The Last Day

  “Of course not.” David laughed. “I couldn’t get more than five words out without being arrested. But this is the story of the century. They survived, Ellie. There are people out there, and they’ve spent years and years surviving after they were abandoned. For years we’ve been lied to, told we were all that remained. And now you’re saying Davenport wants them wiped out. How do we handle this?”

  The thought had already occurred to her as he spoke. “I know where we can take this. Fisher. The man Thorne was in contact with, the one who owned the bookshop. I have his radio. We could contact the people running that station, tell them everything, and make our way to the American Zone.”

  “But what happens after the news comes out?”

  “Who cares, David? This is the only thing that matters. If we get it to the Americans, we could stop Davenport’s deal going through. We could stop this happening.”

  At the edge of her hearing, the rumble of a car’s motor swelled and just as quickly died. Next, the gate gave a tiny creak, inaudible beneath the rain battering the roof. The first noise she heard clearly was the growl of a second, much larger engine, abruptly cut off, and by that point it was too late. Running to the hall, she looked through the grimy window and saw three people walking toward the house. Ruth Warwick, accompanied at her right hand by her colleague Blake, and on her other side by Hopper’s brother, Mark.

  FORTY-ONE

  Hopper’s shock at seeing her brother made her pause for an extra second before she spoke.

  “We have to leave.”

  David was already at the back of the house. “No, Ellie. There are more outside. Soldiers. Hide the papers.”

  There was nowhere to put them except the study. She rushed through, crammed the file back into its plastic wrapping and into the desk, then left the room, standing in the hall like a nervous host about to greet a dignitary.

  One of the party knocked on the door in a little rhythm. Rat-a-tat-tat. Blake, she thought, imagining those big hands of his making a game of the situation. He didn’t wait for Hopper to open it: he reached through the broken window and did it himself. Warwick came through first, brushing the rain from her shoulders, her inch-high heels clacking on the hall floor.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Hopper, Mr. Gamble. Please: let’s go through and sit down.” Go through. She sounded like she was having them round for tea.

  They moved to the front parlor, a few battered old couches sitting under clouds of drifting dust. The ceiling was stained and bowed: the room upstairs must be the one where the roof had collapsed. Blake stood at the door. He had a new injury under his eye, still crimson, not yet sliding into the purples and greens of a bruise. Perhaps he had got it at Fisher’s bookshop, Hopper thought.

  “First things first, Doctor: there is a lorry load of soldiers outside. Don’t think about trying to run away. It won’t do you any good.” Hopper heard them now: shouts and footsteps over the battering of the rain.

  “Please. Sit.” Warwick took the one armchair, which allowed her to sit upright. Hopper and David sat on a collapsed sofa, which tipped them sideways and together in a strange little moment of low comedy. Mark stood by the fireplace and looked down as though hoping to be anywhere but here. He hadn’t met Hopper’s eye yet.

  She gestured at him. “Why is he here?”

  “He’s here to talk some sense into you. In case you fail to realize the gravity of the situation.”

  “Given that he’s been spying on me since I got here, I’m afraid he’s not going to be very useful to you,” Hopper said. “Do you think that’s fair, Mark?”

  Mark continued to look down, saying nothing.

  “We’re very relieved to see you again,” Warwick continued. “Some of my colleagues wanted you arrested as soon as we had the chance—in the warehouse, for example. After we missed you there, we were very concerned we might have lost you.” She paused. “But thankfully, once you’d made your way back to your brother’s home, I was able to persuade my colleagues we could afford to show a bit of patience.”

  “Why?”

  “We thought you had a reasonable chance of finding out where Thorne’s little legacy had been hidden. So we left you to your own devices. And look where you have brought us.”

  Hopper felt sick. “How did you find us here?”

  “It wasn’t so difficult. We reached Mr. Gamble’s home too late to find you, which concerned us. But then one of our sources phoned to inform us you had arrived in Oxford. I don’t suppose you remember Professor Heathcote’s daughter?”

  Hopper thought of the woman in the warden’s lodging, her face twisted by some unknown bitterness, and understood.

  “We guessed that you might receive help from inside the college, but fortunately Miss Heathcote feels the same way as we do about the importance of good governance. So here we are.” Warwick smiled. “And now we have a chance of finishing our work.”

  “Yes. I suppose we do.”

  “Dr. Hopper. We know what you’re looking for. Where is it?”

  Hopper was a better liar than her brother—or, at least, she had thought she was, until going through his filing cabinet—but not good enough to sound convincing. “We haven’t found anything. There’s nothing here.”

  Blake leaned out into the corridor and murmured a few words. Two sets of boots clumped in and moved to the other side of the house—not the study, the other front room. Hopper heard the noise of furniture being noisily pulled apart. If the soldiers had any interest in their work, it wouldn’t take them long to find the papers.

  Warwick sighed. Her stern aspect lapsed into disappointment, and just for a second, in between the two expressions, Hopper noticed how curiously blank she looked. She thought of Thorne on his deathbed, and how terrified he had seemed, and she wanted not to think of him, so she forced her attention back into the room.

