Bar None (6 page)

"You seem to have forgotten the stinking dead city bulging with two hundred thousand corpses," the Irishman says.

"I didn't forget. That's what's ended. I'm just looking at what's continuing."

"We're continuing," I say.

"This?" Jacqueline says. Her soft voice has turned surprisingly harsh. Drink doesn't agree with her, and I always get on edge when she's starting her fourth or fifth bottle. "This is hardly continuing. We're dead but breathing."

"It's still an existence for me," Jessica says, and her breath mists the glass in the window.

"Yeah, but you're weird." Jacqueline lobs her empty bottle and it smashes in the stone fireplace.

"He said everything's going to change," I say.

We drink, and think, and the room is silent for a long time.

That evening, the last of the beer gone, bottles smashed in the fireplace, glass spilling across the carpet like dying embers of a cold fire, I open the patio doors and stand on the gravelled garden area with Cordell, Jessica and the Irishman. Jacqueline has gone to her room, and we can hear the sounds of the Manor settling around us as the heat leaves its stone walls. The sun has gone, leaving a bloody smear across the horizon. Some trees catch the light, and a few clouds echo pink and orange.

"It's a long way," Cordell says. "Could be anything out there."

"Anyone," Jessica says.

We're not watching anything in particular, but I see the way the setting sun continues to hang from the branches of trees, dripping from them, clinging on even after the horizon has grown dark.

Things are going to change
, I think. I glance at the others and know that they have seen it too.

When morning comes we're keen to leave. We pack the two Range Rovers we found in the Manor's garages when we first arrived. Cordell checks them over—tyre pressures, oil levels—although I know he has been tending the vehicles regularly for months. It was something to kill the time, but I also think he always knew there would be a time when we needed them. Most of us, me included, rarely thought beyond a few days ahead.

I have volunteered to ride Michael's motorbike. I am the most experienced, and the thought of riding alone appeals to me. The bike is something of a talisman in my mind, a physical proof of Michael's presence. It was only the night before last that he spoke to me—spoke to us all—but already I'm finding it hard to believe that he was ever here. He has caused us to move on, yet I can barely remember his face or voice. If I close my eyes it's almost there, like someone's name on the tip of your tongue, but there's nothing that quite jars the memory and makes it concrete.

But the bike is solid, the bike is there. Its seat is worn, its tyres old and nearing the ends of their lives, and oil has spattered much of the engine and congealed. I took a rag to it earlier in an attempt to clean it off, but succeeded only in smearing the oil onto new places. It's been a long time since I looked after a bike, and this one is older than any I have ever ridden. It almost belongs in a museum.
It's worth a fortune
, I told Cordell that morning, and I smile yet again at his response.
Gets you where you need to go, it's worth your fuckin' life
. I have kick-started it several times already, and every time I take comfort in its familiar voice.

We're ready to leave by mid-morning. Hangovers have mostly lifted now, and there's an unexpected air of excitement amongst our small group. I had expected the beginnings of our journey to be downbeat and filled with dread, but even Jacqueline is smiling, and Cordell is keeping any doubts to himself. My thoughts lie at journey's end, and I guess everyone else is thinking the same way. I'm trying to imagine Bar None, the last bar in the world, sitting aloof on a Cornish cliff overlooking the wild sea, seagulls buzzing its old slate roof, windows long-ago painted shut against bitter ocean winds, walls painted white and chimney smoking a welcome. Inside . . . I cannot see. Michael has given me nothing for that.

I dwell little on the trip between now and then. The hundred and fifty miles of open countryside, dead towns and cities, burnt out power stations, abandoned cars, impassable roads, fields spotted with the humps of rotten cattle, rivers swollen with spring rains and bodies from the hills, and other things we cannot prepare for, or even imagine. We are not the only survivors, we know that since Michael came. I try not to think about meeting others. When I do, the outcome I envisage is never good.

I glance down at the city, pleased to see that the skies above it are empty today. Those things have never bothered us. But they are there. Their impossible truth is something we have never had the confidence to really discuss.

