by Terry Tyler
Afterwards, she says, "But it wasn't your fault. You had your reasons for cheating on her. The car accident—she did that, not you. Your feeling of relief—that's normal. She'd put you and Jax through hell. And I don't think Aria wouldn't go off at the deep end like that. She's far too clued up."
I shake my head. "She isn't. She comes across so cocky and confident, like she knows exactly what she wants and how to get it, but it's held together by very fine threads. Before all this, she lurched from one crisis to another. She could crack and fall apart very, very easily." I take her hand. "What about you, then? You and Dex?"
And that takes another bottle of Merlot. With every revelation, my spirits lift. Finally, she says what I want to hear.
"I didn't see it for ages, but, to be honest, I think our relationship ended with his affair with Naomi. I went back because I'd loved him for so long, but it's not been right for months. I kept telling myself that we're adjusting to the next stage of our relationship, but we have less and less in common every day. I don't even like him, some of the time." Her face looks so lovely in the light of the fire. "I wish that—oh, it's pointless to wish you could turn back the clock, but—"
"You wish that what?" I take her hand. Say it, say it.
She places her hand on my cheek, stroking her thumb across it. "I wish I'd had the courage to be with you. I should have been with you. But maybe I had to go back with Dex to realise it was wrong. If I hadn't, I'd always have been wondering."
"How do you feel about me now?"
She kisses me. "I think that if we were together, we'd be really, really happy."
I take her in my arms, and we fade to black with a row of asterisks. This one is private. And this time it's not wicked, lustful fun, an illicit thrill, like with Aria. This time, it's love.
She loves me.
She told me last night, many times.
We're in the three quarter sized bed in the spare room—it would be just too weird to sleep in her parents' bed—it's freezing cold and dull outside, every time I open my mouth I can smell last night's wine, I have a thick head and a raging thirst, but I'm happier than I can remember feeling for years.
I find mouthwash and toothpaste in the bathroom and instant coffee in the cupboard.
She loves me.
I've lit the fire and am putting a pan of water on when she comes downstairs wrapped in an old dressing gown, and curls her arms around my back.
"I love you," she says, leaning her head on me.
We sit on the floor in that cold room watching our water boil, and it's beautiful. We make crappy old instant coffee, and it's perfect. Back in bed, I come clean. I tell her about the happy pills.
She assures me I will never need them again. This takes about an hour. I could stay in this day forever.
Alas, there are things that must be faced.
Dex and Aria.
"If I march in and tell her I'm in love with you, it'll destroy her." I sit up, and wish I still smoked; I could do with one now. "I know it's pathetic, but I'm just not ready to do it."
She sits up, too, and hugs her knees. "Perhaps if you work up to it. I don't know; there's no easy way. But—look, when bat fever started I thought I wouldn't survive without Dex. But the more I did on my own, the stronger I got. It sounds a bit calculated, but—maybe if you take more night shifts, get involved in building the new defences, she'll fill her time by forming other friendships, and—"
I put my arm around her. "Yes. Possibly. Or she might just get even more clingy. What about Dex?"
She frowns. "I can't read him these days. I don't know. I'll take your lead; when you feel ready to tell Aria, I'll do my bit."
I kiss her forehead. "And until then, we'll see each other as much as we can."
"Oh yes." She kisses me back. "Yes."
"Every day. Even if it's not for very long.
"Every day. I promise. We'll have to be so careful, though."
I think quickly. "Tell you what; those empty houses up by the Bat Shit Villa. Let's make one of them our own. We can make our shifts coincide, and meet there afterwards."
"Okay." She winds her fingers into my hair. "The good thing about the island is that you can disappear; there's always something you can say you were off helping with."
I laugh. "Oh yes. And we're going to be so helpful from now on, aren't we?"
With huge reluctance, we get up and prepare for the return journey, cook noodles for breakfast, refuel. We explore nearby towns for chemists, filling our packs with medical supplies to justify the trip, but as soon as we're back on the M1 going north the dark clouds start creeping back. This time, though, I can stick two fingers up at them, because Vicky loves me.
Like the man said, love is all you need.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vicky
I wish we hadn't wasted so much time. My fault.
Some days I see him about the village, talking to someone else, our eyes meet, and I feel so happy there must be a golden glow around me. I think about him every minute I'm not with him. When I told him this, he said, "But I'm always thinking about you, too, so in a way we're always together."
I know what love is, at last. What I used to think was such a great relationship with Dex was actually based on my unconditional adoration of him, and when I stopped adoring him, it stopped working.
Heath listens, wants to know what I think, cares about how I feel.
And we can't keep our hands off each other, of course. That helps. But it's not just lust. It's being truly together with another person, in a way that I never have been before.
I wake up every morning smiling, because later on that day I'll be with him.
God, if Lottie knew the schmaltz that goes through my head on an hourly basis she'd call me every type of retard.
I don't feel guilty about Dex. I'm pretty sure he's sleeping with Naomi again. The other night he arrived back at the castle with his jumper on inside out.
