The Rules

by Tracy Darnton

  I’m not concentrating properly and as I turn from the counter, I knock straight into the young guy standing right behind me. My glass tips, my drink splattering on the floor and down my legs.

  “I’m so sorry. Completely my fault,” he says. He smiles broadly as I dab at my already wet boots and trousers with a disintegrating paper napkin. “I was distracted by the chocolate brownies. Let me get you another drink.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I’m just going.”

  “But your drink – and it’s hammering down outside. You should wait for it to clear up a bit.” He pushes his damp hair off his forehead and grins again. “I’m Will.” He holds out his hand with a confidence I’ll never have. A confidence that the effortlessly good-looking seem to get for free.

  He’s expecting me to introduce myself in return but instead I lower my eyes and point to his hiking boots. “Up here walking?”

  “Not the best time to be hiking weather-wise, but it’s when I could get time off. Always wanted to walk the whole of Hadrian’s Wall. Look, I was about to get myself something. Let me get your drink too. I feel terrible.”

  The woman behind the counter is impatient and tutting. We’re attracting attention I don’t want. I take the path of least resistance and agree to the drink.

  The rain shows no sign of letting up. There’s still no Josh. It’ll be fine to spend ten minutes here before moving on. I could even ask to borrow this guy’s phone to call Julie.

  I pick a table in the corner and shake the water off my coat. Will looks two or three years older than me, with an expensive jacket and a body that has plainly spent a lot of time in the gym. As he squeezes on to the old wooden bench opposite me, still smiling and chatty, he’s acting like he’s known me for ages, not five minutes. I take the glass of fizzy elderflower he offers. “I’ve put the bottle in the recycling already,” he says, like I’m going to criticize his green credentials. “I couldn’t decide which cake so I got several. Take your pick.”

  I nibble at a chocolate brownie, aware of his gaze.

  “Let’s toast an end to the rain, shall we?” He raises his mug and clinks it against my glass.

  Unlike Will, I don’t want to talk about the terrible weather or Christmas shopping or the cuteness of the baby who’s sitting in the highchair near the counter. I sip my drink while he talks enough for both of us. I can’t relax. This was a bad idea.

  “I should go…” I start to say.

  “You can’t rush off and leave me with all these calories to tackle by myself.” He pushes the plate towards me. “Maybe you’d like another drink.” He keeps looking at the door. I hadn’t thought to ask if he was on his own. For a hiker he’s got hardly any stuff – and very clean new boots.

  “Where’s all your gear – rucksack, waterproofs?”

  “In the car,” he says.

  “I thought you were walking along the wall route,” I say, starting to worry that this whole situation is off.

  “In stages. Chipping away.”

  “Where did you start?”

  He squirms. “Durham.”

  “Don’t you mean Wallsend? How many days has it taken?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how many days because he hasn’t walked it. He doesn’t know where it starts! So why would he lie? He isn’t smiling any more.

  I drain my drink, my hand shaking slightly on the glass, and try to rise but something in my legs doesn’t feel quite right. Will slides on to the seat beside me and pushes me back down with an outstretched arm.

  “Stay. You need to let yourself recover after that row with the boyfriend.”

  How did he know about the row with Josh?

  He carries on talking about a good walk he did down in Cornwall. About Penzance. Is that where he started walking? Or did he say Newcastle? I’m having trouble following him. He’s fading in and out. I shake my head and blink my eyes. Will’s gone all blurry. His voice sounds strange now – like a recording that’s distorted and slowed down. Are we in Cornwall? Is that what he’s saying? What did I want to ask him about? It’s important – I think it’s important. I’m hot. I pour water into my glass, but it’s moving and I spill some on the table. I can’t see the café woman. Is she in the kitchen? The only other customer is busy with her baby. I pull at my fleece top. If I could just take it off, I’d feel cooler. But I get in a tangle with my sleeves. He helps me, says we’re going for a walk.

