Afterlight (40 page)

It was still dark.

In the cot beside his own he could hear Nathan’s deep and easy breathing, fast asleep and untroubled . . . as he always seemed to be. Nathan never appeared to be anything other than untroubled, it was his default demeanour. His unflappable cruise control. Mr Laid-back calmly accepting the
whatever-comes-next
that life throws at you like some good-natured diner casually awaiting the next course of a mystery banquet.

Jacob so envied that about him.

The last few weeks had seen them pulling long hours outside amongst the workers; learning a whole new way of life, new rules. Then that all changed again when Mr Maxwell said they could grab their belongings and move up into the central arena. Nathan accepted both vastly differing regimes with an effortless shrug of his shoulders.

They now slept on immeasurably more comfortable beds than those mattresses outside. They had their own tent of sorts - a camouflage net draped across an ‘A’ frame of metal rods. It was perched on a stretch of terrace between two large sections of arena seating. Other tents, similar to theirs, were clustered in groups around the vast stadium, in spaces where rows of plastic bucket seats had been pulled out.

They’d only been awarded this privileged level of comfort and privacy a few days ago, after Maxwell had said they could join the praetorians. So far the nights had been noisier than outside with the boys trash-talking each other, calling out crude exchanges across the cavernous stadium from one tent to another. All good natured, and usually things quietened down when the night lights were dimmed.

Tonight, though, he’d been awoken by something going on.

Noises had percolated into his sleep and become part of his dream - the one he often had. Too often. Him and Leona in a dark house at night, lit up by the flames of a burning car outside. The shifting silhouettes of intoxicated teenage boys larking around, jeering and laughing at the families hiding in their homes down St Stephen’s Avenue.

‘Oooo are ya? Oooo are ya?’ several of them chanting like supporters at a football match.

‘Weeee comin’ to part-eeeee!!’ another voice sing-songing over the top.

Jacob shook away the last tendrils of sleep and the nightmare. He could feel the coolness of sweat drying on his bare skin. Another stuffy night inside. Even though the dome’s roof was an opaque canvas, when the sun was shining much of its energy permeated through and built up inside throughout the day.

He heard the noises again. Voices in the distance; voices that had taken part in his dream. He sat up and looked out through the drape of netting. Between the gaps in the webbing, down across the endless sloping rows of bucket chairs, on the arena’s stage, he could see a couple of torch beams flickering around amongst the dark and silent outlines of the arcade machines. Some of the praetorians were down there, messing about.

He could hear their banter, hee-hawing laughter as several of them pretended the NASCAR machines were switched on and that they were mid-race. They sat in bucket seats and yanked their steering wheels one way then the other as they stared up at the large blank screens in front of them. A scuffle broke out between a couple of boys watching, both wanting to sit in the same booth. It was no more than pushing, shoving and posturing and snarled words exchanged. Jacob settled back in his cot, once more looking up at the webbing and the distant dark pall of the dome’s canvas, and found himself wondering whether he could really fit in as one of them; they all seemed so aggressive and intimidating.

Tough talk.
That’s what Snoop called it. Because the boys were so young, they had to appear to be tougher, meaner, than they were for the adult workers to accept them being in charge.

It’s mostly just hot-air bullshit,
Snoop had said with a grin.
They’re good boys.

Jacob desperately wanted to be a praetorian. He’d caught a glimpse of party night: the arcade machines; they had a cinema room with a big projection screen and a library of DVDs; there was another room full of Xboxes and plasma screens all linked up and playing ‘Call of Duty’. And the big light show from the lighting rig above . . .

If heaven was powered by electricity, this had to be it.

He closed his eyes, trying to get back to sleep, but his mind restlessly hopped from one thing to another.

Not only did he not think he’d make a very good praetorian, he had a sneaking suspicion the other boys didn’t think too much of him. Oh, yes, they put up with him because he was Nathan’s mate. They liked Nathan because he made them laugh. Like he could everyone else. Been here a few weeks now and
all
the other boys let on to him as they passed by with a grin and pressing of fists.

Jacob barely got a nod from them.

The injustice of that skewered him painfully. Why did popularity amongst these younger boys boil down to the simple ability to tell a joke? It’s not as if Nathan actually told jokes anyway, he just had a cool way of chuckling; a sort of yuk-yuk-yukking that was inexplicably infectious. That, and his calm manner, and the cool street talk he could easily slip into at a moment’s notice.

A cold doubt stirred deep down inside him; the thought that his old friend was going to get fed up with him and move on . . . too busy enjoying his celebrity status.

 

 

 

J
enny looked up, shading her eyes from the sun. ‘He’s what?’

‘Evicting us,’ said William Laithwaite nodding vigorously. The bent out of shape specs on the bridge of his nose wobbled precariously. ‘He said all the rest of us who aren’t in his
church
have got to move off his platform this afternoon and find space on one of the other platforms. It’s not right!’

Jenny stood up slowly, emerging from amongst the fruit-laden stalks of the tomato plants. She’d been busy securing the weaker branches of the more wind-battered plants to the cane support frames with lengths of twine. She liked working up here on the roof of the accommodation module and up the steps on the helipad, particularly on such a nice day. One hundred and sixty feet above the sea, it was the highest usable surface amongst the platforms; the highest and most peaceful place to work. It took her mind away from the gnawing concerns of the world below.

‘All right, that’s enough,’ sighed Jenny wearily. ‘I’m not having this. Where’s Walter?’

William pointed down at the empty davit arms below. ‘He’s taken the yacht ashore again. Said he needed to find some more bits and pieces.’

He seemed to be trekking ashore more and more often in the last few weeks. He kept coming up with excuses to bugger off; components he needed to source in Bracton for the generator mark II. She really could have done with him being here right now, though. He had the keys to the gun locker.

