Elysium. Part Two (3 page)

‘Kenan?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before the man replied, ‘Guliven?’ He almost groaned. ‘Jesus Christ, man, why’d it have to be you who took Kelly’s place?’

The second man moved swiftly, or Guliven was too slow to react; a fist landed hard and squarely on the ridge of his nose. Blood gushed over his face and tears blinded him and he staggered. He thought for a moment of Sean though it seemed as though he had already been incapacitated by Kenan, and Tom had disappeared from the scene altogether.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Guliven cried, covering his nose, but heavy hands had grasped his collar and were dragging him along roughly.

He heard an engine and was bundled into the back of a rusting car. The smell of mildew hit him as he was forced into the seat. He heard Sean protest as he was tossed into the boot, and then Kenan was beside him as Gorran, his brother, slumped into the driver’s seat and pulled away on to the high street.

‘What do you want?’ Guliven said angrily, spitting blood over Kenan. ‘Last time we spoke it was as friends, man!’

Kenan looked away from him. They rarely saw each other, though whenever Guliven had stopped on Lundy they always spared time to drink with one another.

‘We didn’t know it’d be you.’

‘Were you expecting Kelly? He’s dead, you know?’

‘I know...’ The words were quiet, almost guilty. They checked Guliven.

‘What do you mean you know. How?’

Kenan didn’t answer, but the journey had only been a short one. They stopped outside an old garage, and Gorran pulled Guliven from the car, thrusting him inside. Kenan remained outside, hauling Sean from the boot of the car and beating him until his shouting stopped. Guliven couldn’t tell if he had ceased of his own accord or whether he had been knocked unconscious. Either way, he was quiet... And safe for a time.

The garage was crammed with obscure shadows cast by engine parts and hanging chains. A single strip light hummed, hurting Guliven’s eyes and casting a sickly yellow glare about the room.

Gorran shoved him once more until he was in the centre of the garage, and it was then that he saw the giant form of Red Sawbone stepping from the shadows. He swallowed.

Red was more ancient than he could remember anyone ever looking, his face little more than a yellowed skull atop a neck of exposed tendons, bone and sinew. A thick beard clung to him, more cream in colour than grey, and he walked with a stiff leg which betrayed some former injury that had never fully healed.

Well into his seventies, he was the mere memory of his former self, the broad and strong giant that Guliven remembered, and yet his vengeance-black eyes radiated with all the strength of a blacksmith’s hammer.

He bypassed all pleasantries, saying, ‘You know me?’

‘I do. Kenan and me... We drink sometimes when I visit Lundy.’

Red ignored this. ‘And you know of the things that happen in Mortehoe?’

‘As well as any other?’

‘Then tell me why Richard Kelly was killed.’

Guliven cleared his throat. ‘He died of a...’

‘Bollocks,’ Red growled. ‘Don’t try me, Mr. Waeshenbach. Don’t test me as a fool. He’s cold and dead at the hands of a man. Both you and I know it.’

‘If that’s true then I don’t know the reason of it.’

‘You know as much as any other, so you say.’ Red drew closer, the cream light turning his eyes the colour of thunderclouds.

‘In as much as what goes on in Mortehoe and... And in Woolacombe. In respect to our daily lives, not as for murder.’

Red took Guliven’s chin in his bony fingers, squeezing it tightly. He looked at him for long moments, reading the silent words in Guliven’s eyes.

‘My mother called me a spider...’ Red whispered. ‘Because I liked to gossip as a boy. She meant it as a curse on me, the old bitch, but I was never happier than when she said it. A little web spinner, I was. Stirring up trouble with my words and laying threads for others to follow. It became...’ He hesitated, evaluating his words. ‘It became my thing, my trait... My virtue. No one spins threads other than me, Mr. Waeshenbach. Not on Lundy, and not in Mortehoe either. It was the agreement that was made when last I set foot there, and now!’ He roared the last words, Guliven’s heart near exploded in his chest. Red thrust him backwards; his head striking a car exhaust hanging from the wall. ‘And now I discovered that so many webs have been spun that you choke on them!’ He kicked Guliven in the hip, and although one of his legs was almost useless there was enough force behind the blow to fracture bone.

