Surviving The Evacuation (Book 10): The Last Candidate

by Frank Tayell

  “You know about the admiral’s plans?”

  “I heard the sailors on the ship talking,” Lorraine said.

  “I bet they didn’t stop talking when they came ashore,” I said. “Well, if word has reached Markus, that might make my task easier.”

  “I don’t suppose it can make it harder,” Lorraine said.

  Lorraine left me at the pub, though within sight of the large crowd gathered outside. There were at least two hundred, facing an empty stage. I saw a few familiar faces, though none I could put a name to. Everyone else was a stranger. In some ways, more than anything else, that brought home the significance of Umbert’s death and my own failure of the people of Anglesey. I’d treated the election like a game, almost exactly as I’d have treated a contest a year before.

  I walked towards the pub, hoping to speak to Markus before he addressed his supporters, but was still near the back of the crowd when the man appeared. Markus walked alone onto the stage. There was no introduction, and he didn’t give himself one, but simply launched into a speech:

  “Another man is dead. Another life has been lost. Another tragedy has befallen us. This time, it was avoidable. His death was unnecessary. It served no purpose, yet what have we lost? Dr Umbert is irreplaceable, and his knowledge is lost forever. How many of our friends, our families, would have benefited from a trained psychiatrist on this island? I’m sure we all know someone. We only have to remember all those who died by their own hands to know how many more will die for lack of a trained professional to talk to. That is the consequence of Dr Umbert’s death. That is the consequence of every death. We, here, we are the only resource that matters. All these expeditions, this adventurism, it is a waste of time, and of lives. Each death lessens us, and lessens our chance for survival. That is the lesson we must learn from Dr Umbert’s death.”

  At first, I thought that Markus was ad-libbing his speech, but then I realised he was reading it. One of his close supporters, a bearded man I’d never seen unarmed, stood in the front row discreetly holding up a screen. The words probably looked good on paper, but aloud they didn’t suit the audience. They were too flowery, with too many inaudible alliterations and indistinguishable homonyms. Then I realised the broader implication. Markus knew about Umbert’s death, and with enough time to write out a speech. Lorraine and I had gone straight from the docks to Mary and George, and then I’d come to his pub. There had been time for word of what had happened to reach Markus, but not for him to write a speech. That meant he knew about Umbert’s death before the ship arrived. He had an informer, probably among the admiral’s crew. If he knew about Umbert, then did he, like Lorraine, know about the admiral’s plans?

  As Markus continued talking, claiming to have predicted the recent past, I made my way around the back of the crowd towards the rear of the pub. I found Rachel sitting on a broken trestle table, whistling an oddly familiar tune. A book lay open in front of her, but she closed it when she heard me approach. The book looked like an account’s ledger, though there were a number of loose sheets sticking out from it. The corner of one looked like a map. I took that as my opening.

  “Thinking of going somewhere?” I asked.

  “Planning my holidays,” she said, pushing the loose sheets further into the book.

  I tried something different. “That tune you were whistling, I’ve heard it before. Was it in that spy thriller that came out last summer?”

  “You want to talk about music and movies?” she asked.

  “How about we talk about business,” I said. “How’s that going? The election must be good for the pub.”

  “It’ll be better after Markus wins,” she said. “Higson wouldn’t give me the yeast for my brewery. In a few weeks, I’ll have it up and running.”

  “That’s your future, is it, the life of a small business owner selling truly small beer?”

  “It’s better than the alternative,” she said. “Isn’t that what life is? Finding the best of the possible alternatives?”

  “I suppose.” I sat on a bench opposite. She shifted uneasily. I got the sense she wanted to be alone, but I thought she might be able to help bridge the gap between Markus and I.

  “We never talked,” I said. “After Paul died.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re right. We didn’t talk. You arrested me. You held me for trial. That was self-defence. Me defending you, in fact, and you arrested me.”

  “Not me personally,” I said.

  “You know what I mean. Do you know what your problem is? You don’t realise that nothing has changed. People only help others when it helps themselves. That’s human nature. One group is played off against another, and you know what I say when I see that? I say look for the guy pulling the strings.”

