The End of the World Survivors Club

by Adrian J. Walker

  ‘I’d rather not—’

  ‘I mean it. Beth, part of the problem is I don’t know how to express myself. Especially during an argument. I think of better things to say after I’ve said them.’

  ‘You seemed to know how to express yourself last night.’

  ‘What I was trying to tell you was that –’ he looked around my head, like a mystic inspecting my aura ‘– there’s stuff in there, in your brain, that I have no idea about. You’re cleverer than me, Beth.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘That’s not true, Ed.’

  ‘It is. You know it is. You’re cleverer and more capable at most things than me, and that’s the truth of it. When we first met and you talked about your work, I felt embarrassed. I had no idea what you were talking about, and yet you spoke with such passion and energy. And then Alice came along, little Alice –’ he trailed off, looking at his bare feet ‘– and you were the one who stayed at home with her, while I went out to do my work. There must have been times when you went spare.’

  ‘I didn’t. I mean, sometimes I used to think about …’ I shook my head, held my cheeks. ‘Ed, it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. I just want to find them.’

  ‘We’re going to. I know we are, do you know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  He slapped the wheel and fixed me in the eye. ‘Because you’re the one at the helm.’

  I don’t know why I felt like looking away. Maybe it was the patch, or the wildness in his eye, or maybe it was because I couldn’t remember the last time we had looked at each other for longer than a moment. But whatever it was, I pushed through it. I held his gaze, and slowly it became easier.

  Then I noticed he was frowning.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Kind of, I don’t know, wobbly.’

  ‘I’m not wobbly. I’ve just never looked at someone with an eyepatch before. Where do I focus? Bad one, good one, which?’

  He winked, or blinked, I couldn’t tell.

  ‘This one’s fine. Now, are you ready?’

  We let the Buccaneer leave first, watching as the wind slowly took their jib. Then came the mainsail, billowing at first then inflating like a puffer fish and sending them starboard. By the time Ed hoisted Elma’s single sail, they were well ahead of us.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ I said, as the pitiful rag flapped above us.

  ‘Have a bit of faith, will you? They’re bigger than us, so they can’t tack as quickly.’

  ‘What do you mean, “tack”?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Now, ready? A little to port.’

  ‘Ach, whatever – holy shit!’

  The sail snapped solid and we shot ahead. He tumbled onto the deck, laughing and grasping for a rope to pull himself up.

  ‘That’s it! Now, we’re lee—’

  ‘Lee helm, I know. Starboard right?’

  ‘Right.’

  I slung the wheel starboard, feeling the bite where wind, hull, sail and water met, and as I kept it there, our speed increased.

  The spatters of rain became a cloud through which we sped. Ed gripped the rope and released a manic laugh into the spray, and as the Elma scudded after its prey I could no longer resist the smile that pulled at my cheeks.

  We chased them for hours. The wind buffeted, a strong north-easterly surge disrupted by unruly gusts from the south. Sometimes it felt like we were closing the gap, others it felt like there was nothing we could do to beat them. At times I panicked as the distance became too great to see them clearly, fearing we would lose them, and then what?

  Then we would be alone. Just me and Ed.

  I told myself that my discomfort at this thought was because they had most of the food, but I knew there was enough aboard the Elma to last us.

  By midday we were closing the gap again, but we soon realised that they had stopped and weighed anchor. Richard was dangling his legs over the side as we pulled up beside them, mouth full of another doughy sandwich, as Josh and Dani high-fived behind. Maggie sat cross-legged by the helm with Colin on her lap, smoke seeping from her smirk. They all cheered at our approach.

  ‘Don’t feel bad,’ mocked Richard with a wink. ‘Bigger boat, bigger crew. You didn’t stand much of a chance.’

  The sky was clearing. I squinted up at him.

  ‘Day’s not over, smart arse.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  We ate lunch. Bryce, more drawn than he had ever looked, came up on deck and sat forlornly at the bow for a few minutes before Colin came to bother him, and he returned to the cabin like a beleaguered troll beneath its bridge. Ed spent the time looking at the sky, watching the clouds clear.

