Angel

by Jon Grahame

  ‘So it’s a war book.’

  ‘Historical fiction.’

  ‘About war.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She watched the street and her silence was a comment. He dealt in war and read about it from choice. He started reading, but found he couldn’t be bothered. Lying down full length on the comfortable sofa made him lethargic.

  ‘Give me a call when you want a break,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

  He had always been a reader, always had a book on the go and a spare as backup. But he hadn’t read a book of fiction for years: not since his daughter had been raped and the lives of his family had changed. There had been no incentive, no desire to escape in a book. Escape hadn’t been an option, hadn’t been allowed. How could he contemplate escape after what his daughter had suffered?

  Reaper had learned to live with the guilt of not being there when she had needed him, not being able to save her, despite his status as a policeman. Then her suicide had torn a gaping hole through the pain he had learned to control, so that, afterwards, nothing existed for a long time. He had become a shell, engaging in a sham of living.

  His wife, with whom he had grown increasingly estranged, had then been diagnosed with cancer. The sham had gone on as far as the outside world was concerned while, behind closed doors, their antipathy towards each other had developed into a dull, domestic hatred. His wife’s fatal illness had simply been another punishment. He felt no guilt when she died. All his guilt concerned his daughter. He had failed to protect her not only from attack, but also the despair that had driven her to take her own life.

  No wonder he hadn’t read a book of fiction. Escapism hadn’t been allowed. The punishment had to be endured without relief. The slaying of his daughter’s rapist served both as revenge and as a way out; he had planned the subsequent standoff with an armed response unit in the hope that it would lead to his own death – suicide by police. It didn’t happen. They had captured him and put him in a cell. Death hadn’t been allowed.

  Then the virus had brought the end of the world, as it had been, the end of a world, as it would never be again. For a while, after he found Kate, he had thought the new beginning might give him licence to start life afresh. Put the pain behind him. But Kate had been taken from him and once more he had been left as empty as a crater. It hadn’t been allowed.

  Protecting Haven was now his life. He enjoyed his interaction with its inhabitants, his friendships and comradeships with Greta, the Special Forces, Pete Mack, Ash. He smiled to himself. He had even been pleased to see Ronnie Ronaldo back in one piece. But Sandra gave the real purpose to his life. He would not let anything happen to her. His born-again daughter.

  The Viceroy of India restaurant could invoke memories of normality, could finding a Cornwell novel revive his passion for reading? He’d had shelves of books at home, but nothing highbrow: American thrillers and the complete set of Sharpe novels in paperback. He had intended to read them again at some unspecified period in a future that was forever lost. He didn’t think he could be bothered now.

  So much had changed. No more pubs, curry restaurants, football or cricket. His weekends off had always included chunks of time doing nothing but watching sport on TV, that intrusion in every living room that Abraham had vilified. He had enjoyed the sport and the time out, but was Abraham right? Before television, blokes actually went to matches, didn’t they? They didn’t slouch on the sofa, they were part of the spectacle and experience, they interacted with their fellow man. Without a TV set, would he have been more active, taken a different grip on life? Spent more time with his daughter? Repaired the fractures of his marriage before they became terminal?

  To be honest, probably not. Retreating into the past, like Abraham and his followers, was not the answer. Smashing television sets before the virus struck would not have been the answer. Weavers had smashed looms in the 19th century and all they had done was give the world a name for those who would oppose progress for no other reason than fear of what it might bring.

  Progress was inevitable, always had been, despite the Luddites of the world. Progress had turned cave dwellers into empire builders. Progress had made it inevitable that man would go to the moon. You couldn’t have stopped technical advancement. If the world had had a few years more, every home would have had an interactive TV screen the size of the living room wall. Sodom and Gomorrah in surround sound 3D. And progress was essential again now if the few who remained were to truly survive. But theirs would be a different kind of progress.

  They had to step back and learn traditional skills all over again for when the petrol ran out. That was when the real battle for the future would begin. Communities that lived in shopping malls would be ill-prepared to keep and feed themselves when the last tin had been opened. People still in towns and cities would eventually migrate to the countryside; they would have to when the food ran out. They had to start again as an agrarian society and grow their own crops and raise their own animals.

  At least Haven and the other settlements in their loose federation were preparing properly. From that beginning, perhaps humanity would progress in different directions from before. He nudged the book that lay on his chest with a finger. Literature would also be part of the future – had to be – as a way of remembering the past and ensuring the cultural roots of their new society. Who, he wondered, would write new books for this new age? Brother Abraham?

  Maybe he would start reading again. Maybe it would be okay to read again.

  He smiled as he acknowledged he was making deals with himself. Or was he making deals with a God he didn’t believe in? Besides, if he allowed himself to start reading again, what next?

  Don’t be stupid, Reaper told himself.

  He dozed.

  Some time later, he sat up and Sandra turned to look at him.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Coffee?’ he said.

  They had brought coffee and sandwiches. Reaper unpacked the bag and they ate. Afterwards, they switched positions. Sandra picked a book from the shelves and sprawled on the sofa and he took the armchair to keep watch.

