Brother in the Land (3 page)

There was this track halfway up the slope, that led off to Kershaw Farm. Nobody ever used it: Old Man Kershaw was a recluse with a big dog.

I was passing the end of the track when I heard a motor. A Land-Rover appeared over the ridge and came racing down the track. You couldn't see the farm from the road because it lay beyond this ridge.

With a surge of thankfulness that I'd found at least one survivor like myself, I braked and waited. The vehicle bounced down the ruts and screeched to a stop where the track joined the road.

I suppose I'd expected Old Man Kershaw. What I got was like something out of a movie. The nearside door opened and this thing jumped out. It was some sort of black, one-piece suit with a face mask, and carried a gun. I could see another one watching me through the windscreen. The one with the gun trotted over.

‘Where have you come from?' He was speaking through a mike or something and his tone was harsh. I nodded up the road.

‘Skipley. I'm off there now.' The gun made me nervous.

‘What were you doing out here?'

I shrugged. ‘Hiding. I was in the pillbox when – '

‘You're not allowed out here. This road's an ESR. Civilians
must remain where they are.'

I searched the mask for eyes, but the eyepieces were reflective. I said, ‘Are you some kind of warden or something; can you tell me what's happening?'

A tinny, quacking sound issued from the mike; the travesty of a laugh. He shifted the gun on its sling. ‘I'm not here to answer questions. Leave the bike and get back to town or be shot for looting.'

‘Looting?' I showed him my empty hands. ‘What d'you mean, leave the bike? It's mine!'

He moved so fast I hadn't time to think. He lifted his leg, planted the sole of his boot on my thigh and pushed. I went sprawling on the asphalt with the bike across my legs. He bent, snatched up the bike and threw it behind him.

‘Now get up and get out.' He stood over me with his legs apart and the gun on his hip like Clint Eastwood or somebody. You could tell he liked himself.

I should have done what he said but I didn't. I got up and threw myself at him. I'm not brave. It wasn't that. It was the crack about looting and the way he stood posing.

He was ready for me. As I came at him he side-stepped and swung a terrific kick into my crotch. I collapsed half-conscious, gasping. He bent, grabbed my shirt and hauled me upright.

‘There,' he hissed. ‘Explained it more clearly have I, lad?' Gripping my arm, he half-ran me up the slope. We got to the top and he flung me from him. I tottered onto the downward slope, blind with tears. ‘Go on,' he snarled. ‘Piss off, and be thankful you weren't shot.'

A few yards down I stopped to get the water out of my eyes, and when I did I saw the hillside strewn with bodies and the town laid waste below.

They were everywhere. In the ditch, on the verge and on the road itself. Some didn't look bad; you could almost persuade yourself they were sleeping. Others were horrible, like the one by the pillbox.

At first, I peered at them as I passed; praying that none would turn out to be Mum or Dad or Ben. After a bit I couldn't stand it, so I didn't look any more, except to keep from falling over them. I walked like a blinkered horse, looking straight in front.

On the edge of town the houses were all burnt out, charred, glassless windows and caved-in roofs. Inside you could see wallpaper, fireplaces and bits of stairs going nowhere. Smoke rose thinly here and there through blackened timbers.

There was this old man, sitting in an armchair on the pavement. How it got there I don't know but there he was, staring at the wet flags. He was the first living person I'd seen all the way down and I crossed over and said, ‘Are you all right?' It was a damn stupid thing to say but I wanted to hear his voice.

He didn't answer. He didn't even look up. He just went on staring at the pavement with his hands curled round the ends of the armrests. I repeated my question in a louder voice but there was no response; not even when I touched his shoulder. I guessed he must be in shock or something and I felt I ought to help – get him under cover perhaps. I looked about but all the
houses were burnt and I couldn't see anybody else, so I left him.

As I moved further into town the damage got worse. Some of the buildings had collapsed; drifts of smashed brick lay spilled across the road and I had to pick my way round them. There were more bodies, and broken glass everywhere, some of it fused by heat into fantastic shapes. There were burnt out vehicles and the air smelled of charred wood.

Our shop was in the west part of town, the part farthest away from Branford. The worse devastation was to the east. As I made my way westward the damage grew lighter and I began to hope that I might find my family unscathed and my home intact.

I saw people. Some were walking about. Others sat on steps, gazing at the ground in front of them. Nobody looked at me, or tried to speak. I felt invisible, like a ghost.

Treading carefully between heaps of rubble and bits of glass I came to the top of my own street. Some of the houses still stood, others lay smashed. I could see from here that the shop was down.

I ran, in the middle of the road. My legs were weak with fear so that I almost fell.

The van lay on its side in the roadway, burnt out. The whole shop had collapsed though nearby houses still stood. I scrabbled among the rubble, calling brokenly to my parents. I imagined them lying crushed or burned beneath the bricks and plaster and I started to dig with my bare hands; pulling out bricks and throwing them aside. Then a voice said, ‘Danny?' and I spun round, still bent over with a brick in either hand. My dad was standing by the cellar-steps, looking at me.