"So are we ready?" Cordell says. He's at the Manor's front door, looking out at us where we all stand on the gravel driveway. The door is open behind him, and looking inside feels like staring into the past. I can see the staircase that I will never climb again, ever. The banister already seems to have gathered a veneer of dust, and I'm sure I can make out a huge spider's web on the upstairs landing.

"I am," Jessica says. "Never thought I'd have wanderlust, but I just want to get out of here now."

"Yeah," the Irishman says, "this doesn't feel like our fuckin' pad anymore."

He's right. I look at the Manor's upstairs windows and they're impenetrable.

Jacqueline sighs, nods, then climbs into the first Range Rover and starts it up. The growl of the engine startles a flock of birds from a tree in the garden, and they loop around our heads a couple of times before disappearing over the building's roof. I imagine them following the contours of the land until they reach the tower, roost in the Manor builder's folly, ready to watch us leave and reclaim their home again.

"We should leave the doors open," I say. I expect one or two of the others to disagree, but only the Irishman offers a reply.

"He's right. We won't be back."

Cordell nods and walks to the second Range Rover. "Don't get too far ahead," he says to me quietly as he passes by. He's frowning. For the very first time that day, I feel a sense of fear at what we are about to do.

I mount the bike and kick it to life. We have already agreed to a preliminary route, and I tick off the road names and numbers in my mind. It sounds easy enough, but it's inevitable that we will encounter obstructions on our way. There will be abandoned vehicles of all kinds, untamed undergrowth, and perhaps fallen trees from the winter storms just gone by.

And maybe other things
, Cordell said.

Like what?
Jacqueline asked.

People
.

I zip my jacket and make sure the woollen gloves allow me adequate sensation. I have no helmet—Michael came without one—and my glasses will have to suffice in place of goggles.
People
, Cordell said. I think of that now, and every bad apocalyptic movie I have ever seen comes back to me again. Roadblocks manned by cannibals, a river of zombies stumbling along the tarmac, biker gangs raping women and slitting men's throats, road gangs shooting a driver for the gallon of gas in his or her tank . . . Each situation seems ridiculous individually, but I know that Cordell is right. There
will
be people out there, and many of them may not have weathered the past six months as well as we have.

What do we do if someone asks where we're going?
Jessica asked.

Tell them to mind their fucking business
, the Irishman said.

We have an air rifle and a shotgun. It's not a country where automatic weapons and rocket launchers are lying around to be claimed, yet there are places where a determined gang could find such things.

I shake my head and rev the bike. Jacqueline smiles shyly behind the windscreen of the first Range Rover, the Irishman sitting beside her. Cordell starts the second vehicle, adding to the noise. Jessica is his companion.

I'm on my own. And this is no time to get scared.

I lead the way along the gravel driveway. I move slowly to begin with, slipping into second gear and leaving it there for a while. The bike rides smoothly, crunching over gravel and responding well. It feels good beneath me. I'm warm and safe, my thinning hair combed by the breeze.

I can hear the large Range Rovers following me, their heavy wheels crushing gravel aside whereas mine simply rides over the surface. They contain our worldly goods, everything the five of us owns: our food, a few bottles of wine, two guns, gallons of water stored in old milk churns, and a selection of books from the Manor's library. We are carrying some of our past and all of our present with us, and for a while the future will exist only until the next bend in the road.

I reach the gates, pass between them and turn right without pause. As I straighten and shift gears I look to my right, through the budding hedge at the Manor. It looks so old and badly maintained, so lifeless, and I wonder whether it has borne that appearance for the past six months. I thought we brought life to the place, but perhaps not. Even with candles burning in its windows, I think maybe it simply looked haunted. I glance higher at the tower, and for a second I see my own pale face watching from its balcony. I swerve the bike across the road and regain control, then look again. The face has gone. It was never there at all, of course, but its absence makes me eager to be away.

I look over my shoulder, nod at Jacqueline at the wheel of the vehicle behind me, and start to pick up some speed.

