by Alex Marwood
The strain of self-control must be monumental, thinks Somer, as he marches down the steps, head held high, back rigid. He walks to the car and removes Vita’s bags from the back seat and hands than to the people nearby. Takes her box from the passenger seat and lays it gently on the steps, feigns respect for her hated possessions.
‘We’ll stay for the funeral,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ says Vita. ‘Anyone who wants to stay afterwards is welcome, as well. There will always be a home here for the members of the Ark.’
His eyes bulge for a second. Then he throws himself into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Turns the wheel with a crunch of gravel and drives away. Sees Romy standing by the gate, drops down a gear and accelerates as he approaches. Swipes her with his wing as he passes.
Somer’s daughter flies through the air like a ragdoll, all dangling limbs, and hits the finialled gatepost with a crunch that echoes through her very viscera. As though she can feel her own bones breaking.
50 | Romy
The first thing she knows, when she knows anything at all, is pain. Swimming around in the dim grey of unconsciousness, she feels something grab hold of her leg and sink its teeth in. And she tries to pull away, but it comes with her, won’t let her go. And then she’s awake and lying in a bed in the Infirmary and crimson agony shoots through her body and eats her alive.
Romy freezes where she lies. If moving makes the pain worse, then maybe lying still will make it stop. The fierce, mauling pain recedes, but still, down in the upper reaches of her right leg, a ball of molten metal throbs with every beat of her heart. She waits, forces herself to focus, and listens to the rest of her body to see if there is pain elsewhere.
There is. Another throbbing pain, in her head. I remember hitting that, she thinks. On a car. I was standing in the courtyard, and …
Her head thumps.
What was I doing there? There were people. I remember, there were people.
Nothing.
There’s a crumpled, chalky pain in her middle fingers. She gingerly raises the hand to see in the dim light from the pharmacy door. The fingers are wrapped together and held with a splint. Where else? A graze, down her upper arm, covered in gauze and held on with more sticky tape. I was wearing a jacket, she thinks, and is thankful that she was.
She lifts her other hand and feels her face. Tender places, but the skin feels intact. A lucky break, she thinks, then chuckles internally at her pun. Then she falls asleep again, as quickly as if someone had thrown a switch on her consciousness.
Daylight. The pain is worse. Now her whole leg is made of molten lead. I must have been drugged last night, she thinks. Lies still and concentrates on breathing the pain away.
The pillows are deep. And yet at the same time light. They must be filled with feathers.
She wakes, and it’s evening, and this time the pain is so strong that she lets out a groan. In the ante-room someone moves, and Ursola pops her head out to look. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, ‘you’re awake. We were starting to get worried.’
The pain soaks her in sweat. She grits her teeth, tries to pull herself upright, but the drag of her heel across the mattress wrings a gasp from her lips.
‘Don’t move,’ says Ursola. ‘You want to keep that leg as still as you can. I’ve got it splinted, but you’ve got to stay still. It was a nasty break, that. I’ll rig up a sling tomorrow. Get it into the air out of harm’s way.’
‘What happened?’
‘You’ve had an accident.’
‘I can tell,’ she says, but the rudeness just makes Ursola smile. ‘What have I done?’
‘Broken your leg. Clean snap through the tibia, as far as I can see, and it looks as if you’ve torn the ligament that attaches your fibula to your knee. Your foot turned clean round, you know.’
Hearing the detail does little to reduce the pain.
‘And you’ve bashed your head. And a couple of fingers. You’ve been out for the count for—’ she looks at her watch ‘—nearly thirty hours. What do you remember?’
‘I was in the courtyard,’ she says. But she doesn’t remember why.
‘Oh, well, that’s good. At least you remember something. How’s the pain?’
Be stoical. Be a Spartan. Come on. You’re a survivor.
‘Awful,’ she replies, in a tiny voice.
‘I’ll get Vita,’ says Ursola.
Vita swishes in, and she’s aged two decades. Lines have embedded themselves in her skin like cracks in a riverbed and her eyes are rimmed with violet. She takes her pulse and feels her forehead, and Romy winces, for she’s bruised where Vita’s hand touches.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Not great.’
