As he walked, he tried to put the image of the dead girl from his mind. What was one more dead person in this screwed up world? She was probably better off. Only Jamie knew this was merely a doomed attempt to make him feel better. A niggling voice insisted that it would never have happened if he hadn’t broken through the fence and into the girl’s poolhouse. But what was wrong with trying to find a bit of peaceful shelter for the night? Anyone would have done the same. Wouldn’t they?
Jamie picked up his pace, staggering through the night, but his throbbing leg meant he soon had to slow down again. Come to think of it, it wasn’t his fault at all. If that woman hadn’t knocked him over in her AV and left him for dead, he would never have ended up inside the fence in the first place.
After fifteen more minutes of hobbling through the darkness, Jamie stopped and raised his face to the sky, suddenly overcome with exhaustion from everything. From the day’s events, from the future ahead of him, from living on his wits for the past sixteen years. Here he was, surviving (just), but penniless, homeless and without a friend in the world. He’d killed a young innocent girl – unwittingly, but still his fault – and he came to the depressing conclusion that he had never ever done even one truly good thing in the whole of his pathetic life.
Jamie only had vague memories of his life before the bombs changed everything. His parents had loved him, he knew that much. But they had also smothered him with over-protectiveness. Spoilt him. And he recalled numerous times when he was mean to them. When he was sarcastic and rude when they were only trying to be nice. He tried to remember – was he a good person back before the world collapsed? He didn’t think so.
He’d been fourteen years old on the day when everything changed. He and his mum and dad had been returning home after spending a long summer holiday in France. The drive to the ferry had been boring and Jamie had felt an uncontrollable rage towards his parents. Their attempts to appease him had only made him angrier.
Now, years later, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d felt that way. There were times when he wished he could go back in time and slap the boy he’d once been. To go back and tell that boy to hug his parents; to tell them he loved them more than anything in the world. To thank them for loving him.
Too late for wishes.
After boarding the ferry, he had given his parents the slip, and he remembered sitting on deck by himself during the journey home. Once they reached the chilly waters of Portsmouth, he had reluctantly obeyed the voice over the tannoy system and returned to their car in the transport hold of the huge ocean vessel. His parents were already down there, telling him how worried they’d been. How they had looked everywhere but hadn’t been able to find him. He remembered sliding into the car and ignoring them.
They sat there in tense silence waiting for the massive doors to open so they could drive out onto dry land back home to their little house. And then the bombs had started going off.
First, a loud booming explosion. Seconds later, a crash above their heads and then a snowy white light had filled Jamie’s vision. The explosion had been so loud that he almost couldn’t hear it. Later, when he thought about this episode, the only thing he could liken it to, is when something is so cold, it feels hot. Then, there was a silence that seemed to empty his whole being. He turned to look around at his parents and that’s when the screaming started.
It had been a terrorist attack. Multiple car bombs on board the ferry which had killed over half the passengers. Jamie was one of the lucky ones (although he hadn’t seen it that way). He recovered physically – amazingly he only received superficial cuts and bruising – but he still suffered vicious flashbacks of the horror of that day. The loss of his parents was made doubly tragic by the fact that for the whole holiday, Jamie had been vile to both of them and from then on he felt massive guilt for the way he had acted toward them.
After he left the hospital, Jamie withdrew into himself. He spurned all help from the few relations he had and ran away from each care facility and foster home. Within ten months of his parents’ deaths he had spent his meagre inheritance and was living on the streets. Then came the post-terror attack shutdown and it was everybody for themselves.
Because he was out of the system, he had escaped being drafted, but maybe joining the army would’ve been better than living the lonely half-life of a drifter. Because, as the years dragged on, he was realising he just didn’t have the energy for the harshness of the outside anymore.
Now, standing alone in the darkness, the true reality of his life hit him like a punch in the stomach. He was alone . . . a loser . . . a murderer. A sudden gust of wind snatched his breath away, making his eyes water. Or were they the tears of self-pity which trickled down his cheeks? There was no one to see him out here in the black wilderness, so why bother to even wipe them away? Who was he even crying for? For himself? For his parents? For this ruined place? For the dead girl?
He didn’t usually dwell on his past; he preferred to blank it out. To forget. But tonight’s events had totally unnerved him. Jamie closed his eyes and sank to his knees. And then he did something he had never done before. He began to pray. He asked God to forgive him and to help him. He needed guidance and he needed deliverance from the awful thoughts and fragmented images and memories which crowded his brain. He needed some peace.
Chapter Three
Riley
I shifted my gaze from the hostile gypsies back to Lou. She glanced from my worried face to the others and then turned to grin at me. A sudden surprising smile which transformed her features from those of a downtrodden mother, to a good-looking young woman.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ she said. ‘They’re just being nosy.’
I finally let out a breath. ‘Thanks.’ Relief washed over me.
‘S’okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve never known it to kick off like that before. It’s usually safe enough in the compound.’
