Throwback

by Guy N Smith

  Death was common enough, she had come to accept it as an everyday occurrence but there was something about this corpse that alarmed her. Had he been savaged by wild animals or mutilated by the fierce roving tribes then she would hardly have given him a second glance. But he had died from some inexplicable cause that had left its own mark on him; he reminded her of that woman she had seen earlier, the emaciation, the sheer hopelessness in the features. And it frightened her.

  Jackie's body was warmer now but shelter and food were priorities. She remembered the comfort of the Winder farmhouse, foreign to her instincts then but she needed such a place now. And when she spied the stone cottage set back against the side of the hill below her she knew that that was where she must take refuge. She would be warm and safe in there, she had learned that certain packages and jars contained nourishing food and, above all, the tribes mostly avoided these strange dwelling-places.

  She approached the cottage cautiously. A small tumbledown stone-built two-up, two-down that had fallen into a state of disrepair, the covering of snow hiding most of its structural faults. Window frames had rotted, a couple of broken panes had been repaired with brown tape. Several slates were missing off the roof and jackdaws had chipped most of the mortar out of the chimney stack. The garden gate had come off its hinges, was lying on its side.

  Jackie took a direct course for the front door; it was locked. Following the wall, she peeped in at the first window she came to. The usual furniture she had come to accept, a couple of easy chairs, a sofa and a table. A fireplace with just crumpled newspapers in the grate. A table was strewn with sheets of paper and some kind of squat machine which she did not recognise; she had never seen a typewriter before. She moved on, skirted a lean-to, came to the back door. It was open an inch or two so that it creaked in the wind and the snow slanted in.

  She pushed it wide, stepped over the threshold. A wave of dizziness passed over her and she flung herself on to the sofa. Sheer bliss, rolling back, stretching out. She would rest awhile and then she would find something to eat and drink. Outside the snow was thickening, beginning to plaster the windows, darkening the rooms.

  In her dreams Jackie saw that man again. He was in the same room as her but somehow he always succeeded in keeping his back to her. Occasionally she glimpsed his profile but it was always in shadow.

  And when finally he came to her the light was gone and she could not see him, only feel him. Strong smooth flesh that rubbed against her own, kissing her passionately and thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Sensuous fingertips doing things to her that Kuz had never done. Dominant yet gentle, loving her.

  She sobbed aloud when finally he rolled in between her legs and even then he took his time entering her. She soared, drifted along in an ecstatic flight. And still she did not see his face clearly. She clung to him, tried to stop him leaving her, determined to go wherever he went. But, as usual, he slipped from her grasp and then he was gone into the shadows of her mind, leaving only a dim memory behind. But he would come again surely, he always did. And next time . . .

  Jackie was vaguely aware that she was not alone in the room, her senses picking up movements, conscious of them even as she slept. Stirring, trying to recollect. He had come back! Her pulses raced but she did not open her eyes immediately because she would not see him clearly. He would be standing in a shadowy corner or else looking out of the window with his back to her.

  Her sleep receded and now every sense was alert. Positive movements, footsteps, he was attending to some chore or other. Perhaps if she squinted through half-closed eyes she would surprise him, catch him unawares before he had a chance to hide his features from her again.

  She trembled, tensed, experienced a sense of guilt. She was not meant to see and yet she was determined. Candlelight; she had slept longer than she had thought and it was already dark outside. Her slitted eyes followed the wan circle of yellow light—saw him!

  She suppressed a groan of disappointment; he had his back to her as usual, was kneeling before the fireplace with an armful of kindling wood, laying sticks on the newspaper. He wore a blue anorak and the hood was still pulled up, the wet snow on it melting and dripping on to the floor. Muddy Wellington boots had left a trail of footprints from the back door.

  A matchbox rattled, a rasping noise, and a bright flame was applied to the paper, hungrily devouring it, the sticks crackling and hissing, A puff of smoke billowed back, made him cough. A fit of coupling, a handkerchief clutched to his mouth. A sound that frightened Jackie because it was reminiscent of that woman's coughing earlier.