  ‘What did you pick?’ he said.

  ‘Catherine Cookson.’ She held it up for him to see. ‘The Parson’s Daughter.’

  ‘Have you read her before?’

  ‘No. To be honest, I haven’t read much at all. Not fiction, anyway. Maybe it’s time I started.’

  He nodded and stared out of the window.

  Sandra read the blurb on the back of the book. Did she really want to delve into the l9th century life of Nancy Ann Hazel, ‘the young and high-spirited daughter of a country parson’? It was certainly a story that was a world away from now. Maybe the experience would do her good. Get her out of herself. But, like Reaper, she couldn’t be bothered and it lay unopened on her stomach and she closed her eyes.

  Life went on. It went on at a swifter pace than she had ever known when she was growing up, back in the past. So fast, she couldn’t clearly remember what Jamie looked like, any more. Her heart lurched with anguish at her loss and the failure to remember his face, as if she was being unfaithful to his memory.

  Why did everything have to be so rushed? How long had they had together? Four months? If she and Jamie had met in the past, they would have gone out together, phoned each other, sent texts, made arrangements, gone clubbing, had weekends away, got to know each other. Except that, back in that world, she never would have met Jamie. Or, if their paths had crossed, they would not have looked at each other in the same way or with the same expectations. They had been from different classes of society, conditioned to respond only to their own kind. It had taken a plague to make everybody equal. It had taken a plague for them to meet and for him to be killed.

  How shit was that? You survive the plague and then some sod comes along and shoots you.

  She remembered the night
he died. Reaper had been away from the village when Muldane’s army had attacked. Arif had been on guard duty at the gate. They had slit his throat and were down at the manor house in strength before anyone had time to react. She had been out on patrol with James. They got back, drove down the hill to the manor house, and saw the two bodies on the steps. At first they were just bodies and then she had recognised one to be that of Milo. She had known the second was Jamie, but had at first refused to acknowledge the reality. Then, before she could react, guns were pointing at them.

  Why did she surrender? Why didn’t she fight? Of course she was shocked, but why didn’t she fight, take some of them with her, even if meant her death? At least, she could have joined Jamie. She had pondered her decision many times since and had finally dismissed cowardice or shock. In that split second between deciding to fight or not, she had thought of Reaper. He was still out there and he was invincible and he would come to the rescue. He would make things right and she would be able to take her revenge.

  It was a totally irrational thought but it had made her delay any action, surrender her weapons and let whatever was to happen take its course. But she had been right. Reaper had come to the rescue. He always would.

  At the beginning, when they first met, she had wondered whether he had sexual desires towards her, despite the age difference – although age difference never seemed to matter to most men; the younger the better, seemed to be their motto. Memories of her captivity in the early days of the plague came in quick, searing flashes, and she forced them away. While her captors were using her, she had retreated inside herself, retreated deep into the back of her mind, so that she was only vaguely aware of whatever they did. But lately, those repressed experiences resurfaced occasionally. Searing flashes that she subdued with other thoughts. Thoughts of Reaper?

  It was when he taught her how to shoot that she knew he had no ulterior motives: his body close behind her as he guided her into the correct position, close as lovers. That was when she knew she was safe with him, and that first night they had spent together she had slept in his arms.

  She hadn’t known her own father. At one time, she had blamed her mother for driving him away, but she had been young and stupid then. Her father had taken his pleasure and disappeared at the thought of responsibility. His departure hadn’t mattered. She had grown up in a one-parent world. Most of the kids at her school came from broken marriages or broken relationships. Her situation had not been unique. Besides, her mother had had enough strength for two parents. Her mother had been a survivor, until the SARS virus. Then life had become a lottery.

  Sandra hadn’t thought about her father for years and she had been quietly content when Reaper had claimed her as his daughter. That contentment had grown into much more in the year since. She could guess his reasons, knew about his real daughter, and wondered, if Emily had lived, whether they might have been friends. Same city, same age. She wondered if her mother would have liked Reaper?

  The thought tailed off before it turned into a Catherine Cookson but, still, she smiled. Reaper and her … they were a team. Best thing since sliced bread – and when would you see that again? They were father and daughter. Born of the plague and bonded forever. No argument. Period.

  But things might have been different.

  Before the world ended, she had started studying again. She and her mother had laid out the plans that would send her to Tech and take a Foundation Course that would gain her entry to university and raised horizons. And then, who knew? She might have met Jamie, after all, without barriers and it would have been all right for them to fall in love. Sweet Jamie. God, I wish I could remember your face? But she remembered his touch, the passion they had shared. She blushed, as she dozed. Would she share passion again? Would that be being unfaithful? Of course not. Life moved on.

  But would it move on for Reaper? Without demeaning her own loss, she knew that losing Kate had seriously affected him. Did he think he was too old to find love again? Or did he believe it was God’s continuing punishment? He had confessed his feelings of guilt to her ages ago. But surely he’d been punished enough by now.

  Come on, God, give him a break, even if he is an atheist.

