“Hah! There’s none of them around here.”
“No police?”
“No. The Police Station isn’t manned any more—hasn’t been for years. The nearest manned station is in Hull or Scunthorpe.”
“What about the Fire Station.”
“Nope. No personnel there either.”
“Hell.”
“Hell is right. Bloody government cutbacks. They should stop sending out foreign aid and look after those at home first.”
“Perhaps they won’t come back.”
Michael grimaces.
“Pain?”
“Yeah.”
“Take this,” Clare says as she holds out the tablet in her hand. She passes him the glass of tepid water from the coffee table. “It’s the last but one though. Jessie, do you have any painkillers here.”
“Sure, but only paracetamol.”
“That’s not going to be strong enough.”
“Then we’ll have to go into the town to get some.”
“He should be in a hospital.”
As the Tramadol takes effect the warmth spreads over Michael again and despite the beating of his heart his eyes close and he drifts back to sleep, thankful for the kindness of strangers, thankful to whoever invented Tramadol and saved him from the pain.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bill steps closer to the sleeping man and surveys him. He’s young, well at least a decade or more younger than Bill, but not as lean or muscular as he should be—too much sitting around eating junk food and gaming no doubt. At his age Bill had been in the marines a good eight years, had been on numerous special ops, killed three men and one woman, rescued hostages from Somali pirates, broken up with his first love, and watched a friend die in agony after a roadside attack on their convoy. He can’t help a smile as he notices the man’s red superhero pants but cringes when he sees his legs. They look a mess.
“He rode back here on a bike?”
“Yep, a bicycle.”
“Well, they look to be in a bad way, but if he managed to get back here on his own then they’re not as bad as they look. Must hurt like hell though,” he sucks in his breath as a wave of remembered pain makes his toes curl. “He needs to keep them clean. It could be worse.”
He straightens, knocks against Clarissa as she looks over his shoulder, then turns to Jessie and Alex. The closeness of Clarissa is distracting.
“We should get him to a hospital.”
“The closest one is twelve miles away.”
“There’s not much fuel left in the car.”
“Then we should get some.”
“From where?”
“The petrol station?”
“It won’t be running.”
“Maybe they’re running it on a generator?”
“We might have to syphon some off.”
“Steal it you mean?”
“Well, needs must ... this lad needs medical attention.”
“I can look after him until then,” Clare offers. “He does need more painkillers though.”
“He does—paracetamol won’t do the job.”
“He only has one Tramadol left.”
“Perhaps we should go into town and ask the lady who gave them to him for some more?”
“Janet. He said her name was Janet.”
“Sure. We’ll go and see Janet then we can get petrol and take him through to the hospital.”
“It might not even be operational.”
“The hospital? They’ll have a back up system—generators that run on petrol.”
“Assuming the generators weren’t effected by the EMP.”
“That’s settled then. We go back into town, find the woman who gave him the pills and ask for more, then fill up the tank with petrol.”
“Agreed.”
“First things first though. Food.”
“Agreed!”
A collective sigh erupts in the room. Michael murmurs on the couch, shifts a little then lets out a long, slow and sonorous fart.
Clarissa snorts then claps her hand across her mouth and Bill laughs from his belly. The room quickly clears.
“Perhaps they can check out his bowels at the hospital too,” he jokes as they leave the room.
Clarissa titters again at his shoulder. “It is certainly smelly!”
“It stinks!”
“Poor boy! He can’t help it,” Clare adds.
“Poor boy?” Bill laughs as he steps out into the passageway. “Poor us.”
A tap on his shoulder. “Bill, can I have a word please?” Jessie asks. “Outside?”
He follows Jessie out into the garden. The day is still warm though the shade from the trees is casting shadows and cooling the air around the cottage. A breeze rustles through the leaves. It was certainly a beautiful place to live and Bill could well understand why Michael had decided to squat here. It was just the kind of place Bill would love to spend some time. Well, he was, but not in quite the circumstances he’d like to be in.
“What is it, Jessie?” he asks though he already knows the answer.
