On the Third Day

by Rhys Thomas

  ‘Yes,’ he declared. ‘He’s not taking “bad” people or “good” people; maybe He just doesn’t think like that. Like us. Just because He made us – if He made us,’ he added as a caveat, ‘then it doesn’t necessarily mean that He has, like, human sensibilities.’ He stopped for her reaction.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not even a punishment or anything like that. I don’t know why we have to see it as being a punishment anyway – if it’s God doing all this, then people will be going to heaven anyway.’ He slowed himself as his thoughts ran away. ‘Maybe it’s just restoring an order. An old order. And that’s what this new world is. That’s why we’re having these weird sunsets and things. And why things happen like they do now. Haven’t you noticed how everyone seems to go through these tests if they want to survive? I’ve spoken to so many people about this and they’ve all said the same thing.’ He was speaking quickly again. He sat up in his seat. ‘Think of everything you’ve been through since it happened, right?’

  Miriam nodded.

  ‘It’s long periods of nothing, punctuated by big events, right?’

  ‘Sure. That’s the nature of everything.’

  ‘Yeah, but each big event always involves you making a big moral choice, yes? Do you help someone, or leave them? Do you steal or do you ask? Do you fight or do you run? It’s been the same for everyone. And then, when it’s over, there’s a lesson learned. About yourself, or about the world. I think about it when I can’t sleep. Don’t you feel like you’re going through a gauntlet, and it’s getting narrower and narrower? You’re constantly questioning who you are. I don’t know, maybe that’s just me, I’m just saying that it seems similar to all the old Bible stories.’

  Miriam’s mind jumped back in time. What Charlie was saying did make sense. She remembered London; going back to help the priest; volunteering at the hospital; helping Dora; coming to Cornwall and letting Paul Crowder stay; the boy who had offered to kill Joseph when he had fallen ill on the beach. All choices. And she had made the same one every time. And she was alive.

  ‘And when each test is over, it all goes away. You don’t have to worry about things coming back to you and biting you on the –’ he cleared his throat – ‘on the bottom. The choices are yours, and yours alone. You don’t have to worry about the police, or getting caught, or society or anything like that any more. You can do what you want. It’s just as easy now to make the bad choice as it is to make the good one. Easier, even. Because the bad choice is usually the easier one.’

  ‘You’ve given this a lot of thought.’

  ‘Depression does that – makes you think too much.’ He laughed drily. ‘But I think everyone’s thought about it. Maybe they’ve arrived at a different conclusion but everyone’s thought about it. That’s another of the things that comes with the new world – more time to think. Haven’t you found that? Now that things are slower I’ve felt more –’ he hummed in thought – ‘attuned. Like I’ve found my correct pace.’

  What seemed like many years ago she had been part of a similar conversation with Joseph and Father Moore. Father Moore had thought the same thing as Charlie, that the Sadness was divine, but when it had come from his lips he made it sound ugly and dangerous, and absurd. Charlie had said the same thing but it was different. Coming from the young man with his girlfriend fallen asleep on his shoulder, what he said had a far stronger veracity. It was not what was being said, she realized, it was the type of person who said it. Charlie made the illness sound almost like something she needn’t fear. She looked at him looking at her with his big, dark, shadowed eyes, and she felt strong emotions that, since that day in the cellar, had gone. Something was coming back. She was remembering something.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ she said.

  Charlie blinked and nodded. ‘You’re right. We’d better be going.’ He turned his body around to face his sleeping girlfriend.

  ‘Wait,’ she whispered. Something that had bound itself very tight around her was loosening. ‘Leave her. You can both stay here tonight.’

  Charlie slept well. It was the first time he had slept in a proper bed in almost a year. The house was so much drier than their van. No freezing particles of floating moisture were in the air. He thought about making use of the bed with Emily but decided it would be disrespectful. He lay awake for a short time but it was to enjoy the warmth underneath the covers. There was no swirling darkness.