  I mutter something about how Josh might be coming back, but he says not to worry. He can come on the walk too. It’s cooler outside. I’ll feel better in the fresh air.

  I sway. The room is moving. Things are in my way. Chairs and tables float in and out. Will takes my arm and pushes me towards the exit. I think I might be sick. That would be a bad thing. Maybe it was the cake. Did I have a cake? Can cake make you ill like this? If only I could remember what I’d eaten, I could warn Josh not to touch it. Or what was the drink? Where’s the bottle? I pull back towards our table but Will won’t let me. Now we’re outside. By a car. I don’t want to get in a car. Do I? I’m waiting for someone. I can’t remember who. It’s a misshapen car – the bonnet is bulging and pulsating like a giant heart. That’s weird.

  “Your car is a giant heart,” I try to say but my tongue is swollen and won’t do what I want it to do.

  He’s speaking again. Something about the seat belt, about sitting still like a good girl. About how if only I’d followed the Rules, I’d have been OK.

  “Don’t you know the Rules?” he says. His hands are strong, pushing me back into the seat. What rules?

  “You should have remembered the Rule,” he says. “Trust no one.”

  Dad became obsessive about his bunker. It wasn’t a proper one – it didn’t have the levels of reinforced concrete or depth that he wanted. It was just a set of old caves, after all. But he glossed over that in favour of its main selling point: no one knew it was there.

  It was secret.

  It was just him and me.

  Me and him.

  I hated the weight of this secret. It bound us together in a way that I didn’t want.

  He chuntered on about his genes, and blood being thicker than water. But he also talked about obedience and honouring your father and not answering back and that he was the Rules and the Rules were him. I saw only him. All day long. Sometimes through the night too if he decided that our work wasn’t done.

  His words whirred round and round inside my head. I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t make it stop.

  It was dark.

  Dark.

  By the entrance, slivers of light came through chinks in the doorway, but we were working further in, within the main chamber, behind a heavy door. There it was pitch-black without the lighting we rigged up.

  People often say that, don’t they? It was pitch-black. But it seldom is. Usually there’s some glimmer from a streetlight or the moon or a phone screen. Somewhere up in the night sky will be the distant flicker of a star. Our eyes adjust, pupils widening, to take in the light. Shapes form and the brain rapidly builds a picture from what it can see, filling in the gaps from memory. Your brain pieces together that the ceiling is up, the floor is down, furniture stands on the floor, and so on. But if somewhere is truly pitch-black, if no matter how much you try you can see nothing, what then?

  I dreaded going in the caves with him to work on our bunker. I had a lamp strapped to my head, like a miner, and the most powerful hand torch we owned. But we were only a failed battery away from complete and utter darkness. We wired up some lighting powered by a solar panel up on the hillside. But it often flickered off without explanation.

  And I hated it.

  I tried to hide it. But he knew.

  He always knew.

  We built two slatted beds into the main chamber. Bunk beds. Not fun ones with dinosaur decorations and a slide. Ours were more prison-camp style. The mattresses were second-hand with unsavoury stains I didn’t l
ike to think about. We draped them in plastic as we hadn’t solved the condensation problem in the caves. The stone oozed dampness and salt despite the dehumidifiers that hummed away when we could get the generators working. Dad would freak out from time to time and turn them off, insisting they could be heard from outside, by the government. I mean, what the hell? Sometimes, he preferred to keep watch outside with a set of binoculars, or night-vision goggles he’d wasted his money on.

  We installed a water tank and practised purification and filtration methods. It was Wales – we weren’t short of rainwater or watercourses. We just had to harness it, store it safely and be prepared for treating it if it was contaminated. I was becoming an expert in water engineering. I even toyed with it as a job. Fantasized that I’d be able to persuade Dad to let me go and train as something that would be useful. Something that would take me away from him.

  Because I was getting scared that he would never let me leave that farm.

