You take killing to the next level, you really do.
And afterwards, once the smoke has cleared and you’ve wiped your knives clean and buried the dead, this is what you do: you write little poems and books about how terrible it all is, and about how sad it makes you.
Boo hoo.
The next level, I’m telling you.
But you know this already. You’ve seen the cracks darkening in the mirror, and the thing that’s lurking behind it; you don’t need a dog to remind you of that. Oh no, you need a dog to convince you otherwise.
Well, I’m done with all that. It’s time you came clean and owned up. Accept who you are. We have.
What’s holding you back? I’ll tell you: love, and the illusion that you’re in any way capable of it.
Or is it God you’re searching for?
Well, my murderous hearts, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. You see, I’ve found my God. She feeds me, shelters me, draws me lines and gives me purpose. She has long fingernails and gleaming skin, and she smells of aluminium, cream and sour apples.
Bliss
REGINALD
I spent that first morning sitting on the bed, just listening. Sometimes I would hear footsteps outside in the corridor and I would turn to the door, hoping for it to open and for Charlie and Aisha to stumble through in joyful tears and embraces. But each time another door would open and close, and the footsteps would disappear the way they had come.
Finally, some time in the early afternoon there came a rattle of keys at the door. I stood as it opened, but my shoulders fell as the young female guard entered, alone. I saw her fully in the light now. She was slight and dark-skinned, and her purple jacket hung loosely over a grimy white shirt. She faced me with a haunted expression, as if she endured the constant chill of a knife upon her throat, and presented me with the box.
‘You’re to fix these,’ she murmured. ‘There are some tools in there, and … a soldering iron, I think.’
‘My family are supposed to be here,’ I said.
She paused, then looked at the desk.
‘You can find a power socket beneath the desk but the supply is intermittent. You’ll have to be patient.’
I took a step towards her. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I was told they would be sent for.’
She lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t know anything about your family.’
‘What’s your name?’
She hesitated. ‘Megan,’ she said, her eyes drifting away.
‘Megan,’ I repeated. ‘Please …’
Her attention snapped back. ‘Lieutenant Hughes to you, prisoner. Now take the box.’
She thrust the box into my arms, turned and left, locking the door behind her.
Within the disappearing tail of her footsteps and the echo of the slam, I felt my fate drawing in. A closed door, a full set of tools and a project with no distractions. Once this would have been bliss, but now it was torture. They were out there and I was in here. Aisha was exposed. How could I ever protect her now? Would Charlie manage alone?
The silence stretched out, agonisingly thin, and in that cold and empty room I began to tremble. I dropped the box and released a single loud sob. Another joined it, dry and heavy, and another, and another, until I pulled at my hair and fell to my knees and wept. I wept for the walls and the bolted door. I wept for Aisha, and Charlie, alone. I wept for my dog – my dog, my dog, my dog, who was alive – and I wept for my wife and for my little girl, and for grief, grief, grief, which is the end of all worlds. But most of all I wept for me – God knew, if that cruel bastard knew anything, that I wept for me – Reginald Hardy, the man who had locked himself away from the world and watched it end without a tear in his eye, the man who could not bear the touch of others, the man who left his dog at the riverside, the man who I was now sick of, who I wanted to tear myself away from, who I wanted to …
I felt an energy growing, a nervous breed of fury I had rarely felt before. With a howl of rage I jumped up, kicked the box into the corner and ran for the door.
‘Open up!’ I shouted, hammering it with my palms. ‘Open this door at once! I … I want a transfer. I want to leave! I want to go back! Send me back!’
I banged and shouted until my hands hurt and my voice cracked, and eventually I heard swift footsteps and a jangle of keys. I stood back from the door as it opened, expecting Megan again. But this time I found myself face-to-face with a tall and furious guard.
‘What do you want?’ he yelled.
‘I want to go back,’ I said, breathing hard. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do this. I want to go back to my family.’
The guard straightened up and fixed me with a frown. For a moment I thought he was considering my request but then, in a flash, he strode over, gripped my shoulder and dealt three lightning-fast punches to my stomach. I fell to my knees, breathless with shock.
‘Do your job,’ he ordered. ‘And do not fucking bang on that door again.’
With that he left and I was alone again. Winded and wheezing, I crawled to the corner and curled up in a ball, searching the tilted planes of floor, wall and ceiling. My eyes travelled to the skirting board where, in the dusty murk, I picked out lines in the broken grain and turned them into shapes: the line of a child’s brow lifted to the sun, a woman’s arm in a protective cup, the brow of a hill with a dog leaping for its summit. And I wept again for all the things I had never wept for before.
I woke with a jolt to a darker room, cold air and the sound of activity somewhere in the distance. I picked myself up from the floor, wincing as my stomach tensed.
The noise came from outside. The window was too high to see through, so I stepped – with great difficulty – onto the desk. It wobbled but I found my balance and peered through the dull glass. I had a fair view of the yard, it seemed, and could see figures moving by the timber. The noise was of hammers and saws.
