Some Rain Must Fall (3 page)

Jacqui convulsed in her arms, jerked awake the instant
after falling asleep, and repositioned her ear in the hollow of Frances’s breast, reconnecting with the heartbeat.

‘It’ll be all right, angel,’ Frances purred. ‘Everything will be all right.’

THESE DAYS, Janet let her daughter sleep in bed with her. It wasn’t what child psychologists would have said was best, but there weren’t any child psychologists anymore, and her daughter needed help just the same.

Janet had tried forcing Kif Kif to sleep alone, but the little girl would scream with nightmares about God knows what – sharks, probably. Now she was sleeping dreamlessly, cradled in the curve of Janet’s waist.

All around the bed, the flywire was stretched taut from floor to ceiling, the support struts and entrance zipper glowing in the candle-light. Janet shut her eyes against the tick-tick-ticking on the wire and tried to drift off, but it was no use; there was always the anxiety that something was eating through the wire, through the canvas of the zipper, and you would open your eyes to find …

She opened her eyes. Nothing had changed.

There were still the same thirty or forty little fish (newly spawned wrasse, perhaps? – it was hard to tell in the dark) hovering in the air, bumbling against the flywire, trying to get in. Individual fish bobbed off from the cluster, floating up to bump against the ceiling.

Janet drew another cigar from the box on her lap, wishing it were a cigarette,
craving
a cigarette. She struck a match: the fish scattered. The room was alive with shining little bodies, flitting against the furniture, knocking ornaments off
shelves, disappearing into dark corners. Almost immediately, however, they began to swim back to the flywire, and the tick-tick-ticking began again. Kif Kif squirmed in her sleep, digging her hard little six-year-old’s shoulderblades into Janet’s side.

‘It’s all right darling,’ murmured Janet, stroking her through the blankets. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’

Next morning Janet and Kif Kif dressed up in their camouflage to leave the house. The fish, which now lay gaping and dead on the floors of every room, had got in through the narrow gap between front door and hall floor. The little plank of wood which Kif Kif put there nightly had been levered out of place from the outside while they slept.

An act of paltry sabotage like this might happen to them every week or so; the devotees of the Church of Armageddon (the ‘Army’ for short) didn’t like to pass a house by without attempting to advance their cause. As far as major attacks went, Janet and Kif Kif had been lucky. Only once in the last year had they returned to their house to find it smashed open, all the windows and doors unhinged, and all the food and clothing taken. Dripping, blood-like, down the bedroom wall had been one of the painted graffiti slogans of the Army:
THE FIRST SHALL BECOME LAT
!

On that awful day, Kif Kif had kept guard with her machete while Janet restored the defences. By late afternoon the five-year-old was splattered with fish blood and muck, although she hadn’t been attacked by anything too dangerous. Most of the fish she’d wounded had swum away, to die inside deserted buildings and gutted cars, but some had been hacked too severely to do anything but wobble slowly to the ground and die twitching on the crumbling asphalt. When Kif Kif had suggested that these fish should
perhaps be taken to the Soup Kitchen for use as food, Janet had hugged her fear-shaken little girl and wept.

Today Janet and Kif Kif locked the door behind them, as quietly as possible, for sound was so much louder these days than it had sounded in the days when there were things like cars, factories and people running.

The million sea creatures moved noiselessly. Schools of barracuda swept without warning in and out of broken windows. Starfish wriggled on the bonnets of rusty cars. Octopi cartwheeled in slow motion through the air, their tentacles touching briefly on the tips of barbed-wire fences and the tops of awnings. Even the open-mouthed shriek of a shark attacking would be obscenely silent, so there was actually no point in keeping your ears cocked, though you always did.

At a cautious trot Janet and Kif Kif put a zig-zag of streets between them and their house, to confuse any Army members who might spot them. One day, of course, the Army might stop being nomadic, and concentrate on each occupied house they chanced to find, taking advantage of every occasion when it was left unoccupied, until at last its inhabitants had been killed by what they preferred to call the Holy Reclamation Of Nature.

Then again, it was also possible that one day the Army would amend its religion to permit its devotees to do the killing themselves, rather than waiting for the Holy Reclamation Of Nature to do it.

‘Far enough now,’ said Janet, her breath clouding the dry, grey air.

Kif Kif threw the plastic bag of dead wrasse into the gutter, where it burst open on the sharp edge of a broken wheelchair. A large eel floated out of a sewer-hole and slid through the air towards the spillage.

