Like Rats

by Adam Watts

  ‘She’s not so bad,’ Eve says.

  ‘Really?’ says Stan. ‘You really think she’s not so bad? I think I smell bull-shit. Come on, Eve, what’s the real reason you invited her along?’

  ‘Just to be nice. I really don’t think she’s all that bad.’

  ‘And again… bull-shit! I seem to remember you calling her – and I quote – “an unscratchable itch in an unmentionable place”.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘You did, I remember it.’

  ‘Well, you remember it wrong.’

  ‘Sorry, Eve,’ I say, ‘but there’s no way on earth Stan could’ve come up with such an eloquent insult all by himself. He’d have just called her a twat, or a mong, or a mongy twat.’

  ‘Fuck you, Pres,’ he says, before turning to Eve with a goading smile. ‘He’s right, though. Those words are yours and yours alone. You’ve said a hundred times that you wish you’d left her out in the forest.’

  ‘I was joking!’ she says.

  ‘You were not joking, you meant it. It’s just that wonderful nature of yours that got in the way of you actually leaving her there. But the harsh truth is, you wish you left her in the forest to die of exposure or wander to the nearest populated area to have her giblets yanked out. You could never have actually done it… because that’s not you. So you joke about it, because that’s your little Eve-y way of getting your resentments out.’

  Eve stares at Stan and chooses her words. Being seen as a bitch (even in the smallest of ways) doesn’t sit well with Eve.

  ‘Is that the calibre of psychology they teach at The University of Life then, Stanhope?’

  ‘I thought it was insightful,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you, brother. I’m glad some-one here appreciates my mind.’

  ‘But seriously, Eve,’ I say. ‘What’s with bringing Tuesday into the fold?’

  Eve huffs and purses her lips like she doesn’t want to be pressed on the issue. I think she knows that even if I relent, Stan certainly won’t.

  ‘I’ve just been thinking that maybe part of the reason she acts up and gets us in trouble with The Great and Powerful Cobden is because we push her away so much. I think she’s just trying to fit in. I think she wants to be around us but doesn’t know how to do it, and I thought maybe if we get to know the real her then maybe she’ll thaw out a bit.’

  Eve’s probably right (she usually is), but from the look on Stan’s face, he’s not having any of it.

  ‘So that’s proper psychology is it? That’s what you paid all that money to go to proper university for?’

  ‘We can’t keep pushing her out, Stan. At least if she’s with us then we can try and file a few of those edges down, but if we keep building the walls higher then she’ll eventually become unbearable.’

  ‘She’s already unbearable!’

  ‘And this has nothing to do with the fact that you spent the night with her and then treated her like a leper as soon as dawn broke?’

  ‘Y’know, I wondered when you were going to bring that up. What’s this about then? Sisters all standing together against the tyranny of the todger? Or have you just got the guilts about wishing you’d left her behind?’

  ‘You might be spot on with the guilt thing, but at least I’m willing to give the girl a chance.’

  ‘Some people don’t deserve a chance. Some people just need to be kept at arm’s length at all costs,’ he says, now looking a little irked. ‘If there’s one thing that makes me want to jump these fences even more than I usually do, it’s the thought of having to spend more time with Tuesday. Or is that what this is? A ploy to get me to leave the village.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a conspiracy!’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, yeah… no surprises you’re siding with her, right?’

  ‘Can’t say I’m that keen on the girl,’ I say, ‘but I do so love watching you squirm when she’s around. And I am at least a little bit curious as to whether she could make you hop those fences.’

  ‘Either way spells certain doom,’ says Stan, his head now in his hands as he senses defeat. ‘But please try and understand if I end up throttling the little twat.’

  ‘Jesus… Stan…’ I say. ‘I know I ask you this almost every day, but what on God’s green earth happened with her that night?’

  ‘To my cold smelly grave, Preston,’ he says, his head remaining in his hands.

  ‘Spoil sport.’

  ‘Pres?’ says Eve. ‘I know you don’t like Tuesday all that much, but will you give her a chance, for me?’

  ‘Well of course he’ll give her a chance for you! He’d dangle his dick in a piranha tank for Lovely Eve!’ says Stan, all at once reanimated.