  ‘Wind’s changing,’ he said. ‘Can you feel it, Richard?’

  Richard sniffed and pulled a face. ‘Perhaps. Nah, this bugger’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Any idea where we are?’ I said.

  ‘Well, we’ve covered more water this morning than we did all yesterday. We should be nearing the Azores any time now, so keep a look out. Got that, Joshy?’

  Josh gave one of his ducks in acknowledgement, coiling a rope at the brow. An impatient gust of wind rattled the guard rail.

  ‘Right,’ said Richard, jumping to his feet. ‘Everyone ready?’

  We pulled away again. This time the wind had lost all its distractions, and as soon as the sail popped I had to battle to keep the bite. After an hour or so, Ed took the helm while I sat and massaged my leg, watching the Buccaneer race ahead yet again.

  ‘I told you,’ I said, ‘there’s no way we’ll catch them.’

  ‘Faith, Beth, faith.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, with a tight-lipped smile. ‘Faith.’

  He took a long breath as he braced the helm. ‘I always wanted a dog. Did you ever want a dog?’

  ‘What, in our house? It was way too small. There was barely enough room for us and two kids, let alone an animal.’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe. Still, would have been nice. I used to love watching them play at the park. Remember? Where we took Alice to the swings.’

  ‘Ed, what the hell are you on about?’

  He glanced up at the mast. ‘There were a couple of greyhounds, remember them? They used to tear across the grass, feet barely touching the ground. Alice loved them. None of the other dogs could catch them, they were just too fast. Apart from one. Remember?’

  ‘Aye. That brown one. Its owner ran the pub in Colinton.’

  ‘She was fast, but not as fast as a greyhound, right? So she used to cut them off. Clever thing. You could see her working out their trajectory, then she’d take the shorter route so she caught them on the way round.’

  Another glance at the mast.

  ‘Why are you talking about dogs?’

  He smiled. ‘Always wanted a dog. Here, take the helm.’

  ‘What, why? What are you going to do.’

  ‘We’re going to tack.’

  ‘What’s tacking? Ed, tell me—’

  ‘Just keep her steady.’

  He loosened a sheet and the boom swung port. ‘Follow the wind. Turn with it.’

  I spun the wheel. ‘What are you doing? We’re going to lose speed that way.’

  ‘For a while, yes.’

  I watched as the Buccaneer sped off to the right, following the bearing we should have been taking. ‘Ed, we’re losing them!’

  But his eyes were on the sky, and the weather vane that twitched at the top of the mast. ‘Not for long … ready?’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘The wind’s about to change. I know it … almost …’

  ‘Ed—’

  ‘Now! Hard to starboard!’

  In a rattle of ropes and winches the boom swung back, immediately inflating again with a tremendous gust from behind. Suddenly we were speeding towards the Buccaneer’s starboard side, and as we approached we saw their mizzen flap, and the mainsail flag as it lost the wind. Figures scurried about on the deck t
o Richard’s desperate orders.

  ‘Christ!’ I cried out, shielding my face from the spray. ‘How fast are we going?’

  Ed whooped. ‘No idea!’

  I have no idea what we did that day. I’m sure a thousand experts would have held their heads and cursed us for the way we manhandled those ropes and sails, but whatever we did, it worked. We let the wind push us across the water at speed. We sailed.

  We crossed the bow of the Buccaneer, waving as Richard tracked us, mouth agape. Josh waved back from his lookout point at the bow, but was distracted by something beyond our sail.

  Eyes wide, he pointed ahead.

  ‘Land,’ he cried. ‘That’s land ahead!’

  It took another hour before we reached the Azores, during which time the sun had dipped and the wind had changed so much that the race was forgotten in place of survival. Ed grinned all the way in; we were approaching the islands from the north, which meant he had been right. He glanced at me to acknowledge this, and I couldn’t help smiling back.

  The land Josh had spotted was a long and hilly island which we identified on Richard’s chart as Terceira. The landscape was rural, and the shapes of fields dotted the plains beneath the tufted crags of hillocks in the west. About two miles out the two boats drew side by side, slowing, and I scanned the coast using the Elma’s binoculars. There was a small town in the east swarming with gulls, like flies over meat.

