From the Indie Side (18 page)

While I sat on
the uppermost step, my companion tried the door. When he found it
locked, he peered through a small windowpane, then looked around,
grabbed a weighty stone planter, and hurled it through the glass.
The noise shattered the small peace I had found, and I began to
shake again.

“Sorry,” he
said as he picked me up. He carried me as easily as a child, and I
was uncomfortably aware of how strong he was, and how much I was at
his mercy. He took me down a wide dark hallway and I saw the open
double doors of the chapel ahead. “Lie here,” he said, setting me
down on a pew with a long cushion on top of it. “I’ll go and
explore, try to find us some food.”

I closed my
eyes as I leaned against the rough cushions, trying to will the
strength back into my body. A bomb, he had said. I couldn’t fathom
it: our country wasn’t at war. Then I remembered that war took
different forms nowadays—declared faster than a snap of your
fingers, in schools, at sporting events, in business districts and
holiday resorts. The news had been so serious for a long time, more
and more soldiers deployed overseas, but we had heard it all so
regularly that it was just Muzak, a background hum I had learned to
accommodate without any thought at all.

Perhaps
there
had
been a
bomb.

If that was the
case, I consoled myself, we lived out in suburbia. We weren’t near
any of the city’s landmarks, where surely such a thing would be
detonated for maximum effect.

But I could
barely stand up, and I had been an hour away from the city.

Where was
everyone else? What was left?

I had a moment
of terror as I flashed forward to another life. No trips to the
park or the beach. No ice creams or bedtime stories. 

I looked at the
images above me, saints held suspended in the stained glass like
insects in amber. And even though I didn’t believe in God, I found
myself praying to them. Then I lay there for a long time, wondering
what else I could do. Perhaps, if I was quiet and still enough, and
closed my eyes long enough, perhaps it would all go away.

But after a
while the cushions were just too hard and scratchy, and no matter
how I twisted and wriggled I couldn’t find comfort. It seemed so
long since I’d been left there that I began to imagine the man had
gone, and I was on my own.

There was a
statue at the front of the chapel, of Mary looking down at baby
Jesus bouncing on her knee, blissfully unaware that centuries of
peace and war were held in each of those chubby fists. I felt I had
interrupted them, that at any moment Mary might look up and catch
my eye with her stony ones, and I would feel her judgment of me for
the way I had left my children that morning.

I held tight to
the seat in front of me, and wondered how close I was to
hallucinating.

I had to get
out of there.

I pulled myself
up and staggered along using the backs of the benches for support,
finding that some of my strength had returned. I pushed open the
chapel doors and saw it was much lighter in the long corridor that
ran the whole length of the convent. I fought the urge to count the
black and white tiles as I stepped on them, and could hear Graeme’s
voice in my head, telling me it was like some kind of OCD.
Laughing. Now I believed him, and it wasn’t funny.

As I walked I
could hear my rescuer’s voice coming from a room farther down, and
the only thing that stopped me from calling out was the repetition
of numbers under my breath.

“Nineteen,
twenty, twenty-one…”

At twenty-two I
was next to the door. It wasn’t closed, and I leaned in closer to
try to hear what was being said, sure that he would have heard my
tread on the tiles. Another terrifying thought occurred to me: that
my life was in this stranger’s hands.

I should have
asked his name.

“…one other
survivor,” I heard him say. There was a pause, as though he could
be listening, and then he continued. “We’re at the Newman convent.
One hundred and twenty kilometers from the city.” Another pause.
“Just over two hours to drive…”

I watched him
through the space between the door’s hinges, keeping as still as I
possibly could. But his senses were keener than a cat’s. He turned,
and I saw he had what looked like a walkie-talkie in his hand,
except it had a wire connecting it to a large complex piece of
black machinery with numerous dials and buttons.

There was no
point in hiding, so I pushed open the door.

“What is that?”
I asked him.

“High-frequency
radio. I’m trying to broadcast, but no response so far.”

“Can I
see?”