‘You can’t be showing strangers our door.’ The man who’d let us out glared at Lou and then at me. I realised he was quite young really. Not that much older than me. His matted fringe hung over dark angry eyes.
‘It’s mental inside,’ Lou said. ‘A full on riot. She woulda got hurt if I’d left her in there. Killed probably.’
‘So?’
‘So . . .’ Lou pulled out the dried peas and jar of honey I’d given her. ‘Ta da!’
‘Are those . . .’ He snatched the food from Lou and examined it carefully as though the peas were diamonds and the honey, liquid gold.
Lou smiled smugly.
‘These yours?’ he asked me.
‘I gave them to Lou,’ I said. ‘For her and her children,’ I said pointedly.
‘We share everything here,’ he said.
I was about to protest, but Lou nodded. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘We share, and that way everyone gets something.’
‘There’s not gonna be enough of that for everyone,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Nine hundred and seventy two,’ Lou said proudly.
‘. . . Seventy three,’ the man said. ‘Marnie had her baby while you were inside.’
‘She did?’ Lou’s eyes lit up. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Good, I think.’ The man’s eyes softened for a moment and then hardened again as he turned to me. ‘Where d’you get this stuff anyway?’
‘I brought it to trade.’
‘Where you from?’
‘I should go back . . . I need to find my Pa. He’s still . . .’
‘I asked you where you were from.’ The man grabbed my wrists and looked at my hands. ‘Soft hands, clean nails,’ he sneered. ‘Bet you’re a perimeter girl.’ He spat on the frozen ground.
‘Leave her alone, Reece. She was nice to me.’
‘We don’t need her pity or her charity.’ He shoved the peas and honey into my hands and stalked off. ‘Get rid of her,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘and tell her not to come back.’
Ch
arming, I thought. ‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘I’d better get back to the compound.’
‘Don’t worry about Reece,’ Lou said. ‘He’s just mad at me for showing you our way in and out.’
‘I won’t say anything to anyone.’
‘No. I know you won’t. I’ve got a good feeling about you.’
‘Me?’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you around before you go.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You have to take these back.’ I handed her the peas and honey.
She sighed and then smirked. ‘Most people are fighting to get hold of food and you and me keep trying to get rid of it.’
‘Well, take it and keep it this time. If Reece doesn’t want it, that’s his problem. You’ve got kids to feed.’
‘They’re not my children you know,’ she said. ‘They’re my younger brothers. My parents are dead, so I take care of them.’
‘God, sorry,’ I said. ‘How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Twenty.’
I studied her more closely. I’d assumed she was older, but it was only because she’d had the children with her and was dressed in so many layers of old rags. She touched her face self-consciously and a strand of blonde hair fell out from beneath her brown headscarf.
‘I know I probably look about fifty.’
‘What? No, don’t be daft. You’re really pretty. Are you and Reece? You know . . .’
‘What? No. No, he’s like this totally annoying pain-in-the-ass older brother.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Hmm. Come on,’ she said, shoving the food into a drawstring bag. ‘I’ll show you around our little village.’
I followed her into the encampment. Unfriendly stares accompanied us as we picked our way through tents, debris and smouldering fires. What must it be like to live virtually outdoors in weather like this, with only canvas or plywood for shelter? And hadn’t Reece said that someone had recently had a baby? I shivered, thinking of our huge warm house with all its spare bedrooms and fully stocked cupboards. She would think I was a spoilt brat if she knew how I lived. No wonder these people looked at me with resentment.
‘Have you always lived here?’ I asked.
‘Since I was eight. My parents didn’t want to live inside the compound. Said it was too restrictive. Too many rules – like the old ways but worse. They liked the idea of being free. It’s pretty good here – we’re close enough to the compound to trade and we have an okay relationship with the guards. As long as we pass them along a skinned rabbit every now and then, or some of our homebrew.’ She winked. ‘Winter’s hard though. We always lose a lot in winter – friends, family, hope . . .’
She laughed at the expression on my face. ‘Cheer up. I’m not dead yet. Anyway, it’s great in the spring and summer. We have pony races and go out on hunting expeditions. We grow our own food and the kids have a great life.’
‘Sounds amazing,’ I murmured.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all sunshine and laughter. But I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. The Walls is as good a place as any.’
‘Don’t you get attacked by outsiders?’
‘We are outsiders in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Oops. Yeah, course you are, I meant . . .’
‘No, I know what you meant. Sometimes we do have to fight off raiders or armed gangs. But you might have noticed there’s a hell of a lot of us. And we can all fight. We decided years ago that protecting ourselves was top priority. We’ve had most of our weapons since the beginning. Getting ammo’s always been a problem, but we hardly ever use it anyway. We hunt for food with bows and arrows and slingshots. The guns are only for self-defence.’
‘I can see how that makes sense.’
‘Yeah. I can take down any game bird with my slingshot. Only I haven’t seen any game in weeks. We really need to go further afield. Here . . .’ she gestured. ‘This is my place.’
A long brick pier jutted out from the exterior wall of the compound. Butted up against it sat a large wooden construction patched with rectangles of corrugated metal.