  ‘Shut up!’ I tell him, feeling myself blush and prickle like some anxious teen who’s been caught staring down a teacher’s top.

  ‘You know, it’s lucky you make such good booze,’ Stan says to Eve, ‘or else I’d seriously reconsider our friendship.’

  ‘I promise that my next batch will be the best ever, just so you understand how much I appreciate you not being a complete dick about Tuesday coming to sit by the fire with us. Speaking of which, chuck another couple of logs on, I’ll barely be able to see you both in a minute.’

  Stan reaches behind him and grabs some more wood. ‘I’m serious though, Eve, if that girl starts acting up, I’ll leave this place and then you’ll never get to sleep with me.’

  ‘And wouldn’t that be a shame,’ she says, and though it might be a trick of the dim orange light or just blind hope on my part, I think I notice her glance oh-so-quickly in my direction. I tell myself not to dwell, not to over-think such a small and vague occurrence.

  But just as I start to, just as I begin to dwell and allow myself to wonder what that glance might have suggested, my contemplation is broken. Through the darkness comes the sound of rapid footfalls and panicked breath.

  ‘Get Harry!’ says Tuesday, bursting into the light of the fire and doubling over next to Stan as she tries to catch her breath.

  ‘The fuck’s got into you?’ Stan says with a sneer, inching himself away from her.

  Tuesday looks up, her face a fretful orange mask, throbbing amidst the shadows. She swallows hard and tries to steady her breathing.

  ‘What’s happened? Are you ok?’ says Eve.

  Tuesday’s eyes dart between the three of us before turning towards the darkness behind me. ‘There’s voices in the forest! There’s people out there!’

  The Forest Whispers My Name.

  ‘I swear to God, if you fire one more bloody rock into those trees I’m going to strangle you,’ says Harry, his voice low and throaty.

  ‘They’re just warning shots,’ says Stan. ‘So they know we mean business.’

  ‘We don’t even know who it is, you cretin. For all you know they could be people looking for refuge; they could be sick or injured. Although it seems you get a kick out of throwing rocks at people.’

  ‘I’m not throwing them, I’m firing them from this,’ Stan says, holding up his catapult. ‘And I’m firing stones, not rocks. There’s a difference.’

  Harry turns his attention back to the forest beyond the fence. ‘Brainless boy,’ he says under breath.

  ‘There’s probably nothing out there anyway,’ Stan says. ‘Tuesday’s hearing things.’

  ‘No-one’s gonna hear nuffin’ over the sound of that mouth, smart arse. So why don’t ya keep it clamped.’

  ‘Will you all please shush!’ Harry says. ‘You can bicker about this later, but right now we need to stay quiet and listen hard.’

  We stand in reluctant silence for a good five or ten minutes. Aside from the soft breeze rifling the foliage and the occasional bird call, there’s nothing much to hear. There never is any more. I remember being struck by how silent the world (and by world I mean village) became after the fences went up. For a while you’d hear guns, explosions and sirens ringing in the towns over the horizon as the armed forces tried to restore order to the streets, or you’d hear cars an
d trucks tearing down nearby lanes, presumably escaping from somewhere or escaping to somewhere else. We even heard a helicopter once. Everybody stared at the sky like Jesus himself was descending from betwixt parted clouds, armed to his biblically white teeth, ready to avenge the ruination of his dad’s favourite island nation. The helicopter never did show itself, and neither did Jesus. Gradually the cacophony of the human species fell silent. You’d notice it most at night when the birds quietened down and the mild din of a village compound subsided with the setting of the sun. I think that’s why Stan, Eve and I took to lighting our fires. If the dark and silence were a constant reminder of what we’d lost, then the crackling warmth of the flame was a way of keeping the memories at arm’s length, and so distract ourselves from thoughts of how much longer it might last. I remember Stan once joking that we should set fire to the whole village, like a distress beacon. There was a time – probably when I was a wretched teen – when the idea of burning every middle-class home in this forsaken trap to the ground would’ve held great appeal, but no more. Even joking about it twists my guts a little.