“Uri.”
Exactly! “Uri? You mean you don’t trust him.”
“Obviously and not as far as I can throw him, which is exactly nowhere.”
“Agreed. I’m keeping my eye on him, don’t you worry.”
“Thanks. When we go to town-”
“He should come with us.”
“Agreed,” Jessie replies and Bill laughs at her sigh of relief.
“Good to know we’re on the same page.”
“It is. So, what’s the plan?”
Her confidence in him is restorative. “We should go into town before sundown and see how the land lies. We find out where Michael got his painkillers from and try to get some more from that source. If that is unavailable we go to the local chemists.”
“It’ll be closed or locked up.”
“Yep. That’s not going to stop us.”
“Sure.”
“After that we fill up the tank and take a tour of the town-”
“A tour?”
“Yes, to see how the locals are managing. They may have rallied and organised themselves or it may be a free-for-all. We need to spread the word about the terrorist attacks and organise some form of protection if the police and military aren’t already on the case.”
“I don’t think there will be a police presence and if there is ...” Jessie pauses and her face hardens. Bill remembers her story of the reception she’d received back at the police station in the city. “Then we need to keep our mouths shut about the terrorists back in the city—at least my part in discovering the plot. The police weren’t exactly very understanding last time.”
“They’re bound by rules and regulations and sometimes that gets in the way of common sense. Until this crisis is over, and there are no more terrorists on the loose trying to kill innocent people, and there’s no military or police response, it’s every man for himself.”
“Agreed.”
“Bill! Jessie!” Clarissa calls from the back door.
Turning to the call of his name, Bill is captivated by Clarissa’s smile. Her dark hair hangs loose about her shoulders and some of the weariness in her eyes has disappeared. She’s obviously taken a moment to titivate her hair and freshen up.
“Just be a minute, Mum.”
“Alright, Darling. Andy has got the stove working so there’ll be a pot of tea ready soon.” Bloody Andy! “If you’re desperate though there’s water and a plate of biscuits on the kitchen table. You might like to hurry up, seems Alex rather likes a Garibaldi or two.”
She laughs then disappears back into the cottage and Bill stares after her. He’d like nothing more than to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to him, bury his head in her dark hair and smell the soft skin of her neck.
“Bill!”
“Huh!” he turns back to the voice with a start and then an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, I was just thinking about those biscuits.”
J
essie gives him a quizzical nod as he explains his jumpiness. “We’d best go in. It’s true. Alex is a biscuit monster.”
Stepping ahead, she disappears through the door and Bill takes one last look around the woodlands. Tomorrow he’d go in and explore. There was nothing he liked more than walking through the woods—well, perhaps waking with Clarissa wrapped in his arms would beat it. He sighs and follows Jessie and instantly clenches his jaw. Andy’s laugh is overly loud, filling the kitchen. He pushes down the urge to punch the man in the face. He’d better not have his hands on Clarissa’s backside again! There’s no way he’d be able to stand the sight of that.
As Bill steps into the kitchen Andy guffaws and gesticulates as he talks to Clarissa. If Bill could just reach across the table he’d slap the back of the man’s head. You’re jealous! No. He’s just an arse. A white plate sits at the centre of the well-scrubbed pine table and on it only a single Garibaldi biscuit remains. As far as Bill is concerned it has his name written on it. He steps forward and leans to take it just as Andy’s arm jabs out, grabs the biscuit and stuffs it into his mouth. Biscuit crumbs fly as he continues to talk at Clarissa. Bill suppresses a growl of frustration as Clarissa catches his eye. He turns to leave and bumps straight into Stella.
“Oops!” She knocks towards the door, her back catching against the frame.
“Sorry!” Bill apologizes and grabs for her arm, steadying her.
“Biscuit?” she asks regaining her balance with a bright smile and offers a plate of custard creams.
“I will. Thanks,” he says reciprocating her smile and taking three. He crunches down hard on the first crisp biscuit as Andy prattles on. If that Andy doesn’t shut up soon ... he chews at the biscuit with force.
