Grave predictions : tales of mankind’s post-apocalyptic, dystopian and disastrous destiny

by Drew Ford

  As he twisted the key in the ignition he was suddenly afraid that the computer at the core of the vehicle would let him down. The engine came alive, however, and he switched on the wipers and the defrosting system. The car surrounded him and Amy with its unremitting artificial breath while the wipers cleared arcs of the windscreen, revealing samples of the street, a process that put Slater in mind of a change of scene in an old film. He turned the car out of the drive, only to wish he’d waited for the back window to clear; the image of the Viva in the mirror was so faint that he had to strain his mind to perceive it at all. It gained definition as he drove along the street at a speed that wouldn’t have disgraced a funeral, so that by the time he reached the main road he was able to see Melanie and their son. As he accelerated gently—tenderly, he might have called it—Amy kept her eyes on the mirror and said not much louder than the murmur of the car “Can I tell you what happened yesterday, dad?”

  “Why shouldn’t you be able to?”

  “Maybe we aren’t supposed.”

  “You can always tell me anything, Amy.” He felt as if he was having to remember to add “And your mother.”

  The car behind them had grown no clearer by the time Amy said “Some of the girls in my class had the thing with their tummy.”

  “Ah.” However old-fashioned he sounded, Slater had to say “That might be best discussed with your mother.”

  “I don’t think she likes people talking about it.” With what he could have taken for eleven years’ worth of reproachfulness Amy said “You were there.”

  He felt forgetful and disoriented. “Where, Amy? When?”

  “When I told you both about it, and Tom was there too.” Having apparently needed to establish all this, she said “About how it woke me up when you were coming home.”

  “And now you’re saying your classmates noticed it as well. Nothing too odd about that, is there? And if any of them didn’t, well, some people can sleep through an earthquake.”

  “Who says it was one?”

  “You haven’t forgotten your brother.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Amy said without even a hint of the loftiness Slater might have expected, “but we’re not sure it was.”

  “I really don’t know what else it could have been.”

  “See, we aren’t supposed to talk about it.”

  “I’ve already said you can with me.” Less brusquely Slater said “What makes you think you can’t?”

  “My friend asked a teacher what she thought it was.”

  “And the teacher said…”

  “She didn’t.” As though she resented or was made uneasy by having to expound Amy said “She took my friend to see someone and we haven’t seen her again.”

  “To see someone how? I mean, why? To see whom?”

  “The teacher wouldn’t tell us. She said we better hadn’t ask.”

  “And you really haven’t seen your friend at all since?” He was sounding too much like an interrogator, but he had to say “Hasn’t anyone been in touch with her?”

  “We can’t.”

  “Perhaps she was upset by being singled out like that.” Slater saw that Amy thought as little of the explanation as he did. “I suppose it might be best,” he said, “if you don’t bring up the subject today.”

  “My friend, you mean.”

  He hadn’t, and was disturbed to wonder if he should have. “Perhaps she’ll be there,” he tried saying. “Perhaps she’s waiting to tell you all what happened.” When Amy gazed harder at the mirror he said “If you like I’ll see what I can find out while we’re at the school.” There was no response beyond the blurred murmur of the car, even when he added “Or if you’d rather I didn’t I won’t.”

  Presumably this was how she might increasingly behave at her age. They were already in sight of the school; he seemed to have forgotten there was so much open land along the route. As he drew up outside the schoolyard the Viva swelled up in the mirror, and he could have thought it was growing more solid. Amy leaned over for him to kiss her forehead, and he said almost without thinking “That’ll keep your mind alive.”

  She gazed at him as intently as she’d watched the mirror. “Dad, will you do something for us?”

  “Anything I can.”

  “Will you leave your phone on?”

  Perhaps it was just her fervency that disconcerted him. “Why would you like me to do that?”

  “Then you can see if we send you a message.” She seemed not too far from pleading as she said “Just in case.”

  While he wasn’t going to ask the question that he sensed would only make her nervous, he said “Are you meant to have your phones on at school? You don’t want to get into trouble after what you were saying about your friend.”

  “We can put them on in the breaks. Don’t you want us to call you?”

  “Texts mightn’t.” At once he felt he was letting his family down. “You’re as important,” he said. “No, you’re more. It’ll stay on.”

  “Thanks, dad. You’ll always be our dad.” She lingered to say “And mummy’s husband” before straightening up from the car to call “Dad’s going to leave his phone on.”

  Slater hadn’t noticed Tom leaving Melanie’s car. At first he was unable to locate the boy’s face among the dozens if not hundreds that turned towards him, and he could have imagined they’d grown as homogenous as the St Dunstan’s uniform. His bad night must be catching up with him, because it wasn’t until Amy went to Tom that Slater singled out his son. Didn’t the two of them usually join their friends? Slater was distracted by a clank not unlike the snapping of a trap—the sound of a message. He wondered if the children were making sure he’d kept his word until he saw that the sender was Melanie. That should help, the screen said.

  She flourished her mobile when he found her in the mirror. Perhaps she’d concluded as he had that the children might be seeking reassurance before the concert. He brandished his phone and then responded You as well. While this could have been clearer, she gave him a smile, and he sent her one before looking away from the mirror to see the schoolyard was deserted.

