The Flood

by Maggie Gee

  ‘Something’s spooking me,’ Viola says. ‘I can’t explain it. I’m, like, edgy.’

  ‘What about?’ asks Zoe, still breathing deeply, but Viola can’t answer.

  ‘It’s, like, instinct.’

  ‘Please go and phone up.’

  Yet she wants to tell Viola, I’m frightened too. It’s the way Bliss has been talking on television, the evangelist’s air of a man who believes, whose mission to convince himself has been too successful. A man like that could do anything.

  And if we’re frightened, we should be together. But Viola doesn’t want us to be together. Viola only cares about Dwayne.

  The first girl comes out, shivering, skinny, in a yellow bikini she’s far too young for. The parents have no sense, thinks Zoe, remembering how little sense her own mother had, how the nagging nearly put her off swimming for life, and then her mind returns to Viola, her pointless worrying. No fucking sense.

  Life starts to crack open; nothing makes sense. Zoe knows she is starting to lose her temper; if she loses her temper she will shout and scream and Viola will never love her again; if she loses her temper the world might end.

  She sees there is no point arguing, no point persuading, nothing to say; but just as Zoe decides to give up, a voice comes struggling up from her chest, from the place of deep breaths, the helpless place where her feelings are too raw to be silent: ‘Why do you always put Dwayne before me?’

  Viola looks at her, silenced, stricken. More of the children are emerging from the changing rooms, pushing, giggling, expectant. ‘I love Dwayne,’ she says, simply.

  Zoe wants to sob, to howl, to hit her. ‘You’d better go,’ she says, and turns away.

  She teaches the next lesson in a fugue state, closing her mind to the pain in her body, grinning and encouraging on automatic pilot, wishing them away, wishing it over, her eyes darting constantly up to the clock-face. At half-past five she has a twenty-minute break. At half-past five she can slip away and weep.

  But she unlocks the door of their office to find Viola sitting there waiting for her, dressed to go home, with her pull-down peach hat, her velvet tracksuit and tight leather jacket – but her face is naked with love and sorrow. ‘Sorry, Zoe,’ she says. ‘I feel awful. I know it’s like doing a runner on you. I’ve just got this weird, like, bad feeling – like I ought to go and get Dwayne back. It’s only a feeling. I should ignore it.’

  But she sits poised to leave, not removing her jacket.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ says Zoe, as she bends to kiss her, to take her in her arms. ‘You should go and get Dwayne, of course you should. But nothing’s going to happen, is it?’

  They stand together for a few minutes, tender, stroking cheeks, wrists, hands, little solacing movements of discovering and leaving the curves, the folds, the skin’s small secrets. There are ten minutes left of Zoe’s break. There are five minutes left of giving comfort. They hang in the moment; everything is slow; it goes on for ever; it is happiness; they are grateful for this; they look; they kiss. Then the telephone rings, and Zoe pulls herself away. ‘Go,’ she says, ‘I’ll answer it, it’s probably just the anti-war brigade,’ but before she answers it, she says one last thing, letting the telephone ring and ring; ‘One day we’ll have a child of our own. I’m so happy with you. I’ll love you for ever.’

  The phone-call comes at six p.m.

  Davey Lucas, meanwhile, is trying to get through to the mobile of Kylie Spheare, of Extreme Events. It is constantly engaged; her voice in the message sounds hyper-relaxed, breathy, off-hand, so just for a moment he thinks it won’t matter, they aren’t expecting him, everything’s cool, though in real life he knows she must be demented; things at the palace will be moving to their climax.

  Davey is realizing, with shock and relief, that he isn’t going to make the Gala, that he will dare to let them down. At first it seemed unthinkable; Davey is performing for Bliss, and the government, and every famous name in the city, for more money than he earns in a year … What had Kylie said? ‘You’re the man for us. Frankly, you’re the only one who can do it.’

  But great events are in the air. Events that dwarf the City Gala.

  Zoe picks up the phone, and the night leaks in.

  Viola is letting herself out of the office door when she hears Zoe’s sharp intake of breath as she listens to a voice in the electronic distance. ‘Now? Right now? Are you kidding?’ And then lower, more worried: ‘But how has that happened? … I don’t understand … Right. At once … Never mind.’

