Not Alone, page 25
30
Seven Months Before the Storm
‘Don’t cower,’ Adders shouts over the din of London outside: trams, hooting cabs, sirens and a drone whizzing overhead. The air drifting in through the open sash windows brings a thick waft of exhaust fumes, lime blossom, and chip-shop grease.
He bounces on the spot, tall and broad-shouldered, grinning as our eyes meet. I feel suddenly how much I want him to like me. Jack’s best friend – best man – like a brother, Jack always says. They’re the same age, though Adders looks slightly older; I think it’s the brown hair peppered with grey and his deep smile creases. He reads a lot too, always has interesting perspectives on things and that same stoic calmness as Jack.
‘That’s it, straighten up: if you feel weak, the brain will follow suit.’ He chuckles at whatever look Jack behind me has just given him.
I didn’t know Jack was coming today – I feel even more awkward with him watching too. Though it was nice to arrive together, with Adders excited to see us and gush over the ring, which my finger feels odd without, having taken it off for the first time since Jack gave it to me two weeks ago.
I stay on my toes and try to copy Adders. He said we’d do prowler sled pushes and lunges – functional strength training for my running – but wanted to box to warm up and build confidence. I need more of that. I feel a little like I do in my meetings for work. With Adders and Jack toned and muscled, just baggy shorts on – confident and sure of themselves. And me: skinny and stiff, awkward, like a girl with silly tree-hugging ideas in rooms full of mostly men.
‘Your mind’s elsewhere,’ Adders says suddenly, stopping. ‘You OK?’
‘Yep.’ I wipe my sweaty forehead on my sleeve. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure I’m prepared to swing punches at Adders, even with gloves and pads on. ‘I’m just . . .’
‘Preoccupied. She’s two weeks into the dream job,’ Jack says.
‘Yeah, I guess. I want to make it work, I’m just not great under pressure.’
‘Well,’ Adders says, ‘you got through the interviews and landed the gig, didn’t you?’
I nod, wondering if Jack’s mentioned to him all the many embarrassing and unsuccessful interviews before that . . .
Which is why I signed up for this event. ‘I used to love running, and I thought this half-marathon would be a good achievement for me—’
Adders nods. ‘So that confidence spreads into other areas of your life.’
‘Yeah.’ I smile, relieved to be understood. ‘I don’t want to blow this chance with this job – I need to sound knowledgeable, convince landowners. I’ve worked so hard, all these boring retail jobs, the volunteering and internships since graduating. If I can make some of these rewilding projects get off the ground, I stand a better chance of being signed on for more time after my four-month contract is up.’ I finish with a small grin, embarrassed at having rambled on like this in front of Adders.
‘I get it,’ he says, nodding. ‘Come on then, let’s build you that backbone.’
‘Feeling like you could do someone damage might give you that, I reckon!’ Jack chuckles behind me.
‘That’s what the army gave us, Kate,’ Jack adds as we spar again, making Adders and I shoot each other quizzical looks and laugh. ‘Backbone!’ Jack laughs too. ‘Not easy fists!’
And I feel myself relaxing a bit, moving less awkwardly, my muscles warmed up, less self-conscious now as I hit the pads.
‘I mean – bar the events of the final tour –’ Jack continues – ‘doing hard things out on tour, whether physically or otherwise out of my comfort zone, made me feel capable the next time, helped me go on and do other hard things.’
‘I did take up motivational speaking!’ Adders nods between punches, laughing again. ‘And Jack must’ve told you how much that makes me sweat. God, I feel sick each time. The trick is knowing you can walk through that fire your anxiety tells you is there.’
‘It’s all just energy, isn’t it?’ I say, hitting the pads, one two, one two. ‘Nerves? If I can just channel it.’
‘Absolutely, use it, flip it round,’ Adders says. ‘If the thing’s worth doing, it feels amazing afterwards.’
One, one, two.
‘So, if you had to fight –’ Adders continues, correcting one of my uppercuts – ‘chances are they’d be bigger and heavier than you. If you don’t know how to get around that, they’d always win by that advantage alone.’