Just then, without warning, the single bulb hanging from the centre of the room turned on. The surprise made my legs jerk, which unbalanced the desk and sent me tumbling backwards onto the floor. I landed with a cry upon the box I had recently discarded, a dozen sharp plastic corners needling into my back. I rolled off the box, coughing, and saw a dozen swabbers scattered upon the threadbare carpet. I picked one up and inspected it in the harsh light. Substandard battery, shoddy soldering, thin wires. Mumbling something, I replaced them all in their box and lifted it onto the desk. And with nothing better to do, I went to work.
Sunrise
LINEKER
Another day, another grey sunrise. We’re outside again, awaiting orders. With her bitch beside her She stands before us, proud as ever, her coat fluttering in the March wind like the flags above us.
The microphone squeals and She clears her throat, leafing through paper. She seems different today. There’s a smell in the air I can’t quite place.
‘Some of us are moving on,’ She says. ‘We are needed elsewhere.’
There’s a rumble of feet and voices from the handlers, and I get that scent again, stronger now and amplified across the yard. I exchange a glance with the dog to my right, a German shepherd whom I know to be friendly, which means he won’t snap if I go near him. The look in his eyes mirrors mine.
What was that?
‘Squadrons 18 to 32, you are to join me for a temporary assignment at processing camp C5, St Pauls.’
There are more murmurs and huge wafts of that same scent.
‘The rest are to remain, first priority being to investigate possible breaches …’ the microphone whistles again, and She continues, ‘in the fence and suspicious activity in the northern sector. That will be all.’
She collects her papers and leaves the podium. The yard is awash with nervous conversation, and then I realise what that smell is.
Fucking voles.
Work
REGINALD
Days went by and I barely left the room. They brought me food. It was better than the slop they served in the cathedral but the taste
was never anything but sour. Aisha was still out there with only Charlie to protect her now. I wondered if the captain remembered her. I wondered if he had found another swabber that worked.
The hours were torturous, and the only way I could take my mind off Aisha’s safety was to engross myself in the work I had been given. This may seem counterproductive, given that the work was to fix the swabbers that would seal her fate, but understand: fixing those swabbers was the last thing on my mind.
A child could have seen what made them faulty. Either their wires had come loose, the vial had emptied or the battery had leaked. In each case I salvaged what I could and assembled as many fresh swabbers as I could, discarding the remaining parts. These swabbers were far better than the originals, with correct soldering, firm insulation and added impact protection with the help of a few foam offcuts I found in the toolbox. They would not break so easily and would, as was my intention, give the user a long and reliable service.
But the main thing about them was that, after a little creative rewiring, they always turned green. It was the only thing I could do.
My bucket was emptied daily. On one occasion I was led to a makeshift shower block where I stood naked with nine other men and soaped myself nervously under the watchful eyes of the guards. The water was icy and weak, but it was heaven.
Returning from the showers, I waited while the door to my room was unlocked and felt fresh air on my still-damp skin. At the end of the corridor was an open fire door, outside which two guards were smoking. One turned to me and I shivered, but not from the chill. It was my friend with the buzz cut and squint eyes. He smiled through the smoke and – I could have sworn – winked at me. I moved the desk against the door that afternoon.
The sound of carpentry continued outside and I tried to ignore thoughts about what they were building. Sometimes I heard voices and feet shuffling, which meant that the prisoners had been taken out. When this happened I leaped to the desk and peered out for as long as they were there, trying to catch a glimpse of Charlie and Aisha. I think I did once, walking a slow circle around the perimeter. My hand would not fit through the bars to knock on the glass, and in any case they were too far away to hear.
Megan brought me a fresh box of swabbers each morning and took the previous box away. Each day I asked her about Aisha and Charlie. Did she know if they were still together? Was Aisha all right? Were they coming to me? She never responded.
I continued to create my new, counterfeit swabbers, my only hope being that, if I was not the only person tasked with this job, at least I might be the most productive. But each day that passed was another in which my hope dwindled, and another in which Aisha might be discovered.
One day I woke to find my hope had gone. As I worked at the desk, I heard the door open and Megan enter. I heard her breathing behind me.
‘You’re good at this,’ she said. I could sense an attempt at a smile in her voice. ‘It’s a pleasure to see somebody doing a proper job for once. My dad used to say nobody does a proper …’
I dropped my soldering iron onto the desk and turned. ‘I am finished, Megan. I am not going to work any more. Whatever you give me to fix shall be in the same state when you pick it up later. I don’t care what punishment I receive.’
It was then that I realised she was carrying no box.
‘You’re needed,’ she said. ‘Outside.’
I was led outside by Megan and another guard, the ginger-haired youngster who had strung Duncan up that terrible night. He whistled as we walked across the dusty yard, where there had clearly been some activity in my absence. The stretch of fence where the timber had been piled was now a work area, sealed off by a huge partition of flapping tarps and scaffold poles. A steady stream of men and women in overalls – prisoners on work duty – walked between it and the main building carrying tools and planks. Next to the partition were two standing floodlights, and it was these to which I was marched.
