A Wrinkle in the Skin

by John Christopher

  Matthew threw the stone, but it missed him. He began to laugh again, and Matthew picked up half a dozen stones and threw them, feeling an insensate violence, a need to maim and kill. Stones struck the man on his arms and body, and he went on laughing. Then a stone hit him on the cheek, and the laughter stopped. He put his hand up to his face, and the blood trickled through his fingers. He stood still, staring at them.

  Matthew said, “Stay away from us.”

  He gathered Billy again, and walked on. There was no sound of footsteps behind them. When they had reached the crown of the hill, he glanced back. The man was standing there, not moving.

  Billy said, “He was mad, wasn’t he?”

  The disgust was with himself now. He did not know how one was supposed to cope with a lunatic in a world broken down to the bedrock of existence, and he had the boy to look after. But this was, perhaps, the one other survivor, and he had stoned him. Worse than that was the recollection of how he had felt, of the deep joy welling up at the sight of blood.

  “Yes,” he said, “he’s mad. It’s not his fault, you know. I think he was trapped somewhere and had to dig himself out. He can’t help the way he is.”

  Billy said with satisfaction, “You drove him off, all right, Mr. Cotter. You really hit him with that last one. I bet that hurt him.”

  He wanted to say something to the boy that would explain it, but could not find the words. And if he had, would there have been any difference between himself and the man back there? Both of them hawking their consciences and self-concern to an unwilling, uncomprehending audience.

  He said, “Well head for St. Martins, Billy. There’s a chemist’s shop there. I’ll have a dig and see what we can find. There’s a hardware shop, too, and food stores. It will be better really than St. Peter Port would have been. We shan’t have to carry things so far to our camp.”

  “It is a camp, isn’t it, Mr. Cotter?” He paused. “Shall I build a pile of stones up by the tent—in case he comes there?”

  “No,” Matthew said. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  They saw the group of people when they were some distance away from them. They were coming up from the Hubits valley, and the people were at La Bellieuse. There were at least half a dozen of them, a couple digging in the rubble and the rest standing by. One of them saw Matthew and the boy about the same time, and waved an arm in greeting.

  Billy clutched Matthew’s hand. “Is it all right?”

  “All right?”

  “They won’t have gone mad, too, will they?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  He was thinking about his own reactions. From the moment of finding Billy, there had been the feeling in the back of his mind that there would be others. It had been something to hope for, a protection against the otherwise hopeless loneliness of their future. The man they had met at the top of the Val de Terres had made him sure of this. Others would have survived, and in due course they would find them; there would be people to live and work with, to take some of the weight of responsibility for the boy off his shoulders. Now the hope, the conviction, had become reality, and he wondered why he was not overjoyed. He walked toward them, Billy at his side, and felt disturbed in a way he could not explain to himself.

  The two who had been digging broke off as they came up.

  There were seven in all. Three were female—a thin dark ugly woman of about sixty, a plump fair stupid-looking girl in her early twenties, and a girl a year or two younger than Billy. They seemed to be in good physical shape, apart from cuts and bruises. Of the four men, one was quite old, one around Matthew’s age, and the remaining two, he thought, about twenty-five. One of these, weedy, with curly blond hair, was sitting down, his right leg, splinted and bandaged, stretched out in front of him. The old man had his head bandaged with a dirty-looking cloth and seemed to be running a fever. The man Matthew’s age was apparently unhurt but looked dazed and a little sick. The only one who showed any sign of real vigor was the second of the young men. The others wore an odd assortment of clothes which did not match and in many cases did not fit, either. He was wearing blue overalls—which, although stained and dusty, gave him an air of efficiency—and high leather boots. He looked at Matthew and the boy thoughtfully, and put his hand out.

  As Matthew took it, he said, “My name’s Miller, Joe Miller.” “Matthew Cotter. And the boy is Billy Tullis.”

  Miller ran his hand roughly through Billy’s hair. “Hello, Billy. Had a bit of an accident with your arm, then?”