  Her alarm blended into disappointment as the man. turned away from the fire and she saw his features clearly for the first time. It was not him. Too old, so gaunt, no way was it the lover who haunted her dreams and fantasies.

  'Hallo,' he nodded, not in the least surprised, as though he had quite expected to find her lying there on the sofa. He pushed his hood back and she noted the receding hairline, the balding crown. 'Now that I've found some wood we can have a fire. We'll soon get warm.'

  She smiled, hoped her anguish didn't show. She also hoped that he would not make any demands on her although she would have traded anything and everything she had to offer for food and shelter.

  'Rod.' He tapped his chest, gave another deep rumbling cough. 'Rod Savage.1

  'Jac.' She pointed to herself, smiled again. They would have to overcome the language barrier. She had coped with Phil Winder. Somehow her vocal chords were incapable of producing this new language and even when she understood certain sounds she was unable to repeat them except in a barely articulate nasal tone.

  'Pleased to meet you, Jac.' Rod Savage obviously welcomed the opportunity to talk to somebody even if they did not understand. Talking to oneself got exceedingly boring after several weeks. 'I expect you'd like some tea.' He took off his anorak, began opening some cans, sardines and spaghetti. A packet of Ryvita that was no longer crisp, spread with peanut butter. He boiled the kettle, made some tea.

  Jackie ate ravenously, gave up trying to master the art of using a fork. Her companion did not seem to notice.

  She watched him carefully as she ate. Certainly he was not well, his features shiny with sweat even though the blazing fire had not yet had a chance to warm the room. Periodically his eyes seemed to film over, cleared again. And always that hacking cough.

  'Damned typewriter's broken.' He pushed his empty plate away. 'Carriage spring, I think. No chance of getting it repaired and I'm not mechanically minded so I'll have to write the rest of my "History of the New Britain" in longhand. Don't expect it will ever get published anyway because there's nobody left to publish it.' He tried to laugh, surrendered to another fit of coughing.

  Jackie noticed that when the handkerchief came away from his mouth it was spottled with scarlet.

  'I'm ill, y'know.' Clipped hurried speech as though he had got an awful lot to say and was afraid he would not get time to finish speaking. 'Had it a fortnight now. Some days it's not too bad, like today, other days it's pretty chronic. Pneumonia probably, came on when the weather changed. Maybe I'll rest up for a few days.' He spread his arms, spoke more directly. 'You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. Get it? You... stay... here ...'

  She nodded. Phil Winder had taught her how to wash dishes and she would repay this strange man for his hospitality. He wouldn't expect anything else, he was too ill.

  'Say, that's cute, real cute.' He watched her at the sink from the armchair. 'Never thought you lot would be able to master household chores. Have to make a note of that. I'll sub-title it "How I lived with a trained throwback".' He laughed and coughed again.

  'Got you lot all worked out.' Rod Savage talked incessantly in spite of the fact that it was a strain. 'For weeks now you've been gathering in the hills. Couldn't understand it, anybody with any sense would stick to the valleys and lowlands with winter coming on. Then I hit on it. The old Iron Age trade route starts from here, I found an old book about it, the route marked on a m
ap. Through these hills, heading south. Not that you've got anything to trade or anybody to trade with but old instincts die hard. You're massing for the great trek south. You need a warmer climate and that's where you're going, but if you ask me you've left it too damned late'

  Jackie slept on the sofa that night, lay and listened to the wind howling, buffeting the cottage, driving the snow against the walls, building up deep drifts. And hour after hour Rod Savage lay and coughed. She heard him turning restlessly in his bed directly above the tiny living-room, remembered that woman who had had to be carried, and the body in the snow.

  She dozed uneasily. Tonight her lover did not come; she called out for him, willed him to join her, but he never came. Strange dreams of a land where everybody except herself was dead, the hills and forests littered with bodies where the fevered coughing illness had taken its toll.