I feel sad for Aria, but I'm not taking anything away from her. If I walked away tomorrow, Heath wouldn't love her any more than he does. I understand his fears, but I don't think she'll go to pieces. Scratch my eyes out, maybe, but she strikes me as one who'll move on to the next thing fairly quickly.
I didn't know love could be like this. No insecurity, or worries about not quite measuring up. Heath's chucked away his anti-depressants. Says he'll never need them again.
We will leave here, once we've 'come out'. Go south. This island is too small for acrimonious relationship break-ups, of which there will be two. I don't want any of us to be like Travis, living on the fringes to avoid people.
The more we talk about it, the more I want to go.
I keep thinking of that farm we passed, with the people waving to us. I want somewhere like that for us. A new start. However hard life will be in the future, we can do it, together. I don't want to leave our friends, but all change comes with loss, somewhere.
The big hurdle will be telling Lottie and Jax, which is going to be hell, because they both love it here. Before the virus they'd have been old enough to live independently, but not now.
First, we will tell them about us. That part will make them both happy, anyway.
Today, I realise this: happiness isn't about getting what you (think you) want, but recognising what it is that you need.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Doyle and Verlander
January 2026
Doyle has established a routine; it gives him purpose.
Each day he awakes in the bedroom that belonged to the landlord of the pub, washes, then lights the fire in the pub lounge. He heats water for coffee, eats from his stock of flapjack and protein bars, and reads a while or writes his diary, making himself comfortable where once couples and groups of friends drank together after a long day at the office, and families ate their Sunday lunches, as detailed on the blackboard in the bar: roast pork, beef or turkey, with unlimited roast potatoes, Yorkshire pud and seasonal vegetables. Pensioner/child
portions available.
Doyle used to think about the pub ghosts, but he doesn't any more. Still reads the menus, though, and his mouth waters. Was food ever really that varied, that plentiful?
Menu porn. A harmless indulgence of the post-apocalyptic world.
In the evenings he dines on packet noodles, tinned fish and vegetables, reads or writes some more, plays pool or darts, drinks and eats stale nuts and crisps. Now and again he has too much to drink, and amuses himself by strolling around the pub, having conversations with imaginary people.
"Nah, mate, I never wanted a mortgage. Noose round your neck."
"Look at the hooters on that! No, no, be my guest, you saw her first."
"You looking at me? You are so going to regret that, pal!"
Between the slow waking up and the evening's entertainment, he fills his pockets with eighteen-month-old Mars and Twix bars and bottled water, and cycles the three miles to his observation post near the building site. Rain or shine.
He has equipped his post with a groundsheet and a one-man tent, and he watches the work progress with great interest. The site is larger than he thought; he has ridden up and down country lanes and observed from many viewpoints. The cleared space is as big as a small town, and it's growing. Where once there was gentle, rolling green, hedges and trees, there is a vast expanse of levelled earth, ready for foundations.
One massive area looks like an airstrip; the runway is already being laid.
Elsewhere, men in hard hats with theodolites lay out ground plans. There's a whole temporary village of Portakabins, already. All those workers must be living on site. Chinooks arrive and leave, often, but mostly they're delivering, not taking away; Doyle wonders where they've come from. They fly in from the direction of the coast.
He considers. If the workers are living on site, they must be being fed. One large trailer appears to be a mess hut, judging by the activity. If so, it will be warm. There will be people. Stuff to do.
One bright day in January, a regular sized helicopter lands on one of several helipads. Soldiers and foremen gather, waiting for its passengers to alight. Three men emerge, in waxed jackets and wellies. A woman, dressed similarly. They shake hands with a few of those waiting, and are led into a Portakabin.
Doyle waits. He drinks water, eats chocolate. After about half an hour, the woman comes out. A hard hat scoots up, and speaks into a walkie; before long, the work force congregates. Two hard hats, one of the men and the woman start pointing at people, directing them into groups.
Doyle is sure he knows what's happening. The land is prepared, and phase two of the build is to commence, which could mean they're hiring.
It would be something. Better than spending every hour of every damn day on his own.
He dusts himself down, gets on his bike, and cycles down the road to the nearest barrier.
Erika Thiessen has a cultured, East Coast US accent. Thanks to a thousand and one TV shows, Doyle can distinguish between not only east and west US, but Georgia, Minnesota, Tennessee and Texas, Brooklyn and Joisey. Erika Thiessen's jaw length, honey coloured hair has seen the inside of a hairdresser's in the last month, for sure, and she has clear skin and white teeth. She's been living somewhere that still functions like before. Where?
She introduces herself with a handshake that feels deliberately firm.
"Sit." He does, she doesn't. "I'm told you've been observing us." She consults the piece of paper given to her by the lackey who took his details. "Brian Doyle, vaccine confirmed, twenty-nine years old, moved about since the outbreak, currently residing in an abandoned bar."
"That's right."
"You've had construction experience."
He nods. "A fair bit. Laying out, mixing up, hodding. General labouring on electrics and plumbing; I've worked on one-offs from scratch, and for nationwide companies."
"Good." Finally, a smile; she nods towards his wristband. "Where did you get the vaccine?"
"I worked for a government agency."
Now, he has her full attention. "Is that so? In what capacity?"