  I wanted to ask more, but there was a cheer from the crowd. Markus had finished his speech. A moment later, he bounded into sight.

  “When did you— Bartholomew Wright,” he said, stopping when he saw me. Behind him came the older, bearded man, and two men barely older than Dean. All three looked more like bodyguards than body-men.

  “It’s a shame what happened to Dr Umbert,” Markus said.

  “How did you hear?” I asked.

  “Oh, I…” He glanced at Rachel, then behind him. “I hear things. It’s a bad business.”

  “Yes, it was. Dr Umbert gave his life to save everyone else,” I said.

  “He did?” Markus asked.

  “You didn’t hear that? Yes, that’s how he died.”

  “We’ll have to get a plaque made,” Markus said. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”

  “To inform you of his death, yes,” I said.

  “And to tell me what you’re going to do next?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “Your candidate’s dead. You’re going to say there’s some rule we didn’t notice, something that means you can stand or put forward someone else.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re still running Umbert?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know if we can spare the ink to reprint the ballot papers, but we’re not running a dead candidate.”

  “So… what? The election’s off?”

  “No, it’s still on,” I said.

  “You’re bowing out?” Markus asked, and he seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re actually conceding defeat?”

  “You’re not the only candidate left,” I said.

  “Ah, so you’re trying to decide whether I’m worse than Bishop?” he asked, clearly determined to find my angle.

  “No, not really. I’m here to decide if you’re worthy of leading us.”

  “Worthy? That’s a quaint idea.”

  “What are you actually going to do if you win?” I asked.

  “I’d like us to enjoy what we have, and to bring back all that we’ve lost,” he said.

  “Sure, who wouldn’t, but what are your policies?”

  “I always thought a manifesto was a bit of a wish list,” he said. “None of it ever came to pass, events always dictated policy, not the other way around. So, if we’re going to wish for anything, why not wish for the stars?”

  I looked at the three bodyguards and then at Rachel, then at Markus, I wasn’t sure if he was being serious, or if he was continuing his act for their benefit.

  “What about food and farming?” I asked.

  “Do you see anyone going hungry?”

  “Law and order?”

  “Where’s the disorder?”

  “Healthcare?”

  “We’ve got plenty of doctors, what more do we need?”

  “The undead?”

  “They’re dying. By Christmas, this will all be over.”

  “What will you do when the food runs out?” I asked. “What about when we get our first major flu outbreak? When that leads to riots? When it turns out that, in February, the undead are still as big a threat as ever?”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned ove
r this last year,” Markus said, “it’s that we should eat, drink, and be merry because, even if we don’t die tomorrow, we will all die. After what we’ve been through, people deserve something more than scrabbling in the fields. Mary O’Leary understands this, that’s why she hasn’t pushed more people into labouring on the farms. No, if the soldiers want to leave and fight a war against the undead, let them. We have all we need, let us enjoy it.”

  “And then what? What comes next?” I asked. “You may well win the election, but leading is different from campaigning. I can help.”

  “It’s not your place to tell me what to do, and it’s not mine to tell anyone else. Not now, not after all that happened.”

  “I’ll be the angel by your ear, the devil at your back,” I said. “That’s what every politician needs.”

  “To keep me honest? That’s a very kind offer, Mr Wright, but I’ve come this far without you. I think I can make it to the finish line. You get some rest. Enjoy your family. Write another journal, learn to fish, or just enjoy this beautiful island. Enjoy this last moment in the sun, Mr Wright.”

  I almost let him have the last word. “Looks cloudy to me,” I said, and walked away.

  “He has no plan,” I said. “In fact, I think he was expecting to lose. He was setting himself up to be the leader of the opposition, not the leader of humanity. Now, when he wins, this is all going to fall apart. The admiral was right. This man will destroy everything. Probably not intentionally, but through inaction and an inability to govern.”

  “He doesn’t want your help?” Kim asked.