That wasn't me
, I think.
That wasn't anyone
. I wonder if Michael had sensed me watching him zigzag between stalled vehicles down in the city. I feel no probing eyes on me now, but that is no comfort.

The road bears left and down, passing between a high ceiling of trees whose branches meet overhead. The budding leaves already form something of a canopy, and the road is speckled with their shadows. As spring advances so their shadows will grow until it is sunlight that spots the road. The ebb and flow of nature, the rise and fall of seasons, had always been a fascination for Ashley.

I dreamed of her last night—of course I did, the hops insisted upon it—and her presence in my mind is a comfort, even though I cannot see her.

I know she will be helping me on my way.

And as I think of her strained face again, for the first time ever I am glad that we never had a child.

Golden Glory, one of Badger's finest, pale and gold, crisp and refreshing and sweet, a barbeque beer that binds together outside eating, afternoon drinking and the sound of aircraft Dopplering across the hazy blueness of a late August afternoon, making it a whole, sensory experience that will be remembered as a day of your life. There's something almost sentient about a beer that manages to do that, as though supping Golden Glory is drinking in the flavour of life and the language of God. Three bottles, four, and even with spiced burgers and marinated lamb steaks resting in my stomach, still the ale slipped down well on that endless summer afternoon.

The barbeque was cooling in a far corner of the garden, because we needed no more heat. I was comfortable in a pair of shorts and nothing else, and Ashley was wearing a short summer skirt and a roomy blouse, no bra, her hair tied loosely, sun cream speckling the fine hairs on her neck and smeared across her ears where I had failed to rub it in properly. Too much effort. I could just about lift the glass from lap to mouth and back again, and I knew that later we would go inside, shower and make love. Skin warmed by the sun, we would make sure we moisturised each other, and then lie atop the bed and draw the curtains, sweating and cooling again in our bedroom's shadows.

A robin sat on our garden fence, chirping at us. It was almost tame. A wisp of cloud had appeared high up, barely moving as though uncertain of which way to go. I was trying to make out images in the cloud, but it and my mind were too vague to form a solid shape. For no reason I could properly discern, that troubled me.

Sometimes it's a day of your life for all the wrong reasons.

Ashley rose from her chair, groaning like an old woman, and stretched. Her blouse rose up and offered me a peek at several inches of taut belly. She rubbed at her hair, stretched back to look up at the sky, and I could make out the shape of her nipples beneath the material. I hummed appreciatively.

"Thought you were asleep," she said.

"You just woke me up."

"Another drink?" She grabbed the glass from my lap and walked toward the house.

"Just one more," I said. "Then I think I need some aftersun."

"Me too," she said without turning around.

"I have a handy applicator."

She glanced back, smiled, and as she passed through the back door she flipped up the back of her skirt, flashing her buttocks. I followed her into the kitchen, watched her carefully pouring another two bottles of Golden Glory, and we never finished those bottles. It was an absolutely perfect day, hued with an unspoken certainty that thrilled us both.

Next day Ashley's period came, three weeks late, and perfection took its leave.

I follow the lane left and right down the hillside, aiming for the river that borders one side of the dead town, and already this feels like an alien place. The new growth in the hedgerows had been unchecked this spring, allowed to spread untouched by shears or tractor or the wing-mirrors of cars. It bulges out into the road, fresh thin shoots branching off older brown limbs, and buds spot them green. It's not preventing our travel, but I have to drive down the centre of the road to avoid being whipped around the face. I hear the vehicles behind me scraping past here and there, wood bearing on metal like troubled chatter. The road itself is littered with winter's fallen leaves. With no traffic to clear them away the leaves have remained, forming a damp, muddied layer across the tarmac. It's not too slippery right now, because we haven't had rain for almost two weeks, but I still ride carefully.

The motorbike feels comfortable beneath me. It's responsive and obedient, taking me across flat, level surfaces, dodging around small humps in the road that may be buried branches or other things hidden by fallen leaves. My arms start to ache soon after leaving the Manor, but it's not an unpleasant sensation. I can feel the power of the machine transmitted up through my bones, and it feels good.