"It was a project with a high security level." He wishes he'd bothered to go home and wash before presenting himself. "I'm not sure if I should say more." He smiles. "Or perhaps it doesn't matter now."
Erika stares into his eyes; he can't read her at all. "What did you do, on this top security project?"
"I analysed data."
"What sort of data?"
He grins. "Mostly, that which the general public unwittingly provided on social media sites."
Her sharp, silent intake of breath betrays her interest. "Where did you do this?"
"South-east London."
"Are you able to tell me the name of the project?"
"I don't know; should I?"
For the first time, he feels her smile is genuine. "Probably, if you want me to hire you."
They laugh; he thinks he might like her. Then again, so starved is he for company that the mere occurrence of their conversation is enough to endear her to him.
"After phase one was completed, we were housed somewhere beneath the streets of London, where a chap from Renova Workforce Liaison used to appear to us on a screen once a day, to ask us if we had any problems." He laughs. "We had two. One, he neglected to tell us that most of the population was dying. Two, he left us down there with not enough food, and disappeared."
Again, the inaudible but visibly sharp intake of breath. Her face is expressionless. "Could you wait outside for one moment, please?"
Outside, the guards are too busy reminiscing about shags of their younger years to notice Doyle edging around the side of the cabin. A window is open. Too risky to take a look, but he can listen.
She's talking on a radio device; he hears crackling.
"Yes, well, could you go get him, please. Now." Pause. "Alex? Hear this. I've found one of your worker bees from BDC."
Doyle's initial reaction is to stalk off; he isn't anyone's 'worker bee'. But he doesn't. He can't. Not when Erika asks him to come back in two days to meet her colleague, Alex Verlander.
Alex Verlander from Renova Workforce Liaison.
The orange-faced, smiling puppet who abandoned them back in the bunker.
He smartens himself up as best he can, cycling into the nearest town to find new clothes. He makes this as enjoyable an excursion as possible, entertaining himself by playing the part of the salesgirl.
"The lavender is more stylish, but the red stripes match your eyes."
"Does sir dress to the left? Would you like me to check?"
He washes and shaves in a bowl of rainwater, ties his now shoulder-length hair back in a ponytail, and wears his heavy duty raincoat to protect his clothes on the cycle ride to the barrier. Here, he announces his appointment (not interview; appointment) with Erika Thiessen. This time, he is not challenged, not treated like a criminal, but is escorted to her Portakabin like he's someone who matters. Pisses him off that they expect him to get off his bike, though; his new Italian brogues are splattered with mud before he's walked ten yards.
He knocks and enters as instructed and, sitting at the desk, next to Erika Thiessen, is the tanned, smiling face he remembers so well.
Doyle can't help it; he laughs. "Alex Verlander."
"Indeed! Brian Doyle." Verlander mirrors his amusement, stands, and offers a smooth hand with manicured fingernails. "Do sit."
Doyle relaxes. "Sorry. I'm not laughing at you. It's just—well, it's a small world, isn't it? So what is this?"
Verlander sits back, hands clasped together. "Project Renova, Brian. Stage Two."
Doyle frowns and grins at the same time. "Weren't we supposed to be in glorious Tasmania to train for that?"
A smooth smile. "Alas, the minor inconvenience of a global pandemic forced us to rethink our plans."
Out of nowhere, stuff Doyle has scarcely thought about for months comes rushing back. The panic, when they thought they'd been left to rot underground. The anger, when they realised nobody had
told them about the world collapsing around them. Going home to find the rotting husks that used to be his family. Had they been let out before, he might have been able to take them to safety, or at least say goodbye. He grips the arms of his chair to stop himself leaping over the desk and throttling Verlander. Fuck it. It's not like he needs this lousy job to pay his rent.
He holds up a hand. "Before we go any further, how about you tell me what happened to you? The daily bulletins? Why no one answered when we pressed the alarm button—"
Verlander glances at Erika, then back to Doyle, smile in place. "No problem, Brian. You must have many questions, and I'll answer them as best I can."
Bullshit. He's worked with enough oafs like Verlander to know soft soap when he hears it. "Okay. Here's the first. Didn't anyone care that we were just left there, with not enough food, and no idea what was going on above ground?"
Verlander nods. "Fair question, Brian. But you got out, didn't you? No one died."
"We could have."
"No, you couldn't. We knew who would have the brains to seek out the exit route."
Doyle opens his eyes wide. "So it was a test."
Verlander throws back his head and laughs. "Of course it wasn't. We had issues of far greater importance to deal with. What I mean was, we knew you'd be okay." He twiddles with his pen. "The strong survive, the weak don't. It's just the way it is, now. You're one of the strong." He frowns, to himself. "It's the way it's always been, really."
Doyle opens his mouth to continue on the theme of him and his colleagues being left to fend for themselves, then shuts it. He gets it. It's the way it is, the way it always was. The workers don't matter. You go with it, or you sink. And if you complain, you get a helping hand to push you under. He is tempted to tell grinning Verlander and the silken Erika to stuff their job, but he's not quite ready to burn his bridges. And, much to his annoyance, he's still intrigued.
