by Rhys Thomas
‘Oh. OK.’
‘People trusted me then, Charlie, and you can believe me when I say that the guys on the docks weren’t naive. But I always told them the truth, no matter how hard it was. And it was hard a lot of the time. In return, they trusted me. Trust. It’s so important. And it comes from being honest and not fucking around. I will never lie to you.’
‘OK.’
‘Do you believe me?’
‘Yes.’ He had seen and heard enough of the large Scot to make his decision by now. ‘I actually really do.’
‘Have you been to the beach at night? Have you heard what we say about empathy, compassion and trust?’
Charlie nodded.
‘It’s just a wee motto we thought up. And it’s what’s kept the camp together. We keep trying to drum it in so that it’s always at the front of folks’ minds. Maybe it’ll become second nature, who can say? But we’ll keep on saying it for now. Getting the message out there, you know. Do you know what empathy is?’
‘Yes.’ He laughed.
‘Good. Can you do it?’
‘What? Empathize?’
‘Aye.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Compassion?’
‘It’s my middle name.’
McAvennie smiled. ‘Your girl’s getting told the same thing.’
‘She’s a tougher cookie than me.’
‘If she can tell good from bad she’ll understand. That’s what we always say.’
‘She’ll be fine. Emily’s amazing.’
‘Where’s she from?’
‘Nottingham?’
‘Oh aye.’
‘She’s got me through this really. If she hadn’t been around then . . . I don’t know.’
McAvennie patted Charlie’s leg. ‘You both seem like nice kids. We need people like you.’ McAvennie’s face was so round and funny looking, with his soft, hooded eyes. He had the sort of look people trusted instinctively. Charlie liked to think he was a good judge of character. A small chamber inside him was still wary, but he was getting there.
‘So,’ said Charlie. ‘Have you been here from the start?’
McAvennie spat a little piece of food on to the ground.
‘Pretty much. First day I got here was the day after the Cambodian struck. We heard about it and came down to see if there was anything doing.’
‘We?’
‘Aye, me and the wife like.’
Charlie hadn’t pictured him having a wife.
‘What do you mean by the Cambodian?’
‘The ship. It’s her name. Cambodian Empress. Aye, and when we got here there was . . . how do you say it? Like, a wave of it. The illness. I saw it plain as the nose on your face: one minute everyone was going about their business, next minute, wham.’ His voice had become flat and serious. ‘About fifty of the poor fuckers. Just stopped dead.’
‘Where was this? On the beach?’
‘On the beach, aye,’ he said quietly. ‘After that’ – he turned to Charlie – ‘you want to help, you know? So,’ he sighed, ‘we tried to get them off the beach. I had my caravan so we had a couple in there. You know, Charlie, a lot of people tried to help. They weren’t all out for themselves no more. They were a wee bit panicked, but then they came back. And that’s how it all started really, after those people got sick.’
Charlie didn’t say anything.
‘There were already lots of people down on the beach. Lots of cargo had washed up from the boat, you see. Things just happen naturally. Me and a few of the guys who knew about ships went out to her and managed to get a fair haul. We still go back when the sea’s all right.’
‘Do you—’ Charlie had to clear his throat. ‘Do you know what happened to it? The boat.’
‘One of them was violent.’ He spat another morsel of food to the ground. He didn’t need to say any more than that. ‘I shared what I found and after that everything just happened. A wee bit of kindness can go a long way.’
‘It’s a great thing though,’ said Charlie. ‘You’d have thought someone would have ruined it by now.’
‘Aye.’
‘But they didn’t.’
‘There were a few that tried it on but what could they do? We’d managed to get a bit of a structure together and it’s amazing what that’ll do, Charlie. It takes away a lot of the fear, for one.’ He changed tack. ‘Look, the pricks among us, and they are always there, even they know when something makes sense.’
‘So what happened?’
‘We talked them down,’ he said simply. ‘Didn’t need to do no more than that. You’d be surprised. You can find some good in most people, kiddo. It’s in there somewhere. They knew what we were trying to do and in the end they accepted it. You know, they’re still in the camp now. And they’re fine.’
What David had said about the nature of human resilience came back to him.
‘I saw a man on one of the first nights I got here,’ said Charlie. ‘I needed a piss and on my way down he was just standing there in the middle of the path.’
McAvennie nodded but said nothing.
‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’
‘Nope,’ said McAvennie, casually.
‘He had, like a –’ Charlie pushed out his tongue and pointed to the tip. ‘You know?’
McAvennie nodded his comprehension. ‘What happened?’ His eyes became suddenly interested.
‘Nothing,’ said Charlie, guardedly. ‘Not really. It was just a bit . . . weird.’
‘I know who you’re talking about. He’s new; came here the same day as you.’ McAvennie shook his head and made a groaning sound. ‘He’s going to be a problem. That’s why he’s not out here cutting wood with you,’ he said, candidly. ‘What did he say to you?’
‘Um, weird stuff. He was talking like he was ill, but he wasn’t.’