‘I guess I would just aim for the throat or between the legs?’ I get a good strong jab in, making a satisfying smack on Adders’ left pad, and I feel like I’m starting to enjoy myself.
‘That’s wishful thinking,’ Jack says. ‘Chances are they’re not going to be standing still, an easy target.’
‘Get your chin down, fists up,’ Adders calls. ‘That’s it. Now rain knees and elbows at them – they’re your best weapons if they’re outpunching you or have you trapped and there’s no room to swing a punch. Aim for the jaw, lower ribcage – ought to hurt! – solar plexus to knock the wind out of them, neck and groin – soft tissue! – and yeah, balls too.’
I practise the movements. Jabs with the elbows. Thrusts with the knees.
‘Feel free to bite too,’ Jack adds.
I laugh. ‘Do you think I’ll need this at my landowner meeting tomorrow?’
‘If not, maybe at the half-marathon!’ Jack laughs, mimicking the start line with his elbows out.
‘No, seriously –’ Adders laughs – ‘it can be a scrum at the start, don’t let them push you over.’
Jack jumps up and suddenly his arm is tight around my neck. ‘You need to believe you’re capable of doing it. Now, come on, you amazing woman, how do you get out of this?’
I’m giggling, it feels almost too playful and intimate in front of Adders, Jack’s breath on my neck, his mouth right there, his other arm around my middle. ‘Jack—’
Adders is laughing. ‘Sort it out, lovebirds!’
‘Get out of it,’ Jack insists. One of his legs hooks around mine, threatening to tip me.
I struggle against him, grasping the arm around my neck, trying to prise him off.
‘No,’ Adders says, ‘it’s no good trying to use your strength against his. Wriggle and struggle until you can get an elbow in.’
I do, twisting and sweating against Jack.
‘Nearly.’
We tussle a bit more, getting hotter and more claustrophobic, and I twist harder. A gap opens up. I snap back my elbow and hit something firm.
‘There it is!’ Adders says – as Jack grunts – full of warmth, the words ringing in my mind.
Jack lets me go, gripping his side, and they’re both grinning at me.
There’s no way I’m ever going to need to elbow someone in the ribs for real, but I feel better for it, laughing and grinning too.
31
The night is black outside. Leaves rustle all around us. I can’t sleep. Don’t want to. I’m listening for the car. I am almost certain it hasn’t come back south, that I haven’t drifted off and missed it. The longer the night goes on, though, the more I doubt myself.
Harry has finally fallen asleep in the back, bundled up in all our blankets and coats.
We push on to reach Jack, or we turn back.
Not that Jack, Andy or Sue could help if plastic microparticles are careering around Harry’s bloodstream.
I try not to think of the flat, of the careful ways I filtered water and boarded up the windows on breezy days. All my efforts to forage enough good food and build winter stockpiles. How I managed to keep him fed and hydrated every day. And safe.
Jack. Turn back. Either way, I need sleep so I have enough energy to face whatever needs facing tomorrow. For Harry.
I sink down across the front seats, the gearstick digging into my stomach. It’s miserably cold, making my chest ache as it settles inside me. The faint smell of vomit and onions still lingers. I should curl up with Harry, but the only way I’m going to sleep is if I’m within touching distance of the ignition.
When I wake, my eyes snap open to yellowed daylight.
Harry is coughing on the back seats.
I scramble over to him – wincing at my prickling lungs – and lift him to sitting, bringing the preserved jar of peas to his lips so he can sip the disgusting liquid. It dribbles down his chin in globs. His head sags against me, skin sallow in the light filtering through the leaves.
‘I’m hungry, Mummy.’
I pass him the hard bulrush cakes and Sue’s smoked venison jerky.
He sniffs at the food. ‘Was there more mandarins?’
I glance in the back. ‘Tell you what, if you eat this good protein and carbs to stay strong and you’re careful in the car today, tonight you can have the whole tin of mandarins.’
His face lights up. ‘If I follow the rules?’
I nod – showing him that second tin of fruit crammed in my pack to prove it – and smile as he works his jaws on the jerky.
It’s possible I missed the car going back south since I fell asleep. Yet I’m sure I would have woken to the tyres cutting through the floodwater.
