by Alex Marwood
‘No. I’d like to go, one day.’
‘Really?’
‘Ilo, I’d like to go everywhere one day.’ Might as well be honest. What’s the point of pretending that all she ever wanted for her life was Finbrough?
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It’s a long way from home and there are a lot of people, aren’t there?’
‘Over a billion,’ she tells him, and he suddenly looks faintly green. Eden is fading out, looking suddenly bored. I won’t worry about it, she thinks. It’s so nice to have a conversation that just flows. She’ll learn, one day. ‘I guess that sounds a bit daunting if you’ve spent a lot of your life in the same place,’ she says.
‘Yes, it does. So where have you been?’ he asks. ‘Tell me what they were like. What was your favourite place?’
So curious, all of a sudden. But it’s so nice that he is. He’s really very charming, when you get to know him.
‘Not many places.’ Liam was big on all-inclusive. Thought holidays were for resting and didn’t much care about leaving the pool, so there wasn’t much point in taking long flights when the experience would basically be the same. ‘Mallorca, Cyprus, Malta, Tenerife,’ she says.
‘Where’s Tenerife?’
‘It’s a volcano off the coast of Morocco,’ she says, ashamed to hear herself trying to make it sound more glamorous, more adventurous, than the package tour it really was. ‘And I’ve been to a few cities in Europe. Paris. Florence. Madrid. And the Algarve. I went to the Algarve. That’s in Portugal.’ She’d been planning to make her first ever foray out of Europe this spring, to Thailand.
She only realises she’s heaved a sigh when Romy puts a hand on hers and knits her eyebrows.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Silly.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ says Romy. ‘We didn’t mean to interrupt your life this way.’
She feels comforted, guilty at the same time. What emotions these people are bringing out in her. ‘No, Romy, it’s not like that,’ she says. ‘Life’s not like that. Doing the right thing is a reward in itself really. Even if it does mean having to put stuff off for a bit.’
‘That’s what Father used to say,’ says Ilo.
‘Well, he was right,’ she says, and she’s glad to be able to find something to acknowledge about Lucien, to be able to agree that he was right about something.
‘So if you were to go, to travel, where would you most like to go?’ he asks.
She thinks. So many places. So many oceans. ‘Australia,’ she says, ‘and New Zealand. The other side of the world. As far away from Finbrough as I can get. And you?’
‘Tahiti,’ says Ilo, decisively, as though it’s a subject he’s already given hours of thought to. ‘Palau. And Tierra del Fuego. They’re all a long way from anywhere else.’
Romy’s phone buzzes as they’re finishing off the tree. She pulls it from her pocket, looks at the screen. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she says, ‘I should take this,’ and goes out through the front door to the driveway.
They go back into the drawing room and Eden picks up a pair of glorious golden baubles. Holds them like earrings on either side of her head and makes them laugh.
‘Very glamorous,’ says Sarah.
‘I like earrings,’ says Eden.
‘Do you? Would you like some for Christmas?’
‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. You could get your ears pierced as part of your present, if you like.’
‘Part of my present?’
‘Yes!’ she says. Seeing them so animated, she suddenly has plans. I’ll show them, she thinks, and I’ll show myself. We’ll make a proper family yet. ‘It might be a bit late, but I could probably get you something made that would go with your medallion, if you’d like.’
Eden looks stunned. ‘You could do that?’
‘I don’t see why not. And Romy too, if you think she’d like that. Do you think she’d like to stay for Christmas? Ilo?’
She turns to look at him and is taken aback to catch the oddest look on his face. He’s looking at his sister and he looks … melancholy. Then he snaps his eyes shut and looks at Sarah. ‘Sorry – what?’
‘Do you think Romy would like to stay for Christmas?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Maybe. She might.’
The front door closes and Romy comes back in. She looks a little pale, a little serious.
‘Has something happened?’ asks Sarah.
Romy shakes her head. ‘Stupid. Apparently I have to pay some rent, or something. I thought I’d paid it, but the landlord’s complaining, and Social Services say they have to inspect me in the flat.’
