The clinic was set up in one of the larger huts and a queue of anxious mothers with their spotty children and pale-looking, blotchy orphans soon formed. Other women and children stood around watching from doorways or perched on teetering piles of wooden frames. The surrounding houses themselves stretched back for nearly two hundred metres, most of them running crookedly into each other. Some of their owners had added inadequate little chimneys which only seemed to disperse about half of the smoke from the small fires within, leaving the rest to blacken the faces and clog the lungs of their inhabitants. There was no system for getting rid of the sewage, and garbage lay everywhere. Rats wandered undisturbed. Jimmy had visited many settlements, but this was the worst yet. Winter had not yet arrived, but when it did he doubted if Tucker’s Hole would survive for long.
Jimmy was pleased at least to see that the squalor had inspired Claire to wield her camera. Ordinarily he would have suggested ideas for photographs, or she would have sought his advice, but he decided it was better to keep his distance. Instead, after quickly checking that Dr Hill was too busy to keep a proper eye on him, Jimmy ducked into one of the narrow alleys that lay between the houses and began to make his way into the heart of Tucker’s Hole. He was intrigued by the fact that there seemed to be no men around – yet he was sure he could hear them: raucous voices, snatches of songs. As he negotiated his way towards the enclosed centre of the settlement, scabby-faced children gawped at him as he passed. His first clue as to what awaited him came when he had to step over a man lying face down and snoring, clearly completely drunk. Then he found a pair of them, arms round each other as if they’d been singing together and then had collapsed into unconsciousness at the same time. There was a half spilled bottle beside them. Jimmy picked it up – there was a clear liquid within. He sniffed it cautiously – and his head shot back, his nostrils burning. This was what they called ‘moonshine’ in America, or ‘poteen’ back home in Ireland. Pure alcohol that was so strong it could turn you blind or kill you if it wasn’t made in just the right way.
As Jimmy turned a corner the acoustics of the twisting alley became more concentrated and defined, leading him towards a much larger, windowless construction that was crammed with men drinking and partying. One was playing an accordion, another a tin whistle, both were banging their feet on the floor in time to their music. Onlookers clapped and sang along. Jimmy listened for a few minutes before pressing through the throng until he found himself in a short corridor which led to an even larger room beyond. This was just as crowded, but it was actually quieter – they were all listening intently to a grizzled looking old man perched on a bar stool on a slightly raised area in the centre of the room. His voice was raspy, his eyes red-rimmed from the wood smoke which hung around the ceiling, and he sat hunched over, as if he had the weight of the world on his bony shoulders. As Jimmy squirrelled his way forward the old man was shuffling crumpled sheets of paper.
‘Here we are – here we are . . . This one’s from Jacob’s Hollow, ’bout fifty miles east of here. Says they have the malaria now – ain’t been malaria in these parts for two hundred years, but they say they have it.’
Another man spoke up. ‘My wife’s right – we’re all goin’ to hell in a handcart.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the audience. The old man nodded grimly as he looked down at the sheet of paper. ‘Have the names here of people who’ve showed up at Jacob’s Hollow. Gonna read them out. You recognise any, you speak to me later, I’ll see if I have any news of them. When I’m done up here, I’ll take a list of your names with me to the next settlement along. Good to know if your loved ones are OK – but I tell you this, don’t go trying to visit. Roads are impassable, bandits out there, shootin’ and killin’. Not gonna harm an old fella like me, but you stay safe here in Tucker’s Hole.’
When he’d finished reading the names from Jacob’s Hollow, he pulled up another sheet, this time from a settlement called Miller’s Crossing, and repeated the process. He read two more after that and was about to start on a third when he hesitated and glanced up at the audience. His mouth opened, then closed. He appeared to be debating with himself whether to say something.
‘What is it?’ someone shouted. ‘We don’t need any more bad news!’
‘No – no, it’s not – it’s just . . .’ He sighed. ‘Well, don’t see what harm it can do. Just – I heard this story. These days there’s lots of stories, but the people I heard it from swore to God it was true.’ An anxious hush fell on the audience. As Jimmy looked around he caught a glimpse of Claire on the far side of the room. The old man rubbed at his heavily stubbled jaw. ‘Well, there were these couple of guys went hunting in the woods outside of Miller’s Crossing, just ordinary folks like you and me. They were tracking this deer down through the trees, came out on the old railway track – ain’t been a train through there since the early days of the plague – but this day, there was a train sitting about a hundred metres up from where they were, engine running and American flags flying front and back. Now our guys were a bit wary, you know how things are these days, deciding whether it was a good idea to approach – when these Marines jumped out of nowhere, surrounded them, took their guns off of them, wanting to know what they were doing sneakin’ up on the President’s train . . .’
At this an excited flurry of whispers swept through the crowd.
‘Yep – that’s what they said. Anyways they were marched to the train . . . and you know what? The President himself got off and walked right up to them and shook their hands and asked how they was doing!’
Another wave of excitement.