  He wished he’d seen the children going into the school, especially since the reflection of the sky rendered every window blank. As he drove off Melanie followed him. He oughtn’t to be so conscious of her that he failed to focus on the road, and he looked ahead to see there was traffic to be kept in mind. He was nearly at the graveyard before he realised that he didn’t know when her car had vanished from the mirror.

  The Astra wobbled as though it had been overwhelmed by a gale. He’d caused the turbulence; his hands jerking at the wheel had. Surely he had no reason to panic, but the car wavered again as his phone uttered its clank. He pulled into the nearest entrance to the cemetery and read Melanie’s new message. Love you, it said. Still here.

  He was troubled by her having needed to add the last words, and he couldn’t think how to respond except by copying her message back to her, which he’d never done in his life. As he put the phone away he saw the police car lurking among the memorials. Had the police seen him use the phone while the engine was running? No, the white shape beneath the unproductive trees was a tomb, not a vehicle, and he did his best to leave the error behind along with the graveyard.

  The road shrank between the huddled shops, which looked more forgotten than ever. Beyond them cars were halted on the main road, but moved off as he caught sight of them. No doubt traffic lights had released them. In the retail park the sky seemed to be on its way to leaching every vehicle of colour. Was he parking in yesterday’s space? When he glanced back at the Astra he could have thought the windscreen had already grown as frosted as its neighbours, but that must be the reflection of the sky as well.

  Another reflection met him at Texts, though when the pallid glass doors slipped apart he saw that to some extent it had been composed of Shelley Blake. He wondered how long she’d spent in emphasising her features, outlining her grey eyes as if to stop them growing paler, pinkening h
er lips. Even her silvery blonde hair looked more metallic, exhaustively touched up. Since she appeared to expect him to speak first, he felt as if he should have prepared a remark. “On time this time,” he said.

  “Let’s hope it’s every day now.” Surely she didn’t need to think before adding “Paul.”

  “Let’s hope they aren’t all like this one.” Perhaps that sounded too unenthusiastic, and he jerked his head to indicate the sky—it felt not unlike lurching awake. “How much longer do you think we’re going to carry on like this?”

  “I think we’d better carry on just as we have been. That’s why we’re here.”

  She either hadn’t understood or chose not to understand. The doors met behind him, shutting in an almost inaudible vaguely musical murmur. When he raised his eyes in its general direction Shelley Blake said “Is that still you?”

  “Don’t you know?” In case this seemed too combative he said “I mean, didn’t someone start it off today?”

  “It’s whatever was here overnight.”

  “Then I expect I’m responsible.” Since her expression didn’t waver, not that there was much of it, Slater said “Would you like a change?”

  “We don’t want anything out of hand. Just be sure you play it safe.”

  As he wondered how much less adventurous she imagined a choice of music could be, she said “And then can you put everything in order?”

  “Everything,” Slater said and risked a laugh.

  “All the discs.” She stared at his badge as if this would remind him of his job. “All your music, Paul.” As he thought of retorting that it was by no means all his she said “Make sure it’s the right order.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one everybody wants. There’s only one.” She plainly felt it was unreasonable of him to make her add “The one everybody can see.”

  She had to mean whichever was easiest to understand. Slater went to the racks to find the shop its music. He was disconcerted by how complicated the arrangement of the discs seemed, even to him: composers, performers, conductors, symphonies, concertos, operas, oratorios, songs… He felt incapable of making a selection until film music came into his mind, but Fantasia ought to strike a chord with everyone. No sooner had he thought of it than he saw the album in the rack. As the Bach prelude that conjured up innumerable macabre films began a muted thunder overhead, Slater made for the staff quarters, tugging out his badge to meet the plaque. “Paul Slater,” he snarled under his breath in case the system was reluctant to acknowledge him, and felt as if he might have to say more until he heard the mechanism find in his favour.

  The music followed him into the staffroom—notes that kept mounting towards a peak to fall back and recommence their climb. On the way to his locker he caught sight of the memory board, which still displayed the remnants of the message in his handwriting. How could there be more to it than he’d previously seen? He must be viewing it from an angle at which the overhead glare didn’t blot out quite so many characters, faint though they were. ERE PA LATE—he still couldn’t reconstruct the words, which left him feeling inadequate. He raised a hand to wipe out the meaningless fragments but instead hurried to his locker.

  The metal door shut with a clank like the amplified sound of an incoming message. The children would be in their classes by now, and Melanie might be on the road. He wished he’d thought to ask where she was working. The music had risen into a blaze of sound suggestive of an unquenchable light, unless the film had put that into his head. It couldn’t dispel the pallid blankness that surrounded him—the concrete walls—and once the time clock had contributed a random note to the music he made his way out of the room.

