9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (19 page)

“He could intercept others as they make their way to London,” said Lavinia.

Milandra nodded. “Again, true, but they will be flocking here from all over the mainland.
He cannot possibly hope to intercept more than twenty or so. Even that will take a
great deal of luck. And he may find that there is little he can do to undo the effects
of the Commune. If we get it right.”

“He could head to the continent,” said Grant. “Find survivors there. Band them together.
Try to interfere with the Great Coming. He’ll have time to try something.”

“Pah!” said Milandra. “What can he possibly do to interfere with that?”

“Nevertheless,” said Grant. “Is that a risk we’re willing to take?”

Milandra was about to argue further, but closed her mouth. She could see from the
expressions on her Deputies’ faces that further debate was futile.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s vote. All those in favour of doing nothing about this
Ronstadt?”

Her hand was the only one to rise.

“All those in favour of hunting him down and killing him?”

Four hands rose.

Milandra sat back with a sigh. “So be it,” she said.

* * * * *

Peter was right about Tom’s first effort at syphoning petrol: he threw up. Despite
this, he succeeded in almost filling the Jag’s tank.

As they prepared to leave, Peter said, “There are a number of small towns and villages
north of here. I want to drive back to my cottage that way and approach my home village
from the west. Keep your eyes peeled for signs of human life.”

Tom nodded and got behind the wheel of the car. He glanced into the back. Dusty lay
in his basket that fitted, just, onto the broad seat. Tom had agreed to pack as if
he wasn’t returning. All the food and drink, including dog food, that he’d accumulated
were boxed away in the boot, together with a small suitcase that contained his hiking
boots, a pair of trainers and some spare clothes. He had accepted Peter’s assertion
that getting kitted out in new outfits wouldn’t present a problem so he had left most
of his clothes behind. Also in the case were his collection of sleeping pills and
painkillers, and the first-aid box from his bathroom cabinet. If Peter had noticed
that the pills had disappeared from the telephone table, he didn’t mention it.

The Range Rover pulled past him and Tom started the engine of the Jaguar, delighting
again in the silky purr. It had rained a little overnight and the last of the dusting
of snow had disappeared. The sky glowered grey and low, acting like a blanket that
would keep the temperature high enough that ice shouldn’t be a problem during their
journey.

The light-blue Jaguar pulled off behind the bronze Range Rover and they left the village
of Penmawr in convoy. Although he had packed as though he was never returning, Tom
had every intention of coming back. Maybe not today—on that much he was still undecided—but
one day, and he had locked his house securely. He guessed he owned it outright now.
There was unlikely to be anybody left in the bank to enforce the mortgage; no judge
to make a possession order; no bailiffs to change the locks. On the other hand, this
wasn’t such a big deal bearing in mind that he could pretty much take his pick of
any house he fancied: cottage by the sea; country mansion; swanky townhouse. Heck,
he could probably move in to the Hilton in Cardiff if he wanted. Live out his days
in five-star surroundings, even if the five-star service wasn’t available.

The two vehicles made their way up the valley to the north of Penmawr, passing through
villages that clung ribbon-like to the mountain sides.

Reaching the head of the valley, Tom followed the Range Rover through winding mountain
roads, the Jaguar handling the bends effortlessly. They passed through thick forests
and across wild moors, chunks of granite poking through the bracken like broken dentures.

The only times they had to slow were to avoid sheep, grown brazen by the lack of traffic,
and to curve round the occasional abandoned vehicle. One car still had the driver
inside, grinning and clutching the steering wheel in a death grip with fingers through
which yellowing-white bone showed. Tom swallowed a little, but it seemed tame compared
to what he had seen at the sport centre. Once they had to drive close to the edge
of a precipitous drop to avoid a burned-out police car, but there was just enough
room for them to squeeze between the blackened wreck and the crash barrier without
scratching the paintwork on either vehicle.