  The silence is punctured by Eve sneezing. ‘Sorry. Tickly nose,’ she whispers.

  ‘Are we done yet?’ asks Stan. ‘Because I’m pretty sure this is a massive waste of time.’

  ‘Shush up,’ Harry says, sounding like his jaw has been wired.

  The group quietens once more. I watch Harry in the dim orange glow of the fire, cocking his ear to the trees, listening out for the malevolent chatter of dusky figures beyond his perimeter. He’d love it if there was something out there. I think Harry is the person most bored by our current state of habitation. Or at least a close second to Stan.

  An abrupt shriek from somewhere in the trees forces a collective intake of breath. Everything falls still. The whole world on a jerky VHS pause.

  ‘Jesus!’ Stan cries, before lunging for my arm. ‘What in the name of sasquatch was that?’

  ‘It’s an owl,’ Harry states.

  ‘That was not an owl,’ Stan says, still griping my arm. ‘Owls say twit-twoo!’

  ‘It was an owl,’ Harry says. ‘They don’t all say twit-twoo.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I add. ‘They make different noises… not just twit-twoo.’

  ‘Since when did you become the fucking owl whisperer?’ Stan stays.

  ‘I saw a show once, and I remember the owl guy saying that not all owls say twit-twoo.’

  ‘What were you doing at an owl show?’ he says, sounding almost disgusted.

  ‘Learning about owls.’

  Harry shoves us both from behind. ‘You two had better pack it up before I lose my temper. That noise was an owl, end of story.’

  ‘Well how come in all the time I’ve been here I’ve never heard that noise before?’ Stan says.

  ‘Because the sound of your mouth running is enough to drown out every owl in the wood,’ Harry says.

  ‘Please, everybody, stop saying owl,’ Eve says, her voice strained and weary.

  ‘You sure it weren’t zombies?’ asks Tuesday from over Harry’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s not what a zombie sounds like,’ Stan says.

  ‘It was a bloody owl!’ Harry says, now well and truly losing his shit. ‘How many more times do I have to state that?’

  ‘But what if it was a zombie?’ Tuesday says.

  ‘Or a zombie doing an owl impression,’ Stan says, joshing me a little too pointedly with his elbow.

  ‘Keep a lid on it, Stanhope,’ Harry says. ‘There’s no such things as zombies. And even if there were, they’d have no business being out here.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, Harry! How can you say there’s no such thing as zombies when you know all too bloody well there are? Or did we all just imagine half the population going all dead-eyed and bitey? The amount of times we’ve had to listen to your stories of escaping the horde and how you caved in a bunch of zombie skulls and out-ran hundreds of the bastards to reach us. Or were you making that up to make yourself sound proper?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, you lunatic. They’re weren’t zombies, they were people; mad, deranged people who had a mind to cause mayhem. This country had been like a tinder-box for years, it just needed the right spark to set it off.’

  ‘People don’t act like that,’ Stan tells him. ‘They don’t wake up one day and do the things they did just because they feel like causing a bit of mischief. They were eating people, Harry.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what people are and aren’t capable of. You’ve no idea. The warning signs were all there, plain as day, but we thought we were invincible, we thought nothing like that could ever happen in a decent country like ours. But I knew, and I prepared myself. And unlike some other people I could mention, I lost people dear to me, and mark my words, it wasn’t zombies that did it… it was people.’

  ‘We’ve all suffered our losses, Harry,’ Eve says. ‘You’ve not got the monopoly on grief.’

  ‘Oh… you’re so bloody high and mighty, aren’t you? But the three of you sit around your cosy little camp fire every night getting pie-eyed and laughing like nothing ever happened, or will again. You poke fun at my patrols and sense of duty, but mark my words, one day you’ll all see things my way, you’ll have no choice.’

  ‘Sounds like a threat to me,’ Stan says. ‘What you gonna do, Cobden? Enact Marshall Law?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me. Given the choice I’d lock you lot up in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Just because we’re not like you, doesn’t mean we’re useless,’ I say, feeling tired of Harry’s grumbles. More so than usual on account of the time. Plus, I won’t have him saying Eve is useless. Stan and I have our faults, but not Eve.