  “It got broken in the earthquake. Mr. Cotter fixed it.”

  “Good for Mr. Cotter.” He turned his attention to Matthew. “We can do with someone who can be useful. There’s not a lot of usefulness in this bloody bunch.” He had thick, quite long hair, and his chin was blue with a heavy beard stubble; he was powerfully built, handsome in a conventional way, and looked at Matthew with steady gray eyes. “I’ll be glad of someone who can lend a hand with things.”

  The hour threw up the man, of course, and Miller, as far as this group was concerned anyway, was undeniably the man. It was also something that he was aware of and determined to maintain; there had been assertiveness in his voice, a challenge to the newcomer.

  Matthew said, “Are there any others, do you know?”

  “Alive, you mean? Haven’t seen any. Have you?”

  “One man, but he was—well, unbalanced.”

  ‘Off his nut?” He regarded his companions with contempt. “So are most of these. Their brains are still addled from that shaking they got. You’ve seen the town?”

  Matthew nodded. “Just now.”

  “First place I headed when I managed to get clear. What a bloody mess. St. Sampson the same. This is the only sizable shopping center that hasn’t been swept away.”

  “That’s why we came here,” Matthew said. “I was thinking of the chemist’s, in particular.”

  “Great minds, eh?” He chewed his heavy lower lip. “The chemist’s, yeah, I didn’t think of that. We’re still after food and clothing. But you’re right, though. We ought to give that priority. Things like bandages and stuff. Need to get them out before it rains.” He looked at Matthew sharply. “Where did you kip last night?”

  “We rigged up a tent in a field, not far from my place. That’s St. Andrew’s.”

  “We’re fixing ourselves a site up above Saint’s Bay.” He grimaced. “Some bloody bay it is now, too. Handy for this part, and it should be out of stink range. You’d better bring your gear over.”

  He had a crude intelligence, or, at least, shrewdness. Matthew nodded slightly.

  Billy said, “We’ve got a donkey.”

  “Have you, now!” He looked at Matthew. “In good shape?”

  “Yes. Not all that young, though. One of those Miss Lucie kept.”

  “As long as it’s got four good legs. I’ve seen a few cows alive but too crippled to last. Mother Lutron”—he jerked his head in the direction of the older woman—“says she saw one up and grazing. But she’s seen angels, too, and Jesus Christ coining in his glory. Tell you what—well go and get your animal now, before it gets knocked off.”

  “By whom?”

  “You never know. Or strays. We can load your stuff on it.” He spoke to the middle-aged man. “Harry, try and keep them at it till we get back. I’ll want to see how much you’ve got out.”

  Matthew said, “You can stay here, if you like, Billy.”

  “I’d rather come with you, Mr. Cotter.”

  Miller gave him a friendly pretended punch to the chin. “You stay and look after little Mandy. She needs someone to play with.” The boy looked reluctant. “Go on then, lad. Do as you Ye told.”

  Billy looked inquiringly at Matthew, and he nodded. Billy went over to where the girl was standing. They were looking at each other uncertainly as Matthew and Miller moved away.

  “The younger generation,” Miller said. “I like kids, providing they do as they’re told. And we’ll need them.”r />
  Matthew said, “You’re thinking in terms of long-range planning, then?”

  “Long-term, short-term—the one thing certain is that things have got to be worked out. We’ve got to know what we’re doing, and do it right. There’s one thing we need to get straight, by the way.” The eyes looked at Matthew intently from under the heavy black brows.

  Matthew said, ‘“What’s that?”

  “Shirley.” Matthew showed his surprise. “The little blonde. She’s mine.” He paused, but Matthew made no response. “I can see you’re a hell of a lot more capable than that lot I’ve got myself lumbered with. You and I can work together. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t get on, but I don’t want any trouble about the girl.”

  “There won’t be,” Matthew said, “as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Right!” He spoke with confidence, but looked relieved. “I just wanted to make sure we understood each other. Now let’s go and get that donkey.”

