by Terry Tyler
Looks like Beckett's Farm all over again. Should I keep an eye out for the trapdoor leading to the cellar filled with bodies for the pot? Or random sepia-toothed farmhands shaggin' folks they didn't ought?
Ace shouts out, "Anyone around?"
We wait for a moment; when no one appears, we walk towards a group of shabby outbuildings.
"Hey!" Ace stops, and whistles. "Anyone here?"
I hear a shout of laughter, and someone calls out, "Keep your hair on, I'm just coming!"
A minute later a man appears, dressed in dirty blue overalls and wellies. He has untidy, longish black hair and a beard, and as he moves closer I see he has the drooping eyes and foolish grin of the habitual weed smoker. It's not even ten in the morning.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, still grinning at us. "Sorry, I was just having my breakfast. What can I do you for?"
I step forward. "We're looking for someone. His name's John Farrer―he's my brother."
The man screws up his face, like he's thinking hard. "John Farrer. John Farrer. I dunno, to be honest. We don't bother much with surnames here, but we've got two Johns. No, tell a lie, three―new one turned up last month; not sure if he's still here. Shelley―that's the governor's girlfriend―she deals with all that stuff, normally, but I haven't seen her for a few days. Hey, you want a coffee?" He smiles, and puts his hand to his chest. "Billy. You?"
We introduce ourselves and follow Billy past more tumbledown sheds, one of which contains some rather forlorn-looking goats.
"They don't look too happy," I say.
Billy laughs. "Well, they're Capricorn, aren't they? Prone to black moods. You ask my mum."
We reach the side door of a small house with half the slates missing off its roof. Still smiling, Billy opens the door; inside it looks like no one's tidied up since before The Right Honourable Freya Wilson needed digital wrinkle removal, but it's warm and cosy.
Four people sit around a table passing round a huge bong.
They look up and greet us cheerily, but don't seem remotely interested in who we are, or inquisitive about why we're there.
"Bit effing cold this morning, is it not?" says Billy, and opens the door to an Aga, holding his hands close to the flames. "Now, that coffee!"
He fills a kettle so rusty that I doubt the wisdom of drinking the water inside, boiled or not, but the thought of coffee is too wonderful to turn down.
"Siddown, then!" Billy says, and the others shift up to make room for us on two long benches. "Chaps, meet Rae and Ace―and this is Karen, James, Debbie and Archie."
James hands me the bong's plastic tubing, coughing as he does so.
"Want some?"
"Oh―no, thanks." I smile. "Bit early for me."
Ace has no such reservations, and draws deeply from it. I wonder if he actually wanted it, or he's just being polite. I don't feel happy about putting something in my mouth that's just been in several others, to be honest; my attitude to such things is distinctly megacity, because we're so careful when it comes to hygiene, but I don't want to look finicky.
"So who are you and why are you here, then?" asks Karen. She has long, dirty, blonde hair and filthy fingernails; she looks genuinely interested, so I tell her about John and a potted version of how I've come to be looking for him.
"Dunno if we've got a John Farrer," she says. "Got three Johns. We don't bother too much with last names here."
"More likely the poor bastard's in a Hope," says Archie, coughing, and handing the bong to Ace again.
"Could be," I say. "I'm trying everywhere I can." I don't bother to go into the whys and wherefores of changed names and Locate records; I doubt their interest would stretch to fine detail.
"Gotta explore every avenue, right?" Karen reaches over the table to put her hand over mine. "I lost touch with my sister when she went to live in a megacity. I wish she'd search for me, the way you're doing. And you're right to look in the off-grids; more people bust out of Hope than they'd have you believe."
"That's what I thought." I glance up at Billy, who is pouring out the coffee. "Can I meet these Johns?"
"Y'could," he says, handing me a chipped mug. "But one of them will still be asleep, one is down the bottom fixing the plumbing, and―oh yeah, I've just remembered; the new one's gone fishing. Saw him setting off, just before you turned up. He'll be back early evening, though, no worries. Not in a hurry, are you?"