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” I said. “He knew about Dr Umbert’s death, though not the manner of it. Someone told him that. Lorraine knew about the admiral’s plans to leave. Now, I don’t know how much Lorraine knew, but she overheard the sailors talking. I imagine that some of the same sailors are keeping Markus informed.”

  “Selling information for beer, you mean?” Kim asked. “That’s a problem for the admiral, though.”

  “True, but what’s interesting is that I think Markus is aware the admiral is going to leave, but not that so many are planning to go with her. Either his informant doesn’t know everything, or they’re deliberately keeping some things from him. There’s an older chap that’s always with him. He’s got a very military bearing. I wonder if he’s the one getting information from the ship, and if he’s the one who’ll remove Markus when the time comes.”

  “I don’t,” Kim said, “because, it’s over, yes? Markus doesn’t want your help, so you can’t influence him, or tame him once he’s in office?”

  “I don’t think he’d listen. I don’t think he knows how bad the food situation is. Maybe he doesn’t care. When he’s elected, people will die. Maybe not immediately, but there will be starvation, there will be disease, and no attempt to stop either. There won’t even be cake to eat, though there’s probably going to be beer to drink. Sure, I can hope that he might rise to the occasion, that he’ll become the best possible leader, the one that we need, but it isn’t just that he’s a bad candidate. He’s indifferent, not simply unaware of our situation, but unconcerned by it. People will die, and others will leave, and that’s the best-case scenario.”

  “You tried, Bill,” Kim said. “You spoke to him, and he doesn’t want your help. You tried, yes? It’s time for us to look to our own future, you agree?”

  I looked around our small attic room. It didn’t seem like a just prize after all we’d been through. It wasn’t much different to the small flat I’d had in London. The only principal difference, other than the lower roof and better view, was that our bags were packed and ready by the door.

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh, seriously, Bill? What’s left to do? What’s left to try? You’re not thinking about killing Markus?”

  “No. You can’t build a democracy on an assassination. Better we start afresh somewhere new. But like you said, if we’re doing that, if we’re going to abandon Anglesey and everyone here, then I want to know that I tried everything. I haven’t spoken to Bishop yet. It’s possible he’s not as bad as everyone says.”

  “But everyone says it,” Kim said. “Sholto, Lorraine, Dr Umbert. When a psychiatrist describes someone as unhinged, you really should listen.”

  I looked over at the bags. “When’s the admiral leaving?” I asked.

  “Soon. She wouldn’t give me an exact date, not until we told her our plans, but she told Colm and Siobhan to move the children back onto the ship.”

  “Bishop’s holding a rally tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll go and listen and… well, it’s a few more hours, and one last night in a proper bed, under a proper roof.”

  “Until we get to Elysium,” Kim said.

  “Until we get to America,” I said. “Maybe not even then. We’ll see some of the world like you wanted, and when we’re sure the undead are finished, we’ll find a farm.”

  I smiled, and hoped Kim believed me. My mind was made up. A democracy couldn’t be founded on assassination and murder, but the result of this election wasn’t going to be democratic. I couldn’t leave Lorraine, Heather, and all the others to Markus’s scant mercy. I would stay. I had to. A democracy couldn’t be founded on an assassination, but they were often founded on revolutions against an unjust ruler. That was what Markus would become, but that didn’t mean we had to accept everything that came next. Markus could be overthrown once he’d shown his true colours. Someone had to stay behind to organise it, and though there were better candidates for that role, it was my duty. George was right: going to Ireland had been my way of running away from responsibility. I wouldn’t do it again.

  As a foundation of a new state, a mostly peaceful revolution would be better than a certainly bloody war. It might even be possible to get the power station turned back on. We’d lose a few months, of course, but we’d lose fewer lives, and that was what mattered above all else.