‘They called you at this time of night to tell you this?’
‘Is that odd?’
‘Yes. They must be hacked off.’
‘Yes,’ says Romy.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘What a pain. You’ve only just come back. I’d run you up there tomorrow, but … ’
‘No, it’s okay,’ says Romy. ‘I know how to do it now. It’s easy. I’ll go after breakfast.’
Ilo is watching her. ‘Do you want me to come?’ he asks.
Romy gives him a smile that seems suddenly full of tears. ‘No, it’s okay, kiddo,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have to do this one by myself.’
Before the End
2015–2016
44 | Somer
2015
Now that Ursola has broken the silence, she sees it everywhere. Wonders how she could have been so blind for so long. But then, so is everyone around her. Changes happen so slowly you don’t really see how different it has become until you stop to look. You’re like a lobster, boiling up slowly in a pot. There have been no new arrivals since Jaivyn Blake left; no new eyes through which to see the limitations of their world.
The Guards are everywhere. She remembers, like waking from a dream, how Plas Golau used to be before he arrived. We were equals then, she thinks. The world was going to end, but we were going to build a better one. There were rules, of course, lots of them, but you could see the intent behind them. They were about discipline, yes, but discipline based on trust. On mutual trust. Lucien trusted us and we trusted him. And if there was discipline, it was about survival, not … subjection.
She sees it everywhere, now. The silent war between Vita and Uri, and Lucien barely to be seen any more.
On Eden’s birthday, three big trucks appear on the drive, breaking branches with their roofs as they go, carrying away a whole section of the drystone wall as they turn into the orchard. And Uri calls the Farmers in from the fields to the godowns and orders them to load them up with their carefully husbanded supplies. Somer stands and watches as sack after sack of wheat and chickpeas and potato flour, whole pallets of bottled, preserved, dried, tinned produce, their insurance against the end of the world, make their way from the shelves to the hoists as the brigade of Guards stands by and urges the labour to hurry.
The Cooks come from the kitchens, the Blacksmiths and the Engineers from the workshops, the Carpenters, the Launderers, the Dung Squad, the Teachers. And they gather to watch, aghast. This is too much, they whisper. We can’t afford to give so much. There will barely be enough to see us through the winter. What will we do, if the Great Disaster comes before we replenish?
But nobody says a word out loud. The Guards have batons and everyone knows how easy they find it to use them.
Then Vita’s there, hurrying out of the courtyard gate. ‘What are you doing?’ she shouts.
‘Needed at Cairngorm,’ he says.
‘On whose authority?’
‘On mine.’
‘Not on mine.’
‘Ah, well,’ he says, ‘if you want to ask Father … ’
‘I will,’ she says. ‘You can’t just—’
‘I can, you know,’ he says. ‘We’re bigger now, and we need to feed the people there.’
‘Just wait,’ she says. ‘Don’t you dare leave wi
th all that. I shall go and ask him now.’
‘Help yourself,’ says Uri.
Vita hurries away, and he stands, arms folded, and smiles as they watch her go.
She doesn’t return.
An emergency Pooling in the evening, all the leaders in the Council Chamber, protesting. Too late, of course. The trucks have long since headed north. But they gather anyway, and shout. What have you done? What have you done to us? How will we live? How will we survive?
Uri stands in front of them, arms across his chest, and waits. He doesn’t seem afraid, or even ashamed. He just waits. And when they finish shouting he says, ‘Are you done?’ and they shuffle and glare, but nobody speaks. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘You need to learn some discipline.’
Discipline. Discipline.
‘But how are we to feed ourselves?’ asks the Leader of the Cooks. ‘What good is discipline if we starve?’
‘Stop gorging,’ says Uri, ‘and remember that you’re not the only ones on Earth.’
‘But that’s our food!’ cries the Leader of the Farmers. His face is leathery after years of hillside labour, and he’s missing two fingers from his right hand.
‘And you’ll grow more,’ says Uri.
‘But what about the Great Disaster?’ asks the Leader of the Engineers.