Ace is almost smiling; he looks quite at home here, and distinctly stoned. "We're good."
Billy grins broadly, claps his hands and rubs them together. "Lovely job! Now, who's for breakfast?"
We're given enormous chipped, cold plates filled with bacon, eggs and huge doorsteps of bread, with no butter because, Debbie tells us, Mary and Phil were supposed to be making it yesterday but they got into a bit of a sesh with the elderberry wine.
"So that's why we don't have any butter. Or elderberry wine, come to think of it."
I've never met people like this before. I'm not sure I'd want to live here, but I like them.
I ask, "Who runs this place?"
Debbie gulps down a mouthful of egg and says, "Whoever's wearing the governor's hat on any particular day," at which point Archie reaches for a battered old straw hat and places it on his head, which causes much hilarity.
"You mean who owns it, right?" says Karen. "It's Alex. Alexander Philpott the third. Inherited the place from his father, and sold off some of the land when everything started to change, just to keep it going. 'Cause there's no way he's allowing the evil Botox monster―aka our beloved PM―to get her manicured mitts on his family home. Me and Arch have been here the longest. Twenty-five years."
"Long as he can sit in that haunted house up the way, writing his books and drinking Scotch, he lets us get on with it," says Debbie. "We make sure everyone gets enough to eat, and we've got heat and water. 'Cause that's all you really need in life, isn't it?"
I consider this for a moment. Makes sense. Mind you, I think I'm getting stoned from the fug of weed fumes. I might have metamorphosed into a hippie.
"Is he a well-known writer?"
"Is he fuck," says James. "He can't write for shit."
This makes them laugh, then they all leap in to make sure I understand that he's a top bloke really, and they're very happy here.
I glance at Ace, and he smiles at me. He doesn't smile much; he ought to, it suits him. Perhaps he just ought to get stoned more often. He gives me a wink, and I'm surprised by how good it makes me feel.
Ah. Damn you, hormones. Please, don't let me start to fancy him. I don't need that sort of head-fuck, I just want to find John. It's the weed heightening my senses, that's all. And enjoying the company of the fine people of Sunrise is a most pleasant way to spend the morning, but it's not why we're here.
As if reading my thoughts, Ace leans forward. "Any chance I can go see the John who's fixing the plumbing?"
"Yeah, no worries, mate," says Billy, eyelids drooping almost to his jaw. "Why didn't you say? I'll take you out to him now―and perhaps one of you lazy bastards could take Rae up to the haunted house to wake up John Two? Or he might be John One; I can't remember who's been here the longest." He stands up, shakes his head, and laughs. "I need to get this surname shit sorted out, don't I?"
Neither Plumbing John nor Sleeping John is my brother. Sleeping John is clearly of African descent.
"Well, I didn't like to say," says Billy, "in case it made me sound racist. I used to live in a megacity, and you can get had up for stuff like that."
I can't help laughing. "It's not racist to say that he can't be my brother because I'm white and he's black. Wouldn't I have said if, say, one of us was adopted, and he was of a different ethnic origin?"
He gives me another of his cheesy grins. "Yeah, but people can be funny, can't they? And you never know."
Ace and he have a rather convoluted conversation about the making of their weird biofuel stuff, some of which Billy is delighted to exchange for our packets
of rice and pasta, probably far more than they're worth. After this transaction has been made, we go out to ask the farm workers if anyone knows of a John Farrer, but they don't seem even to be sure what each other is called, other than nicknames such as 'Hindu Bill', 'Welsh' and 'Bog Man', which causes more hilarity ("Your name's Christopher? Bloody hell, I never knew that!"). I'm just about to give up and suggest we leave when the woman who milks the cows says that she's pretty sure Fishing John's surname is Farrer.
My heart leaps. "And he's about twenty-seven?"
She frowns. "Could be, yeah."
"Don't get your hopes up," Ace whispers to me. "I wouldn't trust this lot to know which fucking hemisphere they're in."