‘Hungry?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Coming back from the Soup Kitchen, feeling warm and sprightly with the city’s only hot meal in their stomachs, Janet and Kif Kif leapt and skipped towards home. Small fish of all colours and shapes cluttered the air around them, frightened out of their foraging places by the commotion. Carp nibbled at the plankton nestled inside an exposed automobile engine. Barracuda circled a small dolphin which had become tangled in a shop awning and starved to death there. A manta ray of moderate size floated over their ducked heads and settled against the wall of a factory. Slowly it slid along a line of newly painted graffiti (
ANY CRETURE THAT CAN
READ THIS, YOU’RE DAYS ON EARTH ARE NUMBERD
!), obscuring the words one by one. Janet repeated the slogan to her daughter on request.

‘He’s reading it,’ smirked Kif Kif, making Janet laugh. They both knew the ray had mistaken the moist paint for something edible, and would be lying maw-up on the ground by tomorrow morning, after which the Army would probably find it and eat it. Since the Church of Armageddon had no equivalent of the underground Soup Kitchen which kept Janet, Kif Kif and the other unbelievers alive with salvaged tinned goods, it subsisted by fishing; Army nets could be seen occasionally, spanned between buildings in intricate layers.

It was rumoured that the Army didn’t actually eat any of the tinned and packaged food they carried off from the houses they broke into. It seemed they merely confiscated it, to deprive Unbelievers of any unfair advantage. In the same way that they liked to crack the shell of an Unbeliever’s house, to let the vengeance of Nature swim in, they liked to make food disappear, to signal that God was no longer prepared to provide. At least not to human beings; there was plenty to eat, of course, for everything that swam.

Accepting the divine wrath with bizarre enthusiasm, the Army were definitely on the side of the fish. There was hardly a public building in the city that was not marked with their commonest graffito:
LET THE DRY LAND DISAPPEAR
!

‘A bit quieter now, Kif.’

Janet and Kif Kif were nearing their home streets. An acrid breeze started up, smelling of large, half-eaten fish. Janet’s nose wrinkled with distaste. She reached out for Kif Kif and gathered her in as she walked.

‘Sorry it’s so nasty,’ she said, but, looking down at the child’s abstracted, placid face, Janet realised the apology was wasted: Kif Kif didn’t seem to have noticed the smell.

Janet’s mood soured as she considered that her daughter had grown up in a world which stank to high heaven. Kif Kif had never smelled air untainted by decay. She’d never seen a growing fruit or a flower, as every form of vegetation was immediately eaten by the fish before it even came to bud. She lived shut up in an unheated, poorly lit prison, trembling and twitching with nightmares every night. Even now, as they walked along the deserted street, any of a hundred broken windows might suddenly spew out a deadly streak of grey, and then what could you do? Janet had heard from other Survivors what it was like to just stand there while a huge shark, its jaws locked open, glided through the air towards the smallest prey. The Army certainly wasn’t wrong in thinking the world was no longer intended for human beings. Kif Kif with her dinky little machete against the hatred of all creation—

‘Mummy, look!’

Janet was jerked out of her brooding.

‘What? What?’

Kif Kif pointed over the roofs of the houses, half-way across the city. Horrified, Janet watched a blue-black killer
whale emerging from the low grey clouds, followed by another whale, and another, and another. They hung huge in the sky like black zeppelins, and the air seemed to grow claustrophobically dense with their displacement of it. Janet would have sunk to her knees but for the grip she had on Kif Kif s shoulders. At her back there was nowhere to hide, only more crumbling streets, more fragile, half-broken buildings; a mile of ground a whale could cover in less than a minute, and, beyond that, the empty sea. The killer whales began to move, towards Janet and Kif Kif s part of the city. Their tails swept the air lazily. They kept together. They were attacking.

Not far from the street where Janet and Kif Kif stood, there towered an old building which had survived intact, marble statues and all. The foremost whale wove through skeletal office blocks with a grace that belied its massive size, and passed very close to this old building, almost clipping it with its aeroplane wing of a tail. Then it loomed on, its shadow spilling straight towards Kif Kif and Janet. By the time it reached where they stood it was swimming about thirty metres above the ground, the motion of its tail blowing their hair all around their faces. Directly overhead, blotting out the sun with its monstrous bulk, it opened its mouth. A thousand needle-sharp teeth swung down like the hatch of an aeroplane. Water clattered on the asphalt: saliva in the wind. Janet screamed.

But the whale glided over them altogether, its great shadow smothering them as it passed.

‘It’s coming back? It’s coming back!’ shrieked Janet as she watched the whale describe a slow semi-circle and cruise towards them again.

Once more, however, it passed them over, and headed towards the old building, while the other whales floated in formation nearby.

Turning again, it swam back towards Janet and Kif Kif, but in a smaller arc this time, so that its shadow didn’t even reach the street where they stood. It was heading for the old building once more, and this time it did not pass it by. Some decision seemed to have been made deep in the creature’s brain, and it hurled itself straight at its target, ramming into the stonework with its massive head.