Uri shakes his head. ‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ he says. ‘You’ll just have to hope it doesn’t come till you’re done. Why should Cairngorm die and you survive?’
‘We’ve always been here,’ says the Cook. ‘Always. If Cairngorm can’t be self-supporting, then what’s the use of it?’
‘It will be. But it takes time to establish a place like this. You know that. We’ve too many eggs in a single basket,’ says Uri. ‘Two locations is safer than one. A greater chance for humanity.’
‘But Lucien!’ cries the Engineer. ‘This wasn’t what Lucien—’
‘It’s what he wants now,’ Uri snaps.
An intake of breath, an outbreak of muttering.
Somer finally finds her voice. ‘But how can there be two places?’ she asks. ‘What about the One?’
The smile he gives her sucks the heat from her bones. ‘I guess you’ll have to hope you’re the lucky ones. I’m not going anywhere. For now.’
Vita sits silent at the back of the room, and waits.
When he’s gone, they turn to her. Start to babble out their fears. What’s happened? they cry. What has Father done to us? He is too strong. How did he get so strong? Where is Father? Where is he? Why has he betrayed us?
She stands. Clasps her hands together, low on her body.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ve let you down. An adder has entered our garden and we must tread carefully.’
‘It’s all over,’ says the Cook. ‘If he’s in charge, we will never survive.’
Vita smiles. ‘Oh, children,’ she says, ‘you must trust me more than that.’
45 | Romy
2016
She keeps the key in her box and Vita no longer bothers to meet her on the stairs. It’s a practical solution, for Vita occasionally leaves the compound for days at a time and Romy must still respond to his command. Three times a week. Three times a week for eighteen months, although, as it turns out, the idea of a young, willing body is often more potent than the reality. He likes the ritual, she thinks, more than the mating itself, though if he takes one of his tablets and his old-man cock is on parade he will go on and on, pounding into her, often from behind, her face pressed into the pillow, or the sheepskin, or the sofa, until she longs to beg him to stop.
She never does.
I must be here, she tells herself as his scaly hips pump back and forth, back and forth and his hands dig deep into the back of her neck, for the sake of the future. I must stay until I get with child – God help us if it never happens – or until he tires of me. One or the other. The one is my duty to humanity and the other … well, you’re a fool if you reject the master when you have nowhere else to go. As Khrushchev said, ‘When Stalin says dance, the wise man dances’.
Sometimes she makes it bearable by imagining that the body behind her is Kiran’s. Young, strong Kiran who she sees in the smithy every day, who smiles at her as though he understands. But then she is forced to open her eyes, and her dreams dissolve.
Most of the time, though, she’s more nursemaid than houri. She discovers his secrets quickly, for in the privacy of his quarters he is garrulous in a way he never is outside. Uri knows it, clearly, and so does Vita, but the rest of Plas Golau continues to overlook the telltale signs. But if they were to break through the door one day they would discover that the man who leads them, inspires them, judges and chastises them, is a shell. That he spends his day in a haze of drink and drugs, that he relies on Vita or Uri to administer the shots that will turn him into Leader for his brief performance at the evening meal. They’ve been running the rest, between them, however fractiously, since he came off that horse, and no one has noticed because, in the end, no one wants to notice.
I must not forget, she thinks. I must always remember that what he is now is not what he was. I never knew him young, not even when I was a child, but I remember so clearly the glory of him. A light seemed to shine from him, when I was young. And, though his time is nearly over, we must always love him, for he led us to safety. Literally saved our lives.
His quarters are a padded cell. Every surface is soothing. She comes in often to find him lying upon the couch like a pasha, smoking one of his cannabis cigarettes and drinking brandy in the afternoon. Those are the best days, for then all she has to do is listen. Pose attentively, naked on the sheepskin, or at his knee or, on his orders, open-legged on the carved wooden throne by the fireplace. On those days their congress is brief and unspectacular. Lucien likes to look. It helps him feel his power, she thinks, though the sight of him clutching foggily at his crotch as he recites past glories is something far removed from power.