There was this angle of wall still standing: the kitchen corner where the cellar steps went down.

The bricks fell from my hands and I scrambled to him over the loose debris. He hugged me like he hadn't since I was a kid and I stood there sort of leaning on him, crying. My crotch hurt like hell.

I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands and said, ‘Where's Mum and Ben?'

He looked down and shook his head. ‘Your mother's gone, lad,' he said. ‘She was up here, you see. Ben's in the cellar. He was down there with me when … he's asleep. We thought you were a goner, Danny. Where've you been?'

‘The pillbox,' I told him. ‘Up by Kershaw Farm. I went in out of the rain, and then I saw the flash. When I came out there were these men in rubber suits. One beat me up.'

‘Beat you up?' he said. ‘Why?'

‘I don't know. They wouldn't tell me anything about what had happened and they made me leave the bike. I want to see Mum. Have you – ?'

‘Aye,' he said quickly. ‘I dug her out. Hoped she might be – you know, but it was no use. She's over there.' He nodded to where the counter sagged incongruously among bricks and twisted pipes. ‘You don't want to see her, lad. Think of her as she was. She's wrapped up anyway.'

I gazed at him. Grey, stubbly face and pinkish eyes.

‘Wrapped up?'

‘Aye.' He wiped his palms on his coat and looked at the gutted houses across the road. ‘It says in the booklet to wrap 'em up and tie a label on till they come to collect them. I had some polythene in the cellar but I can't find anything to write with so there's no label.'

I stared across at the counter. ‘Who's coming?' I whispered. ‘Them at Kershaw Farm?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't know lad,' he said dully. ‘It's been over a day already and I've not seen anyone. You can only do what it says and wait, can't you?'

I nodded, seeing the corpses on the hillside. Wondering who'd wrap them up and stick the labels on.

‘Come on down.' He moved towards the steps. ‘You must be starving. I'll get you some grub.'

The cellar was lit by two torches; one hanging from the light-flex and one clamped between two bags of sugar on a shelf. Dad had put down a strip of linoleum and Ben lay on it under a pile of blankets. He looked so peaceful, I wished I was seven.

Dad heated up a tin of sausage and beans for me. He'd made a cooker by cutting the top off an oil drum, filling it with sand and pouring paraffin into it. When he put a match to it, the surface of the sand burned with a blue flame. It stank, but it heated the food.

I ate ravenously, spoon in one hand and a hunk of stalish bread in the other. It didn't occur to me just then to wonder if the food was safe; I suppose I was too hungry.

It was no picnic though, all the same. The paraffin fumes stung my eyes and made me feel sick. I couldn't stop thinking about Mum. At the back of my mind lurked the question, ‘How shall we live?' and, sub-consciously, I was saying, ‘We won't. We'll die, every one of us, it's only a question of time.'

It was three nights since I'd slept properly and while I was eating a fantastic tiredness came over me. I said, ‘I think I'd better turn in now if that's okay, Dad.' He was rummaging in a drawer and nodded without turning.

‘All right, lad. I'll wake you about midnight so you can take your turn on guard.'

‘What?' I thought I hadn't heard properly.

‘Guard.' He pushed the drawer shut and straightened up with a stub of pencil in his hand. ‘There's a lot of stock down here, Danny, and a lot of hungry people out there. We're lucky, but we've got to take care of our luck.'

There were two cellars; one for food and one for dry goods. Both were chock-full of stuff, enough to last three people years. I nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Midnight then.'

I took my trainers off and got down beside Ben. It was hard, but there were plenty of blankets. Dad fetched a pick-handle from the other cellar and brandished it, grinning briefly. ‘Had these in the army,' he growled. ‘Guard duty. If it'll do for the army, it'll have to do for us. G'night, lad.'

He reached up and switched off the torch that dangled from the flex, then clumped away up the steps.

The beam of the remaining torch hit the white-washed ceiling and filled the cellar with a soft, reflected glow. Ben hadn't stirred: he lay with his mouth open, breathing gently. I envied him, but although I was utterly shattered I couldn't sleep. I lay gazing up at the flaky, cob-webbed ceiling while thoughts and speculations chased one another like the Keystone Cops across my mind.

How would we live? Who were those guys up at Kershaw Farm? Was that old fellow still sitting in his armchair under the stars?

It seemed like hours before I dropped off, and about five seconds later that Dad shook me. The torch still burned between the sugar bags. I found my shoes and tugged them on; the laces danced before my hot eyes as I fumbled with them. I stood up and Dad handed me the pick-handle.

‘Been quiet,' he said. ‘Too damn quiet. Keep your eyes skinned and give us a yell if you see owt.' He unbuttoned the shop-coat and hung it on a nail. I nodded and climbed out into the night.