  She puts the phone down and stares, for a second. Her voice, when it comes, is flat and strange. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to stay and help. We’ve got to evacuate the swimming-pool. Something weird. There’s been some breakdown between our system and the flood-water. The water-table seems to have risen again. I didn’t get all the technical details – but from what they’re saying, it’s dangerous. They’re shutting down all the city pools … There’s talk about some virus, too. And people are saying it’s water-born.’

  ‘But the floods are over,’ says Viola. She has taken her hat off, though, and her jacket, as if she already knew this was coming. ‘That’s why they’ve gone ahead with the Gala.’

  They run together towards the pool. ‘I knew,’ gasps Viola. ‘I had this bad feeling.’

  At Government Palace, the guests are arriving.

  Elroy went off to shower, singing to himself. He liked to work out; he was slim, toned. Being married didn’t mean that you let yourself go. He padded down the landing, naked, passing the lit door of the bedroom where Winston was already asleep, and glimpsed Shirley sitting on Franklin’s bed, the bedside light warm on her fair, soft curls, whitening the page of the book she was reading. She paused for a moment, reached gently across and felt the forehead of the sleeping boy. ‘He’s a little bit hot,’ she whispered to Franklin. ‘But don’t worry, I know he’ll be fine.’

  Elroy loved her voice, creamy, kind, that sleepy lilt that would calm the boys down. He sprayed some cologne, put on his dinner jacket, went back and stood in the boys’ doorway. Shirley was just tucking Franklin in, bending to kiss him and put off the light. ‘Shirley,’ he whispered, ‘give me a hand with my tie.’ He could never manage to fix his bow tie. ‘You look wonderful,’ she said, and he did look good, the black and white making his skin-tone glow. ‘Love you,’ he said. ‘I won’t be too late.’

  ‘Don’t believe you,’ Shirley said, but she smiled her love. Suddenly they were together again; after a week of living like virtual strangers. ‘Love you, Elroy.’

  ‘Love you more.’

  Trying to decide which woman to call, he inspected himself briefly in the long hall mirror.

  May’s face in her mother’s small metal mirror, floating against the darkening sky, shocked her: tiny. And wrinkled. A grandmother. The light wasn’t good, but she saw what she saw. Ron had shown no more interest in her. She thought, with a pang of regret, of Jehangir, who must have been desperate, or short-sighted. She knew she would never be loved any more. She shouldn’t expect it, those days were over. The boat wove its course between the dark shores. She felt frail, and small, and very alone. Her head sank softly on to her chest. She wished she could rest on Alfred’s shoulder. She’d thought he would be there for ever … Frightened, her little hands groped for each other. The next moment, she fell asleep, and sat dozing and twitching as the boat chugged onwards, butting on into the gathering night.

  As she fell into the void, Alfred came to find her. He had always been waiting, beyond the black water. He stepped, with a creak and a gasp, into her boat. ‘I’m here, May, darling. I’ve kept a look out. Surprised to see you’re still wearing that coat.’

  She couldn’t see him clearly, in the boat’s low electric. He sat close to her, with his back to the light. He had always liked her to look her best, but then, she hadn’t known she was going to see him. May didn’t like to offend people, and the boatman might be from these parts, so she whispered, ‘I purposely didn’t d
ress up, Alfred, because they’re, you know, quite poor around here.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at your face,’ he said. ‘You’ve got so thin, love. Haven’t you been eating? Shirley should be making you keep your strength up.’

  ‘She’s got her own life,’ she said, protective. ‘I’m cold, Alfred. Put your arm around me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘it’s not allowed. Not till you go the whole hog, so to speak.’

  She didn’t understand. She never liked regulations, though he had always been strong on them. ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘You’re my own – dear husband.’ Her voice caught in the middle, turned into a sob. It was torture, having him near, but not touching her. Watching the silhouette of his head, the way his neck joined the narrow shoulders, the bony, noble bulk of his nose.

  ‘It would make you colder, May. Cold as death. I never wanted you to be cold. I’m trying to sit near. It’s the best I can do.’