  When he woke up the next day he felt as if he had been given an elixir. His body felt lighter and his mind was alert. He wished he could stay in the bed for ever. Emily was already awake. She had found on the bookshelf an old trashy horror novel. The speed with which she read had always been something he could not fathom. The yellowing pages of the book flopped down either side of her supporting thumb.

  ‘Any good?’ he asked.

  ‘Sssh,’ she said.

  He rolled on to his stomach and closed his eyes.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hello?’ said Emily.

  ‘Are you decent?’ the muffled reply came through the door.

  ‘Yes.’

  Miriam’s mother came into the room with two glasses of orange juice and some toasted bacon sandwiches.

  She sat on the edge of the bed as they ate and explained to them that the electricity for cooking came from a car battery that a man named Joseph had rigged up to an electricity adaptor. They used them on special occasions, she said.

  They went downstairs and sat in the living room for nearly an hour. Miriam was far quieter than she had been last night, Charlie thought. She was sitting in the armchair by the window again. The faint smile that had been on her face the previous night had disappeared. There was no eye contact.

  At last, Charlie and Emily went to leave. Miriam’s mother let them out into the fresh air of the morning. Wind blew through the grassland in front of the house, the bending tips of the grass marking its path.

  ‘It’s been so lovely having somebody to speak to,’ Miriam’s mother said.

  Emily was looking up the road to the left. ‘What’s that?’ she said.

  There was something in the road on the brow of the hill.

  ‘It’s a person,’ Charlie said.

  The man came slowly. He was walking with a limp. More than a limp; his left leg was dragging behind him.

  ‘He’s hurt,’ said Miriam’s mother.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Charlie, squinting. ‘That’s Andrew.’ He looked at Emily. ‘The American.’

  Fields was holding his left arm across his chest, supporting it with his right.

  Charlie ran up the road towards him, his body needling with a sudden, strange fear. The lightness that had seemed so strong and unassailable just minutes before was darkening, and he felt it propelling him forwards.

  The house was dark and cold. Charlie hadn’t noticed it before, but it now seemed oppressive. His eyes couldn’t adjust to the dimness.

  Fields lay on the same sofa which he and Emily had sat on the night before. A wet cloth had been folded on his forehead. At the neck, his shirt was red with the blood that clotted his beard. His injured arm lay diagonally across his chest and his glasses were missing. His face looked somehow altered – pulpy.

  McAvennie barged into the room and stopped when he saw him. Behind him, David, the man with whom Charlie had chopped wood, peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Fields,’ he said. ‘Jesus. What happened?’

  Fields brought his good hand up to his forehead. The other arm looked as if it had been twisted in its socket. The hand was facing the wrong way.

  ‘We . . .’ His throat was dry and he coughed. ‘We were attacked.’

  McAvennie stepped further into the room, standing at the end of the sofa.

  ‘Who attacked you?’

  Fields turned his head to one side. A deep purple bruise ran along his cheekbone from his ear to his chin.

  ‘Bandits. They –’ he inhaled a breath – ‘just came out of nowhere.’
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  Silence. Miriam stood in the doorway with her arms casually folded, but her heart was beating fast.

  ‘Where are the others?’ said McAvennie.

  ‘All dead,’ said Fields quickly. ‘They would have killed me too, but they –’ he winced with pain – ‘told me to go.’

  David made a sound from the window. He pulled the curtains to one side and looked out. Then he turned back to the room. ‘He might have led them here.’

  McAvennie raised his hand to silence him in a gesture that said, not now.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  Fields opened his eyes halfway. ‘I don’t know. Two days ago. I think.’

  Miriam’s mother brought a glass of water into the room.

  ‘And you’ve spent that time walking back.’

  Fields nodded slowly and allowed Miriam’s mother to bring the water to his lips.

  ‘Where are you hurt?’

  ‘It’s my ribs. And my arm. I think they’re broken.’