  They had their midday meal not far from the diggings. The two women made a stew in a big pan—a jamming pan, Matthew thought—and ladled it out into various receptacles: smaller pans, a couple of empty tins which had held fruit, a battered cake tin. There was one unbroken soup plate, which was given to Miller. They had a mess of defrosted strawberries afterwards, with tinned cream. Later they sat in the sun, smoking cigarettes. The one Matthew had was a bit squashed, but tasted good.

  They had acquired another person during the morning. His name was De Porthos, and he had the typical Guernsey physique: short and stocky build, round cheeks, a strong nose and slightly protruding eyes. He was in his early thirties, the son of a Vale farmer.

  Miller, who was sitting apart with Matthew, nodded in his direction. “Were doing well for men. Useful as far as the work is concerned—if I can get the bastards working, that is—but it might not be so easy later on. We could do with more women.” Matthew realized that he was being built up as the lieutenant to the chief. He regarded this with indifference, tinged with a wry amusement. He said, “Ought we not to do something more positive about looking for survivors? I thought at first I was the only one, but more and more are turning up. I suppose its difficult, even with a disaster on this scale, to make an entirely clean sweep of forty-five thousand people.”

  “Where do you start looking?” Miller asked. “We dug the kid out, and Mother Lutron, and Andy.” Andy was the one with the broken leg. “But how do you know where to dig if you don’t hear them shout? And the few that are still alive have probably got their mouths covered with muck.”

  “We could make a sweep,” Matthew said. “Spread out like a line of beaters. Call, and see if we get an answer.” He looked up at the sun, hot and innocent in a cloudless sky. “If there are any still trapped, they won’t last long. The food and stuff will keep better.”

  Miller lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old and offered one to Matthew, who shook his head. The cigarettes were kept with the rations and doled out as appropriate, but Miller had his private supply. He said, “I think you’ve got something there. And this bloody lot can walk, and listen, even if they can’t work. We’ll lay off the digging here. We’ve got enough out to last us for a few days, and, as you say, it will keep.”

  “Talking of which,” Matthew said, “I don’t think we ought to rely on the stuff from the frozen-food chests after today. It’s a bit risky.”

  “It’s wrapped in that plastic stuff—poly-what-you-call-it.”

  “All the same, I think it would be taking a chance.”

  Miller puffed smoke out. “You’re probably right. And we’re not short of tinned stuff.” He looked at Matthew, grinning. “I like you, Matty. You’ve got your head screwed on. What a relief to have someone with some bloody sense around! Sure you won’t have another fag?”

  “No,” Matthew said. “Not now, thanks.”

  Miller planned the operation. His idea was that they should head for Torteval by way of Forest, coming back through King’s Mills. Matthew had reservations about the possibilities of completing a sweep of this extent, but kept them to himself. They left Mother Lutron, Andy and the two children behind: Billy protested about it but Miller cut him short. He was right, Matthew thought. If they had to dig for survivors, they were likely to turn up the ones who had not survived also. However accustomed to horrors the children had become, there was no point in adding to them.

  In fact, they did not get much more than halfway to Torteval. They had the first response to their calls from the ruins of a large house just past the airport: a woman’s voice, moaning. It was about an hour before they reached her. During that time she moaned occasionally but made no coherent reply when they spoke encouragingly to her. They found her finally pinned down by a beam resting across her thighs; she was a woman about thirty, buxom, with long dark hair matted round her face and breasts. She shrieked in pain when they came to lift the beam. They got it away from her, and she went on shrieking, though less piercingly.

  Miller said, “What do we do about this?”

  “I don’t think there’s a lot we can do,” Matthew said. “Broken pelvis for a certainty, spine maybe damaged, and God knows what internal injuries. Morphine is the only thing that might help, and we haven’t got morphine.”

  “She’s dying, isn’t she?”

  “I think so.”

  “I bloody know so. If we’d brought that gun of yours along …” He looked at Matthew challengingly. “Except that we can’t spare that solitary cartridge.”