  Only she remained, alone in a dead hell, wanting to die but living, forced to walk the silent land in search of a will-o'-the-wisp that no longer came to taunt her. A land of cold and hunger and thirst.

  When finally she awoke she was not sure whether it was light or not, went to the window and rubbed a patch in the condensation. A virgin white curtain of snow covered the outside of the glass pane. She turned back in despair, wondered if she could find sticks and paper with which to light a fire.

  The wind had dropped. Suddenly she was aware of the total stillness, the cloying silence. And with it came a feeling bordering on panic. Rod Savage was no longer turning restlessly in his bed upstairs and coughing incessantly. No sound came from above.

  And that was when Jackie's dream came back to her, of a land where everybody except herself was dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SYLVIA HAD found the village within an hour or so of leaving the cottage, had come upon it suddenly in the thick hill-fog. She could have drawn back, fled before the occupants caught sight of her. But she didn't.

  She walked slowly, dazedly into the settlement. The snow was falling steadily, a refreshing wind threatening to whip it into a blizzard. A strange atmosphere which she sensed immediately, a kind of bustle of activity which had suddenly come to a stop. Loaded litters, the snow already beginning to cover them with a white film, a cluster of men who eyed her with a mixture of curiosity and apathy. We were about to leave but we've changed our minds. Who are you and what are you doing here?

  They were all packed up and ready to go. Where to? Sylvia came to a halt before the group, eyed them question-ingly, felt she had to say something. They would not understand, but it didn't matter. Thinking, talking, was becoming increasingly difficult, her brain fogged and sluggish.

  'My name's Sylvia. My husband's dead.' Grief that had been threatening like thunderheads on the horizon suddenly hit her. Unrestricted sobs. One of them pointed to the nearest dwelling-place. Go in there, woman, out of the cold.

  She walked shakily towards it, paused in the entrance. The interior was dark, had a sharp unpleasant odour about it. She waited for her vision to adjust to the gloom, saw through a liquid misty flood, distorted shapes; somebody lay on a bed in the corner, not moving. A woman was stretched out on some hides by the wall, and it was quite obvious that she was dead. A fit of uncontrollable coughing attracted her attention and she turned her head and made out a boy of perhaps ten years of age squatting beyond the dying embers of the fire. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled down his chin. He saw her but his expression did not register surprise, just acceptance.

  'You're all ill.' She spoke aloud. 'You need help, a doctor.' Now that was a silly thing to say because there weren't any doctors left. They were all out there, any one of these menfolk might have been a doctor once. Before all this. What was a doctor? She could not really remember; somebody who helped you, perhaps.

  She stood just inside the open doorway, looked back outside. Several more people were emerging from the other huts bearing litters on which lay prone bodies wrapped in animal hides, scarcely seeming able to lift the weight of them. A conference. They were pointing, arguing. Sylvia did not need an interpreter to understand what they were saying.

  We must go even though we are ill and dying. The snow is here, winter is upon us. If we stay here we shall starve. Go now whilst there is still a little time left.

  A woman appeared from somewhere, came into the hut and with some difficulty lifted up the sick boy. He began to cry, coughed some more blood. Sylvia made as if to help but some inhibition checked her. She was a stranger here, an intruder in-a different way of life; they might resent her interference. She felt self-conscious.

  The child was taken out, room made for him on one of the stretchers alongside the still form of a red-headed man who might already have been dead. They were hurrying now, seeming to have to force their limbs into jerky movements. Sylvia was ignored, perhaps they had forgotten her. Very soon they would all be gone and she would be left here in this deserted place of death.

  Panic, almost running out to them, the snow coming faster now. For God's sake don't go without me, don't leave me here. Please! I'm one of you now—look at me!

  The litter on to which they had just placed the boy was lowered back on to the ground, two of them were straining to lift the man off. He was dead, there was no point in taking him with them. They dragged him free, laid him down in the snow. You did not bury your dead, you left them for the wild dogs and foxes.

  'I want to go with you,' Sylvia cried, clutched at one of them. Til walk, I promise I won't be a nuisance, but don't leave me behind!' A flash of lucid speech and then it was gone again and words were meaningless to her.

