Contents
Title Page
Also by F.R. Jameson
Dedication
A plea from the author
The Ghostly Shadow series!
Ghostly Shadows Shorts
Also by F.R. Jameson: The Screen Siren Noir series
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About the author
Foliage
F.R. Jameson
Also by F.R. Jameson
Ghostly Shadows
Death at the Seaside
Certain Danger
Won’t You Come and Save Me, Oh Soldier
Call of the Mandrake
Ghostly Shadows Shorts
The Strange Fate of Lord Bruton
The Widow Ravens
Algernon Swafford: Private Investigator
Sacrifice at St. Nick’s
Screen Siren Noir
Diana Christmas
Eden St. Michel
Alice Rackham
Other Short Stories
Confined Spaces
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To V and E, with love, always…
McGrigor filled his backpack with bottle after bottle of whisky. He watched the others gather food, whatever they could find in refrigerators and pantries – cheese, biscuits, canned goods. Edibles that weren’t going to rot too soon. McGrigor just brought bottles of Scotch; all the way up that hill he rattled with the sound of clinking glass.
The Preacher gave him long looks of disapproval, making it clear he’d feel righteously indignant when McGrigor asked for food. Except McGrigor never did. Whenever they stopped, he just raised a bottle and poured back another mouthful of brown liquid.
They walked for hours that day, hitting the higher ground. The Preacher led them, and when he spotted the cottage he spun back excitedly and pointed. The Preacher wore a big smile, but a smile no longer suited his face – whenever he attempted one he just looked like a harbinger of death. His appearance was now so tired and careworn that deep grooves replaced the lines on his face.
There were only four of them walking. McGrigor took the rear; it suited him to keep the others up front. The Kid staggered on in front of him in perpetual shock, his emotions as if pressed hard to a cheese grater. He barely spoke, just followed and stared on with confused moon eyes. He’d seen some terrible things. But they all had.
The Woman walked in front of The Kid. She wasn’t that much older than the boy and was holding it together only slightly better than him. A sob or a tearful murmur accompanied every step; a hand constantly wiped her eyes, her nose, her dribbling mouth. Her constant gasps made her forever breathless.
The Preacher – the guy in charge, the guy who so obviously cared – took the lead. He had that do-gooder preacher quality, always leading, absolutely convinced salvation awaited them and that they’d somehow be saved. Forever wittering about right and wrong – as if that mattered anymore.
The cabin was isolated on the rocky terrain, but it was shelter, a place to go. The Preacher smiled that dreadful smile, which whilst sincere was as far away from hope as any smile could be.
“Look!” The Preacher was breathless. “I told you I’d find somewhere safe!”
The Woman cheered at The Preacher’s announcement, a thin struggling sound, like an asthmatic pleased to have finished a race. The Kid just stopped and stared. McGrigor didn’t know if a smile or any other emotion crossed his dazed face.
McGrigor pulled the bag off his shoulder and removed a half-drunk bottle. He raised it to his mouth and poured back a long gulp. The Preacher’s disapproving glare made him lower the bottle. A stiff drink evidentially wasn’t the reaction The Preacher wanted to his news. He wanted joy, rapture, an acknowledgement that he – The goddamn Preacher! – had led them to sanctuary.
In response, McGrigor just took another drink. Why had he even followed The Preacher? He knew it was because he was scared, like a four year old who has lost his mother. For some reason McGrigor had believed The Preacher when he started his tales about a better place, somewhere everything was still okay.
McGrigor had believed even though part of him screamed he was being stupid. And now he had woken up, realised there were no sanctuaries, that they were doomed just like everybody else. It was real nice of The Preacher to find somewhere for the night, a place to keep the cold off, but he wasn’t going to fall to his knees and proclaim ‘Hallelujah!’ for it.
It took them three hours to get there – the rocky terrain, the treacherous path, the fact they were all so tired. For a long time, the cabin remained rooted on the horizon. McGrigor wondered if it was just an illusion, a mirage, a trick played by their wearying minds to give them a false sense of hope.
The Kid and The Woman took turns at stumbling, their hands reaching out to stop their faces from smashing into the hillside. Whenever it happened they looked up quickly, in the direction of the cabin, as if trying to make sure it was still there, that it hadn’t vanished in that instant of distraction.
They reached it just before nightfall, a wood and stone cottage with a couple of rooms – rustic and rural. Once upon a time it was no doubt home to some rosy-cheeked labourer and his plump and fruity wife. Now it stood deserted, now it seemed lost, as if it had wandered away from its hamlet and stranded itself high up in the hills.
McGrigor took a breath – his chest aching, his legs swollen, his brow strained with furrowing. He wasn’t drunk; he’d drunk too much for that in recent weeks. The booze kept him going.
In the spirit of charity he should probably have given The Kid some alcohol, remove that dreadful puss from his face. Maybe The Woman would have appreciated it, to stop her crying, maybe make her really cry so she could flush it all from her system. And The Preacher – let him go crazy, let him indulge, get him paralytic so he wouldn’t be so ridiculously insufferable.
