On Deadly Ground

  Stephen still moved painfully as he climbed off the bed and stood up. ‘OK, people,’ he said, ‘what do you say to some TV?’

  ‘I wish,’ Kate spoke with feeling. ‘Have you got any particular channel in mind?’

  ‘Right now I’d settle for some lousy soap opera,’ I said. ‘Although a rock concert would go down nicely.’

  ‘No, straight up.’ Stephen hobbled across the room. ‘I noticed these people were using a wind turbine to charge car batteries, so I persuaded Tesco to find a portable TV. I’ve got the camcorder, so all I needed to do was plug in the right cables into the right sockets and, hey presto, it turns the camcorder into a VCR.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you managed to find Jurassic Park on 8mm camcorder cassette as well?’

  ‘No. Something even more interesting. Look.’ He switched on the TV, then hit the ‘play’ button on the camcorder that stood on a low table beside the TV; cables trailed from it to the TV’s input socket.

  The screen flashed, became a mass of speckled dots.

  Then I saw a garden full of ghosts.

  The effect was electrifying. All three of us sat and stared at the screen with an intensity that couldn’t have been bettered if the Archangel Gabriel himself had appeared in a blaze of celestial glory.

  There were shots of a garden at dusk. Roses in bloom. Fruit trees. Lamps hanging from branches cast a softly golden glow. People sat drinking, laughing, talking. What was so amazing were their faces.

  Then understanding hit me. They were so young-looking. There was no sign in their expressions of that tension that would harden our muscles beneath our faces; there wasn’t that ever-hovering look of fear in their eyes that we now saw every time we looked into a mirror.

  Those ghosts were us. I realized I was watching the video of Ben Cavellero’s party. There was Ben himself with the characteristic crinkly smile. In a soft voice he was saying, ‘Why don’t you introduce yourself, Stephen? You’ll do a far better job than I ever could.’

  There was Stephen, bouncing to his feet. Christ, he looked completely different to the gaunt figure with the bruised face now sitting beside me on the bed.

  We watched as the on-screen Stephen spoke with effortless confidence into the camera. ‘Good evening. My name is Stephen Kennedy. Just three weeks ago I celebrated my birthday and I am now a full one-quarter of a century old. I host a music show on KSTV which is a new-ish terrestrial TV station based in Seattle…’

  We watched it all. We were so intent on seeing every face, hearing every word we forgot about the glasses of wine in our hands. It was like watching a TV programme beamed from another world.

  ‘Look,’ Stephen said in a hushed voice. ‘There’s Ruth.’

  For a moment Ruth’s face filmed the screen.

  ‘Christ, she was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ Stephen’s eyes shone; the Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. ‘Just look at her hair. All those wonderful black curls.’

  Ruth lay buried beneath the turf near Fountains Moor. Her flesh would be turning liquid and soaking away into the soil.

  I felt my eyes prick, too, as we watched. Ruth held her champagne glass to the camera. ‘Chin-chin, everybody,’ she was saying. She smiled, her white teeth flashing in the light of the garden lamps. ‘OK, Dean. You’ve got your close-up. Switch it off now. Dean?’ She laughed as the camera zoomed into a massive close-up of her full, red lips that filled the screen. ‘Dean, I said…you little monkey. Enough. Or I’ll bite the end off your microphone.’

  The scene cut to other party guests. Howard with a plateful of pork chops and potato salad. He grinned at the camera, mouth chewing like it was steam-driven. He saluted with a chicken drumstick.

  More shots, wobbly now as Dean Skilton, the cameraman, became drunker and drunker. There were Ruth and Stephen sharing a single chair; they were eating each other’s tongues. Ruth’s long hair hung down over the back of the chair, sweeping the ground as she turned her head to one side, lost in the passionate kiss.

  Two girls threw peanuts into each other’s mouths. Barry Fripp chased a girl into the house, then she chased him back out again, laughing all the way.

  Shots of tables covered with plates of chicken, sausage rolls, cheeses of all kinds, bottles of wine, bowls of nuts, pretzels, onion rings, bacon frazzles. So much food it now made you dizzy just to see it.