‘Your face is scaredy again.’ Harry grimaces as he swallows the tough meat. ‘Are you sure Daddy’s not going to be angry like Sim the man?’ He rubs at his throat.
‘No, of course he isn’t . . . And you know I wasn’t really angry yesterday? Just worried.’ I put my arms around him. ‘You know how good our hugs are?’
Harry nods.
‘That’s how good hugs with Daddy felt – all warm like this, his chest moving up and down as he breathed, just like yours is now.’
‘I can hug you, Mummy,’ Harry whispers. ‘Wholeheart.’
‘I know, my sweet boy.’ I kiss his head. ‘But I’d like you to have Daddy’s ones too. It’s other people I’m scared of, not him. I’ll tell you a secret,’ I whisper too, making him lean closer. ‘Daddy made Luna. He carved him out of wood with a knife.’
‘Really?’ Harry sniffs, lifting Luna from his lap to examine.
I touch the wood, seeing Jack’s roughed-up hands working at it with a penknife, his mouth blowing away shavings as long thin limbs, a rounded torso and sloped neck emerged, then the rough suggestion of snout, ears and antlers.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s get moving.’
The engine is coaxed into life with three tries and a heavy foot on the accelerator.
Steering through the trees, we slowly pull out onto the road, into an unusually clear, pale-blue day, my spirits rising. Yet as we drive up the A82, I crane forward anxiously at the winding road ahead through the cracked and scratched windscreen.
Harry slumps under his blankets in the passenger seat, frowning, fingers tight around Luna.
We finally reach the end of Loch Lomond. I slow to ford a tributary.
‘Mummy! Strong things!’
I jump. On slightly higher ground, there’s a huge house, its whitewashed stone gleaming. The windows show heavy repairs, the sturdy shutters pushed open. I spot bookshelves and chandeliers.
As we draw level, I see two children through the trees. Oblivious to us, they jump across a painted hopscotch. I can hear them laughing and the high notes of a piano tinkling indoors. Beyond the children, a huge steamed-up greenhouse has dark green leafy shapes pressing against the windows from inside.
I keep going, gently accelerating away – the electric motor quiet but our unruly wheels clicking and rumbling.
Harry twists to stare back.
My eyes are half-glued to the rear-view mirror too as the miles tick by. Once the diesel engine switches back on, I’m going faster than ever before, faster than the hissing engine wants to. Harry gasps as we bounce over crevices and skid round bends.
‘Mummy—’ His little face is pale and sweaty.
‘They were being looked after there—’
‘But children! I wanted to meet them!’
But I think of the rifle lying in the boot. Andy’s words as we parted.
My foot gets heavier on the accelerator.
‘I don’t like it so fast,’ Harry says, clutching his seat. ‘Why is the ground so big? Is it going to fall on us?’
I glance at the colossal mountains rising up all around us, making me feel giddy, beautiful god rays breaking around the peaks.
‘Your face is scaredy again. You have to tell me!’
I snatch a glance at his little face – serious and studying me.
‘Of course not—’
My foot stamps the brakes, everything shunting forwards with a thud, including us. The smell of burning rubber fills the car. Boulders and the rubble of a previous landslide swamp the road.
‘I don’t like it!’ Harry glares at me, though he manages to keep his fists scrunched tight in his lap instead of covering his eyes.
‘That doesn’t happen often . . . and no harm done,’ I say, repeating Jack’s words aloud.
Making sure we’re still both strapped in, I set off across the glistening yellow-orange expanse of Rannoch Moor, up unevenly over rushes and bog myrtle, and tilting down into sponges of golden peat moss.
When the grey granite terraces of Fort William come into view, it’s a relief. We drift down the high street, shopfronts peeling and cracked, mustard and brown algae along the pavements and streaking up the encrusted glass and stone in uneven waves from frequent flooding. No abandoned cars. Fort William was a tourist town Before – a hub for outdoor sports – perhaps empty anyway off-season in mid-January. Green algae spores bob towards us from the top end of the street with the breeze, making it feel like we’re underwater, watching diatoms and phytoplankton float by on the current. White mushrooms grow in the gaps between cobbles too, like current-smoothed pebbles.