Problem was, McGrigor didn’t want to share. He had a limited supply and didn’t have the strength to stagger back to get more. If only he hadn’t listened to The Preacher, if only he’d stayed in the city and hadn’t been convinced by fairy tales. There was plenty to drink in the city, enough to keep him going – and he’d been stupid enough to walk away.
The Preacher’s smile – tombstone teeth in a dead face – tried to force optimism on them all. He waited for them to catch up; he waited for The Woman. She staggered towards him on unsteady and bruised legs. The Preacher took her arm to support her, to give her little choice but to fall into him. This was no righteous preacher.
With her waist in his clasp, he turned and walked to the cabin. He didn’t wait for The Kid; he didn’t even look at McGrigor. He just led The Woman, dragged her, to the aged safe-house. If he’d had the strength he’d have carried her over the threshold.
“Here we are!” said The Preacher. “Here we are. This should look after our needs for a while.”
It was dank inside. There were three rooms – a front room, what once had been a kitchen and what once had been a bedroom – each with cold stone walls and wooden beams. There was no furniture anymore, it had clearly been abandoned a long time and now mainly functioned as a lavatory for wild animals. The windows were secure, the doors were heavy with big locks, and once inside they’d supposedly feel safe.
The Preacher led The Woman on a tour, like it was their first home, a grin on his face, a sparkle in his eyes – all so distant from the reality of the situation. The Woman snivelled beside him, wanting to sit down, desperate to collapse but too weak to separate herself from him.
The Kid did collapse. He slid down against the wall, his clear blue eyes staring out with no hint of life behind them. McGrigor took another drink, silently toasting what he knew would
be his last ever home.
The Preacher let go of The Woman and she fell away from him. An almost faint, her body just remembering it had to bend its legs and drop its behind to sit down. The Preacher looked around at his companions.
“Andrew!” he said to The Kid. “How are you, Andrew? Are you alright? We’re here now. We’re away from it.”
The Kid didn’t even look at him.
“I know you’re scared, I know you’re frightened, I know you’ve seen terrible things – but really, we’re in the best place now. Trust me.”
Again, nothing from The Kid.
“That’s it.” said The Preacher. “You just rest now.” He looked at McGrigor. “You. Are you enjoying that drink?”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“Do you think there are more constructive things for you to do than drink yourself to death?”
“You really would think so, wouldn’t you? But to be honest I think I’ll just keep on drinking and let death take its chances.”
The Preacher glared at him, and McGrigor took a triumphant sip, careful not to spill a drop.
They each settled into a corner for the night. The Preacher would clearly have loved to slip his arm around The Woman, hold her through the night, soothe her, warm her with the heat from his body – but she whimpered when he came near. He whistled it off, a brief tune of disappointment, and then he settled opposite her, his eyes nowhere but on her. The Kid stayed where he’d collapsed, and McGrigor crouched by the door, bottle in hand.
Night fell and McGrigor tried to get comfortable on the cold stone floor. He drank and calculated how long he could keep drinking from the ten bottles he still had. Seven days, maybe more. He’d lost track of how much he’d already drunk; it was like asking someone how many particles of breath they’d used. He figured about a week and then he’d have to decide what to do, whether he could still get some more.
When dawn came The Kid shivered at the cold and clutched his hands around him, The Woman brought her shoulders together, and The Preacher, after a moment of stiffness – after a moment of nervous shaking where he gave away a fraction of what he really felt – grabbed onto the cold as if it were bracing, as if it were something that would do them good.
“What to do?” he asked. “What to do?”
Of course, there was nothing to do – not really, not that would make the slightest difference. There was a chance they were the last four people alive, the soggy cigarette butt of humanity. There was nothing they could do, no decisions they could take, no changes they could make – nothing. They could just wait and stare or wait and sob or wait and drink.
The Preacher didn’t agree. He’d clearly been one of those people who enjoyed having every moment of his time occupied. The type who revelled in daybreak starts and enjoyed long hikes to some pointless wherever, who once at that pointless nowhere clung to a grim determination to make the best of it.
The Preacher wandered through the cottage, and McGrigor watched him from the corner of his eye, careful not to stare, avoiding eye-contact. The Preacher had an eagerness about him, a desperation to please and be pleased. And even though McGrigor knew it was coming, even though McGrigor saw its arrival, he still greeted The Preacher’s clap of hands with a shudder. It was an unpleasant sound, a burst of thunder when you’re lost in a valley with nowhere to hide.
“Right!” said The Preacher. “We really shouldn’t spend all day idle. There are things to do. I think we’re going to be here awhile, aren’t we? Yes we are. And since we’re going to be here awhile, we have to make what they call the best of it.”
Only The Woman looked at him, and even she seemed baffled.
“I don’t know about you people, but I was cold last night,” said The Preacher. “Actually, I do know about you people. I saw you shivering there, Andrew, there’s no need to pretend to be hardy now. And Linda my dear, I nearly put my arms around you last night to keep your teeth from chattering. And You… Well, how could you possibly get cold with all that inside you?”
