blame the patriarchy for that.
The fire? Well, that was bound to happen. The Ark was a health-and-safety nightmare. The footage from Eden was destroyed in the fire with everything else I left there.
A mixture of paint and gas canisters is dangerous in a confined space. Throw in a couple of paraffin and butane heaters, candles, ammunition, logs on an open fire and – whoosh!
Physics and chemistry combined.
The facts spoke for themselves.
Will’s slowly stiffening dead body in the bushes was more eloquent than me in my distress.
I had a sympathetic witness who loves to talk.
One who never shuts up.
Josh saw me take a fire extinguisher from the basement store, saw me run to try to save my dad.
I was the hero in this story.
But it was all too late. Dad didn’t follow the Rules.
I’m not a monster.
I’m a survivor.
Including me.
1. Amber says at the very end that she was the hero in this story. Do you agree?
2. Did you like Amber at the beginning of the novel? If so, did you still like her at the end? Does it matter if a character is likeable or not? Can you still feel empathy for them?
3. Why are people like Will drawn to the Rules and to a character like Amber’s father?
4. Could a society based on the Rules ever succeed?
5. Do you think that constantly dwelling on disaster could have a major emotional effect?
6. Should we all be acquiring skills or kit for after a SHTF scenario?
7. Amber says her mum became a shadow. How did that happen?
8. Do you believe that Amber can ever escape h
er upbringing?
9. What are your thoughts about the way Josh lives his life? Is it by choice or circumstance?
10. Do you think Josh felt used at the end? Will he and Amber see each other again?
11. Did Amber take an active role in her dad’s death, or did she let it happen without trying hard enough to stop it? Does that alter your view of her guilt and responsibility?
12. Look at the structure of the story: a present storyline mirroring the opening of the advent calendar with flashback sections based around the Rules. Why was it told in this way rather than chronologically?
13. When is it OK to break rules? What about breaking the law – can it ever be justified?
Biggest thank you of all to my amazing editor Ruth Bennett, ably assisted by Ella Whiddett.
The brilliant team at Stripes – Lauren Ace, Charlie Morris, Leilah Skelton – and to Sophie Bransby for such a striking cover. And to lovely copyeditor Anna Bowles.
My agent Jo Williamson for being all-round fab and supportive.
Those who helped me with some of my research – Angela, Callen, Craig, Mark, Helen and Hugh.
Writing buddies from the Bath Spa MA gang and beyond who continue to help and support.
My crit groups – the Rogue Critters and the Teaspooners.
And especially my beta readers James, Ally, Emma, Ele, Karen, Mel, Christine, Tricia and Pete.
To my long-suffering and sadly neglected friends who drag me away from my desk to the real world, and who’ve always got my back.
The Rules Page 19