Guliven screamed, grabbing his thigh, his face buried in the dust. Both Gorran and Kenan were in the garage, each holding Sean’s arms high above his back, keeping him immobile, doubled up, and gasping in pain.

‘My boys and I, here, we’re great lovers of travel... Isn’t that right, Gorran?’

‘It is, da,’ Gorran replied, his voice thick with satisfaction.

‘Came here right from Iceland, we did. What’s it been, Kenan? Seven days at sea?’

‘Near as like, da,’

‘Seven days, in that little tug of ours, just to get here. We don’t like to come to Mortehoe since all the troubles, see... But I keep an eye on the place. A close eye. I’ve always a man posted there, see? He sends a broadcast of his own and keeps me abreast of all that happens should I need to revisit. He tells me of hatred toward the old-world that rarely touches the thoughts of men on Lundy, they tell of your defences, your fears... And while we were at anchor in Iceland I heard of Richard Kelly’s murder.’ His eyes grew dark as he loomed over Guliven. ‘Murder. I thought I made it clear that no more would die at the hands of Tuppers. With the blood of his grandfather I thought I made it so clear that you would need be a fucking retard with the brains of a drowned rat to misconstrue it...’ He inhaled deeply, and then stepped around Guliven until he was facing him. Guliven looked up, blood on his chin and sweat beading his brow. He sensed another beating was to follow, Red’s hands seemed to twitch with the excitement of it, and he braced himself for another onslaught.

‘I don’t know anything about Kelly. If it was murder then Semilion didn’t tell me. I’m not on his council.’

Red drew a yellow hand across his mouth, pondering Guliven’s words. He might be telling the truth, and yet he sensed he knew more than he said.

‘And Dr. John Camberwell?’ He asked.

‘John? I know him well. He lives in Mortehoe for part of the year, and then returns to Dublin University for the rest of it.’

‘I know all that,’ Red responded. He took a length of metal from the wall and prod Guliven sharply with it. ‘We’ve been to see him, you see. Recently. My boys and I.’

Guliven looked up. The speculation in his eyes betrayed he knew more than nothing. Red saw it, drank it up, and smiled as one who has drawn out a long held confession.

‘We visited him on the night of his last transmission, the shipping forecast he sends to Semilion each month. We asked him of Kelly, the same questions I’m asking of you now.’

‘Camberwell wouldn’t know anything.’ Guliven spat.

‘Oh but he did,’ Red smiled. ‘He knew more than Semilion thought he knew. He was another web-spinner, he was.’ He turned to his sons and gave a subtle nod, the gesture a substitute of drawing his finger across his throat.

Gorran took a knife from his pocket, unsheathed it, and peeled it across Sean’s trachea.

Sean gasped, though the brothers held his arms behind his back. He resisted, drawing his head as far back as he could, but it only aided the thin blade in slicing the taut flesh. His neck burst with bright, fresh blood.

‘God, no!’ Guliven lurched forward as Red thrust the rod in his chest and forced him back.

Gorran sawed at Sean’s neck, nearly hacking his head off completely. Sean struggled desperately at first, and Gorran clamped his large hand across his mouth. Blood flowed between his fingers, and Sean struck at him wildly, his eyes wide and searching until he lost consciousness.

‘That’s enough,’ Red said without turning to his boys. Sean was dead, or near enough to be of no threat or use, and he was thrust to the cement floor, dust wafting around him. A crimson pool grew rapidly at his head.

‘What do you know?’ Red asked ponderously, crouching with discomfort. ‘Camberwell told us of Semilion’s plans...’

‘Camberwell is on the council.’ Tears streamed down Guliven’s cheek. He was cold and thick-skinned, but he didn’t want to die, and few would relish the sight of a friend’s neck being hacked open by a blade as they writhed beneath it. ‘He would know things like that...’ He hesitated, his eyes turning hard as the steel on his chest. He turned to Red, his voice hardened to a growl, ‘I don’t know a thing!’