  “What if something happens, what if you can’t get back in time?” he said. What he meant was: “What if you don’t come back? What if you choose not to come back?”

  Because the more time I spent preparing that hellish place for occupation, the more I felt I was digging my own grave.

  I thought about my show-and-tell list of SHTF scenarios. I went through the options one by one. And I came to the conclusion that living in that bunker was worse than all the other SHTF scenarios on the list.

  I’d rather take my chances with the zombies.

  My head is splitting. The light feels so bright but as my eyes slowly open, I see that no more than a sliver of light is seeping under the edges of the blackout blinds. Striped blinds, blue and white. A kid’s room? What kid? It’s all too much effort. Thinking hurts. Mum? My head hurts. Why does my head hurt so much? Did I bang my head? I just need to sleep some more.

  I overheard him talking on his phone that day when Mum left. I heard the word ‘Springside’ twice.

  I was sitting at the top of the stairs, hugging my knees and crying silently. If you ram your fist into your mouth and bite on it, no one can hear your sobs.

  I say ‘when Mum left’ but that suggests she packed a suitcase and walked away. Like going on a holiday or to visit family. We didn’t have holidays and we didn’t have family or friends to visit.

  Not any more.

  Or ‘when Mum left’ could suggest she chose to go, to leave me there with him. To take my chances.

  I don’t believe she’d ever have done that if she’d had any choice at all.

  He took her somewhere. He put her in the car and drove her and her suitcase to a hospital or a clinic. He wouldn’t tell me where. And the only name I had was Springside. That would be enough. It would have to be enough.

  After the meltdown. (Meltdown sounded better to me than breakdown.)

  Mad.

  “Your bloody mad mother.”

  That’s what he shouted at me that day.

  Stark staring mad. Raving mad. Mad as a hatter.

  Crazy

  Nutty

  Insane

  Loopy

  Lunatic

  Bonkers

  Neurotic

  Hysterical

  Certifiable

  Rule-breaker

  Dad was a thesaurus screaming words.

  He blamed doctors.

  He blamed the council and the government.

  He blamed her long-dead parents.

  He blamed her.

  He blamed me.

  He didn’t blame himself.

  I’m in a bedroom. I’ve slept in so many different places lately that I can’t remember where I am. The bedding is plain white. The room has nothing but a bed and a chair and my familiar bag. I sit up but my head aches so much I take my time before standing, easing each foot gingerly on to the floor. I’m in a loose cotton T-shirt that reaches my knees. It isn’t mine. I shudder to think that someone has undressed me and put me in this. I take in all the details of the room. I don’t recognize this place because I haven’t seen it before. Someone has brought me here. I try to think back but everything is muddled. I can remember a café, meeting someone. It wasn’t Dad. It wasn’t Josh. Who?

  I step unsteadily towards the door. I pull on the handle, then push. The door’s locked from the outside. Now I know I’m in the shit. If I could just shake off this feeling that my whole head is full of cotton wool and think straight… I stagger back towards the window and pull up the blackout blinds. A double-glazed, locked window. No key. The view is of a garden, with a dark forest of spruce trees beyond. No cars, no people. No other buildings. Crows are shrieking in the trees. Dark thoughts cross my mind. I should have called Julie when I had the chance.

  Neat piles of my clothes sit beside my bag, laid out in order. Did I do that? They smell of washing powder. I’ve been here long enough for my kit to be washed. The socks lie in a ball without the boots or shoes. I check the bag. No footwear. The heavy torch has gone, the mini-shovel, the stove, the matches, the snare wire, the fish hooks, the knife, syringes, etc., etc. All the items I could have used to get myself out of here – to fight my way out of here – have been removed.

  I listen at the door, my ears straining, pressed up against the wood. This place is freakily quiet. Somewhere a clock ticks. Old-fashioned. Maybe it’ll chime the hour.