We spend the day chatting to our new friends about this and that, eating vegetable and bean stew, playing Risk and engaging in a spirited wasteland-versus-megacity-lifestyle debate, while we wait for Fishing John to return, which turns out to be not late that afternoon, as promised, but around six in the morning, after I've spent the night napping on a broken down old sofa.
"Ah, yeah," says Billy. "I forgot he likes night fishing."
Fishing John is forty-five years old if he's a day.
His last name is Farringdon, so I can forgive the milking woman, who says she's not very good with ages.
"Never mind," I say to Ace. "I've liked it here, anyway."
"Me too." He slings an arm around my shoulder, just for a moment. "One day's enough, though."
Before we leave, Karen hands me a paper bag containing sandwiches, even though I've insisted we have enough food. "Just in case," she says. "You know the drop-ins are closing?"
Ace says, "We've come across one that was gone. Is it the same everywhere?"
"Dunno. But there's one twenty miles east from here that Billy goes to sometimes, and it was empty when he went up there a few days ago―he pretends to be a wastelander to get chocolate and biscuits and that―and John said the one by the lake where he fishes has gone, too."
"This is getting serious," says Ace, as we walk away. "Look, we'll go to this Lake Lodge, then I've got to get up to see Vince. He's got contacts across the north; he might be able to shed some light on it."
"How worried do you think we should be?"
Just like that, his face shuts down.
"You don't need to be worried at all. You can go back to your megacity, can't you?"
"I don't want to―"
"Well, perhaps you oughta rethink that. There's no need for you to be mixed up in anything that happens out here. It's not your world."
And he strides off in front of me.
It's about eighty miles to Lake Lodge, the last possibility as far as the four indie off-grids up this end of the country are concerned. My optimism sags, badly. Am I wasting my time?
I express this, in case Ace is thinking it too.
"It’s alright," he says. "I'm coming up here anyway, aren't I?"
We've stopped on the way, to eat our sandwiches. Today is bright and dry, and I look out over the fields. In the distance, I see a small building that looks like the bricklayer threw the bricks together randomly and hoped for the best. Steam or smoke rises from two chimneys.
"D'you think someone's living over there?"
Ace looks up. "Nah, that'll be blitz."
"What?"
"They're cooking. Didn't you know?"
"Didn't I know what?"
"The wastelanders make it. It's our contribution to the wealth of this great nation."
I can tell what he thinks of this by the ferocity with which he chucks the crust of his sandwich onto the road.
"Bloody hell. I never knew that." Is this the 'specific purpose' that Ginevra didn't want to tell me about?
"Didn't you ever wonder where it comes from?"
I frown, thinking. "I don't know―not really; I suppose I just assumed somewhere like Afghanistan."
"You're thinking of cirrus."
"Oh, yeah. So the people back at Fennington―do they make it?"
"Couple of them. And where your sister lives; Dan told me. Your sister's mate Shanna's a cook."
"Oh! Are you involved in it?"
"Am I fuck. I have as little to do with the megacities as I can. And I'm certainly not working for them to make that poison."
"So, what, the wastelanders get paid for it?"
"Yeah. In meds, tools, other stuff. I don't go near any of it."
"Bloody hell." I'm repeating myself. "So who buys it from them?"
"Dunno. Fellas in baseball caps and dark glasses, I suppose. Probably one of the country's most profitable industries, and it costs them nothing but the raw materials and a few odds and sods for payment." One side of his mouth turns up in an almost-smile. "You're getting a real education out here, aren't you?"
I stare out into the quiet countryside. "I am."
He stand up, and brushes the crumbs off his jeans. "Well, you didn't want to be a megacity zombie all your life."
No, I didn't. Nothing is black and white, or exactly as I thought.
I feel suddenly immensely depressed. I don't want to go back to before, but life was certainly a lot easier then. Ignorance being bliss, and all that. Now, it seems like every day another murky little truth seeps out.
I get back on the bike, and we shoot off up the road towards Lake Lodge.