As they dropped into the next valley, they passed the still-bleeding, mangled corpse
of a sheep. Tom glanced in his rearview mirror, craning his neck to see Dusty, fast
asleep in his basket. Mild-mannered and friendly as the dog was, Tom couldn’t help
but wonder if Dusty would by now have resorted to savaging sheep if he had been freed
to roam by his former owner. Probably, he concluded. Without man’s interference, the
brave new world would see a shuffling in the previous order of things as the fittest
overcame the weakest. Claw and fang would become king now.

Mid-morning and they drove on through more winding settlements and more twisting mountain
roads. They dropped down into the Rhondda valleys, famous for their exploitation of
coal and men alike.

Peter chose a circuitous route, driving through hamlets, villages and small towns
that covered the valleys like a rash. It was as they were leaving one such village,
had almost passed the last of the grey-stone terraced houses that lined the road,
that the Range Rover’s brake lights lit up for no apparent reason and the vehicle
came to an abrupt halt. The former owner of the Jaguar had kept the car well-maintained
and the brakes were sharp; Tom was able to comfortably stop without danger of ramming
the Range Rover, though Dusty’s basket thudded against the back of the passenger seat
and the dog uttered a small whine.

“Sorry, boy,” said Tom. “I have no idea why we’ve stopped here.”

Tom wound down his window and poked his head out, looking enquiringly towards the
Range Rover. Peter was craning back, pointing excitedly to something to Tom’s left.
Tom pulled his head back inside the car and leaned over to peer through the passenger
window. With a gasp, he saw what Peter had noticed.

The terraced houses were set back from the road behind stone walls and peeling iron
gates. The front gardens sloped upwards so that the ground floors of the houses were
raised above the level of the road. Tom had to dip his back and crane his neck to
see it, but the last-but-one house had smoke pouring from its chimney.

Tom felt his stomach give an excited flip. “Oh, shit,” he said.

He switched off the Jaguar’s engine and got out. He closed the door, leaving Dusty
sitting in the back. Standing in the open air, freed from the noise of engines, it
suddenly seemed too quiet to Tom. Although the sky had lightened, it remained steadily
overcast and the day had not grown appreciably colder. Nevertheless, Tom shivered.
Peter had stepped out of the Range Rover and was standing by the bonnet, gazing up
at the house. Tom joined him.

Sometimes when Tom felt nervous or unsure, he resorted to stating the obvious.

“There must be someone in there,” he said.

“Come on,” said Peter, and started walking towards the house.

Tom followed. The creak as Peter opened the gate sounded like a sound effect in an
early Hammer horror film and Tom found himself glancing wildly around, certain that
someone—or something—would come lumbering down the street, attracted by the noise.
He forced himself to look ahead, to breathe slowly, to stop reacting like a ten-year-old.

The house was narrow. A navy-blue painted door faced them at the top of the path.
To the right of the door was a window.

Peter walked slowly, but steadily, to the front door and knocked upon it. Three sharp
raps. Tom stood at the gate and held his breath.

No answer. Peter looked back at Tom and motioned to the window.

Reluctantly, Tom walked up the path, trying not to creep, and turned behind Peter
where the path continued past the window to the stone wall separating the house from
the end house. He stopped in front of the window and peered in.

Curtains were drawn tightly across, leaving no gap in the centre or on either side
through which Tom could see anything of the interior. A plant in a china pot sat on
the inside windowsill. Judging from the blackness of the soil, it had recently been
watered.

Tom glanced across at Peter and shook his head.

Peter stooped and poked his fingers through the letter box, opening it, and placing
his mouth to the gap, much like Tom had done days ago at his neighbours’ houses.

“Hello!” Peter called. “Hello? My name is Peter. My companion’s name is Tom. We’re
looking for survivors. We’ve only found each other so far. And you. Tom has a dog;
his name is Dusty. Hello?”

Tom stared at the white lining of the curtains, expecting them to twitch apart, wanting
them to yet dreading it. They didn’t move.

Peter tried once more. “
Please
. Won’t you at least speak to us? Tell us your name? We mean you no harm.”

He turned so that his ear was pressed to the opening. After a few moments, he released
the letter box and straightened. He looked at Tom and shook his head slowly.