  ‘What do you see?’ said Ed.

  ‘Nothing I like.’

  Maggie, Josh and Dani were already taking down the Buccaneer’s three sails.

  ‘We’ll motor from here,’ Richard called down. ‘There might be rocks. You lead. Take care, go slow.’

  Ed started the Elma’s engine and we chugged ahead with me at the bow, binoculars in hand. The Buccaneer thrummed behind us. Another mile in and the town revealed little more than a few boats in its harbour. One was on its side being picked at by gulls.

  ‘Any sign of life?’ said Ed from the helm.

  ‘No. Wait!’ I sat up. ‘Stop.’ I waved behind. ‘Stop your engine!’

  The two motors spluttered out and we drifted. Ed came to the foredeck.

  ‘What is it?’

  I handed him the binoculars. ‘See?’

  He peered ahead. A spray of jagged points rose from the sea ahead, submerging and resurfacing from the choppy tide. They spanned as far as we could see around the coast.

  Maggie leaned over the bow next to us, cigarette half rolled in one hand.

  ‘What are we looking at, Beth?’

  ‘Rocks. Everywhere. It’s not safe.’

  ‘There’s something else around them too,’ said Ed. ‘Froth, or nets, maybe. I can’t make it out, but whatever they are there’s no way through. Perhaps we could try the southern coast.’

  Maggie looked west. ‘The sun’s going down. Another hour and it’ll be dark. We could stop here for the evening, maybe check it out in the morning.’ She lit her cigarette and called back. ‘What do you think, Richard?’

  ‘Fine with me.’

  ‘Beth?’

  I was tired. My leg ached, and my arms felt like rock from hauling the helm. I felt as if we’d clawed our way across an entire ocean, but more than anything else I had a bad feeling about the island.

  I wonder – if we’d gone south, if we’d found a way onto the island, would things have been different?

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s rest here.’

  Chapter 22

  By the time we’d anchored, coiled ropes and stowed the sails, the last strings of sunset were throwing their amber light across the island’s fields and hills. A low full moon made shadows of its crags, and the land sank into a brooding black mass beyond the glow of our deck.

  We were floating beside an unknown quantity surrounded by rocks, but that did little to dampen the mood; we had come far and fast, and it felt like we could do anything. We sat on the Buccaneer’s deck by Maggie’s candles, talking about the day with mugs of tea and Carmela’s bread fried in oil with the rest of the jerky. Bryce was still below deck and Carmela chose to eat hers at the bow, looking out over the moonlit water. I felt sorry for her – the language, Bryce and whatever had drawn her to flee to the Rock – but I knew enough about solitude not to disturb her.

  Besides, I didn’t want to leave the table. Spirits were high and it felt good to talk about something positive that had happened – the past had been something I had steered from for so long. I caught Ed’s eye occasionally, and I found I didn’t look away. Richard noticed, and looked away, smiling.

  After dinner we performed our daily provisions check, shelling peanuts from a bowl while Colin stood eagerly upon Maggie’s shoulder, catching every one we tossed at him. Maggie marked a list as Dani scoured the Buccaneer’s cupboards and Josh did the same on the Elma, armed with a flashlight he held between his teeth.

  ‘Plenty of water,’ he called. ‘Five crates, few more spare bottles. Eight packets of flavoured rice … five tins of hotdogs, three tins of … bleurgh … burgers … why would you put burgers in tins? … two packets of dried bananas … one of Rice Krispies. Some crackers, few packs of noodles …’

  ‘Seven tins of beans,’ said Dani, ‘four of tomatoes, two of potatoes, one crate of water, four packets of mashed potato, some of Carmela’s bread … that’s it, I think.’

  Maggie mulled over the list as Colin chattered. ‘I’d say that should do us for another week at least, if we’re lean. The main thing is water, of which we have plenty on the Elma.’

  Josh clambered back and Dani returned from the cabin. Maggie threw down the list.