‘Yep – it was the President all right, sure as I’m sitting here. And that’s not all. He asked them what they did in their old life – one was a fireman, other in computers. He said he was looking for good people. He’d established his own settlement couple of hundred miles north – had its own schools, electricity, good food, television – said he was rebuilding civilisation. President said he was looking for people to help and did they want to come. Well of course, they both wanted to go, and one of them climbed right on board, was given a cold beer. The other, he said he had a wife and family back in the settlement and could he go fetch them, but the President said he couldn’t wait, there were bandits in the woods and all about and it wasn’t safe. But he said he’d be back, and that people shouldn’t give up hope, that the good times were coming again, and to have faith in him, and have faith in God.’
The old man nodded. ‘Faith in him,’ he repeated, ‘faith in God.’
Questions were immediately shouted from the floor.
‘When was this?’
‘You sure it was him?’
‘What they call this place?’
‘They have television?’
‘Were those guys drunk?’
There were a dozen more questions. Eventually the old man held his hand up. ‘Told you all I know. This was about three weeks back, and I tell you, that guy’s been down at those tracks with his family every day since. All I can say is, if I see that train, I’d be getting right on board too.’
He smiled then and there was scattered applause. He pushed himself wearily off his bar stool. At that exact moment a camera flash went off. The old man spun to one side with surprising speed and vigour as he sought out the culprit. Jimmy saw Claire pushing her way back through the crush of bodies. She had her photograph, and he had his story. They were a great team, even if they weren’t speaking to each other.
6
Into the Woods
Jimmy was as excited as everyone else by the old man’s account of the President’s train. Partly because he was a newsman with a good scoop, but also because of the way it had affected the audience – for the first time on any of his settlement visits he had seen genuine hope in their eyes, the first inkling that there might be a real possibility of escape from their squalid existence. Electricity! Television! As he made his way back through the tangle of huts Jimmy could hear snatches of ‘The S
tar Spangled Banner’ being sung.
It was a pleasant relief to emerge back into the fresh air. Jimmy looked across to where Dr Hill was now getting towards the end of his line of patients. Three sorry-looking children lay on stretchers, ready for transportation back to the Titanic. Since he’d been gone a second boat had arrived from the ship. First Officer Jeffers and several crewmen had set up a folding table and chair and were now interviewing locals who wished to board the Titanic. There weren’t very many of them; they stood lethargically and answered Jeffers’ questions as if they didn’t care one way or another if they were successful.
As there was still clearly some time to kill, Jimmy decided to do a little more exploring. He began to circle around the outside of the settlement. Several dogs snapped at him. Soot-faced women stared at him as he passed their homes. He stepped over another drunk. When he had landed he had wanted to ask as many of these people as possible for their personal stories of what had happened to them during and since the plague, but since hearing about the Presidential train he could no longer summon the enthusiasm – he wanted to write something positive for a change, he’d had enough of death and disaster.
When he was about halfway around the settlement there was a scream from up ahead. His view was obscured by a jutting wall – yet he immediately knew who it was.
Claire!
Jimmy charged around the corner and saw her lying on the rubbish-strewn ground about a hundred metres ahead. A boy of roughly his own age was standing over her.
‘Hey!’ Jimmy yelled.
The boy looked startled, then reached down and grabbed Claire’s camera. She held on to the strap and pulled back, but the boy punched at her face and she let out a cry of pain. The boy ripped the strap from her grasp and darted back into the maze of interconnected sheds that made up Tucker’s Hole.
Claire pulled herself up to her knees just as Jimmy reached her. There was a thin trickle of blood coming from her nose.
‘Are you all right?’
She gave him a look that said Stupid question.
‘I’ll get Dr Hill . . .’ Jimmy started to turn, but she grabbed his arm and shook her head. ‘Claire! This is stupid! Talk to me . . .’
But instead of talking, she jabbed her finger after the boy and grunted. The camera.
Jimmy took her hand and hauled her to her feet. She quickly disengaged her hand. He reached up to wipe the blood from her lip, but she turned her head away. Jimmy tutted and turned towards the gap in the jagged wall where the boy had disappeared.
‘I’ll get it back,’ he said. But as he started to follow, Claire was right behind him. He stopped and shook his head. She nodded. He put his hand up to stop her. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a look. He sighed.
‘Oh please your bloody self, you half-wit.’
He turned into the alley. Claire followed.
For the next forty-five minutes they played cat and mouse with the thief. Several times they caught glimpses of him, only for him to disappear again. And it wasn’t as if they could report him to the police. There were no police. There were no laws or courts or punishments. If they wanted to get the camera back they had to get it themselves. They got lost, they were shouted at, they fell over drunks, they found themselves accidentally standing in people’s bedrooms, more than once they disturbed someone having a pee – all without a word being spoken between them. They were tired, sweaty, determined, but eventually had to concede that they weren’t going to get Claire’s camera back. They agreed this just by looking at each other. Jimmy shrugged, Claire shrugged; he nodded towards what he thought was the twisting path back to where the other crewmen were; she nodded back.