Red smirked, though it contained all the mirth of war on the horizon. ‘I tell you now, Mr. Waeshenbach. Your life is done. Here, tonight. It is over. You have the choice though, of going quickly or...’ He let Guliven finish the sentence for himself.

Guliven held Red’s gaze. Sean’s blood had spread out in a wide circle and was touching his heel.

‘He made us do it.’ He conceded, and then thought better of saying any more. Red wanting to know was good enough reason to stay quiet. Especially if the bastard was going to kill him regardless.

‘Who? Semilion?’ Red barked, impatient. Surely he meant Semilion. Unless it was Kelly who had forced their hand.

Guliven felt blood soaking into his breeches. He cast a glance to Sean, his skin was already grey, drained within moments.

He felt no love toward Semilion, and yet he would say no more if he could go to death knowing he had hindered his murderer.

‘Fuck you.’ He said dispassionately, and spat at the blade in Goran’s hand.

Chapter Thirteen
.

South-easterly wind.

Thirteen knots.

Selina lay on the sofa thinking about the nightmares of the previous evening. They were getting worse.

She had been in the water, the dead sinking around her, and no matter how frantically she tried to swim to the surface she was being pulled down with them.

She had woken gasping, and wondered if she had stopped breathing in her sleep.

She took several deep breaths and sat up, looking across Mortehoe from the large window of the living room.

Both Selina and Priya had been given time to become familiar with the mechanics of the village, and advised to do so at their own pace. At first Selina felt compelled to rise at dawn to help the elderly women with their chores. They thanked her and sent her away advising that work would find her in due time, and that she should make use of her days becoming familiar with the village.

When people asked whether she had ever heard of communities such as theirs before, Selina reassured them that she hadn’t, or rather she had only heard of such places at the end of sentences like, ‘You’ll never guess what I heard…’ and were more often than not flagrant myths.

Often she would be asked where the nearest habitable city was, though she reminded them always that she didn’t know. She was from half a world away, and could only tell them that the capital of Britain was Birmingham. She could barely tell them much about the country at all, other than she had heard it was soon to become part of a European nation.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Betty asked. ‘How can you join Britain to Europe? It’s a bloody island.’

‘Not physically join... Are you serious? There’s been talks for years of creating a single European nation, with a single government...’

‘And a single man running the show?’ Tinder mused, ‘That’s a lot of responsibility.’

‘I guess.’ Selina shrugged.

Priya was more colourful when questioned. Like an actor, Selina thought. When she spoke, she told of southern Britain being little more than open air gravelands. She spoke of the bloody civil wars in the middle-east and the fall of the Americas.

When Selina spoke there was an air of dissatisfaction, though when Priya told her tales the Smuggler’s Rest fell quiet, and everyone hung on her every theatrical word.

They had questions of their own also, and neither missed an opportunity to pick information whenever they could.

Selina was regarded suspiciously when she did this, though on the day of her first vaccine course, which she had been regarding with some apprehension for days, Betty told her a little of the area.

‘The land still has various nasties here and there,’ Betty told her dismissively when Selina asked why she and Priya had to be injected.

‘What kind of “nasties”?’ She asked.

‘The kind that’d turn your guts to rot.’ Reighn Corbin said jovially. Selina turned, and looked into the bright blue eyes of a broad-chested man in his late thirties. He had a bow across his chest, and she learnt that he hunted game in Lee wood.

She asked him more questions, and discovered he was unable to answer for long without mentioning the birth of his newborn son, William, with pride. He told her, after his second drink, that he regarded Selina and Priya as good omens for bringing about the birth of his boy on the day of their arrival, and as such was happy to answer any questions or, if she or Priya needed it, help with repair work on their homes.

As he grew increasingly merry, Selina sorted her questions in order of importance, knowing that she had a limited time until he became incomprehensible. As he spilt his fourth drink across the table and drew a lingering scowl from Betty, Selina asked how they had remained undetected for over a century. He was eager to explain.