“Sure.” As I
came closer he played with a few of the buttons, then handed me the
mouthpiece.

I held it up to
my lips, unsure.

“Say
something.”

I tried a
tentative “Hello?”, but there was nothing. I handed it back. “I
don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay, I
can’t find anyone anyway. We can keep trying—”

“What’s your
name?” I interrupted.

“Alastair—call
me Al. Yours?”

“Beatrice. Do
you have family in the city?”

“I have a
wife—but we’re separated. And you?”

“A husband. A
boy and a girl. Only six and four.”

I couldn’t say
any more. I needed to stay calm.

He made no move
to comfort me. There was nowhere for me to sit down. I leaned
against the wall and watched him try the radio again, repeating the
same words I had heard earlier, with the same pauses. No reply, and
yet I still felt as though he had been talking to someone that
first time I heard him.

Eventually, he
stood up. “I’ll try again later.” He caught my eye. “Are you
hungry? I found the kitchen earlier.”

“Not really,” I
replied. “But I know I should eat. Can we find somewhere else to
go? Not the chapel.”

“Sure. I’ll
come back and check the radio in a while.”

I followed him
out of the room, and we peered through doorways until we found a
spacious office with a couple of two-seater sofas against the
walls. I moved to one and lay down again. Al went out and came back
with a half-full package of cookies, some sodas, and chips.
“There’s not too much here, but they have got a vending
machine.”

“I think
there’s a cafe in one of the outbuildings,” I murmured.

“Okay, we’ll
find that if we need to. You must have been here before then?”

“Yes, once.” I
pushed back the memories. Sat up to try to eat but nothing much
appealed.

As I nibbled my
way through a couple of cookies, Al asked, “May I help you?”

“What do you
mean?”

He had been
perched on a swivel chair, and used his legs to propel it across
the room so he was behind me. I felt his fingers moving close to my
head.

“What are you
doing?”

“You have a lot
of glass in your hair.”

I let him work
methodically, removing small shards and putting them on the desk
until there was a minuscule pile that glittered in the
twilight.

“How long are
we going to wait here?” I said to the air in front of me.

His fingers
didn’t pause; I could feel him running them through sections of my
hair. I knew he was checking that he’d gotten all those tiny
daggers out, but it was oddly intimate. I could feel his breath on
my neck, and I shivered.

I thought of
Graeme. Wondered whether he was dead somewhere while I had this
stranger’s hands in my hair. Was I betraying him with this moment?
These fingertips? My existence?

That morning my
husband had been wearing his old navy jumper with the burgundy
stripe along the collar, and the jeans with the hole in the knee,
because he was about to work in the garden. Yes, there he was,
brought back to me. Not gone.

But as soon as
I opened my eyes he vanished, and the longing was unbearable.

“
I don’t
think I can go back,” Al was saying, and I returned to the present,
remembering my question. He talked slowly, as though carefully
choosing each word. “I’ve seen so much already. Too much. You try
to put up a wall, but it changes you. Warps you.” Another pause, as
he added yet another red-stained sliver of glass to the small pile.
“That’s why I left the army. I’ve struggled for a long time to
integrate—to try to be “normal”—whatever
that
is. I’m sorry, but I lied earlier. I told you I
drove around for an hour, but it was more like five minutes. I saw
no people, but I did see a pair of legs. They were sticking out
from behind a car, spread apart, so still that I had flashes of
what I might find—flashbacks to things I’ve already seen. At that
point I turned around, headed away, and found you.”

“I know a
little bit about it,” I told him. “My dad’s a veteran.” It was the
first time I’d thought of my dad in a while. I prayed he hadn’t
gone to the city. But if that were the case—if he had returned home
to smashed windows, a cellar of smithereens and my empty car—what
would he have made of that? I should have left him a note, but in
my shock it had never occurred to me.

Al hadn’t
responded, so I tried again. “What did you do in the army?”