  “. . . exactly did you hope to find?” Warwick was looking at her expectantly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, Doctor, that I’m curious as to what exactly you were expecting.”

  “There are people alive on the Coldside.”

  David had said it, not her. Mark looked at him sharply. Warwick’s attention switched to him, and for a moment a little spasm of dislike took control of her mouth. The only person who didn’t react was Blake, who stood at the door, his eyes following whoever spoke.

  “Don’t be so stupid, Mr. Gamble.”

  “Millions of people. Maybe tens of millions. Thorne sent up a satellite before he was sacked. And there are reports. There’s proof.”

  “Your story is a fiction, a pointless attempt to harm this country’s interests. Britain is the only nation that survives as it did before.”

  Hopper wondered if Warwick really had been ignorant of what she was trying to find, whether she had been instructed simply to track it down; or whether she knew but did not care.

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” she said, steadying her breath. “What you told people—what Davenport told people, that there was no hope for that side of the world—it wasn’t true.”

  “It was and it still is,” Warwick said. “Those people in the former America are—were—just a few million more who were in the wrong place. They’ll be dead soon, if they aren’t already. It’s for the best.” So she did know about them, Hopper thought.

  “I’m not talking about then. I’m talking about now. Davenport’s not willing to tell anyone these people exist because it destroys the point of his government. If the Americans find out their families are still alive, they’ll riot. The deal will fall apart and Davenport won’t get his nuclear weapons.”

  David addressed Warwick. “Do the Americans know?”

  “That there are people living on the Coldside? Fewer than ten insiders. And those few understand what sacrifices have to be made for the survival of the group.”

 
Hopper interrupted. “What about the nuclear weapons? Is Davenport going to use them against the Coldside?”

  A slight spasm crossed Warwick’s face, and it occurred to Hopper that she was almost as frightened by the prospect as they were.

  “Whatever decision he makes will be the right one,” she said.

  David put his head in his hands. “Jesus. He’s really going to do it. And if the Americans don’t know about the survivors, they’ll let him.”

  “So you’re happy for millions of people to be killed off for your own benefit?”

  “I’m afraid so, Doctor. After all, that’s what we did with the rest of the world.”

  Hopper allowed herself a moment’s uncomplicated hatred. “Why did Davenport let Thorne live?”

  “Some fatuous clemency on his part. I would have done it differently,” Warwick said. “But we didn’t know what arrangements he had in place to publish the document. If only we’d known sooner that he had none, we could have avoided all this difficulty.”

  “What about Gethin?”

  “Ah, yes. We know how badly you wanted to speak to him. He runs the government’s satellite operation now. Using the descendants of Thorne’s prototype. He was able to prove his loyalty. He’s the one who informed us about Thorne’s satellite in the first place, although Thorne was paranoid enough to keep the location of its findings even from him. The new models are coming in very handy these days.” Warwick smiled. “And once the American deal goes through and Britain is whole once more, we’ll be able to press on. Expand the Breadbasket farther south. Plant new forests, push the desert back. Make this planet healthy again.”

  “Unless word gets out that half the Americans have family still alive. Family their government and yours left to die.”

  Warwick sighed. “Well, if you insist on spreading such a preposterous fabrication, Doctor, there is no reason why we should not kill you now. Is there?”

  Hopper attempted one last lie. “There are others who know. And they have been told to broadcast if they don’t hear from us. By tomorrow.”

  Warwick cocked her head. “I doubt that. What would be the point of you coming here if you already had proof? I think we will have to take the chance. Blake.”

  Blake stepped forward, reaching a hand into his pocket.

  Mark spoke for the first time. “Wait.”

  Blake stopped halfway across the floor, looking to Warwick.

  “Ruth, you said it wouldn’t be . . . you said this wouldn’t happen.”

  “I understand it’s not always pleasant for the squeamish to see the consequences of their actions, Mr. Hopper, but we don’t have much time. Donald, please take Mr. Gamble into the garden.”

  Blake stepped forward and was standing above David before Hopper heard herself speak. “No. There’s no need for that.”

  “And why not?”

  “I’ll show you where it is. What Thorne hid. It’s the proof. You can have it. If you don’t hurt him.”

  That moment lasted unnaturally. The motes drifting lazily through the air in the rain-soaked light; the white patch on the wall bleached by the sun’s position, surrounded by dirty yellow. A bird was chirruping in the eaves, above the noise of the rain.

  Eventually Warwick spoke. “Well, that’s better. Please. Lead the way.”

  As they stood, Hopper considered her options. She could try to run, to grab the paper and get out, but that would leave David in the room, and she would be shot anyway. She could try to grab Blake’s gun: they would all be shot. She could tear the paper in two, pretending there were more copies, and she would not be believed, and they would all be shot, and they would have the papers anyway. She could change her mind now, leave the soldiers hunting the house, and eventually they would find the brick of paper, and it would be burned, and they would be shot.

  All she had known, as Blake approached David, was that she would rather die herself than see him harmed on her behalf. The feeling thrilled her even as it frightened her.