  Then she realized a miasma, a slow fog of ice, was stealing across the small gap between them. ‘But I can touch you,’ she said, boldly. ‘Can I?’ (She thought she could; she felt so full of life. Sometimes she’d had to take the initiative. When they first married, she had to help him; he’d been too eager, and then despaired, and though she was a virgin, she’d made things right, just by loving him, encouraging him.)

  ‘May, I don’t know. Be careful, love. You’ve still got things to do, back there, for the kids, I mean, for the family. Things I didn’t manage to set straight.’

  There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. ‘What’s it like, Alfred? Are your people there? I’ve thought about you, you know, so often –’ (and yet she winced in case it wasn’t enough; not all day and every day, as she had at first. And perhaps they knew, on the other side. Perhaps it made their loneliness worse. And her sorrow and pity made her reach out to touch him; without fear or forethought, she stroked his rough cheek.)

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said, gruffly. ‘That’s lovely, May. You don’t know how lovely. You always were – a lovely wife.’

  She kept on stroking him: cold as ice. ‘Won’t you tell me, Alfred? Is it – too bad to tell?’

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘Bearable, duck. I’m here because I don’t choose to forget. If I took a drink of the river, see, it would all wash away, the kids, and you, our whole life together, every bit of it … the things I done right, and the things I done wrong –’ (‘Did,’ she corrected, as she always had) ‘– our little garden. The park, in summer. The lake, under the willow tree. Sometimes I start to feel so thirsty … but I’ll wait for you. I don’t want to forget.’

  ‘There were wonderful times. Ooh, I miss it, Alfred. You think, don’t you – it will go on for ever.’

  ‘I think it does, May, but I don’t know where. It’s like I’ve slipped into black-and-white, from colour. There is a way through, but I can’t find it.’

  ‘I’ll help you, love, when the time comes.’ Firmly, tenderly, May kissed his cheek. ‘We can do anything, together.’ Yet she was afraid of having to stay here.

  ‘How’s Shirley?’ he said. ‘She’s a good girl. I didn’t quite manage to say my piece. I reckon she knew I was sorry, though. I hope she’s happy, up there in the sun … You don’t see a lot of young people, here. The ones you do see – they get very down. Though I’ve heard it said we’re not here for ever.’

  ‘She’s got babies,’ May said. ‘Two coloured babies. Don’t upset yourself, they have a look of you, Alfred. Lovely boys. Brainy. Healthy … Did you know that, love? Do you know about us?’ she asked, then, urgently, seizing his hand, tugging it towards her, telling herself she could make him warm. ‘Can you see us, from here, or is it too far?’ It mattered to her more than anything, to know if they were able to see or hear, Alfred, her father, her poor dear mother.

  But his answer came back hoarse and strained. ‘I don’t rightly know what I know any more. I seem to be sleeping more than I should. I’m letting you down, May, leaving my post – the cold does something to your brain. Maybe I’m not the man I was.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Alfred,’ she said, quickly.

  ‘Not getting any younger, you see,’ he announced. ‘But I’ll wait for you, May. No worries on that score. I wouldn’t like to think of you here on your own. And then we might take a little trip together. There are other places. The world’s your oyster.’ But his voice was thinner, reedier, and his hand in hers felt less substantial, and the noise of the engine was growing louder.

  Suddenly someone else was in the boat, and Alfred was moaning, moving away. ‘Not you,’ he was muttering, ‘not you in here.’

  He was frightened: Alfred, who was frightened of nothing. A tall dark young man had climbed into the boat. There was a faint smell of salt, and iron. For a moment the light caught his eyes, light golden. May saw those eyes were her grandson’s eyes. Sadness came into the boat with the youth, a little mist of regret, and longing. He sat across from Alfred, and stared at him.

  ‘Don’t forget me,’ he said. ‘You won’t forget me.’

  May knew who he was without being told. She wanted so much to put things right. ‘We haven’t forgotten you. You’re Winston, aren’t you? Your brother gave one of his boys your name. He’s my grandson. And his grandson.’

  ‘I’m cold,’ said Winston, shivering. Perhaps he couldn’t see her but he spoke to her. ‘I wanted to live, the same as you.’ Very low and urgent, his teeth chattering. ‘I had my chance, but he took it away.’