‘There was woman by the name of Dekeyrel… Sharon, or Susan, or some such. She worked in the pharmaceutical industry at the time of the outbreak. She had relatives living in the Ilfracombe area, just up the way, and she came with her husband and daughter in the hope of outrunning the spread of the virus. The facts are vague... Y’know, so long after the event, but there were conferences with the Tuppers, I mean Semilion’s... All our great-grandparents... and a scheme was designed to quarantine Mortehoe and Woolacombe from the rest of the country – a safe haven from the epidemic and a blind-spot from the government of the day. By a miracle the Dekeyrel’s managed to extract and contain the virus without killing themselves; they cultivated it and began manipulating its composition. It’s amazing what they achieved with what little equipment they had. They trained the Camberwell’s and they, in turn, taught their children everything they knew. The founders had even insisted thousands be spent on their education. It meant setting them up in Northern Ireland but he considered it the only way to keep on top of modern practice.

He took a large draught of ale and expelled a wheezing burp, his hand on his chest. He chuckled and excused himself before continuing. ‘Where was I? What did I just say?’

‘That the Camberwells...’

‘The Camberwells, yes. They set them up in Belfast. After the first bout of virus had brought the population to its knees the immunology of humans began to counter the effects of the flu. Vaccines were provided by iCDO, what was then the International Infectious Control Agency, and the Dekeyrel’s and the Camberwell’s would always be one step ahead of the antibiotics, infecting animals and releasing them close to the perimeter gates in an attempt to convince the authorities the virus was mutating at an exponential rate.’

He looked down at the table, then fixed Selina with an intense, somewhat introspective stare. Flecks of green shone in his hazel eyes. ‘Dawn and me, we sometimes talk... You know, about how things might have been if the Dekeyrel’s hadn’t done what they did.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, they had to make the government think this area was unsafe, and they had to kill people to do it. After they’d done it the once they weren’t so frightened about being uncovered for hiding away in their own community, or for retaining land that might be used to counter famine, but because they’d slaughtered twenty or so civil servants. Dawn and me, we think that after the first few years the motives got confused, but, well, that’s all in the past.’

‘
And you still do it? Mutate the virus, I mean.’

Reighn nodded, tapping his pipe on the sole of his boot, ‘Not anyone you’re likely to see drinking in here. There’s a basement beneath an old hotel over near Woolacombe where they work on it. Very hush hush. Every couple of months, depending if anything’s been caught in the traps in Lee. They take foxes and badgers, any carnivore they can find, up to the border before dosing them and setting them free.’

‘Aren’t you risking other animals contracting it and the virus returning here?’ She asked, shocked.

‘Not a chance; there’s a furlong of land between the main border and an unmanned perimeter. It’s a deep channel of brick and concrete, and anything else they could find when they built it. They release the animals into that area of no-man’s land and they’re trapped for the duration of... What’s it called?’

‘The incubation period?’

‘That’s it, they’re trapped for the duration of the incubation period until they’re captured by the Britons.’

‘The Brit...’ She said with a laugh in her voice. She hadn't considered that the villagers had become so detached over generations they no longer thought of themselves as being British. ‘What do you call yourselves then?’

‘We’re Mortehi’ George Porter interrupted with a smile as he sat next to Selina. ‘Or Mortehoians?’ He asked of Reign, who was shrugging to stand and head to the bar. George placed his tankard on the table. ‘It never comes up. I mean, we don't really talk about ourselves in that way.’

George retrieved a plate from the bar containing a loaf of bread and some dry cheese. He began cutting thick slices of both and presented Selina with a sandwich. ‘We were lucky, in a way,’ he said, continuing Reighn’s dialogue. ‘The Dekeyrels and Tuppers wrote guidelines to conceal us from satellites.’ He pointed skyward. ‘Sky was brimming with them in those days. Still is. There’s the mirror... A telescope of sorts, up in one of the barns on the hill. They built it specifically to track them. Great circular lens it is, I’ll take you up there one day. It would have made life a hundred times more complicated, having to remain hidden just in case there were any still overhead,’ he smiled briefly as he handed her a sandwich, ‘but the collapse of society did more than open up the job market…’

‘There was no-one left to maintain their operation…’ Selina concluded, thinking of the thousands of satellites circling the globe, waiting on standby for contact – or slowly descending in the atmosphere before falling to earth. She had often wondered how easily the world must have functioned in the old days, what with the legendary internets, and the mass of telecommunication, weather, mapping and entertainment networks. Historians painted the old-world as a golden age of capitalist ease. It was so vastly different to the modern age.