‘He says he was cured,’ McAvennie said slowly.
Charlie went to say something but was cut short. ‘What?’
McAvennie stood quickly. The air changed.
Charlie looked across to one of the stones opposite, just as one of the workmen dropped his soup. As it hit the ground the steam from it rose off the leaves with a scalding hiss. The man fell sideways from his stone seat.
McAvennie was on his feet and over to him faster than his frame should have made possible.
‘Phillip,’ Charlie heard him say urgently.
He fell to his knees and cradled the man’s head in his arm. The other workmen were moving forward with looks of puzzlement and shock on their faces.
The man who had fallen ill looked old and tired. His mouth opened slightly. Charlie could just about make out what he was saying.
‘No. I can’t. I think I’m—’ The man stopped. His body tensed as the eyes changed in an instant. They switched from alive to not alive in that way everybody could sense but nobody could explain, as if their bodies had become heavy and the air around them started to swirl.
One of the workmen stood in front of him, blocking Charlie’s view. They had gathered in a crescent around the stricken man. McAvennie was looking up at them from his kneeling position, helpless. David had his hands knitted together on top of his head. His eyes were closed tightly and he was saying something under his breath.
Charlie’s body felt light, his head faint. He wanted Emily.
‘What are we going to do?’ he heard one of the workmen say.
‘Has he got any kids?’ said another voice.
‘No,’ came the answer. ‘Not any more. Nor a wife.’
Charlie fell away from the scene. A tunnel of vision was the only link between him and the woods. The workman who had been blocking his view moved to one side and all he saw was a man lying on the ground, staring vacantly into space, his essence sucked out.
They carried the old man back to the truck and loaded him on to the wooden, open-top deck at the back. He started crying hysterically and opening and closing his fists like a baby. They tried to comfort him but he would not stop crying.
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‘Come on, Phil,’ they said. ‘Ssh. It’s OK.’
The tears ran freely over his face.
Charlie had never seen this type of reaction to it before. He watched the man cry and felt an enormous sense of uselessness.
They loaded their tools alongside the man and one of them stayed on the back with him, holding him down, as they drove back to the camp. They left the wood they had chopped at the roadside. 306
They flew past the old, damp house at the top of the hill, almost losing control on the way down. The tyres spat wildly when they skidded into the mud. They sped through the car park as McAvennie ratcheted through the gears with great metal crunches.
Then the truck started up the hill to the lighthouse. People looked at them with their arms at their sides when they passed. They knew what was happening. The truck came to the low white wall that rimmed the lighthouse and the brakes screeched. They stopped and McAvennie turned to Charlie.
‘This isn’t for you.’
Then the truck was pulling away from him up the road to the lighthouse and Charlie was alone. He could hear the old man crying, even over the sound of the engine. He stood there, at the side of the road, watching the back of the truck, his head numb.
He felt foolish standing there; unimportant. He wanted to help. They needn’t have dumped him unceremoniously like that. An old feeling of being unwanted rose in him. Quickly, he turned and went back to the campervan but Emily wasn’t there.
He sat on the end of the unmade bed and put his head in his hands. It was the first time Charlie had seen the illness in the camp. For some stupid reason he had assumed that people did not get ill inside the protective forcefield of the place. Something had left his body. The lightness he had felt since arriving had gone.
His body hurt from the work he had done. The image of the man falling from the stone replayed in his head and with each repeat the darkness edged further from its corners.
And then, quickly, his mind took him back to the street on which he had spent his childhood. He was there again. It was quiet and eerie, a strange atmosphere in the air. How he had known what it was he could not say but it was from the same reservoir from which all people could tell the ill from the well. It was an ancient instinct that had crept imperceptibly back to the world, speaking silent messages through the forgotten senses. The atmosphere on the street was of death. That was what it was. Emily had held his hand.
The sound of somebody approaching brought Charlie back to the real world. He went over to the small window set into the door of the campervan. Emily was walking up the hill between the caravans. When he saw her, his heart lifted a little. He pushed open the door and stepped down to the ground to greet her. She smiled wearily when she saw him.
‘Hello,’ she chirped.
‘You look tired.’
She kissed him. ‘I’m OK. How was it?’
‘OK,’ he answered.
She looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. It was OK.’
‘What’s the matter, Charlie?’
He turned away. ‘Nothing. Just leave it.’
Emily’s eyes burned into him. Sometimes the way she could tell what he was thinking just by looking at him was horrible.
‘Fine,’ she said at last, and walked past him quickly, slamming the door of the van behind her.
Charlie stood in the cold for a minute. He looked down the hill at the tents in the distance. The camp was always so quiet. He went into the van where Emily was making the bed.
‘We’re fucked,’ he said.
She stopped.
‘We’re still getting sick. The Sadness is going to wipe us all out. It doesn’t matter where we go, whether we’re running or staying in a place like this. It’s still killing us and there’s nothing anyone can do. Do you know what that means?’
Emily said nothing.
‘It means we’re fucked.’ He could hear the emotion in his own voice. ‘I don’t want –’ he stopped for breath – ‘I don’t want to lose you.’