‘You need to fix that,’ mumbled Megan, pointing to a cable connector on the ground.
I knelt down and inspected its charred socket and hardened rubber insulation. ‘I don’t think I can,’ I said.
Megan rubbed her arm and gave me one of her haunted looks. Then she left. As I watched her stumble back across the yard, the ginger guard dropped a canvas sack of tools beside me.
‘Just fix it,’ he said, and strolled over to the partition to smoke.
I sat down on the ground, glad at least of the fresh air, unplugged the power point and began to scrape the blackened contacts with a screwdriver. As I worked, the smell of fresh pine hit my nose and I glanced up. From this angle I could see what was behind the partition: a long platform supported by a crude framework of uneven carcassing and misshaped joists that could not possibly, I thought idly, bear much weight without buckling. When I saw the high scaffolds above, and holes being cut in the boards, there was no question of what they were.
My guard was leaning lazily against the partition, still smoking his cigarette. He had had a shave since I had last seen him, his face now free of bumfluff. A messy tuft of orange hair sprayed from beneath his cap. His gun was slung low behind his back – not easy for him to grab in an emergency.
My hands were shaking. I dropped the connector in the dust and got to my feet, unsteadily, folding the screwdriver into my palm. As I made my way towards him, my innards seemed to shift uncomfortably as if they were only now getting wind of my intent. My heart began to thunder, my lungs flapped and heaved like ragged bellows.
I kept my eyes on the young man and the last slow trail of smoke rising happily from his lips. As he flicked his butt to the ground he spotted me approaching and frowned, reaching for his gun.
‘What do you want?’ he said as I stopped before him. His eyes were a clear and wayward blue.
I breathed hard, fingering the cool bulb of my screwdriver’s handle and feeling that moment approach, the one I would not be able to take back. The before and the after. Just a neat drop, a sharp upward thrust and—
The guard’s head swivelled to the steps where there was movement. I followed his gaze. First guards, then prisoners emerged from the dark recesses of the western aisle. Soon they had flooded the yard.
‘Get back to work,’ mumbled the young man, and he wandered into the throng. The moment left me and the screwdriver fell in the dust at my feet.
Charlie? Aisha?
The prisoners gravitated towards the partition, curious or terrified as to what lay behind, and soon I found myself engulfed in shuffling figures. I desperately scanned the faces, ignoring the shocks of endless bumps and nudges, but they were nowhere to be seen. I called their names, hoarse at first then louder, but all I got in return were strange looks from wounded eyes.
‘Hey.’
I turned at the deep voice behind. Pete towered above me, fingers fidgeting, frowning at the partition.
‘What are they doing behind there?’ he said.
‘I … I don’t … Pete, where are Aisha and Charlie?’
He ignored me, concerned only with the tarpaulin. His face blustered with questions. ‘Fuck this,’ he said, and stormed past me. In the space that he left, I saw his wife, Anna, and their three children standing in front. Beside them stood Dana, looking groggy and distant.
‘Dana,’ I said, running to her. ‘Where’s Charlie? Where’s …’
Her flinch made me stop.
‘What is it?’ I said. I gripped her shoulders. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me!’
‘She’s sick, Reg. Charlie’s sick. She’s inside. I’m trying to take care of her, but—’
‘But what?’
‘She needs help. She needs a doctor.’
‘What about Aisha?’
Dana blinked and let her eyes drift to something behind me. I shook her.
‘Dana! Where’s Aisha!’
She looked back at me with a gasp. ‘There,’ she said, pointing to a corner of the yard.
Aisha was with Clifford and David. The children were playing
something in the dust, cautious smiles flickering on their faces.
‘Thank Christ,’ I breathed, staggering back. ‘Dana, please, tell Charlie they lied to me, but I’ll be back soon.’
Her eyes had drifted again.
‘Reg …’
‘Just tell her, will you?’
‘Shit, Reg …’
‘What?’
I turned to see what she was looking at. Pete was standing by the line of workers walking between the partition and the cathedral.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. A few of the guards had already turned their attention to him.
‘You,’ he said to a middle-aged man carrying a plank on his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
The man ignored him, eyes white with fear.
‘Oi! Can you hear me? I said what are you doing behind there?’
The guards edged towards him.
‘Look at me!’ he yelled.
Anna left her children and shuffled towards him, one hand outstretched.
‘Petey, calm down, love,’ she pleaded.
But Pete continued his furious patrol of the rope, and each worker he approached ignored him, keeping their eyes on the ground.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you all?’
Every guard in the area was now moving in.
‘Pete,’ I hissed. ‘Stop it.’
From high on the wall a speaker whistled and a voice announced, ‘Disarray will not be tolerated. Please stand away from the construction area.’
Pete stomped to a halt and the crowd around him retreated. There he stood in the sudden clearing, chest pumping like a bull’s. Gingerly, I stepped in beside him.
‘The guards, Pete,’ I said, under my breath. ‘The guards.’
But he stood tall, glaring over the sea of heads. ‘Somebody tell me what’s going on!’ he screamed.
The Last Dog on Earth Page 28
