The End of the World Running Club

by Adrian J. Walker

  “There,” said Grimes, pointing up at the house. “Third window from the left, top floor.”

  I looked up. There was some movement behind the dirty glass.

  “Is that a gun?” said Richard.

  Bryce held up his hands. “Hey!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! We’re not…”

  A barrel appeared through a hole in the window. Another crack and another thump in the ground by Bryce’s feet, this time closer.

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Bryce. “Run!”

  We ran. The hedge behind us provided no cover, so we made for the fountain. More shots rang out as we stumbled towards it, showering us with mounds of mud like blasts from a mine field. We fell with our backs to the stone, still cowering from the shots. One hit a lion’s head and it exploded into dust. Then it was quiet, apart from the sound of the rain and our own frantic breathing.

  “Has it stopped?” said Harvey. “Have they stopped shooting us?”

  I craned my neck and peered back over the lip of the fountain. A figure was standing at the window, peering around.

  “I think so,” I said. “For now at least.”

  Richard carefully turned around into a crouch and raised his hands.

  “Hello?” he said. I saw the figure behind the window duck and raise his gun again.

  “No!” shouted Richard. “Please don’t. Please stop shooting at us. We’re not dangerous.”

  The figure paused and straightened a little, then seemed to reconsider and take aim again. Richard ducked, but there was no shot. When we turned again, the figure had disappeared.

  “Bastards,” said Bryce. He stood up slowly. “Where are they?”

  Harvey reached up and gripped the hem of Bryce’s coat. “Careful!” he said. “Maybe they’re reloading.”

  “Ach, I’ve had enough,” said Bryce, shaking Harvey off and raising his arms “Hoy!” he shouted. “Youse in there! Come out and say hello!”

  “Bryce!” I hissed. Bryce grunted and kicked the gravel at his feet.

  Nothing happened. Bryce stood impatiently with rain dripping from his face and the rest of us hid behind the fountain, expecting him to be shot at any moment. Suddenly Bryce twitched and sprang back a little. I heard a long creaking noise from the house followed by a dull thud. Bryce seemed to relax and raised himself to his full height. I looked back and saw that the door to the house had opened. On the steps stood a tall, thin man in tweeds, wellingtons and a green wax jacket. Wisps of grey hair fell from beneath a cap and what appeared to be a black patch covered his left eye. His other eye glared down at us along the barrel of his shotgun.

  The rest of us stood up slowly and raised our hands.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” said Richard.

  “Quiet,” said the man. “Stay there.” His words wobbled with age and he cleared his throat. “Stay where I can see you now.” He trod sideways down the steps, still keeping the gun trained on us, then walked across to a few metres away from us.

  “What do you want?” he said. His voice was dry and rich like sediment in a glass.

  Grimes took a step forwards and pulled back her hood. Rain began streaming down her face, drawing pale rivulets through the dirt on her skin.

  “Just shelter,” she said, blowing water from her lips. “We’re very wet.”

  The man’s eye flickered a little. He seemed to be scanning us, looking up and down at our torn, muddy clothes and soaking packs.

  “Not armed?” said the man. “Up to no good?”

  “No,” said Grimes. We each shook our heads.

  The man tipped the gun in Bryce’s direction.

  “And what about this one?” he said. “You going to be trouble young man?”

  Bryce pulled some more mud from his face and wiped it on his coat.

  “Good as gold,” he said.

  The old man’s eye narrowed. “Your word,” he growled.

  Bryce flicked three fingers from his forehead. “Scout’s honour,” he said.

  The man paused and made a little noise in his throat. He lowered the gun to his side.

  “Well then,” he said. He gave a brisk nod. “Name’s Bartonmouth. Welcome to Bartonmouth Hall.”

  “Trying to keep fires to a minimum these days,” said Bartonmouth. He was at the far end of a kitchen, wrestling with the door handle of a large black stove that took up most of one wall. “Firewood ran out couple of months back. All bloody wet outside. Furniture’s running low. Not much left to burn…since we have guests though…come on you bloody…”

  With a scratch and a clang the door opened and he fell back against the long oak table behind him. “Got you! There. Right now.” He brushed his palms together and stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the open door. “Wood,” he said. “Wood wood wood wood wood…”

  He turned to a door on his left and disappeared through it.