That thought stopped her in her tracks for a moment.

She realised that’s exactly what she’d love to do. Something small and discreet tucked into the waistband of her khakis. Something she could whip out and level at him whilst she told him she’d had enough of his divisive preaching.

For a while after their last confrontation, Jenny had allowed herself to believe some sort of an uneasy status quo had been established. That Latoc would keep his prayers and sermons to the drilling rig and that the hundred or so followers he’d attracted might have reached its natural cap. But the son of a bitch had recently insisted on segregated mealtimes - one breakfast and evening meal sitting for his followers.

And what had she done about that?

Nothing.

She’d excused herself from confronting him directly about it because it hadn’t caused the disruption she’d anticipated. But also because she’d noticed the mealtimes were fast becoming a recruitment opportunity for
them;
every sit-down session peppered with pockets of his followers coaxing the others to come along to a meeting and listen to Valérie talk.

Then, last week, he’d decided to move across to the compression platform - against her express wishes, given that he was technically speaking still on probation. And again, she’d argued herself out of confronting him head-on because, even though it was relatively crowded over there, yes, there were still spaces on that platform. What’s more, Latoc had made a private arrangement with Hillary Glossop - one of his flock of course - to swap places. People fancied a change of scenery, or found a neighbour’s personal habits irritating, swapsies like that happened quite often. Provided both parties were happy, Jenny had no obvious excuse to refuse that, since Hillary was quite happy to change places.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked William.

‘Going to talk to him,’ she sighed, pulling on her cardigan. ‘He’s gone too bloody far this time.’ She stepped across the roof and grabbed the handrails of the steps down to the module’s third floor gantry.

‘He wouldn’t listen to us!’ William called after her. ‘We told him he couldn’t just kick us out . . . that’s our home for Christ’s sake!’

Across the void between platforms she spotted the laundry group scrubbing clothes in a long trough of soapy seawater on the cooler deck of the smaller compression platform. Lines of brightly coloured clothes flapped like a coalition of national flags across the sun-bleached deck. Amongst the laundry team she spotted Sophie Yun, the eldest of four Korean sisters. Sophie had told Jenny a couple of days ago that she and her sisters were moving off the large compression platform. She’d said the prayer meetings were now becoming too noisy and they were beginning to feel unwelcome amongst all the Latoc-faithful.

Jenny shook her head as she descended a third flight of steps down to the bottom of the module and onto the platform’s main deck. She winced with a stab of pain as her taut skin pulled under the dressings.

This is exactly what she’d hoped to avoid, border lines developing between a notion of Them and Us. Before too long, she was sure, it was no longer going to be known as the primary compression platform, instead ‘Latoc-Land’ or ‘New Jerusalem’, or something equally ridiculous.

Jenny cursed herself for letting the man stay in the first place. Cursed herself for finding him just a little attractive and fantasising that there was a frisson there that was going to lead somewhere. Cursed herself for being such a stupid bitch.

She’d let things inch slowly Valérie’s way because his people were still dutifully attending their various work groups and getting on with what needed to be done, and the children were still attending the classes being held by Rebecca. Jenny had been prepared to let things continue because the alternative was unthinkable; two separate
tribes,
each living on their own platform and eyeing each other suspiciously down the length of a one hundred foot long suspended walkway.

Us and Them was not how this place was going to survive.

She crossed the main deck and stepped onto the long walkway leading to the main compression platform. At the far end she could see a cluster of
his
people watching her coming over. She picked out some of their faces. Denise, Alice, Laura and baby Tom in her arms, the youngest member of the community at six months old. Jenny smiled and called across a ‘good morning’ to them. Nods back. That’s all. A wary nod from each of them. They stood at the end of the walkway’s long creaking wire cage like guards at a border crossing.

Trying to appear
reasonable.
That was her big mistake. So far she’d realised her only strong suit was to make a big thing of appearing unfalteringly reasonable, whilst quietly hoping that Valérie’s embarrassingly Old Testament shtick was going to start unravelling and sounding ridiculous.

The old ‘give him enough rope’ strategy.

But instead, since making his bed over here, it appeared that his congregation was growing in size again; a lot more ears for him to bend. And ridiculous-sounding tales of floods and Noah’s Arks and God’s plan seemed to be exactly what people wanted to listen to in the candlelit gloom of an evening.

At the other end of the walkway, she stepped out of the cage and beamed a friendly smile at the women.

‘Where’s Valérie?’

Alice Harton’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she took a step forward. ‘Why?’

‘I need to talk to him about some accommodation issues.’

Alice made a show of giving it
her
consideration. Finally she shrugged and shuffled a half step back, as if she was giving Jenny permission to step on board.

‘All right. He’s up on the top deck near the scrubbers.’

Jenny’s smile was thin and utterly insincere. ‘Thank you, Alice.’

She pushed past them and used the external flight of stairs up the side of the tall compression module. Jenny realised she’d not actually seen any of those ladies for days. Not since the segregated meal sittings had started taking place.

In fact, she’d not seen Martha for several days either. Last time she’d seen her they’d passed each other on a walkway. She’d been talking animatedly with Kaisha and Hamarra, talking evangelically about the wonderful future, filling the wire cage with her sunny voice. Her face had lit up at the sight of Jenny, a genuinely friendly smile and a little wave as they passed each other. Jenny thought she saw a ghost of sadness in Martha’s eyes that she couldn’t talk her friend into joining them.

Jenny missed Martha. Really missed her.

Not for the first time, she wondered how easy it would be to do that - to join her, let Martha talk her round. She could announce she was standing down and someone else could run things. Perhaps she’d sit in on one of Valérie’s sermons. There might be comfort in that, finding faith . . . allowing herself to believe that Andy and Hannah were somewhere wonderful waiting for her, to believe she might see them again one day.