  ‘We’ll get you help.’

  ‘My leg hurts as well.’

  Miriam noticed that McAvennie was sweating. She watched the conversation so intently that it had not occurred to her that so many strangers were in her living room after so many months of it being empty.

  ‘Come on.’

  McAvennie moved to the centre of the sofa and went on to one knee to help Fields to his feet.

  ‘Wait,’ said the American.

  McAvennie stopped.

  ‘Thompson. They said they were going to Thompson’s.’

  McAvennie looked up to David.

  ‘The farmer,’ he said.

  David turned his head and looked again out of the window, in the direction of the village. McAvennie put his hands on his belt and pulled his trousers further up his waist. He looked at Miriam.

  ‘Can you take Andrew here down to the camp?’

  She froze. She was not involved in this. It wasn’t her business.

  ‘Of course,’ her mother said for her.

  Fields grabbed McAvennie’s leg. Miriam saw a flicker of something run across his face: an amalgamation of pity, concern, fear and despair. His voice sounded heavy.

  ‘What is it, Andrew?’

  ‘We saw –’ He swallowed. He closed his eyes and ran his tongue along his lips. ‘They’ve been burning crops.’ He sighed. ‘Whole fields. We saw them.’

  The room fell silent. Miriam felt her throat become heavy. She remembered the looters in the supermarket who had been wearing the gas masks.

  ‘We have to go,’ said McAvennie. He looked quickly at Miriam and nodded his thanks before leaving. David went after him. Miriam, Charlie and Emily followed.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Charlie.

  McAvennie didn’t turn back. ‘We have to check on the farm.’

  ‘It could be an ambush,’ said David.

  ‘They’ll be gone by now.’

  ‘We could go and get help from the camp.’

  ‘No,’ he said sternly. He had reached the car and stopped. ‘We’ve got a weapon with us. We don’t need to risk more people.’

  ‘We’re coming with you,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No you’re not.’

  Charlie grabbed McAvennie’s arm. ‘I want to come.’

  McAvennie frowned at him, and nodded.

  ‘OK. Get in,’ he said. He turned back to Miriam. ‘Thank you for doing this. Just take him down the hill and say you need to get him to the lighthouse. Someone will go with you.’

  Emily climbed into the back seat after Charlie. McAvennie jumped in behind the wheel and pulled away from the grass verge, into the road and into the distance.

  Miriam and her mother watched from the garden gate. Soon the car and the sound of its engine faded to nothing. Miriam’s mother turned to her daughter. Her expression changed just as Miriam tasted the saltiness at the edges of her lips. She lifted her fingers to her nose and when she brought her hand away, her fingertips were daubed in red.

  ‘Your nose is bleeding,’ her mother said.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  She felt suddenly guilty and tried to hide the blood by covering her nose with her hands. Her mother was looking at her suspiciously. Miriam didn’t even know why she would hide such a thing from her mother. Maybe she should tell her the truth. But not now. Not yet.

  Fields helped himself into the back of the car. Miriam started the engine and, through habit, checked the petrol gauge. Nearly empty. Her body pulsed with adrenalin. For so long she had looked down on the camp with dread and fear, and now she was about to drive straight into its heart. The fear of the camp had become something nearly irrational. But she needed to get the man in the back seat to safety.

  The tide in the bay was far out. The tanker had listed as it always did in low tide. A veil of rain hung over the horizon, moving inland.

  The guard at the gate stopped her. He was younger than she was, tall and skinny. A patchy beard grew around his chin. He recognized her immediately as the woman who lived at the top of the hill.

  ‘What’s been happening up there?’ he said, leaning down to her.

  Before she had time to answer he saw Fields on the back seat and was rushing round the front of the car. He opened the passenger-side door and got in.

  ‘Down there,’ he said, pointing.

  Just keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road ahead, she said. Just get the job done and get back to the house. Her neck felt like it was being squeezed to the point of pain. They passed through the car park and she threaded the car between the two stone pillars at the bottom.