  We were standing at the opposite end of the kitchen, dripping and shivering on the worn, red tiles. The rain swept by in dizzy squalls outside, hammering against the windows and making them rattle in their tall frames. It felt good to be out of it, although it somehow felt colder inside. The kitchen was like every other room and corridor Bartonmouth had led us through: long floor, high ceiling and virtually bare of decoration. There were light, square patches on the walls where pictures had once been. Beneath each one were the pictures themselves; deep, dark-lined portraits and landscapes now lying frameless and curling on the cold floor.

  There was a crash in the distance and the sound of stamping. A moment later Bartonmouth returned carrying a blue, canvas-covered book and a pile of splintered wood. Odd shreds of patterned fabric hung from it like seaweed. He tossed most of the timber into the stove and put the rest of it in a pile. He took the book and tore pages from it, throwing them in as well. Then he patted in his pockets, muttering, until he found what he was looking for. There was a chink and a glint and a small whumf of flame. He knelt down, lit the stove and closed the door, standing back.

  “There,” he said, clicking his lighter shut and turning to face us. “Usually heats up pretty quickly. Should be some hot water soon as well. Expect you’ll want baths? Installed some greywater collectors before…you know….the thing, so all our water comes in from the rain. Good for the environment and all that. Bloody good thing for us now too. Not supposed to drink it mind, but not much choice any more. Don’t mind a bit of rainwater do you? Good, good.”

  He stood, hands behind his back, wobbling back and forwards on his tiptoes. Eventually he looked up from the floor and jumped.

  “Well, sit down,” he said. “Sit down.” He pulled out a few chairs near to the stove. “Put your jackets over here if you don’t mind. Boots, too; they’ll soon warm up.” We hung our coats on a rack by the stove and dropped our boots beneath them, then took our seats in silence. I was still dripping on the floor. The glass panel in the stove began to glow orange and a low roar travelled up the flue that led away through the ceiling. I felt warmth creeping up my legs and smelled wood smoke on the cold, musty air. Bartonmouth took the chair at the top, laying his hands on the worn oak of the table. He was old, maybe in his eighties, his skin lined with deep folds and blue veins. His mouth hung open in a quivering, pink arc as his one good eye darted about our faces. His brow flickered with question.

  “So,” he said. “Who’s going to start?”

  Richard told him about the barracks and the boats and then each of us told our own account of what had happened to us before. He listened intently, his face twitching with emotion, saying nothing but heavens, good gracious, well I never or dear oh dear at the right moments. When we had finished, he turned and replenished the stove with more wood, still shaking his head and chuckling quietly at something Bryce had said.

  “Did you know about the boats?” said Grimes.

  “Boats?” said Bartonmouth, taking his seat. “Yes, yes, heard all about the boats.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Not much point for someone like me. Besides, couldn’t leave the o
ld place. Not after everything.” He sat back and crossed his arms, looking around the walls. “Family’s been here from the beginning. Hundreds of years. Not many left like it…not many at all now I expect. Opened up to the public a few years back of course, had to, the old girl wasn’t too keen but I made her see sense, no money you see, all bloody gone…”

  “Old girl?” said Harvey. “Is that your missus?”

  “Yes,” said Bartonmouth, smiling. “The missus, yes. Gone now of course, sad to say. Couple of years ago.” He tapped a long thumb on the wood. “Just me left now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that mate,” said Harvey. “Know just how you feel.”

  “Just you?” said Richard. “All on your own in this house?”

  “I know,” said Bartonmouth. “Bloody silly. Ridiculous. Far too big. But got no choice you see? Too much history. Too much…” He flapped a hand over his shoulder. “Too much behind.”

  “What about staff?” said Richard. “Didn’t you have cooks? Servants?”