  They looked at one another, grunted. Arguing again. They had no room for passengers, anybody who went on the trek had a part to play. You must help to carry the sick, woman. And if you fail then you will be abandoned. Nobody will help you.

  Sylvia took the handles of the stretcher, the boy's mother going in front. Between them they could manage now that the weight of the adult corpse had been removed. A slow procession, the men in front, the women bringing up the rear.

  The snow eased off a little and away to her right Sylvia saw and recognised the outline of the Quinn smallholding, like a miniature toy farm set out on an uneven white sheet. One brief wave of nostalgia but she pushed it forcibly away. Jon was nothing to her, never had been, only somebody to fill a gap while Eric was away. A lump caught in her throat. Poor Eric, this didn't have to happen to him. But it had. If only she hadn't been one of the unlucky survivors. But she would not survive long now, none of them would. Eric? Who was Eric? Her mind slipped again, became a vacuum.

  The descent was steep and slippery. Once the woman in front lost her footing and somehow Sylvia managed to prevent the stretcher from tipping over, steadied it down on to the snow. The hide blankets slid to one side and she saw the boy. Oh God, his body shook with the fever, he was delirious, mouthing meaningless animal noises. His bright eyes saw her, weak arms tried to reach out for her but they had not the strength; he thought she was his mother.

  Sylvia helped the distraught woman wrap him up again and then they had to hurry to catch up with the others. Once they reached the floor of the narrow valley their pace was slowed, the snow much deeper here, wading up to their thighs.

  Sylvia wished she could ask them where they were going. There was a definite purposefulness about their route, an urgency driving them on, keeping them going when their physical strength was failing. She glanced up at the sky, judged that it was well into the afternoon, the sun a fiery red ball now that the clouds had dispersed. Tonight there would be a hard frost.

  They paused for a spell and she was handed some strips of dried meat, bit on it hungrily but had difficulty in chewing it. It had a smoky flavour where it had been dried over a smouldering fire. Revolting, but she knew she had to eat it. Then, wearily, they set off again.

  She heard the approaching helicopter long before it came into sight over a strip of woodland in front. The whining, chainsaw-like noise getting louder and louder, her companio
ns looking at one another in alarm, setting down their loads. Frightened, wanting to run but not knowing in which direction to flee. It seemed to kick-start her memory, jerked her back to civilised thinking.

  'It's all right, it's a helicopter,' she shouted. They would not have understood even if they had been able to hear her above the din.

  A helicopter! Her brain reeled, a shipwrecked mariner suddenly seeing the smoke from an approaching steamer on the skyline after months of waiting in vain. Numbed, fumbling for some garment to wave madly, reflexes stalling. It might go away, it might not see you. Hurry!

  And just as the whirling blades came into sight Sylvia flung herself headlong into the snow, pressed herself flat. Please God it doesn't see me. I don't want to be picked up, I don't want to be rescued! Crazy, she knew it was, but all the same she buried her face in the snow, clasped her hands over her eyes. Don't stop, please don't stop!

  Deafening, directly overhead, seeming to hover. If they land then I'll refuse to go with them, they can't make me.

  I don't want to go back. I want to be out here with Eric. He's dead, I know it, but I still want to be with him.

  Realisation that the noise was receding. Sylvia turned her head, glanced upwards. A huge unwieldy mechanical bird droning on up the valley, its dark blue paintwork in stark contrast to the dazzling whiteness of the hills and fields. Going away. If it had seen her then it wasn't stopping. She felt slightly dizzy, afraid.

  The other woman was screaming hysterically, the limp form of her son clutched to her, his arms and legs dangling limply. Shaking him, slapping him, but his head lolled to one side.

  Two of the men had come across to her, were grunting and gesticulating angrily. The boy is dead, we cannot take him with us. We cannot delay. The woman shouted back at them, stepped away, spat when one of them reached out an arm. She was not giving him up, refused to cast his body to one side for the creatures of the night hours to feed on.