There’s a pharmacy halfway down, a big sweep of dried seaweed covering the bottom half of the window. I glance at Harry, now slumped low in his seat, eyes closed, mouth hanging open.
The engine conks out as I slow, dithering. So I stop and decide I might as well go and look. I lock the doors and linger, watching Harry’s pasty drawn face, sliding the key into my trouser pocket.
I pull myself away, check my mask is tight and tug the hood of my parka up. The shop door is locked. That reckless feeling that’s become familiar since we left Hitchin surges as I wiggle loose a cobble from amongst the algae and mushrooms. The glass cracks as the cobble bounces off it, but it doesn’t shatter. I glance at the Cruiser and hurl it harder, then hammer with a larger brick, until the glass turns brittle and white, and I can kick through it.
Inside, strings of dark algae creep around tipped-over shelving, bottles and packets scattered, as if the place has been underwater a lot and everything dislodged. I pick through the disintegrating boxes in a rush, peering at unreadable bottle labels. Harry needs better, activated charcoal, and antibacterial metals tablets to fight off the other crap he swallowed in that water, the stuff they touted as alternatives to the almost magical antibiotics that I remember still working when I was little. What else? Paracetamol? I finger an empty silvery cardboard sleeve amongst piles of ‘female immunity boosters’ melted into the carpet.
My fingers tap a jar that could be multivitamins. Don’t know if they’ll be any good after all this time, but I stuff a few jars into my pocket.
I find the shelf for activated charcoal – two small jars of black powder sit right at the back, wedged where the shelving above has collapsed. I grab them, my hands buzzing, a smile tugging up the corners of my mouth, imagining all the microparticles Harry may have swallowed getting soaked up and carried safely out of his body.
I spring out of the shop window and across the cobbles to the Cruiser. Harry is still bundled up in the front passenger seat – he seems peaceful now, the sleep healing instead of worrying. I pat my pockets gently, the jars clanking reassuringly. Fort William is still silent. I consider the outdoor clothing shop next door.
Harry does need proper boots up here, to go with Sue’s all-in-one. A few minutes more won’t matter. I grin to myself. I can get him good ones.
I scan the overturned racks and wander into the back room, imagining Harry’s face when I give him the boots. In the chaos of misshapen and crumbling cardboard boxes, my heart leaps at the sight of a child’s pair of walking boots. Rifling through, I find a few sizes – grey with bright rainbow laces – and stuff them, along with the pills, into a cloth bag. As an afterthought, I take a pair of size six Berghaus for me too – brand new, brown vegan leather, suede ankle collar. My current pair are still wet and dank.
It suddenly feels like I’ve been gone a while. I hurry outside – I should just wake Harry up and feed him the activated charcoal now.
I go five strides towards the Cruiser before there’s a tingle down my neck. I hear the slap of boots across the slimy cobbles behind me.
Two men march in my direction from a clean, if beaten-up, Volkswagen – gleaming solar panels attached to the roof bars, a cable snaking inside through a window. They close the twenty metres past cafes and shopfronts before I can shake the shock out of my legs.
‘Hey! Why didn’t you stop way back on the road?’
The hope in his voice makes me pause, as if maybe we know each other and I failed to realize. The man who’s shouting is athletic, strong-shouldered, and with a wide, weathered face. Both of them have rounder, healthier faces than us, or Sim, or Andy and Sue, or anyone else I’ve come across.
‘You driving about in that – you must have supplies: fuel, grease, power?’
He’s only a few steps away and now I can see his eyes are bloodshot, irises dull and cloudy. His hand searches the air to his side as if expecting to find something there.
‘I’m here, Bill.’ The other guy runs to catch up.
‘I can still see you,’ Bill snaps. He turns those eyes back on me. ‘I need supplies to fix up some of our turbines, keep our glasshouses running – get more of it operational. I have a kid, and a growing little community, we’re trying to ensure they have a future they can survive in.’ I can almost imagine it – all the books, music, company that Sim spoke about, and crops grown systematically in well-lit, irrigated and temperature-controlled, safe soil. And those children, playing with Harry. And yet I’m inching towards the Cruiser. Jack could be so close.