  Chapter 19 - Bishop

  21st October, Day 223, Anglesey

  It wasn’t a restful night. The evening before had been spent in gloomy silence. We didn’t want to discuss our plans with Annette, but it was obvious she knew that something was wrong. My brother had sat by the window, watching people walk by in the street. When Kim and I came down to make breakfast, he was still there. For the first time since Lenham Hill, he seemed old. Or, perhaps it was that for the first time, he seemed his true age. He was a man contemplating that two-thirds of his life lay behind, rather than one still in the height of vigour looking towards a future yet to come.

  “There’s some porridge and some coffee. I packed the tea,” he said. On the table next to him were maps. All of them were of the U.S. They were an odd assortment of roadmaps and tourist guides that someone had brought back from holiday rather than ones that offered any real detail about an area.

  I made some coffee.

  “You always wanted to return to the States,” I said.

  “Not like this,” he said. “You saw the satellite images before we repositioned them. America is the same as Britain, and we’re going to be taking our problems with us. Except wherever we go, we won’t have a power station. We won’t find another fuel supply for the ships. It’ll be March before we can plant anything. No, you know what? This is exactly how I thought I’d return: a dangerous sea voyage to a land of unknown danger with no known sanctuary. Ah, you know what they say, you can only miss the things that you had, and you only miss them when they’re gone. At least we’ll be travelling together. That’s something.”

  I was glad for the knock at the door. It was Heather Jones.

  “Have you seen Lorraine?” she asked.

  “Not since yesterday,” I said. “After we came back, she was heading to the police station to speak to Captain Devine. After that, she was going to Menai Bridge.”

  “I saw her at the police station,” Heather said. “We— After that, she didn’t come home.”

  “I’ve got to go out,” I said, “but ask Sholto, see if he might kno
w.” I left them to it. I would have to speak to Heather later, and to Lorraine. For that matter, I’d have to speak to Sholto and make sure that at least one of the satellites stayed overhead. If I was remaining in Anglesey, it would be useful to be in touch with them. And then, I’d have to speak to the admiral, and to George and Mary, not to mention Kim and Annette. I had a long day ahead, but first, I had to listen to Bishop speak, just so that I could tell myself that I had.

  The sky was cloudy, the air chill, the streets as close to bustling as they ever would be. There were more hats, scarves, and long coats around than I’d seen before, and fewer weapons. I imagined a lot of people still carried knives or handguns under their coats. A new normality was beginning to exert itself on the island, as recent customs gave way to an older model of life.

  People grew sparse, the roads grew worse. No one else seemed to be heading towards Bishop’s rally, and by the time I reached it, it had already begun.

  The rally was being held in a field with a crude stage at one end. It really did consist of a barn door laid across three trestles with a stack of boxes as steps. It was overly crude, as if someone had gone to great trouble to make it look ramshackle. The crowd were an almost uniform group of around fifty people. They were a little dirtier than those in Holyhead, and more poorly armed. There were some clubs, some knives, but no firearms that I could see. I stopped by the gate into the field, and got a few suspicious glances from a trio of two men and a woman standing by the stage. They didn’t approach me, perhaps because Bishop was already in full flow. He stood on the stage, an open book in his left hand. I don’t think he was reading from it, but his free hand would occasional jab at the page as if that proved the truth of his words. He was dressed in a suit that had once been white but which was now smeared with mud. There were no weapons on his belt; the only edge was in his words.

  “The slate was wiped clean,” he said with a jab at the open book. “Do you know what that means? Do you understand? We say it often enough, that phrase and so many others. We say it so often that we forget the meaning behind the words. There is a slate.” He jabbed the book again, and then pointed at the crowd. “Each of you carries it around your necks. This slate is invisible to normal eyes, yet it is still there. Our sins are inscribed upon it, and the weight of them bears us down until, in old age, our backs are bowed with the crimes of our past. In death, we are judged. Who here, if you were judged nine months ago, would not have been found wanting? Who here is pure? None of us. None of us here, or on this island. We are all sinners, and yet our sins were expunged. The slate was wiped clean when the old world burned. That great conflagration erased the record of our transgressions. We were born anew. This is not paradise. This is not hell. This is a second chance. A second attempt at life for us all. It is a rare gift, and yet you squander it.”