But he’s the Progenitor, not the One. It doesn’t really matter what he’s like, because his function is to father the one who will save them. He has often said so himself.
And then there are the days when he is felled by pain. When the most he manages is to make it from bed to sofa, if even that. On those days, his appetite for Vicodin is inexhaustible. On those days, there is nothing she is expected to do but sit by his side and comfort him.
And because he is the Progenitor, she will suck at his flaccid member all afternoon, if it brings the One nearer to being.
I cannot love him, she thinks as she mounts the stairs. He isn’t our messiah. But my baby will save mankind, and that is everything.
Vicodin is an opiate. A very strong opiate. Vita takes her into her confidence, because once you’ve seen him close up, seen the empty joviality and heard the slurring, it’s hard to ignore. You must keep an eye on him, she says. You have no idea, the pain, and he has to carry on for all of us. Do you see? If the people see that their Leader is weak, their confidence falters. They fall to squabbling over who will be next and unity collapses. We need him to carry on. But keep an eye on him. He likes it too much and it’s easy to overdose. On the bad days he’ll gobble them up like wild strawberries, pop them into his mouth without a thought. You need to keep an eye on him on the bad days, Romy. Remind him how much he’s taken and don’t let him drink.
*
She misses her period in late May, but she doesn’t speak of it. And then her breasts become tender and her body temperature rises, and she starts to feel somehow Other, as though the life she suspects is growing inside her is infinitely more precious than the life without. A strange, distant, altered feeling. But she waits two weeks, always looking for signs of failure, before she accepts that they have succeeded and Lucien’s child is dug deep into her sheltering womb.
Between breakfast at six and the beginnings of the lunch preparations at eleven, the Great Hall is usually empty. She enters through the back door from the chapel graveyard, and no one sees her as she mounts the
stairs and lets herself into the sanctum. She doesn’t bother with making herself nice in the ante-room; just goes down the hall to tap on his door.
The voice that answers is feeble, nasal, and she knows that today is a Bad Day. A perfect day for her. She cracks the door, peers round it and sees him on the sofa, on his back, hand to his forehead like Branwell Brontë. His eyes are sunk deep in pools of charcoal grey, his lips are dry and cracked.
‘Not today, Romy,’ he says. ‘Not today.’
‘Oh, Father,’ she says, and comes in despite his words. ‘I’m sorry. You’re in pain.’
She kneels at his side and takes his hand. The table in front of the sofa, where he’s spreadeagled her a hundred times, is scattered with the litter of sickness. Blister packs and cardboard boxes, used tissues, a smeary water glass, a joint half-smoked in a brass ashtray. Tears pour from his eyes and for a moment she feels intense pity. To be so old, with only this to look forward to. The good days will become fewer and the bad days closer together until one day it will be only this. Only this until death.
She picks up a blister pack. There are three more of them on the table, shaken in haste from their box. One strip of seven is empty, and four in the strip she holds have gone. She pops another out, puts it in his hand, helps him drink from the glass. There are drinking straws on the sideboard especially for days like these. She’ll get one in a minute. She lights the joint, the oily smoke acrid and disgusting in her mouth as she sucks to get it going, then hands it to him.
‘Has no one been in to see you?’ she asks.
‘No,’ he says, and the pain makes him petulant, childish. ‘I’ve been by myself all day.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘If I’d known, I’d have come before. Is Vita away?’
She knows that Vita is down in Dolgellau. It’s why she’s here now.
‘I don’t know,’ he snaps.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ she says. Goes to the drinks tray and pours him a brandy. Rémy Martin, his favourite. She doesn’t know how these things get into the compound unnoticed. In Vita’s luggage, she supposes, along with all these other things – the little luxuries, the pharmaceuticals – that she finds in his room. She pours one inch, two inches, adds a little more, then tops it up with soda. Brings it back with a straw sticking out of the top and presses it into his hand. Gives him a Vicodin, and he takes it, absently, as though he’s already forgotten the one she gave him before.