  ‘Now who’s for some rum?’

  We gave a dreary cheer. Although we had grown used to the sour taste of Staines’ rum, it wasn’t something we craved. Richard pulled a bottle and glasses from the cavity beneath his seat, still sticky from the night before.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Drink up.’

  He went to pour but Ed stopped him.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Bryce and Carmela?’

  Richard sighed and sat back, popping a nut in his mouth. ‘Jesus, do we have to? He’s been down there all week. How long can one man be seasick?’

  There was a rattle from beneath the cabin and we turned. A thump, a grumble, the sound of glass, then a groan.

  ‘Ooo …’

  But the groan rose and became something else.

  ‘… Oooo ya beauty!’

  Bryce burst from the cabin, brandishing two bottles. With gritted teeth, he looked around the deck, hollow eyes trying their best to gleam in triumph.

  ‘Fucking whisky! Found it in the hole behind that bastard’s bed.’ He clambered up, snatched the glasses from Richard’s hand and began pouring frantically. ‘Better than that shite, eh?’

  ‘Feeling better, then?’ said Richard, looking up in disbelief.

  Bryce glanced at him, trying not to spill. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Fine when we’re no moving, bright as a button. But as soon as we’re off – cannae help it, can I? Maggie?’

  He offered her a glass, but she waved a hand.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He grimaced. ‘And how about your monkey?’

  Colin bared his teeth and chattered.

  ‘We’ll stick with what we know, I think. But enjoy.’ She stood, scooped the rum from the table and took it to Carmela’s seat at the bow.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Bryce sat down. He raised an eyebrow at Ed and Richard. ‘Remember the last time we drank whisky?’

  The three of them shared a smile and raised a toast to a place or a person with some old lordly name I can’t remember – and went on to talk of things that seemed far out of time and mind.

  Whisky – never a fan. Perhaps it’s because my dad drank it. He never knocked us about or anything like that, but my brother and I both knew when the bottle was open, and by nine years old I had learned to tell how many glasses down he was by the pitch and slur of his voice, the speed with which his head swung to the door when you came
in from playing, and the weight of his eyelids. These cues gave me my first inkling that this man – this hero who made bicycle obstacle courses in the garden for us out of planks and oil drums, who never seemed to eat, who read thick books about wars and politics, and around whom my cousins, brother and I would sit on Christmas Eve, fighting for the best patch of carpet to hear him read his Robert Burns poems – was only as good as the clarity of his blood. He said things he didn’t mean and didn’t remember, became sullen for no apparent reason, surrendered himself to the liquid’s will.

  In short, he was not a constant. And that, I realised, was true of everyone.

  I still like a drink. It’s just that I like to like a drink, and for most that doesn’t seem to be a prerequisite – from the clutched throat of the first attempt to the creased face after the fifth shot, to the vomit sprayed body in the gutter – pleasure is optional.

  Just take a drink.

  So what do I like? I like thick red wine with a T-bone steak, gin and tonic on an aeroplane, frosty beer on a hot day. That’s all good. What I don’t like is losing control. I know I’m not a constant (PMT, hello) but I have no desire to rediscover that truth on a nightly basis.

  I had seen Ed lose control. Like my dad, he never turned on me, but he turned on himself often enough. His eyes bulged when he drank that first glass in the evening. There was no pleasure there; just an unwanted parasite being sated, a prophecy being fulfilled.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye on the Buccaneer’s deck, swilling my own un-drunk whisky and wondering if I could detect the signs – the ones I’d learned to watch out for in my dad – but he seemed wrapped up in the conversation with Richard and Bryce, about crows and dog food, and old men in big houses.

  And I noticed his whisky was un-drunk too.

  I grew tired of the stories and went to visit the head. Sitting, cramped, on the squat toilet, my foot throbbed. The numbness extended from my toes to the middle of my calf, but pain had now coalesced around my big toe and arch. My cargo pants were around my ankles, and from their shadows I thought I could make out a discolouration to the flesh. It was darker than a bruise. I considered inspecting it but decided against it, finished up and left.