McGrigor smiled at the stone floor.
“So, what I suggest is that we get some firewood, some kindling for tonight. There are those trees outside and I think we can take off the loose branches quite easily.”
“Are they trees?” asked McGrigor, still not looking up.
“They’re trees!” said The Preacher. “Do you think I don’t know what trees are? Do you really think I’d lead you elsewhere?”
He waited for McGrigor to meet his eye, then realised it wasn’t going to happen this lifetime.
“So what I suggest, Andrew, is that you go out and get whatever loose branches you can. Either those that have snapped and fallen to the ground, or those you can break off yourself. That way we can make a base for our fire. And – you’ll be pleased to hear – I’ve already taken a look around, and behind this cottage is an axe. It’s old and it’s rusty, but I think I have the smarts about me to sharpen it up. So what do you say, Andrew? You get the easy wood, and I’ll come behind and get the solid fuel. Does that sound like a plan? Does it?”
The Kid said nothing, and The Preacher took that as assent.
“Now then, Linda,” he said, leaning over her, his mouth a few inches above the top of her head. “Now then – what are you going to do? Well, it occurs to me that we have plenty of canned food – and of course our friend there has supplies if we should ever want to throw a party – but it strikes me it would be silliness to come all this way and then die of scurvy. So what I suggest is: there are a number of bushes out beyond this cottage – and they are bushes – and what you could do is take a look if there is anything edible on them. Just go out and pick a berry from each – remembering which you took each berry from – and bring them back here. Don’t eat them, whatever you do, just bring them back and show them to me. I’m not a horticulturist, but I have been on enough nature rambles to have a good idea what’s sweet and what’s not. Can you do that for me? Can you, my dear? Can you?”
“Yes,” she said, with a nod that could easily have been a shiver.
“Good.” He stroked his hand across her hair, resisting the urge to reward her with a kiss.
“And you,” said The Preacher. “What are you going to do?”
McGrigor took a swig from his bottle.
“That’s not very helpful!”
“On the contrary,” said McGrigor. “It’s helping me no end.”
“Staggering about like a drunken bum is helping, is it?”
“Maybe if you play nice I’ll let you try some and see if it helps you, too.” He took another gulp.
“Are you going to do nothing, is that it?” asked The Preacher. His face turned an odd shade of puce, and McGrigor noticed how weary the Preacher looked. “Are you just going to sit there and drink and obliterate yourself? Is that all you’re going to do? Is that all you’re capable of doing? Is it? Is it? I’m trying to help here, I’m trying to make things easier for all of us, and that task would be a great deal simpler if you would get up off your drunken backside and lend some kind of support.”
“What’s the point?” asked McGrigor. “How long do you think you’re going to live? A day? Two days? Do you think our brief time in this old shack will be improved by you managing to hang curtains? What does it matter? Berries? Do you think we have enough time to die of scurvy? Do you really think – all things considered – that the illness we have to worry about is the common cold, the flu, hypothermia?”
The Preacher’s face reddened and his lips pouted; he looked like a child about to throw a tantrum. “Don’t say that! Do not say that! You don’t know how long we can live for up here. We’re away from the city now; we’re away from that-that… that illness. It’s a different air up here; it’s a different feel. You don’t know how long we can live for. We could get better, we can make a new start. If we have some heat, if we have some fresh food – you never know what might happen.”
“We won’t get better,” said McGrigor.
“You don’t k
now that!” screamed The Preacher.
“We might get better,” The Woman sobbed.
“Don’t listen to him.” said McGrigor. “It’s inside us, in our bones. It’s not about to go away because we’ve started eating berries. Do you understand me? This is it, this is over, this is where we die.”
“Don’t say that!” said The Preacher, taking an angry step towards him.
“Do you think no one lived on a hill? Do you think no one lived on a mountain? Of course they did – they lived there with all the fire and berries they could possibly want – and it got them too. People went to the goddamn hills when this started, they got in their cars and just zoomed. We haven’t heard from them since, have we? Not one of them sent a message back saying its all fine up there, that the human race can be saved with just a switch to higher ground. They haven’t done that, they haven’t made a peep… And do you know why? It’s not because they’re trying to keep all the berries and fire for themselves. It’s because it’s not safe there either.”
Despite the rage popping out in sweat bubbles on his forehead, The Preacher stood a good half a foot shorter than McGrigor, and his eyes darted to the bottle in the bigger man’s hand. He took a wary step back, spluttering and clenching his fists but keeping a comfortable distance.
“So, what exactly are you going to do?” asked The Preacher.
McGrigor shrugged.
“That’s hardly fair.” said The Preacher. “If we’re out there toiling, it’s unreasonable for you to stay in here and just inebriate yourself.”
“Listen Preacher,” said McGrigor. It was the first time he’d actually called him that, and surprised confusion crossed The Preacher’s face. “I won’t eat any of your berries, I’ll keep a respectful distance from your fire, and I won’t take the benefit of any of your labours. You just leave me be, and I’ll let you enjoy your toil.”
Foliage Page 1