  There was me, a bottle of beer in my hand, leaning against the house. I was explaining something to a smiling Ben Cavellero. I talked so enthusiastically I swung the hand holding the beer bottle. Beer sploshed out onto my arm and down my trousers but I never even noticed.

  And so it was, deep into the night. We watched that video until the very end.

  Then Stephen turned to us and said, ‘If you two don’t mind, I’m going to watch it again.’

  We didn’t mind. We sat there and watched it again and again. We didn’t speak, we didn’t move. And we watched those ghosts from happier, safer times drink and eat and talk and fall in love at that party in Ben Cavellero’s garden.

  Chapter 81

  The following day we took a boat ride to another world.

  The November morning was bitingly cold. Luckily the cloud was high. There was no wind worth mentioning so the two planes arrived on time at the airstrip island. Howard had landed first in the eight-seater, twin-engined Piper, which was followed by Cindy Gullidge flying the four-seater Cessna. What the newly-trained pilot lacked in style she must have made up for with courage.

  Cindy came in, wings wobbling hair-raisingly from side to side, engine over-revving so raucously that even the people on the ground closed their eyes.

  Within half an hour ten of Jesus’s people were airborne, heading north with as much food as the planes could safely carry.

  We returned to the boats that would take us back to Paradise Island.

  Should have taken us back to Paradise Island.

  ‘Tesco. Where are we going?’ I called above the roar of the outboard motor as we turned away from the other two boats and powered out across the lake. ‘This isn’t the way back!’

  Tesco sat at the other side of the boat on the plank seating, his legs casually spread so his boots rested on an empty places. ‘We’re picking up medical supplies.’

  ‘I thought you had enough?’

  ‘Your people need vitamin B tablets. We’re gonna get more.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  I was suspicious. I turned to Stephen sitting beside me. ‘Did you know anything about this?’

  ‘I mentioned we needed the vitamin tablets. I didn’t know we were going to get them today.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Tesco smiled, although to me it seemed more like a leer. ‘Won’t take long.’

  I caught Stephen’s eye. His lips looked tight but he said nothing.

  ‘You might as well sit back and enjoy the ride,’ Tesco said. Then he turned to grin at Cowboy who sat in the stern of the boat, hand working the rudder bar. The man in the Wild West rig, silk strips cracking in the slipstream, grinned back, then pulled the brim of his Stetson low over his eyes.

  I didn’t like this at all.

  There were six of us in the boat: Stephen (his face still bruised—I still felt a pang of guilt every time I saw it), Kate, myself, then Tesco, Cowboy steering, and a man of around thirty who I didn’t know. His lips were crusted thick with scabs and a massive blue tattooed question mark adorned one cheek: ?. He looked like the kind of man you’d hand over your wallet to without him asking you twice.

  I didn’t know London well but from what I could tell we were heading toward its centre. The water looked deeper here. Occasionally we’d glide over what looked like crimson rafts anchored in the water.

  ‘The tops of London buses.’ Tesco grinned. ‘Looks neat, eh? And just look over there.’ He pointed with the barrel of his sawn-off shotgun. ‘The police car on top of the house. Funky or what? This part was hit by tidal waves.’

  ‘Tidal waves?’ Kate’s eyes went wide.
>
  ‘Yeah…a couple of months ago there were huge explosions down Greenwich way.’

  ‘What caused them?’

  The man with the question mark on his cheek shouted, ‘Shit knows!’ Then laughed madly.

  Stephen said, ‘We’ve seen huge craters. They’ve been caused by the heat detonating subterranean pockets of gas.’

  Tesco shook his head. ‘That’s crap. Everyone knows they were caused by the fellers downstairs.’

  ‘The Grey Men?’

  ‘Yeah, Grey Men, Greys, Potato Heads, whatever you call them.’ Tesco leaned back, enjoying the ride; he trailed his fingertips in the water.

  ‘You’ve seen them?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Not yet. Don’t want to.’

  Cowboy chipped in. ‘But we’ve—’ he grinned, ‘we’ve entertained people who have.’

  Tesco nodded. ‘Some people who reached our island were running from the Greys.’

  ‘And I suppose you looked after them in your own inimitable fashion?’ I said heavily.

  ‘Inimitable fashion?’ Tesco’s eyes burned back into mine. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means,’ the man with the tattooed question mark on his cheek shouted, ‘it means we fucked ’em up good and ’ard before we fed ’em to the rats.’