She sat down on the bed. He felt so trapped, like the walls of the world were moving in from all directions.
‘There’s this thing out there and nobody knows what it is and it’s coming for us. All of us. It’s unstoppable.’
‘Be quiet, Charlie,’ she said.
‘I want to leave.’
‘What?’
‘I want to go somewhere where it’s just me and you.’
‘Charlie, no.’ Her voice faltered.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t like you being like this.’
He covered his face with his hands and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Em,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He tried to gain himself. He was usually so good at fighting back the demons in the daytime but now they were loose.
‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘Charlie,’ she said again, this time more forcefully.
He took his hands away.
‘Come here,’ she said.
He paused. She was staring at him with a gentle intensity.
‘Come . . . here.’
He crossed the space to the bed and kissed her. She prised his lips apart and he felt the soft thinness of her tongue. She pulled him backwards roughly so he was lying on top of her. He grabbed her hair in a tight grasp. They stopped kissing and he unzipped his coat and pulled his sweater and T-shirt over his head. His heart thumped. They kissed again and he moved down to her neck and as he did so he felt the darkness in him intensify and solidify and form into a dense mass.
Pop! The rabbit circled and fell to the ground. Edward got to his feet and ran across the grass to collect his quarry, slinging the air rifle across his back so that it bounced against him as he ran. He was desensitized to the sight of dead rabbits by now. He kicked the body gently to check it was definitely dead and lifted it up by its ears. It was a big rabbit.
Somebody was watching him. He could sense it. He turned slowly, not wanting whoever it was to know he was on to them. The boy took the rifle from his shoulder and loaded some pellets into the chamber. He was sure there was somebody there. It was possible to sense such things. He had always been able to do it, and his powers had grown since they moved out to the country. Sometimes he even felt invincible, like a superhero.
They were behind the gorse bushes near the cliff edge. He could see them now. He kept his head facing forwards and watched them from the sides of his eyes. One of them was the blond boy he had seen when he watched the kids from the cliff top. He had noticed him at the time because he seemed to be the leader.
All Edward wanted was some friends to play with. He still wished Pele would come back but it had been such a long time since his disappearance that it didn’t seem likely. He had never known the kids to come up the cliff path to the top before, and he wasn’t allowed down to the beach on his own. It seemed impossible to make friends. But now an opportunity had presented itself. The kids were here, even if they were spying on him.
Maybe he should say hello. How dangerous could they be? As he considered this the image of his uncle came into his mind: the old-looking face, the wrinkles in the skin around his eyes, the dirty stubble on his chin. He always knew what to do. He always knew what was going on. And so Edward ignored the children, just as he had been taught, and walked straight past them towards the house.
They lay in bed. The dawn light cut a crack of white down the centre of the curtains. Charlie sat up and stretched his back.
‘Morning,’ he said, seeing Emily’s eyes flicker open.
She made her morning groan and smiled.
‘Hi.’ Her fingers reached out from under the covers and she touched his chin. ‘Stubble,’ she said.
Charlie yawned. ‘Not stubble. Beard.’
Emily laughed. ‘You’re not growing a beard.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re just not.’
‘Haven’t you noticed how many of the men have them? It’s all the rage down on the camp.’
Emily giggled.
‘I forbid you to grow a beard.’
‘Don’t you want me to get along with the guys? Hmm? Do you want me to be unhappy?’
Emily rolled on to her front and reached up to kiss him. ‘Do you want me to be unhappy?’
Charlie frowned seriously. ‘If that’s the price of a beard – yes!’
She dropped her face into the pillow and muffled something.
‘What’s that?’ He stroked her hair.
Emily lifted her head up and looked at the headboard in front of her. ‘I said, you’re horrible.’
‘I see.’
They looked at each other for a long time. Her hair fell in front of her face and she blew it away.
‘I want to go to the lighthouse,’ she said.
Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s weird how we’re not allowed up there?’
Charlie groaned. ‘What does it matter?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Why can’t you just trust them?’
‘It’s not that I don’t trust them, it’s just . . .’ She trailed off.
‘What?’
‘Don’t you think it’s weird?’
‘What?’
‘This place.’ She pulled the covers right up to her neck. ‘It’s too perfect.’
‘Too perfect?’
‘Something isn’t right, Charles. You must have sensed it.’
‘Something isn’t right, Charles,’ he mocked. ‘Why are you so cynical?’
‘I’m not. You know what I mean.’
‘Honestly, Em, I was with George all day yesterday and he seems really genuine. It just takes getting used to.’
‘It’s like everyone’s been brainwashed.’
‘Brainwashed,’ he repeated.
‘You can mock me,’ she said, ‘but everyone is a bit weird.’
A few strands of hair fell in front of her face again.
‘That’s not weirdness,’ he said, placing the outside of his hand against the hair and brushing it away. ‘It’s called people being nice.’
‘It’s weird.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘What do you think they’re doing at the lighthouse? Some evil experiment or something?’
