Bar None (2 page)

Why bother?
Cordell would say.

Because there are so few of us left
, the Irishman would reply.

The bike clears the last of the cars and passes the few buildings on the other side of the river; the Royal Oak, the expensive apartments, the boys' school that has been closed for a decade. The bridge is clear. For some reason no vehicles were left there. The bike powers our way, and as it speeds up its motor seems to echo from the whole hillside.

Still a mile away
, I think,
road to climb, the lane to navigate, then the gravel driveway. But it feels as though it's here already
.

"Jess!" I shout. Jessica looks up from her planting. "Someone's coming out of the city!" I see her stand, arms limp by her sides, and then she drops her trowel and hurries into the Manor's kitchen.

The Irishman jumps from the tree swing and looks my way. "Who?" he shouts, cupping his hands to his mouth. For now his voice drowns the sound of the motorbike, and for that I am grateful. Within minutes that will no longer be the case.

"Guy on a bike!" I shout. "I'm coming down." He nods, waves and runs for the Manor.

I start down the staircase for the second time in ten minutes. I'm painfully alone. It's a feeling that has hit me often since the plagues came and went, but lately it has happened less and less. I'm not sure whether that's because I'm adapting to being alone, or because we are forming some sort of tentative family here. Distant, cautious, often unwilling, but a family nonetheless. A family of survivors.

They'll all be in the dining room by now. Cordell will be handing out the guns while the Irishman tries to calm their fears, telling them that this could be a survivor from another part of the country. They'll be scared, but excited as well. We haven't seen or heard from anyone else for over four months. Jacqueline will whisper something that no one will hear, and Jessica will be strong and impassive, shaking her head at the Irishman's passionate pleas, offering a dismissive smile to Cordell as he predicts trouble. She seems to be stronger than all of us, but once I thought I heard her crying herself to sleep.

I need a drink now.

Perhaps that's why the motorcycle man is coming.

Maybe he knows.

As I run, I pull out my flask. The beer is warm and flat, but I pause and gulp it down. I'm nervous. I need some taste of the comfort in times gone by. For a minute or two, I need to go away.

I remember drinking Greene King Abbot Ale on the banks of the Usk, relishing its hoppy crispness, its sweet caramel aroma and nutty aftertaste, admiring the slight head that stuck to the glass, and I was halfway through my third pint when I saw her. At first I had to shield my eyes from the sun to make out whether or not she was real. She had crossed the river bridge, a mirage emerging from the blazing heat, and now the sun battered down behind her and threw her melting shadow my way. Where it touched, my skin grew warmer. The sun was so powerful that it shone through as well as around her, curling across curves, piercing hair and eyes and meeting again before her, holding her, almost wiping her from existence. I squinted, trying to form a shadow for my eyes. She ran her hands through her hair and made a sunburst halo. Then she sighed.

I had still not seen her properly, but I fell in love with that sigh. Perhaps it was the beer in me—three cool pints on such a hot day, and I had not eaten since a token slice of toast for breakfast. The Abbot lay light on my stomach and heavy in my veins, giving the sun more power, sensitising my eyes to the brightness and heat, and this miracle vision before me.

I took another swig of beer, draining my glass. Smacked my lips. God, I loved beer. There was something so intensely powerful about that taste, and yet so primal, as though with each fresh mouthful I was blinking back to the early history of myself, a potential that could not even shift a speck of dust in those ancient African plains where humanity was born. Sometimes I had moments when I thought the truth of things was so very close to my lips, just a whisper away. The feeling would last forever—a second, maybe two—and then I would speak, and I always said the wrong thing. I used to wonder whether I was the only person this happened to, but sitting on that riverbank with an empty glass warming in my hand, I shifted to the side just enough to see her face. And I knew then that it was not only me. We all have the potential of truth and revelation within us. I saw the way her whole body paused, as though the world held its breath on her account, and then her hand went to her cheek, fingertips tracing the smooth skin.

"Don't speak," I said. I knew that she heard me, though she showed no sign. "You'll never say the right thing."