She recalled a teacher taking her class to the Archive Museum and showing them an exhibit that was laden with scuffed and well-thumbed photos of satellite imagery. She remembered the curator explaining how the world had depended daily on those hundreds of thousands of pieces of machinery orbiting the earth. One photo had stuck in her mind, a high altitude shot of Hawaii, a green dot in a shimmering, turquoise blue. In the corner of the photo was a copyright symbol beside the date 2038. It had struck her that at the time the photo had been taken the world knew nothing of what was to follow. They had no idea the difference a year could possibly make.Twenty years later, when the epidemic had claimed near four billion lives, only a score of satellites remained in operation - their tasks many and their application hindered by bureaucracy.

‘Are there other communes in these parts?’ Selina asked, finding herself unsure whether she approved with the efforts taken to remain secluded when so many others had collaborated to fight the epidemic. ‘The world considers land contained within quarantines to be wasteland. Billions have been spent keeping the epidemic contained whilst trying to re-gain land… they need it to curb starvation across the world. Jesus, if this place is discovered and they find out what you’ve done they’ll probably bring back the noose by popular demand!’

At this George laughed, ‘That’s as maybe. I don’t know about communes other than Mortehoe, Woolacoombe and Lundy. There are some men who fish away at Putsborough and Croyde but they keep themselves to themselves, I suppose they have families… Unless they breed amongst each other.

Selina snorted a polite laugh as Reighn sat down with another drink and sighed, having been listening to their exchange. ‘You might think we’re callous for looking after ourselves and not giving a second thought for the old-world, but the powers-that-be of our ancestors day destroyed near everything. Society, finance, the landscape. You don't need me to tell you that…’ He looked up as Semilion entered the bar. George saw and turned back to Reighn. ‘Keep it down, I don’t know if Semi wants us telling her stuff.’

‘It’s ok,’ Selina intervened, ‘he’s told me quite a bit already, I'm sure he wouldn't mind.’

‘Ah, well, there's a difference between what Semi would tell you and what we might.’

Reighn nodded in agreement. ‘Well, all I’ll say is I’m not surprised our ancestors wanted nothing more to do with the world at large. Now,’ He reached for his tankard and missed, before picking it up, draining it and excusing himself. ‘Need to speak to Semilion about an increase in Dawn’s food rations.’ He stood, knocking his chair over.

*

Alongside the calm and flourishing landscape of Mortehoe was an escape from the weight of corporation and the dread of the debtors reformatory. There was no hunger, no redundancy, and - most noticeably - no continual fear of dwindling finances. Everything the community needed was provided for. There were those who went to sea to fish, and those who hunted game in Lee Woods. There were those who sowed and harvested the land, others who made and repaired clothing. There were many proficient in producing food and maintaining health, renovating tired homes and damaged fixings, and those employed to educate and those placed to keep guard at night.

Everyone was set their own task, from Eryn Tupper, who managed the workings of the bar, to Samantha Waeshenbach who prepared and smoked the seafood.

They were given a house each after a week of accommodation at the Smuggler’s Rest. Selina’s was high up the steep road known as Channel View, and from her cracked living room window she watched the slate topped roofs of Mortehoe.

Priya’s house was opposite hers, and from her window Selina could see down into the desolate kitchen.

Troubled by nightmares of drowning and a growing fear of solitude in the dark, Selina vacillated between times of nervous tension and an inescapable gratitude to providence for saving her. In her lighter moments she was taken aback by the peaceful life she and Priya had stumbled upon. She thought less of her cousin who still waited her arrival and of her father, who would likely never learn of the
Tangaroa
’s sinking.

The receding mists of morning took with them the imagined ghosts that plagued her dreams, and when she looked across the sunlit rooftops she found it difficult to comprehend anything other than the seemingly perfect life of Mortehoe.