  Dr Greta Malone, she thought. Now she would be perfect. She’d seen the way the doctor had looked at Reaper. It was a shame that he didn’t realise what it signified. A woman knew that look. She’d seen Reaper look at Greta, too; secret glances of which the doc was unaware. A woman knew that look, too.

  Come on God, you bastard, give him a break.

  Nick and Cassandra returned after spending two hours in the city. Reaper saw them approaching the car. They hesitated, and looked around in surprise, because it was empty. He pushed open the window and shouted down.

  ‘We’re up here. Everything okay?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Nick said.

  Cassandra simply shook her head as if still doubting what she had seen.

  Reaper and Sandra packed and went down to join them. They got in the car, made a U turn, and drove back towards Haven. Nick let out a sigh that could have been relief.

  ‘A strange experience,’ he said.

  ‘Something is going on there,’ Cassandra said. ‘And Abraham doesn’t know it.’

  ‘Who did you see?’ Reaper asked.

  Cassandra said, ‘Brother Barry, High Chair of the Council.’

  ‘Highchair?’

  ‘He seems to enjoy titles. He was with a fat chap called Morrison. Looked like a pork butcher … very pompous. He was High Treasurer.’

  ‘Give me strength,’ said Reaper.

  ‘Abraham was there as well.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’ Reaper said.

  The Rev Nick said, ‘I liked him. I’m not so sure about his godliness. He seems as if he went to a fancy dress party and someone took him seriously. But he’s a likeable chap. I see what you meant about charisma. And he was all in favour of trade.’

  Cassandra said, ‘He’s a good-looking chap and he looks like Christ. But he should remember what happened to the original.’

  ‘You think he’s in danger?’ Reaper said.

  ‘Not as long as he does as he’s told,’ she said. ‘He’s still a figurehead. But you get the sense of unrest inside those walls.’

  ‘Is the trade on?’ Sandra said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘We give them the wool and Adie can learn how to be a blacksmith.’

  ‘When?’ said Reaper.

  ‘Adie can go tomorrow. We deliver the wool as soon as it’s sheared.’

  The Rev Nick accompanied Adie on the first day of his apprenticeship. He negotiated entrance to the city and placed him in the hands of Brother Mark. A Special Forces team escorted them but went in a separate vehicle and stayed out of sight of the walls. The team returned to collect Adie in the evening.

  Adie reported that the blacksmith was a fifty-year-old called Joel Hardy, who had worked with horses all his life, had run a forge outside York and also provided a mobile service, shoeing horses over a wide area. The chap was only five eight in height but was powerfully built. Adie said he seemed glad to have the company of someone from outside. Talk was guarded and Joel was always looking to see if anyone was hanging around listening. Joel had taken over the forge of an artist blacksmith, who had specialised in ecclesiastical work.

  Once he had been accepted, Adie travelled each day to York by motorcycle. Wool was sheared and delivered. A wagon stopped outside the Monk Bar and a group of citizens emerged to lift down the bales and carry them within the walls. No words were exchanged except between Brother Mark and the Rev Nick, who had accompanied the delivery.

  Chapter 10

  REAPER AND SANDRA TOOK TRIPS SOUTH AND SOUTHWEST, along main roads and minor roads, although never beyond Yorkshire’s borders. He wanted plenty of notice if any force from Windsor started moving north. Th
ey made contacts with other communities and heard rumours that the centre of Leeds had been abandoned after the firestorm that had destroyed much of its centre a year before, the flames feeding upon themselves in a vicious conflagration.

  Information about what might be happening further afield was sparse, and Reaper did not want to provoke a situation by motoring down the M62 to investigate the towns that hugged the Pennine hills. The towns would empty soon enough. They had started to empty within their own area, with groups being attracted to the Haven federation. Maybe those who had clung to an urban environment hadn’t enjoyed the isolation of winter, maybe they hadn’t liked the sight of grass and weeds beginning to grow in the streets or the knowledge that every flat, every house, every building held bodies now decaying into dust.

  People came from Driffield, despite there being good farmland around the town. They preferred to go to an established centre where they knew they would get help and guidance. Others came from Pickering, Malton, Skipton, Tadcaster, and many smaller hamlets where a few folk had got together for safety and collective comfort, but now looked towards the promise of a large and organised settlement. The ‘Brains Trust’ stayed at Scarborough Castle and a small group manned fishing boats in the harbour, but two other groups in the town gave up life as supermarket scavengers and came inland. People came from Dunnington, Stamford Bridge and Haxby, and the suburbs of York.

  More villages were cleared and made habitable, fields were worked, resources shared. With Haven at its hub, the federation encompassed twelve villages, twenty-seven farms and two golf courses that had been put to the plough, plus fishing fleets operating from Bridlington, Filey and Scarborough. Their combined population was more than 3,000.

  Special Forces toured the whole area. They became de facto police as well as border guardians. Their area of influence covered much of the Wolds and the North Yorkshire Moors. They shared knowledge with their neighbours, but nowhere else seemed to be as well organised. This exchange of intelligence also provided them with an idea of how communities were growing further afield, on the far borders of friendly territories. Knowledge was important if they were to defend themselves against invaders.