Nuclear Midnight (22 page)

Alex started recounting the events of the war. He talked mainly about the first weeks of the holocaust, the death of his brother, and how he had met Tina, Cliff and Roy, the labour camp and the crossing of the Bristol Channel with that terrible battle in the shallows. By the time he had finished Elaine was curled up, fast asleep in his arms. He gently lifted the rest of her body across to his bed, pulled the bed covers over them both and wrapped his arms around her. His last thoughts before he drifted into sleep were how nice it was to feel a woman's body again.

The next day they set off early, eager to reach their destination soon. Cliff was at the wheel and Roy sat by his side, directing him by reference to a huge tattered map of Scotland. Although neither had said anything, Alex sensed that they were aware that Elaine and he had spent the night together. There was an understanding between Elaine and him also, though he found it hard to put his finger on it; some type of security or companionship that Cliff and Roy couldn't fail to miss. He looked out of the window at the passing sights. It was close to midday and they were passing the ruins of Glasgow. The ruins looked painfully familiar. Nottingham, Birmingham, Liverpool, London, Alex had had his full share of ruined cities, but he could see the macabre fascination they must exercise on the less experienced. It was obvious to him that this one had suffered several direct strikes. No buildings as far as he could see were intact, though the jagged and burnt out shells of many buildings rose above the stunted vegetation. Occasional howls from roaming packs of dogs testified to what was probably the only life still left in the city.

‘Grim,’ Roy said, shaking his huge head slowly.

‘It's strange, though,’ Cliff mused, peering over the steering wheel at the road. ‘This close to the blast you'd expect to find a lot of debris on the road, but over the past few kilometres it's been completely clear.’

Alex was annoyed with himself for not noticing this. Cars and Lorries, which at one time had evidently obstructed the highway at the places where their owners had died, had been pushed unceremoniously to one side. Travel became easy, though as yet there was no sign of who had organised these deliberate clearances.

Soon they came to a rugged landscape, deeply indented with locks and mountains sweeping up in awesome, sombre majesty. A mist came down as they began to climb, the road surface became slippery and visibility dropped down to less than fifty metres. Alex warned everyone to stay alert, as the road began snaking and twisting on itself in and out of valleys. If it had been thought worthwhile to clear tracks as far south as Glasgow, they could not be far off their intended goal.

Indeed, only a few minutes later they had the first indications of the Scottish community, in the clear sound of heavy machinery being operated somewhere ahead. Cliff pulled the Land Rover to the side of the road. The noise grew quickly, and soon they could hear the gear changes as the machines negotiated the slight grade leading up to them.

‘They're behind as well,’ Alex said, opening the door and climbing out.

He looked around quickly. They were on a sharp bend, with the mist closing in. On their left the valley wall fell almost sheer. On their right, boggy land, deeply eroded, and waved over with bog Cotton. They had been very cleverly trapped. He told Roy and Elaine to remain in the Land Rover and beckoned Cliff to join him. He unslung his holster and placed it on the bonnet, telling Cliff to do the same. ‘You'll have to cover us if there's any trouble,’ he shouted to the others. The drone of the powerful engines now completely filled the air.

The next minute a huge bulldozer rounded the bend ahead with five men clinging precariously to the driver's cabin. It stopped a short distance away and crashed its shovel onto the road. Seconds later its companion appeared from behind and halted with similar menace. The men on both machines trained an assortment of shotguns and automatic weapons on them, while a large figure with a long, ragged beard came towards them from the bulldozer in front.

Alex began, ‘we come from a community in northern Wales I…’

‘Tell your friends in there to throw out their weapons and come out,’ the man said in a thick Scots accent, waving his rifle in the direction of the Land Rover.

Alex hesitated only for a second. He gave the signal and one by one they stepped down.

‘Good,’ the man said more pleasantly when they were all assembled before him. ‘From Wales, you say? And what brings you all the way up here, I wonder?’

‘We represent a large community in North Wales,’ Alex repeated. ‘We are here to try and establish friendly relations.’

The man looked them up and down critically. ‘You don't look like any delegation to me.’