After a dozen rapid heartbeats Ashley turned and stared at me. The sun allowed us that contact now, still hot, still blazing the ground dry, but permitting us to see each other without its interrupting glare. "I had a moment, but it's gone. That's okay. I like mysteries. Can I buy you a drink?"

I smiled and held out my glass.

She sniffed the empty glass, closed her eyes. "Abbot."

And there was no way I could ever fall out of love again.

I am exhausted. I've had more exercise since the plagues than in the two decades preceding that catastrophe, but I am still on the wrong side of forty, and my body is far less forgiving than it once was. My legs are burning from running up and down the tower, and as I stumble down the steep path my shins feel as though they're being sliced with a blunt knife.

I can hear the motorcycle engine above my laboured breathing. It is close, probably approaching the long, overgrown lane that leads eventually to the Manor's gravel path. Three minutes away? Two?

Jessica appears at the Manor's rear door, gesturing with her hand. "Come on!" she shouts. I can see the Irishman behind her, face clouded by concern. There is no sign of Cordell. Probably at one of the front windows with our shotgun.

"Coming as fast as I can!" I say. I run past the pond built into a terrace in the hillside, sent on my way by several splashes as things jump back in. The wildlife here is diverse and fascinating, and I have spent long, spring afternoons sitting by the pond drinking ale. It seems to be a good venue for my memories.

I keep glancing at the long curving driveway that leads to the entrance between rows of old trees. We never bothered closing the cast iron gates, even though Cordell suggested it several times.
Why bother?
There's no one else
, Jacqueline whispered. Now I wish we had listened to him.
Just in case
, Cordell said.
Easy enough to open them if and when we do need to leave, and they're strong. They'd withstand
 . . . But no one wanted to hear any more.
Withstand a lorry ramming them
, he said. We all remembered those final days of martial law and curfew, NBC-suited soldiers shooting any civilians who dared sneeze or hold their heads, the Prime Minister on TV telling us why he'd had to nuke London, the mass graves, the burning. And we all wanted to think that was in the past.

As I pass into the shadow of the Manor—warm to cool, as though someone now stands between me and the sun—something appears between the huge stone gate posts. The motorbike roars, and gravel sprays behind it like heavy rain.

I run past Jessica, offering her a smile. It does not cool her frown. "Cordell!" I shout. I know he'll be the one most likely to open fire first.

"He's in the front room," the Irishman says. He's standing out in the hallway beyond the kitchen, worrying at a loose quarry tile with his heavy boots. He has a knife strapped to his belt, but his hand strays nowhere close.

I run past him and pelt into the living room. It stinks of old books. "Cordell!" I say again, pausing, leaning over and resting my hands on my knees. I look up and see him standing by the window, shotgun resting in the crook of his left arm.

"One man on a bike," he says. "Not wearing a helmet. Long blonde hair." He glances back briefly, and I'm comforted by the control in his eyes. He's not likely to blow the man from his bike without provocation.

"Jacqueline?" I ask.

"In the sitting room. She's got the .22."

I nod. The air rifle is an old single shot model, primed by pumping the barrel. We use it for hunting pigeons and ducks, and none of us are a very good shot. If she does use it, she'll have to get him in the eye to cause any real damage.

"I've told her to follow my lead." Cordell sees my concern, hears it in my laboured breathing.

The bike circles the dry fountain in front of the Manor. The rider takes it slow, showing that he is not a threat, and also that he's unafraid. His hair is indeed long and blonde, tied back in several places with what look like metal bands. He rides in shirtsleeves, and his heavy forearms are dark with exposure to the sun, ridged with prominent veins. No tattoos. No piercings that I can see. No sunglasses. It's an old model motorbike, a real antique, and I find the grumbling engine strangely comforting. Everything is very quiet nowadays. It's good to hear this. It's almost normal, and yet this man is so far from normal that I feel cold.

"What is it?" I ask, and my strange wording provokes no comment from Cordell.

We stand together and watch the biker come to a halt. He silences the bike and kicks down its stand. Then he dismounts, stretches, twists the discomfort from his back, yawns, and turns to look at the Manor for the first time.