‘It’s not beautiful, but it keeps us dry.’
The dwelling had a door with a rusty padlock, which she opened.
‘I’d offer you tea, but I haven’t got any. Hot water okay? We can put some honey in it.’ She winked again.
‘Great,’ I said. I desperately needed to warm up and couldn’t wait to wrap my hands around a scalding cup. I ducked my head and followed her in. It was dark and barely warmer than the temperature outside, but she’d made it homely with mattresses and cushions on the floor. On one wall was a floor-to-ceiling open cabinet stuffed with books, crockery and other knick-knacks.
‘Where’d you get all the books?’ I asked.
‘They were my dad’s,’ she said. ‘I’ve had to trade some of them, when things got too bad. But I’ve managed to keep hold of most. Not sure if they’ll make it through this winter though. It’s a pretty cold one and books make great fuel.’
‘How did your dad get so many?’
‘He had them from before. Managed to keep hold of them throughout everything that happened.’ Lou dipped a saucepan in a bucket of water. It had a skin of ice on the top, which she bashed with the edge of the pan. ‘It would feel wrong to get rid of them. They’d make a lovely fire, but every time I’m tempted, I take one down and start to read. They’re irreplaceable.’
She opened another door in the side of the dwelling. It led through to a tiny courtyard, big enough to house a metal brazier and a couple of chairs. ‘Sorry, I have to cook outside – no chimney. Come, sit. It’ll be warmer once this gets going.’
She turned to a large wooden box and lifted the lid, pulling out a handful of dead plants. They had a strong smell; fishy, like down at Cutter’s Quay.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Kelp.’ She raised an eyebrow at my blank expression. ‘You know . . . seaweed. Fuel.’
‘You use seaweed for fuel?’
‘God, you really do live in a different world.’
I hadn’t realised people used seaweed as fuel, but at least I knew how to make a fire. Lou was using a flint and steel set to get hers going. It caught quickly and she covered the brazier with a metal grill and set the saucepan on the top.
‘So was Reece right?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you from the perimeter?’
I nodded, feeling embarrassed.
‘What’s it like in there? I’ve heard it looks the way towns used to look? Can you walk around unarmed?’
‘We don’t carry weapons inside, but that’s because there are guards patrolling all the time.’
‘I’d feel weird without my slingshot,’ she said. ‘It’s like a part of me. So, inside the perimeter, do you have plenty of wood to burn?’ she asked.
‘We mainly use gennies, erm . . . generators.’
‘Ahhh, yeah, you’ve got oil. We have to send out foraging parties for fuel. They go out to the west coast combing for kelp and driftwood. It has to be dried out, of course, and now we’re running really low. Dunno what we’re gonna do if we can’t barter in the compound anymore. There’s nothing left to hunt out here and nothing growing this time of year. No trees left round here for firewood either. I reckon we’re pretty much stuffed.’ She didn’t sound too upset, despite her words. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where we could get hold of any fuel, would you?’
‘I’ll ask around,’ I said. ‘And I’ll let you know.’ I thought of the great store of felled trees we had back home in the perimeter. Mountains of timber stacked up so high we needed a mechanical grabber to lift it. But Pa said the store was precious because there were so few mature trees left growing now.
‘We can trade you for it,’ Lou said. ‘We make some great stuff. Sweaters and jewellery. Weapons. All kinds of things.’
‘I can’t promise,’ I said, feeling guilty. ‘Trees are scarce and Grey’s men trash
ed everyone’s stores when they were here. They took a lot of local supplies and when I say ‘took’ I mean ‘took’. They didn’t trade for it.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she said, her lips hardening. ‘They barged through here, shoving their automatic weapons in our faces and taking anything they wanted. That’s mainly why we’re so low on supplies this winter.’
‘Creepy aren’t they. Did they do their chanting thing?’
‘Chanting? No. None of them said anything. Just came in and took our stuff. Luckily we managed to hide most of it.’
‘Did you fight them?’ I asked.
‘We couldn’t. Not against those sorts of weapons. It would’ve been suicide. We’re strong, but we couldn’t compete with their fire power.’
‘Do you think the riot’s still going on?’ I asked, worrying that Pa might think I’d been hurt.
‘Hmmm, dunno. The guards were clearing the streets, so I guess it’s probably over by now.’
‘I better get going in a minute. My Pa’ll be going mad, worrying.’
‘I wouldn’t go back. Not yet. Not with the curfew. They’ll shoot you if you’re out on the streets. Doesn’t matter who you are.’
‘But I have to.’
‘Okay. But wait a bit longer and I’ll come with you,’ she said, holding her hands out over the sparking fire. ‘I’ll help you find him. As long as we keep to the side streets I reckon we’ll be safe enough. Maybe your dad’ll know where I can get some more fuel.’
I scooched closer to the brazier, the smell of burning seaweed filling my nostrils, along with a pungent Christmassy smell. This little yard was almost cheerful, sheltered from the wind, with the fire crackling and popping.
The Perimeter Page 2
