still tries to talk to her about her past, and sometimes she smiles, offering a phrase or two that paints a bare outline of what she might have been through. I know she's a long way from home. She cycled here, she says she left no one behind. And usually she seems strong.
On the landing, just before she really acknowledges my presence, I see a flash of something in her eyes that I can't quite make out. Perhaps it's madness, or maybe it's fear; both terrify me.
"What do you think?" I ask.
"I think I'm tired."
"But Michael?"
Jessica shrugs. She does that a lot, and I've come to see it as something of a shield, a silent answer that gives nothing away.
"He says things are moving on," I say. And there's that flash in Jessica's eyes again as she turns around and goes to her room.
When I close my door and lean against it, I listen for crying. But all I hear is silence.
"Wake up."
There's a hand on my forehead. It's cool and comforting, and for a while I am not in the awful here and now. I'm not sure where I am exactly, but it feels safe. It feels different . There's no smell or sight to recognise, but I'm in a place where loved ones don't die of a virulent virus out of Africa, and where there's always another bottle of beer in the cupboard, the shop, the brewery. I think of Paul's comment after he rang to tell me he'd found a sore. The irony of it really grabs my shit. Africa: the cradle of civilisation, and the coffin of its demise. If I thought the world would be here long enough, maybe I'd write a book .
"Africa," I whisper, and the hand lifts from my forehead.
"Not that far," the voice says, and it is not Paul. "Cornwall will do." I open my eyes.
There's a shape sitting on my bed. Over the past few months I've had several visits from Jacqueline in the middle of the night. There has never been any tension between us, no threats of things getting out of hand, because we both know some of each other's story. The most we did was to lie down side by side and take comfort in each other's presence. But this is not Jacqueline, and I suppose I know that Michael is here even before I open my eyes.
Only Ashley has ever been able to comfort me with a touch.
"Cornwall?" I ask.
"A special place. It's solid . Roots planted deep. Up here is too . . . changeable." He stands and the bed springs creak. At least I know he's real. "Can we have a chat?" he says.
"Of course." I sit up and groan. My legs are aching from all the running up and down the tower yesterday, and I think of the frisson of fear I'd felt when I first saw the motorbike emerging from the dead city. I realise that Michael has yet to tell us any real details about himself or where he has been—the previous evening revealed little—but before I can ask he has flicked a lighter and lit the oil lamp. He brings the chair from beside the door and swings it around, sitting on it backwards. His pose is casual and controlled. There's something about him that disturbs me slightly, but I can't quite place it. Perhaps it's simply that we're here on our own. Yesterday, there was always someone else.
"I'm only here for a short time," Michael says.
"You're not staying?"
He shakes his head. "I have to move on. You're not the only ones left, and I have lots to do."
"There really are others? Like us?"
"Of course. Did you ever think there weren't?"
"But you said they were different, somehow."
"Some of them are, yes. Most . But not all."
I look away from him, needing to think. Did I ever believe that we really were the last ones? A foolish supposition, and yet there have been no signs of anyone else. Nothing at all .
"You have to go to Cornwall," Michael says. "A place on the north coast. It's called Bar None. It will soon be the last bar on Earth. I think it's somewhere you can be happy with your memories of Ashley."
I stare at him, all movements frozen. Even my heart misses a beat, then races, knocking the breath from me.
"Jacqueline told me her name," he says, but
On the landing, just before she really acknowledges my presence, I see a flash of something in her eyes that I can't quite make out. Perhaps it's madness, or maybe it's fear; both terrify me.
"What do you think?" I ask.
"I think I'm tired."
"But Michael?"
Jessica shrugs. She does that a lot, and I've come to see it as something of a shield, a silent answer that gives nothing away.
"He says things are moving on," I say. And there's that flash in Jessica's eyes again as she turns around and goes to her room.
When I close my door and lean against it, I listen for crying. But all I hear is silence.
"Wake up."
There's a hand on my forehead. It's cool and comforting, and for a while I am not in the awful here and now. I'm not sure where I am exactly, but it feels safe. It feels different . There's no smell or sight to recognise, but I'm in a place where loved ones don't die of a virulent virus out of Africa, and where there's always another bottle of beer in the cupboard, the shop, the brewery. I think of Paul's comment after he rang to tell me he'd found a sore. The irony of it really grabs my shit. Africa: the cradle of civilisation, and the coffin of its demise. If I thought the world would be here long enough, maybe I'd write a book .
"Africa," I whisper, and the hand lifts from my forehead.
"Not that far," the voice says, and it is not Paul. "Cornwall will do." I open my eyes.
There's a shape sitting on my bed. Over the past few months I've had several visits from Jacqueline in the middle of the night. There has never been any tension between us, no threats of things getting out of hand, because we both know some of each other's story. The most we did was to lie down side by side and take comfort in each other's presence. But this is not Jacqueline, and I suppose I know that Michael is here even before I open my eyes.
Only Ashley has ever been able to comfort me with a touch.
"Cornwall?" I ask.
"A special place. It's solid . Roots planted deep. Up here is too . . . changeable." He stands and the bed springs creak. At least I know he's real. "Can we have a chat?" he says.
"Of course." I sit up and groan. My legs are aching from all the running up and down the tower yesterday, and I think of the frisson of fear I'd felt when I first saw the motorbike emerging from the dead city. I realise that Michael has yet to tell us any real details about himself or where he has been—the previous evening revealed little—but before I can ask he has flicked a lighter and lit the oil lamp. He brings the chair from beside the door and swings it around, sitting on it backwards. His pose is casual and controlled. There's something about him that disturbs me slightly, but I can't quite place it. Perhaps it's simply that we're here on our own. Yesterday, there was always someone else.
"I'm only here for a short time," Michael says.
"You're not staying?"
He shakes his head. "I have to move on. You're not the only ones left, and I have lots to do."
"There really are others? Like us?"
"Of course. Did you ever think there weren't?"
"But you said they were different, somehow."
"Some of them are, yes. Most . But not all."
I look away from him, needing to think. Did I ever believe that we really were the last ones? A foolish supposition, and yet there have been no signs of anyone else. Nothing at all .
"You have to go to Cornwall," Michael says. "A place on the north coast. It's called Bar None. It will soon be the last bar on Earth. I think it's somewhere you can be happy with your memories of Ashley."
I stare at him, all movements frozen. Even my heart misses a beat, then races, knocking the breath from me.
"Jacqueline told me her name," he says, but
Similar Books
Avalyne Series 01: The Queen of Carleon
Linda Thackeray
Blue Eyes
Jerome Charyn
The Playdate
Louise Millar
Gwynneth Ever After
Linda Poitevin
The Case of the Jumping Frogs
Donald J. Sobol
My Soul to Lose
Rachel Vincent
Hot & Cold
Susannah McFarlane
Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series
R.A. Mathis
Broken Silence
Natasha Preston