‘I’m not surprised. You took quite a bash. How’s your head?’
She thinks. Better than when she first woke, but there’s a blank space where there should be memories. ‘I don’t remember anything. But my leg’s worse.’
‘Yeah,’ says Vita. ‘Well, a broken tibia’s a big thing. You won’t be getting up for a while.’
‘How long?’
‘We’re not talking days,’ says Vita. ‘I’ll get you some morphine.’
‘I – Vita, I’m pregnant.’
A million emotions. Then Vita’s eyes fill with tears. ‘So you did it,’ she says. ‘Oh, my darling,’ and Romy doesn’t know if she’s referring to her, or to Lucien. Then she shakes her head. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘Acute pain will be worse for both of you than a bit of morphine. You should have an antibiotic as well. Broad-spectrum. You’ve quite a few cuts.’
‘We have an … ?’ she starts to ask, but shuts her mouth and thinks better of it.
Vita leans in close, grips her by the wrist and looks her hard in the eye. ‘Romy, listen. There will be changes, now. Big changes, I have no doubt, and I can’t be sure of the way they’ll go. But you’ve got to promise me two things. That you’ll stay with the Ark, whatever you do, whoever’s in charge. And that you’ll never tell that man who your baby’s father is. Ever. Do you hear me? I realise now. It doesn’t matter whether or not people know that the One is the One. That’s not how it needs to be. I wish he’d never started that now. Making them special. Making them stand out. The One will rise whether they’re known or not, do you see? But you must never, ever tell Uri, because Uri can never be trusted.’
51 | Romy
She is woken by the sound of the door opening, but there is no light. They have electric light in the Great House, on the upper floors at least. The only reason someone wouldn’t reach for the switch on the wall is because they don’t want to be seen. Then the beam of a torch comes on and she knows it. She’s the only patient in the Infirmary. The Healers have gone to the dormitories till dawn.
Muffled movement. A group of people. A small number, maybe two or three. Moving so quietly that they can only be Guards. Romy closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep. Footsteps pad past her bed, pause for a fraction at the end, and the dark behind her eyelids briefly lightens. They carry on to the pharmacy door.
She lies in the dark, and listens.
A clink of bottles and jars, low voices murmuring. She risks lifting her head off the pillow and strains to see, but all she catches is a hint of khaki, a marching boot.
They’re looking for something on the shelves. She hears his voice. Where does she keep them? Where the hell does she keep them? It has to be here.
She is trapped in the bed. Even lifting the covers off her leg will give her more pain than she can bear. She will never get far enough to call for help. Only Vita is nearby at all, sleeping her widow’s sleep in the eaves above their heads, and if she came down now it would be the end of her.
Something smashes and Uri swears. He switches on the light. ‘Well, as the patient will obviously be awake now,’ he says, ‘we might as well see what we’re doing.’
Romy clamps her eyelids and begs for unconsciousness.
It doesn’t come. Instead, a rough hand shakes her should
er and pain makes her eyes fly open. She cries out. Then blinks and attempts to look surprised when she sees Uri and Dom standing over her.
‘Don’t pretend you didn’t know we were here, 143,’ says Uri.
She doesn’t have to pretend too hard to be confused, fuddled with drugs. Vita gave her a shot of lovely morphine before she retired for the night and it’s still coursing around her system. ‘Whu … ’ she says. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Need your help in the pharmacy.’
‘I … ’ she says. ‘I’m not really a Healer.’
‘I’m sure you know enough,’ he says. ‘You’re the one who’s harvesting all the good stuff, after all. Where does she keep it?’
‘Keep what?’
‘The stuff you bring her. Hemlock. Belladonna. Yew. Destroying Angels. Death Caps. Aconite. You think I didn’t know? We know everything, 143.’
‘Those are disposed of,’ she says.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Not.’
‘I don’t know, then,’ she says, tired, nothing making sense any more. ‘I don’t know where she would store them.’