  ‘You’re kidding me! You’re as useless as they come. A scared girl comes running, saying she’s heard something over the fence and what do you all do? Straight to Harry Cobden, as per bloody usual. If either of you were proper men you’d have dealt with it yourselves. And as for you…’ he says, pointing a finger squarely at Eve. ‘What kind of lady spends all day with a couple of wasters like these two? I shouldn’t like to imagine what’s in it for you.’

  ‘You’re out of line, Harry,’ I say. ‘If it wasn’t for Eve, Tuesday would’ve died out there in the forest.’

  ‘She’s stronger than you give her credit for,’ Harry says. ‘Why do you think she doesn’t want anything to do with you lot?’

  ‘Because you keep her as a fucking pet,’ Eve says. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard her use the F word.

  ‘I’m nobody’s pet!’ Tuesday says, not convincing anyone, despite the bluster in her tone.

  ‘Don’t listen to it, my dear. You’re worth ten of her. Come on, let’s head back. I’ll check the perimeter in the morning.

  Harry walks off into the darkness with Tuesday tailing him. I feel a twinge of pity for her. She may be a clod, but it must be a cold and miserable existence living in that man’s copious shadow. As if living within an eight-foot chain-link fence wasn’t confinement enough.

  ‘No such thing as zombies,’ Stan mutters. ‘What a moron. I oughta bring one to his place and have a round of introductions, then we’ll see who’s right about what.’

  ‘Just leave it, Stan,’ I say. ‘You’ll never change that man’s mind about anything.’

  ‘I can’t understand why he’s always gotta be such a pecker.’

  ‘I’m heading back home,’ Eve says, ambling off with a heavy gait.

  ‘You ok?’ I call after her.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, but I can tell she’s not.

  ‘Hope you sleep ok,’ I call as she disappears from view.

  Stan waits a moment before saying, ‘Hope you sleep ok? What the hell was that?’

  ‘Well I do hope she sleeps ok, y’know?’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Pres.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You just are, and you know why.’

  Stan digs into his pocket, pulls out a stone and loads it into his catapult. He fires into the tre
es; we listen to it pelt through the leaves before dropping with a quiet thud to the floor.

  ‘Do you reckon I hit the owl?’ he says.

  The Ever-Increasing Boredom of Callum Stanhope.

  There’s nobody in at Frida’s. I check the whole house, including the spare room (Stan’s room). It’s easy to see why he likes staying here. It feels lived-in and appreciated, like a proper home should. That’s probably why Frida has so many visitors. That and the fact that her cooking is the best in the whole village. This place wasn’t always hers, and I always got the impression that she felt duty-bound to keep it nice, just in case it’s owners ever decided to come back. In fact, I think she’d only be happy if she were able to hand it back in a better state than it was left in.

  I once asked Frida why she lets Stan stay every night, she told me that he makes her feel happy, and then asked me why I spend so much time with him. I shrugged and smiled because explaining things out loud is not one of my strong points. I guess the real reason is that he turned up in the village one weekend just before Britain got pissed down the tubes, got me good and drunk, made me laugh and suggested that we go on holiday somewhere shit, just for the hell of it. I was amazed that somebody could live their whole life so completely in the moment. Amazed and confused.

  Then everything kicked off. The army arrived, put their fences went up, told us all to stay put and buggered off again; leaving Stan trapped here with the rest of us. He only came to visit his uncle for a few days because his parents got sick of his inability to stick a job. Within hours of meeting me he’d told me that I was a ‘fucking ball-bag’ for choosing to stay in the village. It’s been two years now, and he’s still here too. His uncle, on the other hand, is not.

  After satisfying myself that he’s definitely not at Frida’s, I head over to his uncle’s place. It’s one of the finer houses in the village. Somebody with a keener eye for architecture could probably tell you more than I, but what I can say is that it looks old, characterful and impressive. It has thick walls and low ceilings and there’s a double height garage out back. Stan doesn’t tend to go into the house much, choosing instead to inhabit the garage – his ‘workshop’ – where he’s free to fashion his weapons and fantasise about single-handedly wiping out the horde.