That was a difficult week. I was alone. The change in medications and the weightlessness made me sick. I’m not ashamed to admit that I spent most of that week trying to figure out how to open the external doors. If I could have figured out how to vent myself into space I would have done so in a second, but Rosen had protected his investment more carefully than that. Another week or two passed, and there were no more letters from you.
Ben started writing to me after he’d finished medical school. I’m glad he did. If he hadn’t I’m sure I would have figured out that bloody door sooner or later. I hear your voice in his writing. The way he tells me about the little things. His jobs. His girlfriends. His marriages. His children. It seems to me he is a good man. If he has a flaw it is that his eye is always on the next thing instead of the current one. He looked forward to his early retirement for the best part of a decade, and then the moment he retired he regretted it and started making plans to go back to work. I hope you are smiling when you read this. I hope it reminds you of me as much as it reminds me of myself.
He avoids talking about you. I imagine he’s afraid of upsetting me. I try not to push him too hard in my letters but I have managed to squeeze a few details from him over the years. He tells me that you travelled, that you were known for a while as something of a philanthropist, and that you gave considerably more to health projects abroad than you did to cancer research. You see? He has your sense of humour, I’m sure you know that already. I know that you never remarried, but I hope that you had some lovers along the way. He tells me that you have grown frailer in recent years. You get confused sometimes, but your mind is still sharp and you like to make our grandchildren laugh. He tells me the nurses take good care of you.
My ship has started decelerating. In ten days (or two years) I will be home. My doctors—the new lot, Dr Merck died twenty years ago and I don’t miss him—can barely contain themselves. I am the world’s first time traveller. I expect I shall be famous (briefly anyway, trust me, I know how brief it all is). There will be people who will expect me to build a business again, perhaps they will expect me to recreate what I once had. Rosen’s people have suggested I think about a book deal. I shall have to do something because my accountants tell me the money is all gone.
Rosen died not long after Merck. Liver failure. Though I’m sure you know that. If he is out here in his own capsule he will have to wait another month or two before they can reliably grow him a new one. But somehow I don’t think so. Something in the way the other doctors talk. The questions they don’t ask more than the ones they do. I don’t think he took the treatment. I knew from the beginning I was his guinea pig. Naively I assumed it was the technology he needed to validate.
I’m coming back, my love. What was terminal 132 days ago is now treatable with a single injection. I will suffer some nausea, some people feel dizzy for a week or two I’m told, but these are the least of my side effects. Our beautiful son is five years older than I am and I have no idea which of us is supposed to act the grown up. Our youngest grandson is twelve, about the same age Ben was when I left. And you…
You used to tell me I was unable to live in the moment. I disagreed. Everyone lives in the moment, I said. But you were right, I see that now. We deny death, we can’t help it. We talk about it, we pretend to accept it, but it is a slippery concept. Even in those moments when I had no hope death was never more than a blank, unprocessed mass for me.
Ben says I can stay with him when I get out of hospital. He tells me the woods up near his house are beautiful and that he likes to take his son riding there sometimes. So now I have another strange idea in my head. I thought maybe we could go together to the woods, and we could watch our grandson ride his bike. Would you mind that? We could walk side by side with the dried leaves under our feet and the bare branches over our heads just like we did once before. I used to expect so much from life but now this is all I can think to ask. Would you hold my arm and laugh if I can think of a joke to tell? I know I have no right. But if you are willing, I think the universe will be kind.
Front Row Seat to the End of the World
E.J. Swift
Day Ten
The water is up to my neck. Immersed in its warmth, the thought of slipping further down, letting it close over my head and invade my mouth, is almost attractive. As if surrender is something noble. But that would be pre-emptive. I jam my feet against the end of the bath and gaze at my toes. Chipped red nail polish, the last evidence of Michelle’s hastily rescheduled wedding. That, and the headache. I settle back into the bubbles, trying to ignore the uneasy stirring of my stomach and the memories of last night’s consumption. I’m repenting now, but what else are you supposed to do when you’ve got ten days left?
When the water’s drained away I swaddle myself in my dressing gown and turn on the TV. Professor Brian Cox is on again, talking about the force and velocity of the asteroid, the asteroid which should have missed us by some millions of kilometres had it not collided with the other asteroid. Cox sounds surprisingly mellow about the asteroid’s malignant trajectory, but then he sounds pretty laid back about everything.
The Guardian has already published its ‘Greatest Feats of Humanity’ and the comments section is in overdrive. I should probably make my own list. I get out my iPad, and then decide paper is more appropriate for one of my final acts, not that it will ever become an artefact. Literature. That was one of the Feats. ‘Feats’ sounds far too epic for the common homo sapiens. I write ‘Achievements’ instead. I sit for a while, humming, chewing the pen lid, filtering my memory for evidence of worth. On TV, slow-motion graphics show the asteroid connecting with Earth’s atmosphere. I press mute.
I don’t suppose when Cox was playing keyboards in D:Ream that he ever imagined he’d be narrating the end of the world. To be fair, in my aspirational teenage years I didn’t imagine at age forty-four I’d be living alone in a studio the size of a mouse, earning less than I had in my twenties and facing death by incineration.