  Matthew said, “I’ll see if I can get her to take some codeine. Not much good, but better than nothing.”

  Codeine was one of the things they had found in the tangled litter that had been the chemist’s shop. Matthew pounded half a dozen tablets up, and mixed them with water in one of the empty fruit tins. They lifted her head, the shrieks rising to a new pitch. To his surprise, though, she made an effort to drink the liquid. Instinct, probably, rather than cooperation-after thirty-six hours she must be suffering acutely from thirst. They gave her some ordinary water afterwards and she drank greedily. She stopped shrieking, but groaned continuously.

  Miller had been standing back, watching. He said now, “That’s no good. And we’re wasting time. Ashton!” This was the old man. He was white-haired, tall, running to fat, and had been complaining about having difficulty in walking. “Stay with her. And give her a sip of this from time to time.”

  He produced the stone bottle of gin, which was the only liquor that had been retrieved so far. Miller had taken it in his personal charge.

  He handed the bottle to Ashton. ‘This is more likely to keep her quiet. But don’t overdo it, and for Christ’s sake don’t spill any. I need a spot of that to keep me going.”

  They found another survivor in a house near St. Peter’s church. This was a man called Mullivant; apart from shock and a nasty gash in his upper arm, he seemed all right. But they had trouble with him because of his family. His wife and two daughters were under the rubble, and he would not come away without them.

  Miller said, “They’re dead. You’re not the only one. Every single one of us has lost his family. Don’t be bloody stupid, man. There’s nothing you can do for them.”

  “They may be alive.”

  “We’ve been yelling our heads off the last couple of hours.”

  “I mean, unconscious.”

  ‘They’re dead, I tell you.”

  He said desperately, “I don’t believe you. You’ve got to help me dig them out.”

  Miller stared at him for a moment. He said, “Come over here.”

  They had found the children’s bodies while digging for the man, and had covered them with blankets from their beds. Miller took him to the nearer one, and pulled the blanket back. This was the child whose face had been badly crushed; Matthew did not know whether Miller had forgotten it or whether the act was deliberately brutal, an intent to shock.

  While Mullivant stared, Miller said, “Do you want to see the other?”


  Mullivant shook his head and, bending down, covered the battered face again.

  Miller said briskly, “All right, then. Lets be going.”

  “My wife …”

  “Shes dead, too.”

  “You didn’t find her body, did you?”

  Miller stared at him with exasperation that seemed only just short of breaking into violence. Then with a swift gesture of impatience, he said, “If you want to have your nose rubbed in it! We’ll find her.”

  They came on her quite soon, a young auburn-haired woman, her face peaceful, unmarked except by the plaster dust which had settled like a white mask on her. Mullivant, gazing at her, wept, with shuddering sobs that racked his body.

  Miller allowed this to continue for a time, and then said, “Cover her up, and we’ll go.” When Mullivant made no response, he shook him by the arm. “You’ll feel better when you get away from here.”

  Mullivant said, “I’m not going.”

  “What the hell good do you think you can do by staying? They’re dead. You’re alive. You’ve got to look at things straight.”

  “You go,” Mullivant said. Tears had streaked lines down the grime of his face. He looked at Miller in an agony of blankness. “Thanks for getting me out. I’ll be all right now.”

  “You want some nourishment,” Miller said. “You’ll feel better when you’ve got food inside you. And a drink! We can give you a tot of something on the way back. That’ll set you up.

  He gave no sign of having heard anything. He said, in a reasonable voice, “I’ll be all right. I’d rather you left me.”

  Miller looked at Matthew, who shrugged. He said, “Righto. It’s your own concern. We’re at the top of Saint’s Bay. You know how to get there?” Mullivant nodded. “Come in your own time, then.” Miller turned to the others. “Time for us to be getting back, too. We’ll cut a bit north—make it a slightly different route.”

  They found no more survivors, but in one place the body of a man clear of the patch of rubble which had presumably been his house. Matthew thought he had been thrown clear and killed at the same time, but Miller corrected that.