  ‘Up there.’ The man sitting next to her pointed to the road ahead. ‘We’re going to the lighthouse.’

  She accelerated up the hill, trying not to look at the tents to the right. Some people looked up from whatever it was they were doing to see, and she ignored those as well.

  The lighthouse grew up out of the hill until it came into plain view. Its surrounding wall was broken where the road passed through it. Miriam drove up to the low stone building that joined the cylindrical tower of the lighthouse and stopped.

  An older man came out. He had short white hair and a white beard. He wore a pair of large, unfashionable glasses.

  Miriam watched the two men speak with a detached mind. She remembered what Emily had said about the lighthouse. The tower was imposing, a lot taller than it looked from the opposite side of the bay. Beneath the white paint she could see the outline of the giant bricks that had made it. Its plain, windowless face was threatening.

  The old man helped Fields out of the car.

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ he said. His voice was quiet, hardly audible. There was a faint hint of an accent. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Miriam got out and stood clear to give the men space.

  Fields groaned as he stood. The man who had directed her to the lighthouse placed Fields’s good arm around his shoulder and helped him towards the long, whitewashed building.

  The old man watched them go. ‘Thank you very much for your help,’ he said quietly.

  Miriam smiled. ‘It’s OK.’

  There was a questioning look on the man’s face, as if he was considering something.

  ‘I am Isaiah. Doctor Isaiah Balad.’ He held out his hand for her to shake. Two small black eyes were hidden deep in their sockets behind his glasses. He smiled and his face became smaller and crumpled.

  She took his hand and it was small and soft. He tilted his head to one side, gauging her reaction to him.

  ‘Miriam,’ she said.

  ‘And you are the woman who lives on the top of the hill?’

  His accent was German. Or maybe Belgian. It was only faintly discernible.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Please, come.’ He motioned for her to go into the building.

  Miriam paused.

  ‘There is nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  Miriam walked past him. Inside was a small, closed-off foyer. Fields had al
ready been taken inside and the foyer was empty. There was a desk on the left-hand side and a painting of a lifeboat sailing through stormy seas hanging on the wall. A set of large, wooden doors was in front of her.

  ‘We keep the lighthouse for the sick,’ said Dr Balad calmly.

  He curled his hand round the long metal bar of the door handle as he spoke.

  ‘Would you like to see it?’

  Miriam felt as if she was about to be shown something she should not see. According to Emily, this lighthouse was a secret place, and yet the doctor in front of her was being very open.

  She thought about the question. Did she want to see? Behind the doors lay death. By sick, the doctor had meant infected. She found it difficult to understand why he should want to show her. She felt as though she could feel the room beyond the doors. She could sense it. Dr Balad read her thoughts and he pulled the door open.

  The lane that led up to the farmhouse was thin and lined with tall hedgerows. Potholes were filled with muddy rainwater. Charlie sensed immediately the same thing in the air that he had felt so many months ago when he had returned to his parents’ house. The old senses were spiking keenly. They were in danger.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said needlessly.

  The lane widened and became a road. A line of houses on either side came into view, three on the right, three on the left. Beyond them stood the large farmhouse. Nobody said anything. They swerved slowly around the charred remains of a burned-out Land Rover and came out on to the street.

  And then there was a high-pitched hiss, growing in volume, outside the car. Charlie went to turn his head towards the direction of the noise, but he was being shunted forward and upwards. There was a loud, deafening boom. He saw flames lick against the windscreen and instinctively grabbed for Emily.

  The world turned sideways, the horizon shifted up through angles. Everything became still and slow. A glimpse of a man dressed in black clothes. Shouting in the street. Charlie’s body floated for a second in the absence of gravity, and then the car was on its roof. There was a metal-on-concrete smash. His back rolled up against the roof and he tucked his head instinctively towards his chest. The car rocked back and forth and then they were still.