In the highest cupboard on the far wall, above the filter cones, are some jars, neat labels turned in to face the wall. But she’s not telling him that.
‘Oh, I think you do,’ he says, and grips on to her knee. Gives it a good shake.
Romy shrieks and the world goes grey.
When they’re done, by the time they have their booty, her sheets are wet and her teeth are chattering. In the end, the threat to haul her from the bed and drag her into the other room was too much to bear. Whatever they do, whatever blood they spill, is on her hands now. She has become a Judas. Though nobody made Judas make his choices with torture.
They decant the berries, the seeds, the fungi into a bag, tie the top of the bag, steal filter cones for good measure. I must remember this, she thinks. I must remember, when they come in in the morning, and warn them, she thinks. Something – someone will be poisoned by tomorrow. I must warn them. When I wake up, before it’s too late.
Willow approaches and stands over her bed. ‘Sorry, Romy,’ she says. ‘No hard feelings, eh?’
‘That’s okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll kill you one day.’
‘Very good,’ she says, and laughs. Produces a hypodermic, holds it up to the light falling through the pharmacy door. ‘Anyway. Sorry about the pain. This’ll sort it out.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just a nice shot of morphine.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I had some earlier.’
Willow smiles. ‘So you’ll know what it’s like, then.’
Among the Dead
December 2016
52 | Romy
I have to stop on Bridge Approach Road to catch my breath, for it is coming short and fast and my legs have no strength. I prop myself on a wall and breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You can do this, Romy. There is no alternative. Fast. I’ll make it fast and unexpected, as he asked, but I must get there first.
The sound of shoes and laughter. Running footsteps slowing, and three girls come towards me through the kissing gate. The tall one has scarlet hair and her eyelashes are improbably long, as though two spiders have been smashed onto her face with a sponge. I have a good idea who this is.
And she’s carrying my sister’s medallion.
It dangles from her fist on its broken string and they’re laughing. They stop near me as though they don’t even see me and laugh until they hug their stomachs.
‘You’re awful, Marie,’ says one of the girls.
‘I know! Isn’t it great?’ she replies.
Micro-glances in my direction, showing off. It’s not that they’ve not noticed me. See us, the girl gang, they say. Envy our youth and power, pregnant woman. I remember being fifteen. There’s no scorn like the scorn of a teenager.
I heave myself to my feet, walk over and snap the necklace out of Marie Spence’s hand.
‘Oi!’ she shouts.
I give her the Look. She’s four inches taller than me, but she has the wisdom to back away.
I walk on to the footbridge.
My siblings have got into a routine. Every day at half-past eight they leave the house and Ilo walks Eden to school. Routine. Something Uri is fond of. Something Lucien and Vita adored. Routine is convenient, but it also makes you vulnerable.
Oh, baby, can you feel my heart? Because it’s heavy with sorrow. Will I tell you, one day, of the things I have done for you? I don’t know. You will need to understand that sacrifices must be made, but will it make you think less of your mother, as a person?
I walk up to the bridge, the necklace pressed deep into my palm, and even as I reach the kissing gate I hear the sobs. It rises above the blast of the traffic: the wail of a banshee, the howl of a wolf. And I’m lumbering at speed up the incline to get to them, my bloodied knife in my pocket.
I crest the top, and see Eden, back against the safety barrier, body convulsed, the contents of her book bag spilled at her feet, pages flapping in the wind from lorries passing below. She is purple in the face, and Ilo, beside her, attempts to put his hand on her shoulder. She bats it away. Her curls toss in the wind and tears stain her cheeks.
I can’t do it. In this moment, I realise that I really can’t do it. I’m so sorry, baby. We’ll have to take our chances. I am not made of such stuff. I’m not strong enough, after all.
I call out her name above the traffic boom, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s shouting at Ilo, now, flailing her hands at him. ‘You’re meant to take care of me, Ilo! You’re meant to protect me!’ Her head jerks as she scans the ground, as though she hopes Marie will have thrown the necklace down.
I call out. ‘Eden!’