“Another one?” Stella asks as he swallows the biscuit in two bites.
“Sure.” He takes a fourth biscuit without registering it and stares at Andy’s back. God but he’s irritating!
“... probably the North Koreans nuking us.”
“It was a natural occurrence,” Uri returns. “Not nuclear.”
“Then why are we being attacked? Could have been the Russians,” Andy replies. Bill sneers. Another of the man’s failings—he knew just how to tweak people and revelled in it by the look of malice in his eyes—twat!
“Pah! What does Russia want with Britain?” Uri returns with a derogatory bite. “Putin can crush you beneath his feet if he wanted—no need to use nuclear power—there are so many other, easier, ways he could destroy your infrastructure if he wanted.”
“Well, it’s unlikely to have been the North Koreans. They’ve just sworn peace.”
“Thanks to Trump.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, Kim Jong-Un was hellbent on nuking the US until Trump came along and called his bluff.”
“Yep, it’s the only language a bully knows. At least Trump had the balls to stand up to him-call his bluff.”
“Is called brinkmanship. A strong leader is what you need in this country. Then there wouldn’t be terrorists scurrying around like rats trying to burn everything down.”
“Like Putin?”
“Da, like Putin. He has balls, not like your Prime Minister. These men—they need keeping in place. Spare the rod, spoil the child as you say in England.”
“Uri, do we have to talk politics?” Viktoria asks as she steps into the kitchen and offers a biscuit to Anna. “Anna is tired and I need somewhere to wash and rest.”
“She’s right. We all need to rest—at least I do,” Clarissa says with a weary smile. Bill fights the urge to slip his arm around her waist and pull her head to his shoulder. He’d give her the support she needs. He’d be the place she could rest. “Stella, Jessie. Help me upstairs please. We’ll need to rearrange the bedrooms so there’s enough places for us all to sleep. The stove’s on and heating the water so there’ll warm water in a while. No big baths though—we have to make it stretch.” He’d share a bath with her to save water. Stop! Bill’s cheeks burn with the passion he feels rising. What the hell was he thinking? She wouldn’t want a homeless loser like him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sam hunches over the table and rolls the cigarette paper over the tobacco. He’s down to the last pinch from his last packet. Last ever packet? It should be, but he needs to steady his nerves. His heart began to race at the first stench of smoke yesterday and the smell is stronger than ever today. He licks the paper and walks to the window, peers out and lets the curtain drop back. Nothing to see from this angle.
He lights the paper, takes a drag and coughs as the tobacco smoke hits the back of his throat. Damn! Opening the door, the day is warm but the stink of burning is like an assault on his senses. His heart thuds hard. His hand trembles. He clenches his fist. The skin still tight, scar tissue preventing a strong fist. Damn you! He takes another drag of the cigarette, coughs again, and stamps his anger onto the concrete step then slams the door shut. Nothing he could do about the fire—it wasn’t his problem any more. His belly growls. In the kitchen the fridge stands as a white and mocking slab at the end of the counter. He opens the door, grunts, then slams it shut. It’s empty. He knew it was empty. Idiot! No amount of opening and closing and looking inside will make the food appear.
He’d been low on provisions when the blackout kicked off and the half block of mouldering cheese and packet of Ritz crackers had lasted all of one evening. There was a pack of sausages in there but even before the lights turned off they were out of date. He turns his attention to the high cupboard above the kettle. A variety of packets sit in a basket on the shelf. They’re in order, not alphabetical, but by colour. A pang of regret. Sally! She must have organised the cupboard before she left. Her compulsion to clean and organise and check had driven him demented, had driven them apart, at least that’s what he’d blamed his outbursts on, but damn, he wants to wrap his arms around her again. At least when they were together he never went hungry. The cupboards were always full, the week’s meals organised and bought for. Since she’d gone - and he couldn’t really blame her, he just wasn’t the man he’d once been - the house had gone to pot and he’d slipped into a steep decline.