  So, without a better plan, she made her way to the door, Warwick after her, then David, then Mark, and finally Blake.

  In the hall, two soldiers stood in the doorway facing into the house, replacing the two who were making a thorough search of the kitchen. They were older than the usual teenagers you saw in uniform these days, and they looked tougher. Outside the window she could see a troop lorry, one of the armored ones they used in the city, capable of holding thirty bodies, and a few soldiers standing outside it dressed in black. Some had blunt-snouted masks on. Not regular troops.

  The journey along the corridor was short, but Hopper noticed everything on it. A butterfly case hanging on the wall, a gossamer creature pinned inside, still here thirty years after the world’s end. A pencil mark on the paintwork. A missing tile in the floor.

  David muttered to her, almost inaudible. “What are you doing, Ellie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She took them into the study. They filed in behind her, and Blake closed the door. It was a little small for five to stand. Hopper had her back to the desk, and she noticed again the solid-looking metal stapler on its surface next to her.

  Her brother spoke first. “You did say you wouldn’t hurt them. Just now, in the lorry, you said that.”

  “As the brother of a terrorist, Mr. Hopper, you are in no position to negotiate.” Warwick’s neck was flushed, Hopper noticed, and her hands too, a stinging-looking redness that betrayed her pleasure.

  “You promised. You said she wouldn’t be harmed once you had what you wanted.” Mark was almost pleading.

  Warwick stood still, her eyes resting on Mark. She spoke gently. “I gave no such guarantee, Mr. Hopper. I said we would do our work in the interest of the country, on the highest authority. You know how important it is that these papers remain in responsible hands.”

  Hopper noticed Blake’s hand moving from his belt as he waited for what might come next. She looked at David, and then to Mark. If the three of them rushed Blake . . . it wouldn’t make any difference.

  “Mark, this isn’t what you want,” she said, desperately. “You don’t have to side with them.”

  He said out loud, “Ellie, for Christ’s sake, just give them what they’re asking for. Then I can take you home.” But she saw his hands flexing nervously by his sides.

  “Give us the papers, Doctor. Or Inspector Blake here will hurt your companion.”

  She couldn’t see how to escape, and handing over the papers was the only thing that could buy them a little more time, but she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.

  Mark spoke again. “It doesn’t matter if she gives them to you. You’ve already decided they’re not leaving this house.”

  “I’ve had enough of this. Blake.”

  Blake moved across to Hopper and struck her, hard, in the stomach. She fell to the ground, trying to hold on to him as she did so. He reached to hit her again, but was obstructed by something. Mark had tried to pull him away, pushing him off balance, but the older man grunted and elbowed sharply backward, striking him on the side of the head, and he fell back instantly.

  They remained there for a second in tableau. Hopper, winded and on the floor, her back to the desk; Mark sitting against the wall, dazed and bleeding; Blake standing above him, the brass ring conjured from nowhere over his fist; Warwick, now red-faced, still trying to seem calm, despite the deep flush in her cheeks and neck. Hopper looked over and saw why nobody was moving.

  “Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” David had produced the pistol—he must have removed it from the car without her noticing, she thought vaguely through the pain in her torso—and was pointing it at Blake. “Move back, please. Back to the wall.”

  Hopper couldn’t take her eyes off the gun. It looked like it hadn’t been fired in decades. David raised a hand, made sure the safety catch was off, steadied his right hand with his left. Blake s
tepped back.

  “Put it down, Gamble. You don’t have to die in this house. None of you do. You can still do the work you are meant to do. I can take you back to London. All of you, if you like. We can decide what to do with these papers. I can save your job. If you fire that gun, you die here.” Warwick was speaking, low and urgent. She took a step toward him.

  Hopper saw the gun waving between Blake and Warwick.

  “Shoot her, David. For Christ’s sake,” Hopper said.

  “You can’t win. Think of all the soldiers outside. If I scream, they’ll come in. If you fire the gun, they’ll come in. Nobody needs to do anything drastic here.”

  Again Hopper saw David wavering. Warwick was close to him now. Another few steps and she would be able to push the gun down from his hand.

  From beyond the house, they heard the crack of a gunshot. Then another. Then two more, from the other side of the house, and answering shots from farther away, and a dull roar that made the remaining windows rattle in their panes. In the corridor, Hopper heard running feet, and the back door opening and slamming shut.

  Warwick’s voice was higher now. “Nobody is to move. Nobody is to move an inch.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellie,” David said. But he did not put the gun down. He swung and pulled the trigger. Blake fell. And Hopper, rising from her prone position, grabbed the heavy brass stapler from the desk and hit Warwick as hard as she could across the back of the head. Warwick fell too, landing awkwardly, and did not move.

  “Mark?”

  “I’m OK.” His face was gray, and blood was still streaming from his temple where Blake had hit him. She could see a vein pulsating in his neck, a tremolo back and forth under the scarlet rivulet of blood.

  They pulled open the study door and looked out into the hall. One of the two soldiers who had been standing there had gone. The other was slumped just outside on the porch, taking sobbing breaths, a dark patch beneath him spreading across the yellow-bleached boards.