Manchester is quieter this morning. With the advent of day ten, the official countdown has begun broadcasting from the Shanghai World Financial Centre. Ten has always been a symbolic number – nothing and everything, the universe encapsulated in two strokes of the pen. I’ve got the app on my phone. It’s frightening how easy it is to become mesmerized by the neon seconds ticking down. To let everything else slip away. The more attuned I am to the quiet, the more aware I become of those digits and the blankness of the paper in front of me.
Finally I write: Katherine.
For God’s sake, Mum, how many times –
I cross her name out and write Kat.
I turn the page over and write ‘Failures’. Underneath that I write Kat again.
Day Nine
My ex-husband is the last person I expect to call me. I let the phone ring, not inclined to talk to the condescending prick, but no sooner has the phone gone dark than it lights up again.
“What do you want, Oliver?”
“Nice to speak to you too, Nell.”
I wait.
“Listen,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about things.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been reflecting.”
“If you’ve found God, I’m not interested.”
“Jesus, Nell, for once will you just hear me out. I mean about us.”
“There is no us.”
“That’s the point. Everything that happened, I keep thinking about it – wondering how we let things get that far. Aren’t you?”
“No,” I say, which is true. “It was over a decade ago.”
There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, there’s a note in his voice which I’ve never heard before. Panic.
“I don’t know what to say to Kat.”
“She’s an adult, Oliver. It’s not like you can spin her a fairy tale.”
The words rush out. “It’s all going to shit. I can’t face her. I can’t – I can’t protect her.”
So that’
s what this is about. My suave, charming, self-assured ex-husband has finally come up against something he can’t control. When I first met Oliver, he looked like a young Idris Elba – not that anyone knew who Idris Elba was back then – which could have gone on the Achievements list had our marriage endured. These days Oliver runs his own law practice, and still looks like Idris Elba.
“Come to London,” he says.
“No.”
“Please. Please, Nell, I’m asking you this.”
“You know what she said. She never wants to see me again. You backed her up. Besides, it might have escaped your notice but there are no trains and I’ve got three litres of petrol in the tank, that is if someone doesn’t torch the car between now and D-day. The Merc over the road made a hell of a bonfire.”
He rallies.
“I know you, Nell. It might be over a decade but I still know when you’re taking evasive action. You do care. She’s your daughter, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, don’t do that to me, Oliver. Not now. I’m the one who left, remember? I’m the bad mother! Isn’t that how the story goes?”
He goes quiet.
“You should talk to her. Think about it.”
“I have.”
I cut the call.
My face is hot and when I look at my hands they’re trembling.
“You bastard,” I mutter.
Two years, a blink in the spectrum of humanity, is a hell of a long time in your own head. Two years erodes things. Memories. Certainty.
Now I’ve got two hundred and eight hours left.
After the incident, Kat sent me an email detailing the events which I could not remember. My mind had closed around them like a shell. I read what she wrote with a sense of detachment. It wasn’t that I couldn’t believe what I’d said. I couldn’t believe she believed I had meant it.
Kat didn’t recount the things she had said, which was probably for the best.
I deleted the email.
A few days later I tried calling, and got her voicemail. Unlike my daughter I have never been afraid of scenes, so eventually I turned up on her doorstep, only to find Oliver there barring the way like an incarnation of Azrael. It’s the only time I’ve ever known Kat to shout. In a strange way, it was a relief – as if we were finally admitting ourselves to each other. This is who we are. Kat, I thought, had been preparing for this moment. She had needed a justifiable reason. She was – is – that kind of girl. Getting so drunk I couldn’t remember the terrible things I’d said was an infallible reason. Adults were not supposed to do this. I was an adult. A failed one.
I stand at the sink, stirring a teaspoon in a cup of instant coffee. I’ve started taking it black – can’t get used to the taste of UHT milk. From the window I can see the skeleton of the burnt-out Mercedes in the carpark, and spaces where other cars have disappeared, their windows smashed in and their engines hotwired. My ancient Volvo is so decrepit-looking I don’t suppose anyone thinks it worth stealing. For a week or so we had the army in situ, but even they’ve left now.
I think about writing Kat an email, then discard the idea. What will Kat do with her two hundred and eight hours? She’s still in London, that much I know through Oliver. I start another list: Things I Will Do If the Basher Works. Get Kat back. Then I screw it up. What’s the point?
The Basher (even journalists have given up on the technical name) is an international effort, but NASA has been quick to remind everyone that it has been developed under American leadership. If the Basher succeeds, they’ll have saved the world, and President Trump will become even more intolerable. Yesterday he claimed the asteroid is a Chinese plot. The Chinese retaliated by blaming the Americans’ inferior space programme. North Korea blame everyone and are threatening to unleash nuclear weapons. It’s possible the end of the world will come even sooner than we expect. Twitter has christened the asteroid Trump, so our planet’s greatest cosmic defence has become the Trump-Basher. Oh Twitter, I’ll miss you when I’m dead.