  My toiletries bag is by the sink in the small en-suite shower room. I clean my teeth and rinse my mouth. As I wash my face, I begin to feel more like me, more human. How long have I been in this room? My watch has gone. I check in my bag again, going through every pocket. The advent calendar has been left in the bottom – I guess it seemed unimportant. The last day I opened was the fourteenth but I don’t know when that was.

  I stand at the window, trying to work out the time of day from the grey wintry light. But it’s too cloudy. Morning? Late afternoon? I hate that I have no idea. I shower quickly, listening out for anybody coming, and dress in a top and jeans. I feel better for the shower though someone will have heard the water.

  I rattle at the door again. This time I shout out. Heavy steps on a wooden, creaking floor approach the room. I stand back, stabilize my weight, get ready for whatever’s coming through. For whoever.

  The key turns in the lock and a young man in gym gear enters cautiously. He’s familiar, if I could just get this fog out of my head. Bill? Will?

  “You’re awake.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I brought you some food.” He hands me a bottle of smoothie and a cheese sandwich.

  “Is it safe to drink it?” I ask. “You not drugging me today?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “You’ve been out of it for a while. I may have given you slightly more than necessary. But it’s not a precise science and I didn’t want you causing a scene.”

  He shuts and locks the door and leans back against it. “Don’t bother thinking about going anywhere. The whole house is secure.”

  “Where are we? What’s the name of this place? Are you a prepper? Is my—”

  “Whoa!” He holds up a hand. “No conversation. Just eat.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, slowly chewing bits of sandwich, while he checks my room.

  He sees the advent calendar and says, “Two days behind.” He opens two doors, humming ‘Ding Dong, Merrily on High’. “A present and a snowglobe. How about that? No chocolate.” He throws it back in the bag.

  The smoothie feels thick and gloopy. I drink the whole bottle but I’m still thirsty and refill the bottle from the tap.

  “Thirst can be a side effect, but it’ll wear off. Soon have you fighting fit and ready for…”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll leave that as your Christmas surprise. Not my place to ruin it. Shall we go? There’s someone who’s dying to see you awake.”

  He leads me along the landing past an old grandfather clock and to a big wooden staircase. The house is sparsely furnished, with dark painted walls. The stairs creak one after the other. My legs d
on’t feel quite right yet, still wobbly, and I grip the handrail in case they fail me.

  An American accent booms from a room off the hall. “Amber? Is that you, honey?”

  The hairs on my arms prickle and a feeling of dread thumps into my stomach, even though I knew deep down it was coming.

  Dad stands up as we enter the room. He’s large as life, barely contained victory oozing from his pores.

  “Hello, darling. Where’ve you been?” He leans forwards and kisses my cheek while I stand still as an ice sculpture. “Welcome to our community here at Centurion House. You’ve already met Will.”

  All the efforts I made to get here to Centurion House and fate was bringing me anyway. Fate/Will/Dad, whatever.

  And now I need to get out.

  The room’s large with shuttered windows looking on to the garden beyond. A long wooden dining table is covered with papers and boxes, with more piled up around the room. I knew there was an outside chance he’d be storing stuff here now Eden’s out of the question. I shouldn’t have so easily dismissed the risk that he’d be here too. Stay one step ahead, that’s the Rule. Dad takes the chair at the head of the table. Will takes a seat to his side and looks at my dad for instruction.

  “You sure are a hard girl to pin down,” Dad says. He hasn’t broken the smile yet. It’s fixed on his face like a mask. He looks well, even up close. He pushes back a chair with his foot and it scrapes on the tiled floor, then he gestures for me to sit with a brief nod of his head.

  I’m four, with pee running down my leg, watching him drag Mum by her hair.

  I’m eleven with my hands over my ears and my eyes tight shut but I can still hear Mum crying.

  I’m thirteen with my arm twisted up my back.

  I’m fourteen watching my books burning.

  I’m fifteen locked alone in a dark, stinking cave.