“Doesn’t look like they want to be friendly,” Peter said. “Don’t suppose we can blame
them.” He beckoned Tom. “Come on. We need to get going. The day is wearing on.”

Tom left the window and followed Peter to the gate. He shut it behind him, the creak
not sounding so ominous now. As he turned towards the car, he heard a voice.

“Wait.”

He turned back to the house. The blue front door had half opened. Peering around it
was a woman.

* * * * *

The park was wide and wet and windy. Many had brought rugs or plastic sheets that
they spread on the grass and sat down on. Most who hadn’t, stood; some sat anyway.

They formed a rough circle with a space in the centre, which was occupied by Milandra
and the Deputies. They sat on five plastic chairs, the Deputies forming a square in
the middle of which sat Milandra. The chair had creaked when she settled her bulk
onto it and she had felt the legs sink a little into the sodden soil, but she put
it from her mind. It had far more momentous matters to occupy it.

There was little preamble. The Deputies rose to their feet and faced the crowd, holding
their arms out straight in front of them. The babble of whispered conversation died
immediately. The Deputies sat back down. The damp air almost crackled with anticipation.

Milandra spoke briefly, her voice resonant in the silence.

“You all know why we are gathered here. We must Commune. This may be the last time
we need to do this before the Great Coming, so give me your all.”

Almost five thousand pairs of eyes watched her intently. Nothing moved except the
breeze and the drizzle. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“Now.”

Milandra cast her mind free. Instantly it was joined by almost five thousand other
minds. Like a feather caught in an updraft of warm air, her psyche spiralled upwards
and outwards. Buoyed and strengthened many multiples more than five thousand, it spread
out like a vast blanket or a stormfront, moving faster than the strongest hurricane,
covering the British Isles in a heartbeat, catching everyone in its path.

A moment later, almost five thousand intellects melded as one—squeezing, grasping
intellects—Milandra pushed. . . .

* * * * *

The woman’s name was Ceri; Ceri Lewis. She, too, had fallen ill, but not before watching
her husband and ten-year-old son die in the hospital. This was in the first days of
the pandemic, when hospitals still took in patients, though the corridors were rapidly
filling with sufferers. When Ceri walked, red-eyed and dazed, through the hospital
doors, soldiers were already patrolling the grounds, turning the dying away at the
main gates.

“If it had been a day or two later, they probably wouldn’t have let me leave,” she
told them in her gentle, lilting voice.

She was thirty-five, a dinner lady at the local comprehensive school. Tears brimmed
in her brown eyes as she told them her son had been due to start at the school in
September.

“I wasn’t even able to give them a burial,” she said, her voice breaking.

Peter and Tom sat in the darkness of her living room, the only light coming in from
the still-open front door and the flames from the log fire in the hearth. The afternoon
was stretching towards evening; it would soon be dark outside. Peter had glanced at
Tom once or twice while the woman’s head was bowed and motioned at his wrist, but
Tom had shaken his head angrily. It was clear that the woman needed to get a few things
off her chest before she would even begin to think straight.

Tom stiffened as a high-pitched howl reached his ears. Both Peter and Ceri turned
towards the open door as Tom ran to it. He had left the driver’s window of the Jaguar
open when he had come to investigate the house and it was due to this that the dog’s
howl reached the house as loud and clear as though Dusty was standing on the path
outside the front door, not on the back seat of the Jaguar. Tom glanced wildly around
but could see nothing out of place. No-one and no thing had approached the car. So
why–?

A rough hand grabbed Tom by the upper arm and he was yanked back into the house.

“Quick!” hissed Peter’s voice in his ear. “Grab my hand! No time to explain!”

“But—”

“GRAB MY HAND!”

The force of Peter’s yell shocked Tom into obeying and his right hand was engulfed
by Peter’s. In the gloom, he could just make out that Ceri grasped Peter’s other hand,
her face twisted into a grimace of terror.

“HOLD HANDS! FORM A CIRCLE! DO IT!” As he shouted, Peter yanked them towards each
other.

Tom reached out his left hand and grabbed hold of Ceri’s free hand.