My phone vibrates. There’s no way I’m speaking to Oliver again, but it’s a text from my friend Bee.
HAVING PANIC ATTACKHELP
I tap out a reply.
Deep slow breaths and head between legs remember?
GOING TO DIE
Not necessarily. Basher might work
NOT helping
Prof Cox said so, it must be true
Tosser
Tosser with an astrophysics degree. Or some shit like that
Don’t give a shit about ducking degrees it’s a ducking asteroid and that’s not the point anyway
*FUCKING fucks sake!!!
Want me to come over?
Yes
No
Better now
Going to watch made in chelsea
Good plan. Love you Bee xxx
Love you too nellie <3 xxxxx
Where Kat isn’t involved, the words come so easily.
Day Eight
This morning’s eminent physicist is talking about our astronauts in their escape pods. As the footage shows them jettisoning away from Earth, he laments the fact that we have so few women trained for space.
“And that’s what you get for the fucking patriarchy,” I yell. The pods are a gesture, anyway. What chance do they have against the debris of a planet?
I haven’t left the flat since the wedding and my food supplies are running low. I’ll have to face Tesco’s – an actual, brick-and-mortar Tesco’s, as opposed to the nice delivery man who has brought my groceries to the door for the past five years. Is anyone still going to work at Tesco’s? Surely not. I may have to commit a raid.
A maudlin mood descending, I flip through social media feeds. Trending on Twitter is #trumpbasher #rapture #prayforearth #greatestregrets and inexplicably, #taylorswift. It transpires that Taylor Swift is doing an end of the world gig. Tickets for ‘Apocalypse Now: The Farewell Tour’ start at two grand. I picture the scene: Taylor Swift strutting in denim hot pants and a gold fringe top, framed by pyrotechnics whilst the sky turns from amber to incendiary and the meteor showers begin. It’s a theatre designer’s wet dream.
My inbox is also encouraging me to think about my last living night, with 50% reductions from a dozen retailers – free, guaranteed delivery included. Who the hell are they bribing at DPS? I browse dresses idly. That red maxi is perfect for Michelle’s and Hayley’s would-have-been wedding in three months’ time. Poor, hungover Michelle, last seen in a borrowed bridal gown hugging the toilet in a half-staffed Pizza Express. Even the dough balls were disappointing.
My phone lights up. Oliver again.
Call her.
It’s tempting to reply with something snide, but I ignore it and hop over to Reddit for the latest in the conspiracy thread.
Conspiracy 1: Scientists have known about the asteroid for over a decade, but have been sworn to secrecy for fear of global panic. Space stations are orbiting distant reaches of the solar system. They carry geneticists and millions of frozen eggs.
Conspiracy 2: A sub-thread of Conspiracy 1. The (evil) United Nations has identified the asteroid as an opportunity to reboot humanity. There’s a long list of people who have died (‘died’) or disappeared (‘disappeared’) over the last year. High profile scientists, engineers, doctors, writers, even artists. People who have been deemed worth saving. According to the thread, they are all on route to Mars. Michael Jackson is among them. There is debate as to whether Michael Jackson is a) alive and b) worthy.
Conspiracy 3: The asteroid is a fabrication. The real attack will come from our own leaders – entire populations will be nuked. There’s too many people on the planet. Something has to be done, and this way, the troublesome countries can be removed.
Conspiracy 4: The asteroid is a fabrication specifically by the Tory Party, in a final endeavour to remove Jeremy Corbyn and reclaim England’s green and verdant hills, untarnished by wind turbines, for fox hunting. This seems credible.
Conspiracy 5: The asteroid is aliens.
Day Seven
Nila’s kitchen is a warm haven of enticing aromas. Today Nila has excelled herself. After the initial crack of pastry, her samosas melt in the mouth.
“I really should have learned to make these,” I say. (Cooking: one for the Failures list.)
“They’re amazing, Nila.” Michelle takes another.
“Your best ever!” agrees Bee.
Silence falls. A panicked look creeps into Bee’s eyes. She starts breathing heavily. I put my hand on her knee.
“Hey, hey. It’s all right. We can talk about it.”
“I used up everything in the kitchen,” says Nila, ever practical. Nila would never leave a mess for the asteroid. “We’re going over to Bradford tonight. Mum’s on her own, so…”
Bee gets her inhaler out of her handbag. Inside, I see an owl-print tea towel wrapped around something silver.
“Jesus Christ, Bee, is that a fucking meat cleaver?”
“Language,” says Nila hastily. Her kids, thirteen and fifteen, are in the next room on the X-box, but the door is open.
“It’s dangerous out there!” Bee, immediately defensive, hefts the cleaver. “Haven’t you seen the riots on TV? All the lunatics are coming out! In London there was a prison break, serial killers and rapists, they’re all out there!”
Michelle agrees. “We’re getting out of town as well. I don’t want to be here – I mean – I don’t want to be in a city.” I have a vision of Michelle, Hayley and their kids crouched in a rustic barn around a picnic basket.
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