‘Mira,’ I said. ‘I should greatly appreciate it if you would explain where I am.’
She smiled. ‘Follow me, Mr Hardy.’
‘Reginald,’ I muttered, as she led us back down the corridor.
Collective 17
REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL
10TH DECEMBER 2021
We arrived at a back door. Light and movement glimmered through its dusty pane, and when she opened it I almost fell back upon the stair in shock. There were people – a whole street of them lit up with gas lamps, torches and candles, sitting on steps, chatting in huddles or standing around fire bins.
People. Terrifying amounts of them in knotted streams and mingling clumps all writhing about with wanton disregard for personal space. Touching, bumping, brushing – they did not care. I shrank, mouselike, into the doorway.
The road was clean, strewn with sawdust, and where you would usually see cars there were tables laid out neatly with food and supplies. Figures sat behind them and others walked between the stalls, inspecting their wares. I heard music and my eyes were drawn to a band of guitars and violins playing a dithering folk song to a cluster of onlookers. Next to it was a bar of some sort, surrounded by a looming crowd holding drinks in jam jars and mugs. I smelled warm bread and meat cooking, and followed a trail of smoke and steam to a barbecue and what looked like a stone oven. More people there, gobbling the food and nudging together. There was space, ample space, but would they use it? No, they mashed together in their fleshy tangles, untroubled by the contact, seeking it.
I felt dizzy. The place had a strange, dense light and a walled-in hush as if we were somehow enclosed. I realised that at either end of the straight terrace there stood high fences and towers, upon which I saw figures moving. There was no way out.
I wanted to run, to about turn and hurtle back through the building and out into the quiet, empty night beyond where things were cool and calm and made sense.
But I found I could not. To my surprise I found that the girl had shuffled closer to me. Could she be seeking my comfort? The threat of contact burgeoned at my hip, but I stood my ground.
‘Welcome to Collective 17, Mr Hardy,’ boomed Mira with a smile of pride. The girl flinched.
‘Collective?’ I said, voice warbling.
‘You’re telling me you don’t know about the Collectives?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I do not.’
Lineker suddenly sped off through my legs. I called him back.
‘Let him go,’ said Mira. ‘There’s nowhere he can escape. Besides, we haven’t had a dog around here for ages, people will enjoy talking to him.’
I watched him skitter down the street, wagging his tail as people stopped to pet him, eyes and mouths wide with delight.
The band had finished playing their song to a gentle ripple of applause. They started up another number, this one louder, with brash trombones and a rhythm marked by a gentleman beating a bass drum strapped to his chest. The crowd gave a little cheer as the musicians marched them down the street towards us. The girl looked up in fright, moving ever closer.
The music was like some New Orleans funeral I’d seen once on the television, streamers flying, tambourines jangling, clarinets whooping. Everyone had their drinks raised and danced along with them up the street, then back down the other side. Lineker barked at the bass drum player, running in and out of his feet and almost tripping him up, causing further hilarity from the crowd. Mira and her mother, oblivious to our terror, cheered the approaching band.
As the crowd reached us and their wave of noise and proximity crescendoed, the girl and I froze in unison. For a few long moments we stood as twin icicles of dread – me rigid and aghast, she with her fingers plugged in both ears.
Finally they passed. The space opened up, the music drifted away and our panic melted. The girl removed the fingers from her ears and looked up at me with a trembling breath. Relief. I felt every ounce of it.
‘Come on,’ said Mira. We both jumped at the sound. ‘Let’s get some bloody food, I’m absolutely famished.’
The barbecue was far from the band and its crowd had, mercifully, diminished. I felt a little calmer in this quiet oasis, and hungry too. We sat at a rickety table beneath the flame of a torch with paper plates of blackened lamb, steaming potatoes and flat bread. There was water and warm beer. The girl wolfed the food with her arms forming a protective cocoon around the meal. People glanced at us from other tables, their faces friendly and curious.
Mira leaned back in her chair with a jar of something hot and pungent from which she drank regularly with loud, satisfied sniffs and exhalations. Her mother sat with her chair facing the street, watching the scene like a girl at a fireworks show.
‘The Collectives are strongholds,’ said Mira. ‘The Rising Star’s idea.’
‘Rising Star?’ I said.
She gave a quick roll of her eyes and waited. When my face remained blank she sat forward and fixed me with her gigantic eyes. ‘The Rising Star,’ she said, enunciating each word as if to a child. ‘You know?’
She pointed at a lamp post behind, upon which three posters were pasted. There were none beneath it and none above, and there was no graffiti either; they had been placed there with care, not slapped on in the middle of the night like the others we had seen.
‘Oh,’ I said, popping the last chunk of lamb in my mouth – lovely it was – and wiping the grease from my hands. ‘That’s what they called themselves.’
‘No, that’s what they call themselves.’
After a long silence, during which I could tell she was coming to some decision or other about me, she spoke again, the incredulity in her voice now replaced with curiosity.
‘What do you remember, Mr Hardy?’
‘It’s Reginald.’ I pointed to my empty plate. ‘Any chance of, er, some more of this?’
Mira caught the eye of one of the chefs, who nodded and began to load up another plate.