“I was in a
special unit—lots of bomb disposal.” He made a strange noise, like
a snort. Took a deep breath. “And I knew how to lay a bomb, too. We
did plenty of that. We went all over the place—Middle East mainly.
Most of us came back, but a few didn’t.”

“And what have
you done since?”

“Deliveries in
the truck. I like being on the road, keeping moving, not having to
talk to anyone. Do you work?”

“I’m an
accountant. Well, I was before the kids. Haven’t gone back to it
yet.”

“Offices make
me feel claustrophobic,” he said. Before I could say more, he moved
his chair away. “I think you’re done.”

“Thank
you.”

I lay down
again, only intending to close my eyes for a moment, but when I
opened them again the room was darkening and Al had gone.

I sat up, going
straight into panic mode, unsure what to do. But before I made a
decision, he came back into the room, making me jump since I hadn’t
heard his footsteps.

There
were conflicting emotions running over his face. “I made contact,”
he said. “There
has
been a bomb,
and I’m right about chaos. Most people are walking wounded, but
they’re asking everyone to head to the sports stadium for a head
count. It’s also a base for reconnecting people.”

Walking
wounded? Those two words and my world opened up again with
possibilities. Immediately reenergized, I jumped up. “I have to
go.”

“I thought you
might say that. That’s where your family will be. If…” He stopped,
as though considering something. “…if you think you can drive, you
can borrow my truck.”

“Really? Thank
you!” Instinctively I moved to hug him, then saw the strange look
on his face and stopped short.

He turned away,
walked toward the window. “It’s getting dark. Are you sure you
wouldn’t rather stay until morning?”

I thought of
spending more hours waiting there, knowing nothing. It would be
unbearable. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather go now. I’ll bring the
truck back in the morning, when I’ve found Graeme and the kids.” I
paused. “But what if it takes longer than that? Are you sure you’ll
be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.
I’ve got communications up now; I’ll let someone know to pick me
up. Come on.”

It was strange
setting off on a journey without even taking a bag. Al collected up
some more of the cookies and snacks. “Let’s put these in with you.”
We went through the dim corridors, out into silent twilight. No
birdsong out there tonight—not even the chirrup of crickets to
counteract the loneliness.

At the truck he
handed me the keys. “Here you go. There should be enough fuel, but
be careful. The lights will be out in the city. Keep moving, or
you’ll probably attract unwanted attention. Are you sure you want
to go now?”

“Yes. Are you
certain you don’t want to come with me?”

“Not in the
dark. Probably not even in the light.”

I climbed up
into the cab, and before he shut the door he grabbed my arm. His
grip was hard enough to make me startle. I had to fight the urge to
pull away, but when I found his eyes he was smiling.

“Thank you,” he
said.

“What do you
mean?” I relaxed. “I should be thanking you.”

He smiled. “I
mean for the company.”

He waited while
I started the engine and turned on the lights. Then he gave me a
short wave, more of a salute really, and stepped back into the
darkness.

And now I
really was alone.

I stared at the
beams of light. Something was wrong, and it took me a moment to
realize it: why hadn’t the lights blown like the windows? I wanted
to ask Al, but I had no idea where he was now, and most of the
convent was in shadow. I shuddered. The truck felt like the only
safety in a landscape of unknown dangers. There was no way I was
getting out again. Who cared why the lights worked? I was just
thankful they did.

I began to
drive, the beat of my heart loud in my ears. I was expecting
something to jump out into the headlights at any moment. I had
never liked country driving at night, not wanting to kill any
hapless nocturnal creatures. But there was nothing except the road
for a long, long time, until the first houses appeared. And then I
entered the surreal dark of a city without power. Sidewalks to
either side of me, and parked cars, and just enough light from my
headlights. I kept going, until there were a few people in groups
with candles and torches, white faces turning toward me as I
passed, captured in a series of spectral tableaus. And the shadows,
endless shadows, some more obviously human than others, running and
jumping and twisting in my constantly moving lights. And once or
twice even, a softly felt bump. But I kept on going.