We lock eyes. He knows exactly where we are, and he probably knew the second he drove in between the open gates.

Maybe he saw me seeing him from the tower
, I think, but it's a crazy idea. He'd been a mile away at least, and I was the one hidden away.

"He's looking right at me," Cordell says, and from across the hallway I hear Jacqueline gasp out loud.

"Where's he been?" I say. "I thought we were the only ones."

"We've talked about that," Cordell says, and we have. About how we cannot be the only ones left, how there must be other survivors, why we did not die, why we were spared. And yet we have heard or seen nothing on the airwaves for months, no sign of life from the dead city beyond the river, and the sky is clear and blue, unhazed by smoke or the exhaust from aircraft. The idea that we're the last ones left is faintly ridiculous, but much of the time it's also the only thing I can believe.

If there are others, why haven't we met them by now?

"He's not one of
them
," I say. "One of those flying things. From above the city."

"I've never seen them." He's sticking to his usual story, though I'm certain he's lying.

The man approaches the front door and I hear Jacqueline dash into the hall. I rush out to be with her—I can never quite tell what mood she's in, how dangerous she can be—but she is already reaching for the door locks. Jessica stands just behind her, and the Irishman is back in the shadows beneath the staircase. The most optimistic of all of us, he seems to be the most afraid.

Jacqueline has left the air rifle leaning against the timber wall panelling and I snatch it up.
It wouldn't do any good
, I think, but I try to ignore the idea.

Cordell is beside me, still cradling the shotgun.

"Do you really think we should do that?" the Irishman whispers from under the stairs, and the door opens inward.

The man stands there for a while, letting the sun spill in around him. His shadow leans out before him, stretching across the timber floor and pooling around my feet. He smiles. "Afternoon," he says. "Any chance of a beer?"

"Who are you?" Jessica says. There is no trace of threat or fear in her voice.

"My name's Michael," the man says. "At least, it is today."

"Just today?" I ask. He looks at me and his attention is intense.

"I left it behind six months ago," the man says. "When I need to feel as though I still belong to the past, I give myself a new name. Today, it's Michael. If you'll humour me—listen to something I have to tell you all—perhaps it'll stay Michael for a day or two longer. I hope so." He glances down at the floor as though staring at his own shadow. "I'm tired of being lost."

"That beer," Jessica says. "We have some. Not much. Not much left at all, and we don't like to . . ."

Michael nods. "I know what you mean. I've been into some places, and it's stealing from the dead. It tastes bad. And it's all going off."

"All of it?"

"Everything. All bad."

"You just rode out of the city," I say. "I saw you."

He nods. "You have a good memory," he says, and for some reason I know he's thinking of Ashley.

I shift nervously, shifting the air rifle. It slips along my arm and feels cold all over again.
But I don't,
I think.
I have no memory. Only her pain, and her tears. I can't see her unless I drink, and that's no way to be
.

"What were you doing down there?" Cordell asks.

"Holding my breath. It's good to breathe again."

"You're scaring me," Jacqueline whispers. Jessica reaches out and touches her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Michael says. "This is all so strange. I haven't spoken to anyone for a long time."

"Where have you been?" I ask. "Is there anyone else? Are we the only ones? How did you know we were here?"

Michael smiles and steps forward, entering the Manor uninvited. "Any chance of that beer, and we can have a good long chat?"

I glance at Cordell, then turn and look at the others. None of us says anything, but in that silence the decision is made. "Of course," I say. "And you must be hungry."

Michael's eyes widen and he touches his stomach. "Ravenous."

We've talked about the things we occasionally see above the city, floating there in warm currents, sometimes dipping down and rising again with something dark and vague clasped in their claws, or feet, or whatever they have. We all seem to see something slightly different, and Cordell claims to see nothing at all. My impression is of small, winged people, flying with staccato movements like something from a Ray Harryhausen animation. Jacqueline sees large birds, Jessica sees moths, and the Irishman says he sees only shadows, drifting up and down like whiffs of smoke or ash from some distant, unseen fire.