  He didn’t know how long he gazed at the racks, trying to see how the discs could be better arranged—long enough that he began to feel in danger of forgetting what the sight meant. It was music rendered solid; no, it was a kind of memory of music, fragments of the past stored in the form of impulses. He needn’t dwell on that, because the idea seemed to leave him less able to read the names and words. Surely it was best to use the ones that were poking up on tags above the discs for customers to see, not that there were many of those in the shop just now. Composers had to come first, or there would be no music, or had folk music come before any composer? On second thought the alphabet must be the solution; it was the order most people knew. So a performer like Glenn Gould preceded Handel after all, and Angela Hewitt took precedence over Holst, but did she over Bach? Surely last names counted most, since some people mightn’t know the others. For a moment Slater could have imagined that the racks were already in the order he’d thought up, but he had to remember that wasn’t how he’d just seen them. He took hold of the handful of cases behind the letter A—composers insufficiently prolific to have name tags of their own—and moved them to the beginning, and then he set about following them.

  The cases and the tags clacked like counters in a game. The sound kept driving the music out of his head, and soon he’d lost all sense of time and even of the shop around him. He mustn’t grow unaware of Melanie and the children, wherever they were just now, and he was fixing as much of his mind on them as he could spare when a voice he ought to know said “Trying to put it all back together?”

  He turned to be met by a blur, hardly even a sketch of a face. It regained its features as he confronted it fully—the eyes peering from beneath the overstated eyebrows, the mouth that seemed to need defining by its hairy frame, a few surplus strands accentuating the nostrils. The sight made Slater wonder when he’d last shaved: presumably this morning, since however hard he rubbed his chin he couldn’t feel any stubble. “Doing my best,” he said. “What can I do for you today, Mr Allen?”

  “Maybe you have. You remember.”

  “Your order, you mean. It may be a bit soon,” Slater said but made for the Information desk. “Let me see for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr Slayer.”

  Although Slater must have misheard, he hesitated at the computer. What name had he needed to type last time? The Bach hovered over him again—four notes tramping upwards, three of them outdistancing the fourth—as he remembered that the system called for his first name: no, not Derek. He keyed the four letters and brought up the customer’s order. “As I say, Mr Allen…”

  “Close enough.”

  “I’m afraid it hasn’t come for you yet.”

  “Not a problem and maybe the opposite. Any chance you can take it off the computer?”

  “I should think we’d be in time. You’re saying you don’t want it now.”

  “I think we may have remembered it wrong, the both of us.” As Slater attempted to feel less incompetent the man said “It was a poem, not a song.”

  “It could still have been set to music.”

  “Maybe everything can be.” Allen tilted his head towards the music that was following Bach—the Tchaikovsky suite. “Like the funguses,” he said.

  He must have the film in mind. Slater might have pointed out that he had the process back to front—the music had produced the mushrooms—but only said “Do you recall the poem?”

  “I remember, I remember.” It wasn’t clear that these were the opening words until the man added “It wasn’t the town where you were born, it was the house.”

  Rather than attempt to recall where that had been in his case Slater said “I’m afraid I don’t know any music for that.”

  “Nobody’s expecting you to. Do you know how it goes on? But now I often wish the night had borne my breath away.”

  Slater reminded himself that this was only a quotation. “Shall I get rid of this, then?”

  “May as well. You don’t want too much stuff on the system.”

  As Slater cancelled the order he saw his postcode vanish from the screen, and was disconcerted by how vulnerable this made him feel. He found himself taking hold of the phone in his pocket like some kind of talisman. A glance showed him it hadn’t received any messages, which seemed reassuring enough to let
him say “You’d have felt what my family did the other night.”

  “Why,” Allen said with an oddly guarded look, “what did they do?”

  “Nothing.” The word seemed too bare, not to mention defensive. “They didn’t do anything at all,” Slater insisted. “I’m saying what they felt.”

  “Which other night?”

  “Not the last one. The one before.”

  “The last one.” Perhaps the man was simply sampling the phrase. “Nonesday, you mean,” Allen said. “You’re telling me I know what they felt.”

  “I’m assuming you must have felt it as well, knowing where you live.”

  “Didn’t you just blank that out? What are we meant to have felt?”

  “I’m told it was an earthquake.”

  “I don’t think I’d have felt one of those.”

  Slater couldn’t very well not ask “Why, what else was happening?”

  “I don’t know what you’d call it. Maybe a bit of a seizure. First one I’d had in all my life.”

  Though the man was visibly reluctant to talk about it, Slater felt compelled to learn “What did it do to you?”

  “Put me out like a light. I don’t know how long I was. Next thing I knew it was starting to be the next day.”

  Slater wasn’t sure that he wanted to ask “Have you any idea what time it happened?”

  “I’d say about midnight.” Some kind of resolution made the man add “No, midnight it is.”

  “It sounds like what some of my family felt.” Having said that, Slater was driven to add “Someone at my children’s school was talking about it as well.”

  “What did they say to you?”

  “I wasn’t there. They were asking a teacher.” Although he felt as if he’d already said too much, he told Allen “Apparently the teacher didn’t like it much and took them to see someone.”

  “A doctor, would that be?”

  “I don’t know.” In a moment Slater blurted “Nobody seems to. That’s what bothers me.”

  “You needn’t let it. They weren’t one of yours by the sound of it.”

  “I oughtn’t to be concerned just with my family.”