‘And what's a delegation supposed to look like?’ demanded the irrepressible Cliff. ‘Sorry if our appearance offends you, but our pressed suits are still at the dry cleaners.’

Alex would not have ventured such a jibe at this stage, but fortunately the man had a sense of humour. His face softened into a mild grin. ‘Well, you're certainly the cockiest intruders we've had so far.’

‘We've been through a lot to get here,’ Alex explained quickly. ‘One of our group was killed yesterday, so we're a bit on edge.’

The Scotsman nodded, but did not seem altogether convinced. ‘I'd have thought that a delegation all the way from Wales would have brought more reinforcements for protection,’ he said suspiciously.

‘That was an option we considered before we started,’ Alex replied. ‘But we reckoned a small armed force could be open to misinterpretation, so we decided not to bring them.’

‘Hmm...’ The man scratched his head as if he didn't know what to believe. ‘Well, it's not up to me to decide what to do with you,’ he said finally. ‘That's for the authorities back on the island.’

The Land Rover was searched and all firearms removed before they were allowed to continue on with an escort. Three hours later they crossed over to the Isle of Skye.

CHAPTER 10

It was dark when they reached their destination. For the nerve centre of the community it seemed strangely modest   an old pub, no less, wedged into a row of drab two storey shops in the centre of an island town. They were directed upstairs into a large, ornately decorated room where a man in his late forties, with weathered features and a hard, expressionless face was sitting at a leather panelled desk. Their guide went forward.

‘These are the people I radioed in about earlier,’ he said.

The man at the desk looked them up and down, before getting to his feet and slowly coming forward. ‘Wales,’ he muttered to himself, while shaking their hands.  ‘I’ve lived half my life in Wales, near Cardiff. I don't suppose you know whether it was destroyed or not?’

‘We come from the north-east,’ Alex spoke up.

‘But someone in your community must know?’

Alex glanced quickly at the others. He realised that this was some sort of test and that their integrity was already under fire. ‘No one in this group knows,’ he responded coldly.

The man stepped up to Alex. ‘Do I gather that you are the spokesman for the group?’

‘I'm in charge, if that's what you mean.’

‘Well, then,’ he said briskly, ‘you're the person who can tell me what this is all about.’

‘We've come to offer our friendship and maybe establish some kind of trading links,’ Alex replied.

‘Friendship? Trading links?’ the man permitted himself a smile. ‘And what is it you want to trade?’

‘Simply anything and everything.’

Still smiling, as though he found the whole concept faintly ridiculous, their interviewer resumed his seat. ‘Nothing in this world is ever simple, my friend,’ he said. ‘What gives you the idea that we even want to trade with you in the first place?’

‘I think you've misunderstood our intentions,’ Alex said firmly. ‘We've been sent here as a gesture of friendship and goodwill. We've even brought gifts; ten kilos of tea and coffee.’

The man did not seem to welcome this gesture. ‘We have difficulty in feeding ourselves, so we certainly have no food to trade with you, or give you for that matter, for your precious tea and coffee.’

‘We don't want your food,’ Alex said. ‘We have more than enough. We are here primarily to promote friendly relations between our community and your own. I advise you not to treat us with such contempt.’ He did not hide his anger and frustration at the way this meeting was going, and this seemed to produce an effect.

‘You don't want any food from us?’ The man sounded a trifle perplexed for the first time.

‘We produce a surplus as it is,’ Alex said more calmly. ‘We certainly don't need to add to it.’

‘So, if it's not food, then what is it that you do want?’ The conversation seemed to be going full circle.

‘We can trade food with you if you like.’ Alex was being as patient as he knew how, sensing that the penny had dropped at last.

‘How much food?’

‘Well, at the moment our community numbers around thirty five thousand members,’ Alex replied. ‘The harvest looks good, so we expect to produce well in excess of our needs.’

The man looked rather shell-shocked. He stared at Alex for a moment, grunted to himself, then lowered his head, shaking it ruefully. ‘Do me the courtesy to show me exactly where your community is located on the map, will you?’ he said at length, producing a battered school atlas and opening it at the appropriate page.