When they stepped back out into the late afternoon sunlight they were immediately aware that something had changed – but for a moment couldn’t quite put their fingers on it. The same sullen people were standing around, there was the same fetid stench, pockmarked children were still running back and forth playing soccer with a burst ball, presumably over the worst of the chicken—
‘They’re gone!’ Jimmy exclaimed.
With a dreadful lurch in his stomach he’d realised that there was now no trace of Dr Hill, the nurses, the sick children, or indeed Jeffers and his crew.
‘We spent so long chasing that camera that . . .’
Claire was giving him a look that said So it’s my fault?
Jimmy rolled his eyes. He stopped the closest footballer. ‘Hey – the doctor, the nurses, how long ago did they leave?’
The boy, who was only about seven, looked frightened. Another, older boy shouted across: ‘About half an hour ago. Did they leave you behind? My parents did that a couple of weeks ago. You can play for my team if you want.’
‘Thanks, but . . .’ Jimmy was already looking around, trying to decide on the best course of action.
Claire pulled at his sleeve and pointed away from the settlement – not towards the beach where they’d landed a couple of hours before, but to the east. Jimmy remembered now – Dr Hill had told them where to meet in case they got split up.
Two clicks to the east of the river.
Whatever the hell a click was. Jimmy hadn’t been paying much attention when this rendezvous point was discussed at the planning meeting on the Titanic. But it seemed that Claire had. She strode out in front of him, and then broke into a jog. Jimmy took a deep breath and followed.
They were running through dense woods, following an ancient path that twisted up, then down again towards the coast. The sunlight through the branches gave the kind of lovely rippling, flickering effect that might have caused epilepsy if you were prone to it. Claire loped confidently along.
‘You know,’ Jimmy said between breaths, his eyes glued to the ground so that he wouldn’t trip over the tree roots poking out every few metres, ‘you’re going to have to talk to me eventually.’
Claire didn’t respond.
‘I know you’re pig-headed, but you’ll cave in, I know you will.’
Nothing.
‘And when I say you’re pig-headed, that wasn’t a reference to Babe.’
Nothing.
‘Even if you do look quite similar.’
Claire stopped. Jimmy smiled to himself. He’d gotten to her. Even if she hurled abuse at him, at least they’d be talking. But she didn’t turn. He saw now that the path ahead of them was split – in three directions. Each path was still generally heading to the east – but which one to follow?
‘Lost, are we?’
Claire’s head snapped towards him – but then a sudden crack diverted their attention. They had both seen enough action in the past few months to recognise a gunshot when they heard one. And close at hand. There was a moment when their eyes met, before they threw themselves off the path. They lay with their faces pressed into the mossy forest floor, breathing hard, their eyes urgently scanning the trees.
‘Wasn’t aimed at us,’ Jimmy whispered. Claire nodded. There was nothing moving ahead. ‘Probably hunters.’ Claire nodded again. ‘The sensible thing to do . . . would be to keep going . . . we have a boat to catch. Investigating would be time-consuming, and possibly dangerous.’
Claire looked at him. He saw the merest sliver of a smile. Then she raised herself to her knees and crawled across the path and into the trees on the other side – i.e. in the vague direction of the shot.
Jimmy had expected nothing less. He followed a moment later.
They moved forward as quietly as they could – but in the almost absolute silence of the woods it was difficult not to make a noise. If there were birds in the trees they were watching, not singing. There was no breeze to produce the aching sound of swaying branches.
They had progressed about a hundred metres when they heard it: soft, yet unmistakable. Somebody was singing. A man’s voice. Light, melodic. A hymn.
‘Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning.
Give me oil in my lamp, I pray.
Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning.
Keep me
burning till the break of day . . .’
It drifted eerily through the trees. It was so out of place. Jimmy and Claire exchanged glances before advancing again. Perhaps only ten or twelve metres further on they came to the edge of a clearing and stopped behind the cover of a small clutch of low ferns. Ahead of them they saw a man in a long black coat and black, wide-brimmed hat, with a rifle in his hand. He was crouching over something, and singing to himself. Jimmy thought at first that it was indeed a hunter, examining the animal he’d killed, and was on the point of rising to ask for directions when the man moved a little to the side, affording them their first proper view of his kill.
Of the dead man.
Of wide, staring eyes.
Of a gaping, bloody hole in his chest.
Of the man in black searching his pockets.
And singing, singing that hymn.
The man in black moved around to the other side of the corpse, and now they saw that he was wearing a minister’s collar around his neck. His face was pure white and dominated by a long, thin nose. He reminded Jimmy of the austere seventeenth century Puritans he’d been forced to learn about in school.
Claire squeezed Jimmy’s arm. She indicated with her eyes that they should back away. Jimmy nodded.
But immediately his foot found a twig and it snapped with surprising volume.
Instantaneously the minister’s eyes shot up. Their heads were already pressed hard into the mossy forest floor as he scanned along the trees. He rose from his crouching position and raised his rifle. He was about twenty metres away from them. Slowly he moved the rifle from left to right – one long, bony finger curled around the trigger.
Titanic 2020: Cannibal City Page 4