  “Pah!” said Bartonmouth. He laughed and waved a hand at Richard. “Very good, very good. Couldn’t afford all that. Used to have a cook but he left. Gardener, too, no idea where he’s gone.” He rubbed his chin and looked uncertainly out the window, craning his skinny neck to see through the sheets of rain. “Keep meaning to go out and see if I can tidy up those beds, get the lawn ship-shape and what not. Maybe try in the spring. Anyway, staff. Rest of them weren’t real. Actors. Put on by the company running the tours you see. Maids, butlers, all that. All for the public. Lived somewhere else. Never saw ‘em again after, you know, the thing. All gone. Vanished. Poof. Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes,” said Bryce. “Yes, please.”

  “Good man.” Bartonmouth smiled and pushed himself up from the table. “Back in a jiffy.”

  He left through the same door he had gone through to get the wood. We heard his footsteps disappear down a creaking corridor. Bryce cocked his thumb back at the door.

  “Does he even know what’s happened?” he said.

  “You mean the thing?” I said. “He has to. There’s no way he can’t know.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know the full extent,” said Grimes. “If he’s been on his own here, without a telephone, internet. He’s an old man.”

  “He’s a nice sort,” said Harvey. “I like him. We don’t want to upset him.”

  “All the same,” said Richard. “He might have family elsewhere. We should make sure he knows.”

  We heard Bartonmouth’s slow footsteps out in the corridor and the sound of glasses rattling. When he returned he was carrying a silver tray of tumblers and a brown, thick-glassed bottle with a fraying label. His arms were shaking and he was frowning in concentration. Bryce jumped up.

  “Let me help you there buddy,” he said, carefully guiding the tray down onto the table and inspecting the label on the bottle sideways as he did so.

  “Wizzo, much obliged,” said Bartonmouth. He sat down and lifted the bottle to his eye, peering at the scrawled writing on the side. “Never was much one for Scotch. More of a brandy man myself. But thought, present company and all that.” He looked between Bryce, Richard and Grimes. Then he tilted the bottle at Harvey and me. “You, er…mind gentlemen?”

  I shook my head.

  “Brandy, whisky; anything’s good,” said Harvey.

  “Excellent,” said Bartonmouth. “Then I’ll be mother.” He poured good measures and handed them round. “Good health,” he said, raising his glass. We raised our own back and drank. I took a particularly large mouthful. It was glorious, nothing short of it. The way I was feeling - bone soaked and frozen - a capful of cheap supermarket rum would have done the job, but this was something special. I could taste it immediately, as if a door I’d never seen had been flung open onto a long, wide landscape of forest, earth and ocean, tall stone pillars clawed with brine and weed, cold starry skies, ancient, candlelit rooms, deep eyes, short lives and whispered promises. I felt as if somebody had filled my head with a thousand years of secret, guarded memories.

  “Well,” said Bartonmouth. “Well, this is actually rather good.”

  “What is this?” I said.

  “Let’s see now.” Bartonmouth peered at the label again. “Mor…Mort…Mortlach, think it says. Nineteen…can you read that old man?” He passed the bottle to Richard. Richard blinked. His mouth fell slowly open.

  “Nineteen thirty-eight,” he said. “That’s over seventy-five years old.”

  “Hmm, almost as old as me,” said Bartonmouth. He took another drink. “Well, what do you know? Looks like I’m a whisky man after all!”

  We continued to drink in silence. Bryce in particular seemed genuinely moved. At last, Grimes leaned forwards on the table.

  “Lord Bartonmouth,” she said.

  “Rupert, please.”

  “Rupert,” she said. “You…you do know what happened don’t you?”

  The old man gave a frustrated wince, as old men do at questions with no clear beginnings or endings. “What’s that?” he said.

  “I mean, you know what happened back in summer? To the country? To the planet?”

  Bartonmouth looked back at Grimes for a moment. A small frown of understanding crept up on his brow and he sat back in his chair.

  “Bartonmouth Hall was built in a valley,” he said. “First Lord Bartonmouth, my great-great…whatever he was…had it built for his wife. She liked rivers, you see, so he built it next to one, deep in the valley. Hills to the south, hills to the north. Protected, see? Not much reached us here. I heard it all, of course; saw things, knew there were fires. But Bartonmouth…” He stamped his boot on the stone floor. “Solid. Firm. Protected.”