The others gathered round as Alex marked the boundaries in with a pencil. He also explained about the mine, its location, and some of the farming techniques and the type of produce the community would most likely want to trade.

The mood after this changed dramatically. The man, who introduced himself as Peter McCaffrey, apologised for seeming abrupt, and explained that they were often being pestered by small Scottish communities for quantities of stores and provisions. In the case of Alex’s community, the boot was clearly on the other foot.

Now chairs were brought and the visitors were seated in them and served presently with steaming herbal tea, brought in by a smiling woman. Alex sniffed at its aroma, but failed to identify the brew.

‘Ah, we don't have any tea or coffee left,’ Peter explained. ‘So this is our own concoction, the staple drink of the community, and not bad at that, I flatter myself.’ He poured a green coloured fluid into the cups and passed them around. Alex sipped his cautiously, then nodded his approval, making a mental note that it tasted remarkably like the herbal tea back home in Wales, which goes to prove, he thought ironically, that the same wild herbs have survived in both places.

‘A compromise, of course, but so is just about everything these days,’ Peter continued sadly. ‘But we manage. I don't know how your community has fared, but we have lived through some shocking times. Beyond imagination some of the things that have happened.’ He leaned across and looked hard into their faces. ‘I've often wondered what happened to the government. You know, all during that first year after the holocaust, I was expecting them to march up here and start issuing food rations and organise rebuilding programmes.’ He sighed. ‘All our arrangements were only temporary then, in the nature of a stopgap until help arrived. But slowly it dawned on us that this was an illusion; there would never be any help. We were all there was. Quite a traumatic moment that. I don't hold such fantasies now,’ he went on coldly. ‘Until just now I fully believed that we were the only sizeable group left in Great Britain, maybe even the world. But your arrival, bringing news of a community actually larger than ours and willing to trade its surplus food…’

He shrugged, his eyes never leaving Alex's face. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you will understand if I find it difficult to get used to the idea.’

Alex understood perfectly, he had made a claim to represent a huge and successful community in Wales. Now he had to justify that claim. As accurately and methodically as possible he launched into a detailed history of the Welsh community. He explained, with help from Roy and Cliff, how it was established, its struggles, political structure, rules, farming techniques and even its future plans for expansion. Alex decided that if his story was going to sound convincing, he could not afford to suppress any aspect of it.

At first it was clear that Peter was trying to find inconsistencies in their stories. But his questions soon lost their suspicious overtone as Alex continued to pour out the complex social and political structures and the philosophy of the Welsh community.

When this process of verification was complete, to the satisfaction of both sides, Peter drained the last dregs from his third cup. ‘Your community seems extremely well organised and considerably better off than ours. Our efforts have been hampered by not being able to build up a stockpile. Just after the war, we had to cannibalise whole towns for medical supplies and food to stay alive.’

Alex pointed out that they were not just interested in trading links. The point of the visit, he insisted once again, was to open channels of friendly communication.

‘And how are you proposing to do that?’ Peter asked.

‘A representative from our group will stay here as a token of our friendship,’ Alex said promptly. ‘In exchange you may send one, or as many representatives as you like, from your own community, back to Wales with us to talk with our committee.’

‘Yes, good, good,’ Peter enthused. He explained that he and two others ruled their community with dictatorial powers. ‘I would have to talk it over with my associates, of course, but I'm sure there wouldn't be any problems. Despite our poor agricultural situation we have considerable electrical and mechanical equipment still intact and other items you may be interested in, which we would certainly be willing to exchange for your surplus food.’

Alex assured him that the Welsh community would be more than willing to trade, and having again offered the tea and coffee, which this time was more graciously received, the meeting broke up on a very open and optimistic note. Peter shook hands all round and they were shown to well-appointed rooms at the back of the pub. Bathing facilities were attached and they were assured that the water could be made hot.