Amid the noise of a muffled thunderclap, the old building shuddered, stones falling out of their pattern in small clusters. A pale statue swayed on its perch and toppled to the street below, smashing unseen and unheard. The other whales, following the example of their leader, attacked the building with him, ramming and ramming it until crucifixes cartwheeled down through the air and bells rang with chaotic lack of rhythm. At last the church fell in on itself with the tremendous racket that only collapsing buildings make.

For an attenuated minute the whales circled the ruin, then they swam off towards another part of the city, their tails beating up clouds of shimmering debris.

Janet let out her breath shudderingly, then gasped at the pain of frozen muscles thawing. She wasn’t really very grateful to be alive; life had been conceded too far beyond the extremity of terror. To be unconscious in the long gullet of a whale: that would have been
real
mercy, not this ghastly approximation of survival.

Only, she must
pretend
to be alive,
pretend
to have hope, spirit, feeling, for the sake of her daughter, so that her daughter wouldn’t give up. She must be strong for her daughter, comfort her, get her home to bed, carry her there if need be.

Janet looked down at Kif Kif for the first time, and was shocked to see that the child’s face was radiant.

‘Oh, Mummy!’ marvelled the little girl. ‘Wasn’t it amazing?’

‘Amazing?’ echoed Janet incredulously. ‘Amazing?’

Anger started up deep inside her like convulsions, getting more violent as she let go her hold on it, until she was shaking with fury.

‘Amazing!?’ she yelled at last, and began to hit Kif Kif, flailing at her with the flats of her hands. The child fought back, and in a few moments they were in a real tussle, pulling each other’s clothes and hair, until a warning shout from Kif Kif ended it. Janet found herself being pulled along the street by the wrist.

‘Come
on
!’ shouted the panting child crossly. ‘Stupid!’

Janet stumbled along, stumbling partly because she was too tall to be led properly by a six-year-old. She glanced over her shoulder to see what the child had already spotted: a school of moray eel gathering twenty yards away, attracted by the commotion of the fight and the smell of human flesh.

Janet gained her stride, scooped up her unprotesting daughter in her arms and ran and ran.

In bed that night, safe behind the flywire, Janet tried to explain why she had been so angry.

‘I thought you were terrified of sharks and big fish like that,’ she said lamely, hugging the slightly alien child tight to her side. ‘You have nightmares every night …’

Kif Kif pawed sleepily at an itchy cheek and nose.

‘I have nightmares about other stuff,’ she said.

swung open the boot of her car and lit the butane stove she kept set up in there. The open hatch of the boot shielded the flame from the wind; she was not concerned about the small risk of blowing herself and her car to high Heaven. She would get there by less spectacular means.

opened a tin of spaghetti and shook the contents into a small saucepan to heat. It was the same breakfast she had every day, except for the days when she had none at all. As soon as the butane had done its work, she turned it off and sat inside the car again, balancing the hot pot of spaghetti on the gnarled steering wheel. She ate slowly and meditatively, with a fork, watching the sea-birds through the windscreen. Her car was parked well back from the edge, so she couldn’t actually see the sea.

murmured a prayer of thanks for what she had just received. It was one of her peculiarities, this: saying prayers of thanks
after
rather than
before
. So much could go wrong between
being presented with an opportunity and actually being able to enjoy it; it therefore seemed pathetic to thank God for something that might yet be snatched away. Of course, the other sisters hadn’t seen it that way, but she was on her own now.

let the spaghetti settle in her stomach for a while and had a drink from her thermos, then took off her parka to see if doing without it was feasible. Unfortunately the food and drink hadn’t warmed her enough yet, and she felt instantly cold, so she put it back on. This was rather a shame, because the parka covered much of her nun’s habit and (more crucially) she couldn’t wear it and her veil as well. If anyone came, she must of course go to them directly, and there might not be time to organise her clothing for maximum effect. She could throw off the parka in an instant, but might have to leave the veil. Still, the crucifix on her breast would surely give the right message.

got out of her car to stretch her legs. They were long legs, after all. She walked back and forth along the deserted cliff-head, clasping her arms to her sides, her hands deep in her jacket pockets. Her fur-lined boots made no sound in the damp grass as she walked; her parka made a small rustling noise like a battery-operated toy. The sea and the sky made the sound peculiar to cliff edges, as if all the noise had first been sucked through a gap in the horizon and then regurgitated with something indefinable missing. The seagulls kept disappearing below her line of vision; she didn’t want to get too close to the edge in case of vertigo.