  Now Alfred seized his head in his hands, and started to make a low terrible noise, a noise that May could not bear to hear. ‘Oh-oh-oh-oargh,’ it sounded like. ‘I try to give him my jacket,’ he groaned. ‘I offer it him, but he’ll never take it.’

  ‘Leave him alone, he’s upset,’ she told Winston, but the skinny youth didn’t seem to hear her. He went on talking in the same low voice, bent over Alfred, smelling of blood, and she suddenly glimpsed his great scarf of wet red. ‘Jesus, man, just take a look,’ and then lights were flashing, and the boatman was shouting –

  ‘Jesus, man, jus’ tek a look!’ Suddenly May was fully awake, and Ron was waving and shouting at her. It was dark overhead, but great flowers of scarlet were bursting, blooming, everywhere. Then electric blue star-bursts, silver-pink tree-ferns of flickering glitter, lianas of purple, unfurled in sequence across the night. There were explosions, too, like muffled guns, or else people were shooting under cover of the fireworks; perhaps the war had come to the city.

  Alfred had gone. She hoped he could see it, but he would worry about the cost. May stared in wonder, all the same.

  It went on for ever, more bangs, more colours, and soon she said, ‘It’s burning money.’ She would say his words, if he could not.

  ‘’Dis fuie fuie government,’ Ron said. ‘Dem ’ave to ’ave some kin’ of a show for the Towers.’

  And then May started to see, or imagine, orange faces staring out from the balconies as the boat rocked past the last of the towers. There were mirthless cheers as the display climaxed.

  May thought suddenly, painfully, of Dirk. Dirk would like the fireworks; he always had done. They’d made less of an effort, because he was the youngest. For the first two, Alfred did proper displays, nailing Catherine wheels to the washing-line posts and bedding rockets in sand-filled bottles. Dirk just got sparklers and a few Vesuviuses which didn’t always manage to explode. Darren and Shirley had all the luck.

  May ached to make it up to Dirk, before he had to go into the cold for ever.

  Thirteen

  The Gala! The city must have its Gala.

  ‘EAT, DRINK, FOR TOMORROW YOU DIE’ said some of the posters of the One Way protesters. There were hundreds of them; they had cloned themselves, quietly, effectively, down in the dark, through the long winter of wet and fear. They were human; they hoped; they bid for salvation. Now they would be saved, while the others would perish, the rich, the lucky, the lovely, the sinful. They had come here today on a tide of ex
citement, for round the Towers and in the poor north-east – in the south-east reaches down by the river – in the broken-down estates near the Western Gardens, the refugee centres and ‘Canvas Town’, in all the districts where One Way was strongest, there weren’t enough lucky people to hate. They wanted to see them, they were hungry for the enemy; to sniff their perfume, to snack on their flesh, to feast their eyes on the gloss, the wealth –

  Here’s Lottie, on cue, arriving with Harold, in a pale velvet coat like frosted cream, her cheeks plumped out with designer hormones, her curls a crisp cap of sculpted gold, smiling, smiling for the cameras as she glides up the steps on Harold’s arm; smiling for the unexpected joy of today, smiling with happiness for Harold; smiling for the sex that they had in the bath; smiling as if she had never been hurt, never lost her youth or Hopper’s sunlit morning; and that shining smile on a face that can’t see them (but Lottie truly can’t see the protesters, she’s blinded by the flashes of megawatt lights) drives them to a frenzy of righteous hatred. They scream ‘One Way! One Way!’ and she flinches: is she driving up a one-way street again? Ah well, it has never stopped her before. Lottie will go wherever she wants to. And Harold is looking particularly handsome; usually melancholy and distinguished, tonight he looks rubicund and rich; onlookers guess that he’s a lawyer or banker, when he is just flushed with happiness; Harold’s had his phone-call from the publisher; Harold bounds up the steps a success.

  Bruno is glad to examine the guilty before they are flung into the fiery pit, though Samuel and Milly, who have recently been quieter, hanging back from Bruno, unsure about Dirk, are trying to restrain the Brothers and Sisters: ‘“Judgement is mine,” saith the Lord,’ cries Samuel. ‘The Lord will judge in his own good time.’