That night Alex and Elaine shared one of the bedrooms. An initial awkwardness was soon overcome and they talked for hours about their past lives, jobs and families, both being anxious to learn as much about the other as possible. Then, tired out with talking, they pushed the beds together and got between the sheets. They kissed lightly and then with more urgency, Alex beginning to explore every curve and crevice of her body. She sighed and responded with soft warm kisses that soon turned to passion, unrestrained and uninhibited. For the first time since the war, Alex found he could look into the future and not feel a pit in his stomach.

Over the next few days they were treated like royalty. Nothing was too good for them, or too much trouble. The following day they were introduced to the two other members of the junta, Dimintri Antoni and Matthew Langley, both sad faced, tired looking men. Elaine found their coldness unnerving, but the more Alex learned about the community the more he thought he could understand them. Peter turned out to be the most affable of the three and he put himself out to show them around, pointing out new building projects and agricultural ventures. But the people on the whole looked far from healthy, with many instances of skin cancer, tumours and coughing fits. When Alex asked about this, Peter just shrugged.

‘We've all been affected by the radiation to some degree,’ he said. ‘We have only one rule: if you can work you can stay.’

‘And if you can't?’

‘Same as you, in theory, at least. But in practice our people choose another way out. Our chemists have formulated a drink, very pleasant to take and rapid in its effect and it kills within minutes.’

‘And how many take this option?’

‘Everyone,’ Peter told him. ‘Since exile often means a cruel and lingering death, or being torn apart by wild dogs, this drink is by far the most humane way to die.’

Alex didn't ask any more questions. He was fast learning of the savage history of this community. Originally there had been nearly a quarter of a million survivors. They had fought each other until less than sixty thousand remained. The plague had halved that number. Of the two thousand men and women who had left Carlisle, less than five hundred had got this far. Truly the twenty thousand survivors that now made up their number were very tough individuals. The decision to take a poison would be nothing more than common sense to these people.

After a week of discussions, it was agreed that Dimintri should lead a twelve man delegation to Wales. Cliff and Roy would go with them to act as guides and to introduce them to the committee. As Alex had promised, he and Elaine would remain behind. He found himself looking forward to the prospect, and indeed their status as honoured guests continued. Not only were they allowed a free run of the place, but Peter insisted that they be present at the policy meetings between himself and Matthew. Alex was never able to warm to the latter. He never smiled or joked, but seemed determined always to put the worst interpretation on events. Peter laughingly called him the devil's advocate of the junta, but Alex found his brand of depressive realism almost morbid. He could appreciate, however, how the different personalities of the junta made it work. Peter, he quickly realised, was the eternal optimist. He treated Alex and Elaine as royalty because he thought the Welsh community was the answer to all their problems. Dimintri gave the impression of practical common sense. All shades from light to dark were represented here.

But when Dimintri was absent, Alex increasingly found himself called upon to occupy his place and mediate in the frequently heated exchanges between Peter and Matthew. That so much passion was generated was understandable, given the difficulties that the community still faced. Like their Welsh contemporaries they had experimented with cultivation under huge greenhouses, but they seemed to lack the technical expertise that had made the Welsh harvests so successful. As a result, their crop yields were still very poor. The previous year no less than five hundred of the weakest members of the community had taken the ‘suicide drink’. This year the crop had not been much better and unless a huge injection of food was found from somewhere, more survivors would have to die. Both Peter and Matthew emphasised this point to Alex more than once. He did his best to suggest ways of improving their techniques, but he wasn't a farmer and he found himself floundering when they asked for specific details on his recommendations. In fact their agricultural problems were so great that Alex even began to wonder if the Welsh community had enough surplus food to make up the shortfall.

He was discussing this with Elaine one night in their room when she suddenly became very thoughtful. It wasn't like her to be silent, and Alex asked her what the matter was. For an answer she brought an atlas of the country from a bookshelf and laid it open on a desk. Alex joined her as she found what she was looking for.

‘Yes, that's it,’ she said. ‘Box. I thought I remembered the name.’

She had her finger on a small village about ten kilometres north-east of Bath.

‘Samuel was always quoting from those papers and maps he found in the citadel,’ she explained. ‘Some of them alluded to other citadels and to storage places like your mine in Wales. There was a huge repository near the village of Box.’