returned to her car, had another drink from her thermos and at last began to feel a little warmer. A layer or two of cloud had been blown away from the densely overcast sun, allowing more warmth to glow through its shroud. The parka could come off soon, quite soon. She wondered what time it was, noted that once again the dashboard dock had experienced a hiccup in its power supply and was flashing 00:00. The radio might tell her the time, if she was prepared to listen to its chatter and its pop music long enough. She tried it for a while, suffering, but was still none the wiser when a vehicle pulled up not far from hers at the cliff edge.

switched off the radio and removed her parka, revealing the big dark crucifix on her white breast. The new arrivals stepped out of their camper-van and inhaled ostentatiously: a man and a woman. Festooned with sunglasses, cameras and binoculars, they had evidently not come to commit an act of desperation, despite the fact this spot was nicknamed Suicide Point.

let the man and the woman walk to the edge and fiddle with their equipment. She tried to relax, but adrenalin had leaked into her system: her head was noisy with her own voice rehearsing the reasons why life was worth living. No pain was so great that God could not find room for it in his bottomless repository of sorrows. To have made the decision to die must mean that you have decided you can no longer carry the burden of life. And oh yes, there is no denying that
the burden can grow too heavy. But, if you are ready to throw that burden off the edge of a cliff, to smash yourself to pulp on the rocks below, and be washed out to sea like garbage, what is there to stop you trying something different? No, no,
not
returning to the life you cannot bear,
not
shouldering the burden all over again, but handing the burden on to someone else – in fact, allowing it to be lifted off your shoulders, by God. Yes: by God, who stands at your side at this very moment, as near to you, and as real, as I, but a million times more powerful … !

waved at the couple through her side window. They were going already. Perhaps they had seen everything they’d come to see; captured it inside their camera and binocular lenses, souvenired it on a strip of undeveloped film. Perhaps they were simply disappointed to find another human being here, at this spot which was so renowned for its desolation. Perhaps they were especially discomfited that this other human being should be a nun. They might think she was about to interrogate them on their marital status, or ask them to donate money to a leprosy mission in Indonesia. That was the sort of thing her fellow nuns might have had on their minds, she supposed. It was difficult to recall. It was so long since she’d been in the company of her sisters in Christ.

watched the camper-van reverse, turn, and drive away. When it was quite out of sight, she swung open the door of her own car and lowered herself out. She squatted right next to the car’s body, its padded door shielding her from the buffeting wind as if it were a wing trembling to enfold her. She
kept her habit rucked well above her hips until she was finished, then shut herself back into the car, shivering. She considered putting her parka on again, had a drink from her thermos instead. Hours went by. The sun described its arc across the sky, aloof and beyond temptation. No one else came to the cliff edge.

slumped back in her seat, the adrenalin long since ebbed away, the reasons for living no longer rehearsing themselves in her head. In time, she dozed. Waking, she prayed a little. Then she listened to the radio some more, this time finding out what time it was mercifully quickly. It occurred to her that she might be well advised to drive back into the town before the shops shut. She wasn’t sure how her provisions were going.

alighted again, walked around her vehicle, lifted the hatch of the boot. As she did so, a massive bird – some sort of giant heron or egret – flew over her car, its spear-like beak and dazzling white wingspan perfectly aligned with the vehicle. Involuntarily, Sister Jennifer’s head snapped back as the great bird passed over, and she almost overbalanced, blinded by the sun. It was such an extraordinary moment that she was struck with fear, as if something would simply
have
to happen next, something which would surely rip her open like a paper bag. But nothing else happened. Dazed, she looked down into the boot of her car, seeing nothing there but the luminescing after-image of the sun.

realised soon enough the true significance of the epiphany. God had given her yet another reason for living which she could pass on to others: the miracle of a bird in flight, the privilege of seeing a creature essentially different from oneself display its inhuman mastery, a display which one needed to be human and alive to witness and appreciate. It was necessary to keep living, if only to love the beauty of a bird, for birds themselves were incapable of loving it.

waited until the flare on her retinas had faded and normal vision resumed. She rummaged through the supplies in the boot, verified that there was very little food left except more tins of spaghetti which, though she was hungry, she didn’t feel like eating just now. She checked the drink situation. There was half a bottle of white wine left, which she carefully poured into the thermos despite the fact that it was no longer the least bit chilled. She tried to calculate whether it would last her until tomorrow, sipped it as if to force the issue one way or the other. She remained unsure, and wondered to what extent she was merely being cowardly about queueing in the off-licence again. To buy time, she cleared the empty bottles from the boot, gathered them to her breast and walked towards the cliff edge with them. From a safe distance she lobbed them over, listening as always for the sound of their fall, which never, ever came. Then she walked back to her car. Suicide Point was growing cold.

closed herself in, drank a little more of the wine, and put on her parka for the night.