He hears, glances over, sees me and his face goes pale. He thinks the time has come. Thinks he knows why I’m here. I give him a little shake of the head, just a tiny jerk, but he sees me. I know he sees me. I can talk to him later, tell him why. For now, though, I just need to get her necklace back onto her neck, get her calmed down, work out what to do next.
I advance, hold the medallion out at arm’s length, call her name again. ‘Eden! It’s okay! I have it! Look! It’s okay!’
She doesn’t hear. She’s gone so deep inside that everything beyond her mind is just background noise. I stop. Stand beside her, open my hand with the medallion and its broken cord on the palm.
She slaps the palm away.
The world stops. ‘Eden!’ I shout in horror, and she freezes, looks up. The necklace glints in the morning sunlight as it slices the air. I dive after it, too late. Snatch at nothing as it falls onto the motorway.
‘What?’ she says. ‘What was that?’
She doesn’t even ask what I’m doing here. I think she’s forgotten I ever went away.
Despair overwhelms me. ‘I got it back,’ I say. ‘I got it back! Oh, Eden!’ and I climb onto the parapet to gaze down at the road below. Some stupid instinct to see the thing that is forever lost, one last time.
Ilo stares at me. Oh, don’t, little boy. Don’t judge me. I’m not a monster. Even after all this, I’m not a monster. Then he drops to his knees and starts gathering up the spilled contents of her book bag, crawling forward and sweeping pencils, paper, phone, maths primer, into his arms.
Eden stops still. Climbs up onto the parapet beside me and cranes out into the wind. ‘Where is it?’ she asks. ‘Can you see it? Where is it?’
She leans out further, strains to see the road beneath our feet.
Down below her, Ilo grasps both of her ankles with his hands, and yanks them towards him.
She goes without a noise. Just a gasp and a windmill of arms, and she’s gone. And then a mighty juggernaut roars out from beneath the bridge, and there’s a dull liquid boom, like something exploding in the distance, and brakes shriek and tyres squeal and metal starts to crumple like paper on the crash barriers, and the world below disappears in a mist of scarlet.
We stand back and face ea
ch other. He looks more thirteen at this moment than at any time since I found him. There’s camomile growing between the cracks of the paving, and his face is white.
‘I knew you couldn’t do it,’ he says. And he starts to weep.
53 | Sarah
After Ilo leaves to walk Eden to school each morning she has roughly fifteen minutes of quiet time before she gets into the car herself. After years of getting up in solitude, she is quickly adjusting to enjoying these brief hiatuses in the day’s business. A final cup of tea, a morning cigarette: this has become her ritual.
She’s out at the garden table when she hears the noise. A sound she’s never heard before: a horrifying mix of impact and metal and stone.
She jumps to her feet. ‘ … the fuck?’ she says, to no one.
Then she notices that the motorway has gone silent.
She stabs out her cigarette and goes inside. Starts to put on her shoes, for she is still wearing slippers. Through the stained glass panel by the front door she sees people run along the street at the end of the driveway. Towards the footbridge.
She goes out. Sue from two doors down is standing on the pavement, mulberry towelling dressing-gown pulled around her pyjamas, staring down the road. ‘What was that?’ she calls. ‘Did you hear it?’
The silence feels unnatural. These houses haven’t been without a background hum for fifty years. Even at three in the morning, the quiet is still broken by the sound of passing engines.
Someone runs round the corner from the Canaan Estate. Ray Spence, England rugby colours pulled over formal shirt and trousers, hair still damp from washing.
‘What’s going on?’ calls Sue. ‘Do you know?’
‘Something’s happened on the road,’ he calls back, all animosity forgotten. ‘Sounds like a pile-up. Did you see Marie this morning?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve been indoors.’
He runs on. Sarah starts to walk towards the silence.
All the neighbours are out. As she approaches the bridge, new sounds replace the growl of traffic. The slamming of doors, the groan of settling metal, and, slowly rising, a clamour of voices. Screams, shouts, appeals for help. Oh, God, she thinks, it’s really bad. In the far distance, to the west, a growing cacophony of car horns. And, approaching, the rising wail of a dozen sirens.