‘What do you remember in the time after the attacks?’
I shrugged and wiped my mouth with a napkin. ‘I don’t know. I like to keep abreast of things, you know, read the papers when I can, watch the news and what have you. But it was a very busy time for me. Lots of call-outs, lots of work. I was out in the van most days. Why?’
‘So you remember the swabs?’
‘Yes,’ I said, mimicking her slow, cautious tone.
‘And the first evacuations?’
‘That was soon after. As I recall, Seton Bayley emptied quite quickly. I am not an idiot, you know.’
‘What about the appeals?’
I paused, sniffed, and threw my balled-up napkin on the plate. ‘What appeals?’
Mira sat back with a deep breath, obviously having found the missing link she was searching for. ‘The Rising Star …’ She paused. ‘The people who resisted the BU.’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I said, turning to check the chef’s progress with my plate.
‘They called for support, kind of a last stand for London. They wanted people to stay in those areas of the city the BU hadn’t yet taken over. With everyone gone, it would be easy for them to spread out, so they asked for volunteers to stay behind to show that we weren’t yet beaten.’
‘Right.’ My eyes were still watching the barbecue.
‘The BU had already taken over most of the affected zones north of the river, but the south wasn’t quite as beholden.’
The chef arrived with my freshly loaded plate, and I responded in the same way I always had whenever I was served with anything – a wavering cringe manifested by those two conflicting urges to meet the food and yet recoil at the approaching human. I averted my eyes as he slid the plate before me, hesitated and left, a little nonplussed by my demeanour, no doubt.
‘We became the Collectives,’ Mira continued, ‘fenced and gated fortresses populated by communities trained and armed by the Rising Star to protect the roads around them.’
At the other end of the street the band had started up agai
n with another rowdy number. The girl’s jaw tightened in mid-chew as the bass drum thumped and the crowd made its way towards us. She turned to me, terrified once again.
‘Mr Hardy?’
I looked from the girl. ‘Reginald. Yes?’
‘You really don’t remember any of what I am relaying?’
‘Like I said, it was a very busy time.’
I returned to my food, only now I was distracted, keenly aware of the fresh panic growing between the girl and me as the band threatened its approach. The bass drum boomed and the crowd cheered behind them, drunk now. Mira shook her head, her frustration having found its way back to the surface.
‘But these were global events. Everyone knew—’
The girl jumped as a snare drum joined in, machine-gunning. She flashed me a look.
‘So this Rising Star,’ I said, trying to distract myself from the hammering in my chest. ‘Couldn’t they man these fortresses? These Collectives, didn’t they have troops or something? What about the army?’
‘They left some, yes. To train us and maintain contact.’
‘Left some? Why did they leave in the first place?’
‘They were needed elsewhere.’
‘Where?’
Mira frowned and leaned forward. ‘Everywhere,’ she said.
The band had reached our end of the street. The walls seemed to close in as they turned towards us, and I saw the girl’s fingers travelling to her ears.
Mira’s look had softened. ‘The point is, Reg, you are not alone. There are Collectives everywhere. One hundred and nineteen of us in the south from Greenwich down to Bromley, and more in the north as well. We’ve guarded the east for three years without attack. I’m astounded you never knew.’
‘What difference does it make?’ I said. I prodded at my meat but my restless heart would not have allowed another mouthful.
‘Don’t you see? You don’t have to live on your own any more. You can be part of a community again.’
‘I happen to like living on my own,’ I said, dropping my shaking fork.
‘For three years?’
‘I have my dog. Where is he anyway? Lineker?’
‘A dog isn’t the same as human company,’ she snorted.
‘It’s better. Lineker?’
‘What about friends, family? A wife?’
‘No interest in that.’ I hurried the words.
‘Then what about your city? Your country? The people around you, those who occupy the same space as you. Don’t you want to look after them?’
Her words swarmed into distant nonsense as the band turned and jigged past. A trumpet player swung his instrument out at us, raising one eyebrow as he blew a rude blast. The girl’s knees hit the table in fright.
‘Don’t you care, Mr Hardy?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
Mira looked down at my hand. ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she said, one eyebrow raised.
The girl blinked up at me. With horror, I realised that I was gripping her arm. I snatched my hand away and stood, dizzy and wayward.
‘Mr Hardy!’ called Mira. ‘Where are you going?’
‘It’s Reginald!’ I bellowed, stumbling away. ‘Reginald is my name, and I need to be on my own.’
Looking Back
REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL
10TH DECEMBER 2021
I made my way back through the corridors of Collective 17 and up into Mira’s attic. The moon was a bright pearl suspended over the southern skyline, illuminating Seton Bayley and everything else still visible through the fog in an unnatural, spectral white. I fiddled with the telescope until our flat took up the whole view, marvelling at this strange new picture of home.
You get used to seeing things from a certain perspective, I suppose.
The nature of grief is that you are always looking back. You might say it is a telescope – a monstrous one with unlimited magnification that shows you everything, whether you like it or not. Mistakes, misdeeds and missed moments – it lays them all out for you and says: ‘Look what you did, and what you did not do.’ Even the most forgivable offences become grievous crimes for which you will never be allowed to atone.