  Cowboy, Tesco and the tattooed man laughed.

  I shook my head and muttered under my breath. Stephen gave my forearm a warning squeeze.

  Too late. Tesco picked up on it. ‘Rick, what’s the problem? Don’t you approve of what we do?’

  ‘Ritual murder? Why don’t you ask the poor bastards you butchered if they approve?’

  ‘Oh, so, so sorry, Mr Sensitive.’

  ‘What’s matter with shit face?’ shouted the tattooed man. He suddenly slapped his legs so hard that the boat pitched alarmingly. ‘What’s he saying? What’s he saying?’

  Tesco smiled at me. ‘He thinks we’re a bunch of animals, Freak Boy.’

  Stephen whispered. ‘Come on, Kid K. Diplomacy here, OK?’

  ‘Did what…did what…did…’

  The one called Freak Boy glared at me. The tattooed question mark seemed to stand proud of his cheek. You could see agitation winding up the muscles in his body. He slapped his knees harder. The boat rocked. I heard Kate gasp as she flung out her hand to grab the side of the boat.

  ‘What…did what…did what?’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Stephen said soothingly. ‘We didn’t mean to upset you.’ Then he turned to Tesco. ‘Look, we’re in this together. Stop making trouble. OK?’

  ‘Me? Make trouble?’

  Freak Boy grew more agitated. He stared at me while he beat his knees.

  ‘Did what…did what?’ Drool ran down Freak Boy’s chin. ‘Did what…did what?’

  ‘For crying out loud, Tesco?’ Stephen looked at him angrily. ‘He’s going to tip the boat over.’

  ‘Freak Boy easily gets upset.’

  Freak Boy glared at me, still hammering his own knees. Spit flew from his mouth as he chanted, ‘Did what? Did what!’ He suddenly screamed, then pointed at me. ‘My friend’s dead! He killed him!’

  ‘Freak Boy,’ Cowboy warned. He looked anxious himself now. Freak Boy might lunge at me. If he did, he’d capsize the boat for sure, pitching us into the filthy flood waters. ‘Calm down…stop doing that!’

  ‘Killed my friend. Killed me. Wouldn’t let him kill me all the way though. Cos—’

  Cowboy glared angrily at Tesco. This’s your fault.’

  ‘My fault?’

  ‘Yeah, your fucking fault.’

  ‘Good God,’ Stephen shook his head. ‘This isn’t the place to provoke an argument. Cool it, both of you!’

  To my amazement they all shut their mouths. Once more I marvelled at Stephen’s ability with people. Ben Cavellero had done a good job choosing him to be leader of our group.

  Even Freak Boy calmed down. Now he contented himself with mumbling under his breath while rocking backwards and forwards as if nursing an invisible child.

  We cruised on across the lake, motor puttering steadily. We now had to follow the line of the street as the buildings grew higher. It was like riding a river through a gorge with cliffs rising high at either side. Only these cliffs were five-storey buildings with water reaching as high as the first-storey windows.

  Cowboy slowed the boat to weave round obstacles, such as lamp posts or the tops of road signs. One, matted with slime, bore a pointing arrow along with a name: Trafalgar Square.

  ‘Fucking eerie, eh?’ Tesco’s voice was low now. The same kind of voice someone uses when they step into a cathedral.

  The boat reached a junction where the canyons of high buildings lining the waterways intersected. Cowboy lifted his hat so he could wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked less and less relaxed the deeper we penetrated this new Venice, with the buildings growing higher, more claustrophobic. I saw him dart anxious glances at the buildings as if he expected a sniper to lean from a window, waiting for us to slip into the cross-hairs of his rifle sights.

  He turned the boat left along another water-filled street. I saw a street sign lapped by the boat’s wake, which gave a good indication of the depth of the flood water at this point. Picture the tallest person you know. Then picture yourself standing on his or her shoulders. If you’d executed such an acrobatic act in that flooded street then you’d probably have just managed to peep above the lake’s surface, while your tall friend glugged in the shitty water.

  The street sign read: Charing Cross Road.

