We Float Upon a Painted Sea (15 page)

Without warning, the night descended on them like a falcon on its prey - its dark wings opening to envelop the raft. Bull, exhausted from his experience, fell asleep. Andrew wanted to talk but he was left feeling hungry and alone in the dark. So close to the sea and exposed under the night sky, he felt small and vulnerable; like a small child on a first camp without the adults. He deliberated over his own psychosomatic state. He felt humiliated that Bull was witness to his exhibition. His medication had helped suppress the symptoms of his illness, but his pills were on the
Andrea Starlight
, thousands of feet below the surface of the sea.

Andrew was cold and wet. The temperature continued to drop. The floor of the raft acted like a large sump, filled with stale saltwater and blood from Malcolm’s festering wound. He wondered if this was the reason why the sharks had approached the raft. He thought of the bloodied bandages he had thrown overboard and questioned himself over why he had lied to Bull about the fins being dolphins. He had already heard reports of sharks migrating north, following marine life from the warming waters of the tropics.

A wave of darkness extended from the east, snuffing out the trailing sunlight that exists for a brief, but mystical moment just before sunset. The invading shadow affected him spiritually, even at a pagan level. He remembered stories his grandmother told him before bed, tales of mythical creatures travelling over the sea and into the living realm, from the
Otherworld
. They would emerge during the succinct moments before dusk and only return at dawn, when the door between the two worlds was reopened. The Druids had called this movement, the Ninth Wave. Andrew trembled at the thought. He disentangling his lure and decided that a spot of night time fishing would re-focus his mind.

Chapter 11: The difficulty with honesty

2035, One year earlier

The rain had been relentless all day and Bull’s clothes were soaked through to the skin. He sat in the concrete beer garden of the St Mungo’s Arms, trying to light a cigarette. Patrick stood over him, holding his umbrella at an angle in a futile gesture to keep the rain off his brother. Patrick was looking above his head, his attention drawn to a large drone cruising across the skyline. It came to a halt and hovered several hundred feet above a cluster of tower blocks. Finally, it split into a formation of smaller drones, all speeding off in different directions. When they strayed from his sight he said,

“Anyway, getting back to the subject, so you returned to your narrowboat and she was gone. Are you sure? She’s very small. Did you check to make sure she wasn’t in the bath, or had fallen down the back of the sofa?” Bull looked reproachfully at his brother.

“That’s not funny Patrick,” he said, “I’m in bits here.” Patrick swirled red wine around in his mouth and grimaced before swallowing. He gagged. He examine the contents of his glass and said,

“I asked for a glass of wine. I know viticulture as we know it has ended, but what the fuck is this stuff? Cough medicine?”

“What do you expect, the Greenland ice sheet melted, fucked up the North Atlantic thermal conveyor belt and devastated the vineyards of Southern Europe. What a fucking awful inconvenience for you. You probably ordered tonic wine by mistake,” said Bull unemotionally.

Patrick shuffled to the bar, leaving Bull alone with his thoughts. More large drones passed overhead. Bull ignored them, concentrating on his cigarette disintegrating in the rain. Patrick returned with a glass of beer. Looking back up to the sky, he said,

“Something is going on. Lots of military UAV’s today, more than usual anyway.” He tasted his drink cautiously and then stated,

“I ordered bitter, this isn’t bitter.”

“They don’t call it bitter in Scotland, they call it
heavy
.”

“So what do they call lager?”

“
Lager
, only they say it much quicker than we do.” Patrick went back to the bar. Bull shouted after him, “Try not to insult anyone.” Finally, Patrick returned with a single malt whisky. He sipped it and smiling with approval he said,

“She could have disappeared. People get snatched off the street all the time, particularly anarchists and hippy types like Saffron.”

“No, she left of her own accord. She left me a note and told me she was leaving me, and taking Boris with her.” A thin smile spread across Patrick’s lips. He said,

“Being honest about her new lover, you have to admire that.”

“No, Patrick, Boris is our Terrapin, Maurice is her new lover.”

“You have to adapt brother, its evolution – those who adapt survive and those who don’t perish. Change is a natural progression.”

“I don’t want change. We were meant to be together. We were joined at the hip, like Siamese twins,” sobbed Bull.

“You mean conjoined twins. You didn’t actually wish to share the same internal organs with each other, although, if you did it would have been much harder for her to leave you.” Bull blushed with frustration and then groaned as if in pain. He said,

“Is this an attempt at humour, Patrick? It’s not working. How would you feel if you came home one day and the wife had left you?” Patrick thought about the breakdown of his marriage. He thought back to the elation he had felt after the wedding, it was like an aura he carried around with him, until a perpetual fog of disenchantment had engulfed him.
He thought of
the lonely nights he had endured sleeping in the spare room, the frosty silences between him and his wife and the feeling that his children had turned against him. But what infuriated him most was the prospect of having to move out of his family home. He had already viewed a number of flats, all homogenised bachelor pads with 4D printer furniture, downloadable from Ikea.

Patrick put his hand on his brother’s wet shoulder and said,

“I’m just being honest. Anyway, isn’t it you who always evangelizes on the subject of humour being the finest remedy when life goes tits up – well that’s what you said to Deirdre when she found out that her boyfriend, Thomas, from the margarine factory in Eccles, was cheating on her. Didn’t you say,
some guys just liked to spread their love more than others
and
that you were utterly butterly devastated for her
. So don’t criticise me for serving you up some of your own medicine. I’m sorry she left you brother, I really am, but a dose of realism is what you need right now.”