His belly rumbles again and he picks out a packet with a mustard coloured design. Cheese sauce. It would have to do. He reaches for the bottle of milk sitting on the counter and empties the last quarter into a mug then sprinkles in the powdery cheese sauce mix. Bubbles of dehydrated and finely ground cheese sit on the milk. He beats at them with a fork then swallows and gags on the powdery mouthful. He stares down into the mug, eyes it with disgust then tips the rest into his mouth. Protein is protein and he is starving.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
He splutters spraying cheesy milk over the kitchen counter. It dribbles down his chin and onto his top as he wipes at his face. For crying out loud man, get a grip! Wiping his hands against the back pocket of his jeans he walks to the front door.
“Sam!”
He waits for the woman to catch her breath.
“Yeah?”
“There’s a fire-”
His mouth is suddenly dry. His heart palpitates.
“And?” Keep your voice strong!
“And.” A quizzical frown. “And you’re a fireman.”
“Was.”
“There’s a fire!”
“So you said.” Sweat breaks out on his palms.
“You need to come and help.”
His heart is going to explode.
“I-” The tremble is obvious in his voice. It quivers over his vocal chords.
“I’m not a fireman now.” He grasps the door’s handle tight and pulls at the door.
The woman frowns.
She doesn’t understand.
“You’ve got the wrong man.” Panic. His chest is tight. There’s not enough air. The smoke is suffocating.
“But-”
“Wrong house!” Stupid! His heart hammers. His chest tightens. His head pounds.
“Sam!”
“Sorry!” Rapid wo
rds. “Sorry. I’m not a ...” The doorway narrows. “I’m not a fireman. Wrong man.” The door slams shut.
He takes a gasping breath as his heart gallops. Pounding hooves on his chest. He flicks the latch on the door. Locked. He’s safe. Coward! Safe!
He stumbles through to the living room, draws the curtains to block out the light, keep them away, and throws himself onto the sofa. He takes a breath then exhales. His heart begins to slow. Breath. Exhale. Coward! Another deep breath. Sod off! He blows it out through his nose and covers his face with his arm.
One day he’ll be right. One day. Just not today.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bath water is only inches deep when Bill turns off the tap. Can’t use too much, there’s everyone else to think of, but he needs to wash the grime and sweat off. He could have a decent strip wash from a small bowl of water but today he’s going to indulge himself in the warm water and enjoy every second. The heaters are on and the warmth of the room hugs him like a soft and familiar duvet. It smells of lavender. A small cloth bag sits on the radiator. He picks it up and presses the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Its contents crunch between his fingers and the aroma becomes more intense.
A pile of neatly folded sheets sits on a turquoise chair. He takes off his shirt and turns to look in the mirror. He hasn’t seen himself for weeks, no months, and he’s not displeased. Any extra fat he had is long gone. The self-enforced daily exercises that staved off depression and, let’s be honest, insanity, whilst he slept rough, have hardened his muscles and they stand out in relief against the background of dainty flowers of the wallpaper behind. He rolls his shoulders and feels their ache across his back. He could do with a deep tissue massage, but since Julia wasn’t here, and she would rather spit on him than do him that favour, he was out of luck.
He thinks back to their last conversation. It had been bitter, full of recriminations and the anger he’d been suppressing for weeks, months, even years, had overwhelmed him. In that moment it had consumed him. It had betrayed him. He’d left the house listening to her screaming insults, the knuckles on his right fist bleeding. She’d ducked as he’d punched out towards her and his fist has slammed into the wall. Finding her in bed with Colin Barnes, her paunchy, pink-shirt-wearing manager, had been too much for him to take. He couldn’t turn a blind eye. He couldn’t let them make a fool of him. He’d beaten Colin, punched his flabby guts until he couldn’t get up again then turned his rage on her. Sure, he’d scared her, scared himself, but he hadn’t hurt her. He’d dragged her across the room but he couldn’t take the next step—couldn’t beat her the way he’d beat Colin. Couldn’t hurt her the way she’d hurt Bill.
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