I believe I was a good husband. I worked, I never stayed out, I never drank, I never strayed. But that is also the nature of grief; it will always find something to make you wonder.
Our early marriage was a time of intense bliss and activity. We lived together in her flat – a squeeze which we enjoyed – and I set myself to the task of learning my trade. My world became a whirlwind of fuses, switches, circuits and zones. At night, once Sandra was asleep, I would stay up and read books way beyond the scope of my gaffer, Trevor, and every day I would be out before dawn in the quiet hiss of the pre-rush hour streets to ready the van for our rounds.
Trevor would always arrive with a paper under his arm, slurping his tea and firing up his first B&H. He would look at the van and shake his head. ‘Fuck me, Reg,’ he would say (his language was deplorable). ‘You don’t have to make it so fucking perfect every fucking day, you know.’
But I liked things clean and tidy. One morning I was a little late getting out of the door. Sandra was already up as I hurried to pack my things.
‘Do you have to go to work?’ she said, stretching in her sleep-warm pyjamas.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Of course I have to go to work, it’s not flipping university you know.’
‘Oh. I just thought maybe we could do something. Mum’s away visiting my sister and, you know, it’s just me on my own.’
I was fiddling with the buckle on my tool belt. ‘Stupid thing, come on … What are you talking about, Sandra? I’m late enough already. There, got it. Right.’
I gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘I’ve got to go, I’ll see you later.’
‘I love you,’ she said as I raced for the door. I turned and saw her standing despondently at the table. She gave me a watery smile.
‘Love you too,’ I said, and left.
I was at the van just before Trevor. He raised his eyebrows at the clutter in the back.
‘Not to your usual standard, Reg,’ he said with a wink. ‘Mind you, wasn’t expecting you to be honest.’
What is wrong with everyone today, I thought. It was mid-afternoon before the penny dropped.
‘Where are you going then?’ said Trevor as we pulled away from a job on Dunstan’s Road.
‘What do you mean?’ I replied.
‘Where are you taking her?’
‘Who?’
‘For her birthday. Twenty-first isn’t it? Aren’t you taking her out?’
An hour later I burst through the flat door with a bunch of cheap flowers to find her sitting at the table with a magazine and cigarettes. She beamed as I showered her with apologies and kisses, and I took her out to an Italian place I would not have been able to afford had it not been for the twenty-pound note Trevor had slipped me as he dropped me off. I spent the rest of the evening making it up to her.
Objectively this is a cheerful story, but is it the flowers on the table I remember? Or Trevor’s calls of encouragement as I scrambled from the van? Or the wine we drank, or the food we ate, or her blushes as I told her over and over how much I loved her, or her moans of happiness much later in the warmth of our little bed? No, grief has no interest in those things. Grief wants me to remember the downturned face, the hand resting on the table, the sigh as I left the flat, and all the unknown thoughts she had that day.
Grief’s light is harsh and never goes out.
I heard a floorboard’s creak and turned to see the girl standing in the doorway, picking the cuff of her sleeve. There was a jingle behind her and Lineker nipped through her legs, leaping onto the bed that was tucked away in one corner of the small attic room.
‘Where’s Mira?’ I asked.
She blinked at me, looked back down the hall, and made for the bed, where she curled up next to Lineker. I watched her close her eyes and drif
t away, and I wondered how my moment of cowardice at the fence might appear when illuminated in the past’s light. Would that same light of grief be present? How would it be in some dark future, as I remembered my fleeing and her unknown thoughts as she watched another person fail her? How would it feel not knowing her fate?
Not good, I decided. Not good at all.
Fire
LINEKER
The machine goes on … machine goes on and … bosh. Bosh.
Bosh bosh bosh.
Bosh?
Where’s the machine? This isn’t our gaff, this is …
Oooohhh, this place! I remember now. This place is fucking amazing!
I slap my chops, scratch an ear, get my bearings. I’m in the attic, funny place, on a bed (a bed!) with the girl (the girl!) curled up next to me. She’s warm and streaming with the smells of heavenly sleep. I watch her face lit up in a slender shaft of moon, feeling her heart and lungs flutter and pulse to the rhythm of her dreams. And I know what they are. She’s running on a warm day with mountains and snow above her, and she calls for someone, her rapturous voice echoing from pines and boulders wet with glacial water. I’m lost in it; I want to be there too, if only I could just fall in beside her. If only.
Then I remember last night. All those people, all those friendly faces pleased to see me and not minding a good old lick. All those hands stretching down to pat and scratch me, each one pungent with its own palette of emotions. All that music – didn’t like that big drum much, or those tin whistles, but otherwise, yeah, good band, good party. And the food, fuck me the food. Everywhere I looked there was more of it coming my way; scraps of meat and bread and leftover bones, and that’s after my tum’s still bulging from Her Majesty’s curry!
You have to remember, it’s just been me and Reg for a good while now, so a party like that was a bit of an eye-opener. Not that I mind it being me and Reg, not that I’m complaining or nothing; if there was one human being I would want to be trapped with for all eternity, it would be the big guy, after all.
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