“I suppose you’re right. I just didn’t see it coming. She had been spending quite a bit of time with Maurice – a French photographer. We were going through a rough patch but out of the blue, I get a letter telling me it’s over?”  Bull handed his brother the note Saffron had left him. Patrick studied both sides of the piece of paper and said,

“You don’t see many of these anymore. Did the
digital revolution
pass her by?”

“I don’t think so, she knows her way around a computer. Once I had a problem with some software I was running and she resolved it like she was fixing a children’s puzzle. She just doesn’t like digital methods of communicating. I think she might have been a hacker in her past life and maybe that’s why she doesn’t trust computer networks, mail servers or the internet. She doesn’t wear a Shackle, use Bitcoins or use even the internet. She doesn’t even own a toaster.”

Patrick wasn’t listening to Bull; he was rubbing his chin and reading the note. Finally, he said,

“She likes her metaphors doesn’t she? I suppose it makes a change from the usual drivel.”

“What do you mean?” Patrick affected a whining voice,

“
It’s me, not you,
or
its just not working out the way I thought it would,
or
I’m changing into something I’ve always despised,
or
you’re a pig and you disgust me
...” Patrick crouched down. He looked into Bull’s face to see any reaction, but detected only grief. He said,

“Relationships end, it’s a fact of life, just enjoy them while they last. At least she was honest enough to explain her feelings to you in a letter.” Bull rubbed his forehead. He felt the onset of a migraine. Finally, he said,

“Thanks for rushing up here from Cheshire to be by my side.”

“I didn’t rush up here to be by your side, Faerrleah. I’ve got a meeting with PricewaterhouseCoopers in Glasgow. I was busy packing when you called me last night.”

“Thanks anyway.”

Patrick sipped his malt whisky, casting his glance across the city and to the rows of grey high-rise flats, their rooftops lost in the low lying cloud. Each building paraded a large brightly coloured number for aerial identification. To the south of the city he could see thick black smoke rising from several locations. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Patrick said,

“Saffron was right about one thing: we all have a part to play, even if we are only tiny cogs in a greater machine.” 

“Saffron said that to you?”

“No, it’s in the note.”

“She is right isn’t she? We are just cogs in a machine.”

“You’re not Faerrleah. You’re like a spanner in the works. Look, are you sure you wouldn’t rather come inside where it’s warmer and dryer?”

“No I’m fine. I’ll take my chances in the rain.” Patrick sat down on the bench and shifted closer until his umbrella covered both of them. The beer garden was flooding. They were the only people foolish enough to be braving the rain. Bull listened to the muffled sound of the rain thumping against the shelter of the umbrella. A moment of calm washed over him in his impromptu shelter. Patrick said,

“Why didn’t you call Deirdre? She’s usually better with these delicate matters than I am.”

“I did but she’s doing double shifts at the hospital.”

“Treating all the injured from the riots, most likely. The trouble seems to have reached Glasgow by the look of things. There’s black smoke rising in the south of the city. It’s spreading.”

“What is?”

“The riots. Haven’t you been watching the news? The curfew is being rolled out across the country. It’s not just London anymore. They say we’re at war, a cyber war. That’s why I had to drive up to Glasgow; our network was hacked. The news said that the national grid, transport and military networks have all come under attack.”

“Who said?”

“The woman who reads the news...”

“What would she know about it?”

“She’s not some investigative journalist who broke cover to spill the beans on a big story, you know. She just reads what’s in front of her. There’s no point having a go at the woman.”

“Sounds like you have a crush on her.” Patrick sighed. He said,

“What if I do? She’s very attractive. I can’t believe I’m the first person to tell you this. Have you not heard about the last set of floods in Europe? The world is turning to shit. Scientists are saying there is no way back and the planet will be unrecognisable within our lifetime. Things are looking bleak. The word
extinction
is being used quite a lot.”

“Tell me about it.”

“
I am
telling you about it. Where have you been living, in a cave? You certainly look like you have been.”

“Well I’ve been a wee bit preoccupied. I haven’t had much time to watch the news.”

“Or shave or eat or sleep or take a bath by the looks of it.”

Patrick brought up some news feeds on his Shackle and tried to show them to his brother. Bull grunted and looked away. They sat in silence. Finally, Patrick said,

“What about Dad. Did you tell him Saffron dumped you and ran off with a good looking French bloke?”

“I never said he was good looking.”

“The French are always better looking. They are sensitive lovers and fantastic cooks.” Bull buried his head in his hands and then drained the last of his beer. He stared at Patrick with sceptical eyes. Patrick grimace sheepishly and then said, “What did he say?”

“Dad said things are tough and the world was cruel and I need to move with the times. Then he banged on about the plight of the Levellers after the English Civil War. You know what he’s like – he has a tendency to start talking about historical tragedies rather than personal tragedies to avoid engaging on an emotional level.”

“He’s right, Faerrleah. You need to stop crying into your beer and get moving on with your own life. Saffron and Boris will be moving on with their lives and that’s for sure.”

“You mean Maurice.” Bull’s voice trembled with self pity. Patrick stared into Bull’s bloodshot eyes and said,

“Sorry, I meant Maurice. Look, you don’t even know she left with this Frenchman. There’s no mention of him in her note. Maybe you are just focusing your resentment at him in preference to where the real problem lies.”

“And where is that?”

“The problem lies with you. You deceived her.” Bull froze and then gave Patrick an aberrant look. He remembered his alcohol induced discussion with him on the phone. Bull said,