  I’d walked along Charing Cross Road dozens of times. Pigged out on pizza at fast-food joints. Once I got shit-faced drunk in the Porcupine (and managed to spill beer on the most expensive shoes I’ve ever bought—blue suede, believe it or not) before tottering off to the Marquee Club to sway drunkenly to Armana. This was before they became huge and were still playing support to bands like Pulp and Oasis.

  In the world before fire, flood and starvation, Charing Cross Road, one of London’s busiest shopping streets, was crammed with old bookshops, cafes (where freshly ground coffee beans smelt like Heaven); there were restaurants; tourist shops selling Union Jack flags, T-shirts (with slogans like: MY DAD WENT TO LONDON AND ALL HE BROUGHT ME BACK WAS THIS CRAP T-SHIRT); Beefeater dolls, plazzy Bobbies’ hats—you remember the type; the typical skit would be where a lad full of cheek and cheap cider would swagger up to a cop and ask, ‘excuse me, sir, are you a policeman…or is that a tit you’re wearing on your head?’

  All that’s dead and buried. Or should I say, dead and drowned?

  Now Charing Cross Road looked an alien place. If there are such things as ghosts they walk the streets underwater. The flood level reached to the first-floor windows. All the shop fronts that were familiar to me were drowned by that stinking goo, which looked more like stew thickened by floating debris.

  The boat surged forward, bumping against bottles, planks of wood, books, drowned cats, a peacock (its feathers still an iridescent green), clothes. Hundreds of plastic carrier bags floated just below the surface, looking like a new breed of jelly fish.

  Tesco held up his hand. ‘Switch off.’

  Cowboy turned off the engine.

  The silence of the flooded street was suddenly intense. For a second I heard nothing but the lap of water hitting the walls of the buildings. There was no sign of human life there. It was all abandoned. Waiting simply to rot and fall into the lake.

  Tesco pointed down into the water, then swung his arm to the left. ‘All shops down there,’ he said, awed. ‘See that cafe sign? My pitch was there. Lived in a fucking sleeping-bag in the doorway for two fucking years.’ He looked at us. ‘You think you’re suffering now, but it’s fucking paradise compared with that. Do you know how many times I had my head kicked by people coming home from the pub? How many times, Kate, how many times?’

  Kate shook her head. In a very small voice she said, ‘I don’t know, Tesco.’

  He gave a bright artificial
grin. ‘I don’t know either. It happened so often.’ He switched off the grin, looking sickened. ‘It was good fun for people like you to give us homeless a kick in the chin as you walked by. Hee! heeee! Carruthers, old chap. Look at the funny man cry—boo-hoo-bloody-hoo.’

  The silence pressed in on us. The scene grew more disturbing. A flooded street, water lapping against the first-floor windows. Behind one window I saw the face of a dried corpse. It seemed to stare at us.

  Christ, I wanted out of there.

  Cowboy took off his Stetson hat and held it to his chest. A respectful gesture; as if a hearse was passing by. ‘Tesco, tell them about the men in the Porsche,’ he said. ‘Tell them what they did to your mouth.’

  Tesco gave a sad smile. ‘Me and my girl were sleeping in the alleyway down there. It had been raining all day. The sleeping-bags were wet. I woke up to see two men get out of a Porsche. Big white blokes they were. Dressed in leathers. They ran into the alleyway and kicked the living shit out of us.’ He pointed to the scars radiating out from his lips that gave his mouth the appearance of being the centre of a flower. The lines of the scars like petals. ‘They did that to me. They kicked my girlfriend so hard they ruptured her kidney.’

  ‘Christ,’ whispered Kate.

  ‘She died of septicaemia the following week.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Tesco shook his head. ‘So there’s civilization.’ He nodded his head at the buildings. ‘Didn’t do much for me did it? So you’ll excuse me…please…if I don’t start sobbing into my hands when I see it like that. Civilization? Civilization my arse. It was shit.’

  ‘Shit. Civilization shit,’ Freak Boy echoed.

  We sat in silence for a moment. The water slapped and sucked at the brickwork. A wind began to blow; it was so cold now. The rush of air drew a mournful note across the roof tops. It sounded like a song for a dying lover.

  I realized then that Tesco had observed this vigil every time he passed through here as a mark of respect and remembrance for his dead girlfriend.