Chapter 24
Dylan
Three's A Crowd
Twelve Days Earlier
Emma clutches his arm and whispers, "Thank God!" as they see the sign for Lake Lodge, early on a dull Wednesday afternoon. A half-mile walk down a narrow lane, and their journey will be at an end.
"They might not take us in," Dylan reminds her, reluctant to dampen her spirits, but he doesn't want her to fall apart if they're turned away. She looks so weak, as if she's lost hope. Last night he ached for her as he watched her nestle up to Rocky, whispering that she loved him; he seemed not to hear.
As Lake Lodge comes into view they see only high gates, with no one around.
Lake Lodge Approved Private Homestead.
Private Property. Keep Out.
Rocky points. "Look. There's a buzzer." He presses it, and they wait; a moment later, the intercom crackles.
"Hi, Matt speaking. Can you state your business, please?"
Rocky bends his head to speak into the mouthpiece. "Hi―there are three of us out here. Can we see whoever is in charge, please? We're, er, interested in joining your community."
A few minutes later, a man of about Dylan's age opens the gate and leads them to a small hut at the entrance.
"You can wait here―there's water and food." He indicates a stack of chairs, and bottles of water and packets of homemade biscuits on a small table. "I don't know if we're taking anyone in right now; I'll go and find Steve and Kendall. They're the owners."
"Food," says Rocky, after he's gone. "I am so getting stuck into those."
"Don't take too many," says Emma. "We don't want to look like freeloaders."
"They know what it's like out there. That's what they're for; to eat."
"Yes, but we want to give a good impression."
"Won't make no diff. If they've not got room for us they'll send us packing anyway, so we might as well take advantage."
Her face drops. "But if they don't―what will we do? Where will we go?"
"Back to them houses we passed twenty minutes ago, to start off with." Rocky breaks open one of the packets. "And can you take that look off your face? It's starting to get a bit old."
Dylan is arranging chairs and Rocky is cramming a second biscuit into his mouth when the door opens, and a middle-aged man and woman walk in, accompanied by a younger man.
"Welcome to Lake Lodge," says the man, walking forward to shake their hands. "I'm Steve; this is my wife, Kendall, and our son, Nick."
Rocky jumps up. "Rocky, Dylan and Emma. Thanks so much for the, um, refreshments." He holds his hand out for them to shake before noticing that it's covered in crumbs; he withdraws it, and wipes it on
his jeans. Kendall laughs; this breaks the ice.
Steve sits down, opposite them. "Right, I'll cut to the chase. The first thing we do is interview you, individually; there's no point in taking this any further if you're not a good fit for us, or vice versa, which does happen. More people want to join us than we're able to take, and it's essential that those we accept will dovetail with the rest of our community."
"But you do have vacancies?" asks Emma.
"Let's get to know you a bit before we go any further, so you understand what being a part of the Lake Lodge community entails." His eyes fall on Dylan.
"Dylan, right? Can we talk to you first?"
"Sure." He follows the three of them to a log cabin, further up the path, scanning the area as he goes. There are log cabins everywhere, built on what were clearly once the gardens surrounding the big, posh old house he can see in the distance. All at once, he is terrified. He's a scabby Hope Villager; how can he possibly fit into a lovely place like this? He's not sure about this Steve guy, either. Seems a bit cold.
"This cabin is used for storage, as you can see," says Kendall, stepping over a pile of Wellington boots to find four fold-up chairs.
The interview takes about half an hour, during which Dylan feels more out of his depth every minute; he finds himself staring at a tin of bitumen on a shelf in front of him every time they ask him a question, at a loss how to answer. He knows nothing about gardening or farming, about house maintenance or the care of animals; what does he have to offer them?
"That doesn't matter," says Kendall. "When I came here, thirty years ago, I didn't know how to do anything, either. But we can teach you." Her smile makes him feel a hundred per cent better. "The original owner, Jaffa Taylor, died two years ago―she took a chance on me when I was desperate and had nowhere to go. And that's why I've vowed to always give a chance to anyone else who is in the position I was, back then."
"But we're not soft," chimes in Steve. "This isn't a rest home for waifs and strays."