  He picked up the bottle and raised an eyebrow at me. I offered my glass and he filled it, then did the same for the others.

  “Knew something was up when the radio stopped working. Electricity next and no telephone - not that I used it much before anyway. Then all those clouds and storms after all that glorious weather we’d been having. I stayed inside just in case, didn’t go out. Locked the door. Nothing for weeks, no one around. I thought I might take a drive. There’s a village about fifteen miles west, thought I might try there, see what’s what. But then…then I had some visitors.”

  He swallowed his drink and put down his glass, crossed his arms.

  “Who were they?” said Harvey.

  Rupert turned down the corners of his mouth. “Nasty sorts,” he said. “Ruffians, youngsters, men mostly but a few women too. Certainly not ladies, that’s for damn certain. Came down the front drive as I was getting ready to leave, about twenty of them, striding up large as life without so much as a how-do-you-do. Most rude. One came up to me, foul man he was, grotty and rude, said they were going to stay. In my house. In Bartonmouth.”

  “What did you do?” I said

  “Told them to clear off didn’t I? Go on, I said, get away with you, the lot of you. Then this one just started laughing at me, calling me names, and then the others started laughing. Didn’t like that much, I can tell you. Now look here young man I said, if you don’t bloody get off my property I’ll set the dogs on you. Course, hadn’t seen the hounds for a while, no idea where they went, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. Hooligan just laughed harder, called me more names. I’ll call the police! I said.”

  The old man frowned a little and shuffled in his chair.

  “Got a bit rough after that, ‘fraid to say. Not much I could do. Tried my best, got a few in, couple of left hooks and that but, well, too many of them. Far too many. Knocked me around a bit, gave me this.” He tapped his eye-patch. “Then they dragged me inside, started making themselves at home. Terrible mess they made, terrible. Started going through all the cupboards and drawers, drinking all my booze, raking through the food, breaking things, using the bedrooms for God knows what.”

  “How long did they stay for?” said Grimes.

  “Best part of a week. Most unpleasant time. They made me do thing
s…” He looked up at us and leaned forward suddenly. “Not like that, you understand; a man has his limits.” Then he settled back. “Just, you know, serving them, making them food, cleaning up their filth, doing their bidding. I played along, thinking if I could just hold out they’d eventually get bored and leave me in peace.”

  “And did they?” said Grimes.

  Rupert sighed.

  “One day they’re all lying around in the drawing room, drinking some of my Pétrus, and then one of them picks up this vase and holds it out at me. Dance he says. What? I say. Dance he says. Or I’ll drop this vase. I say, That’s my mother you’re holding. Put her down this instant. Bastard just starts leering at me. Dance or I drop her, he says. Dance. Dance. Then the rest of them start saying it too, chanting it, clapping their hands, Dance dance dance, those horrid women too, all cackling and sneering like some bloody football crowd or something.”

  “Hooligans,” said Harvey softly. “What did you do, mate?”

  “Stood my ground, that’s what I did. Had enough, hadn’t I? Fixed him in the eye and said, Put my mother down right now or you’ll regret it. Said it in my strongest voice, as loud as I could. That shut ‘em up. They all stop chanting and the room goes quiet. Then the bugger drops it. Drops my mother. Right on the floor in front of me. She went everywhere, of course; all over the floorboards, all over the rug.”

  “Christ,” said Harvey. “I’d have swung for him.”

  “Almost did myself, Harvey, almost did myself. Stopped myself though, knew that wasn’t the best thing to do in the situation. Only get myself hurt.”

  “So what did you do?” said Richard.

  “Well the room’s dead quiet, all the rest of his little group can’t believe what’s just happened. A girl in the corner, horror of a woman, she starts tittering. Then this chap looks down at the floor at the mess he’s made and takes a step forward so he’s standing in it, standing in my mother. He stamps up and down a few times, mother puffing up the sides of his dirty great boots, and says you’d better clean this mess up, hadn’t you old man? Then he waves his hand at me and says off you pop, get a dustpan or something equally vulgar.”