Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #226 (8 page)

Head down, I nearly run straight into Riaz on the first landing.

"Find anything interesting?” he asks, his voice hard.

"I'm not...” I pause, trying to catch my breath. “I'm not stealing shit, man. But I just saw two Hibs. You'll have to raise the others on the radio—start clearing people out."

He takes a moment to digest my babble.

"They might be harmless."

"Not these ones. They were armed."

"The People's Army?"

"Could be."

I turn to go, and he reaches out to stop me.

"I haven't finished what I came here to do,” I tell him. Then I shrug his hand away, start back downstairs. As I near the bottom the murmur of his voice floats down to me: “This is Riaz. I've had a report of a possible Hib sighting on the ground floor..."

In ruins, the Great Court is even more awe-inspiring than when I used to visit you here. It's as wide and long as a football pitch, with the sturdy cylinder of the reading room planted in the middle. Inscribed around the top is a dedication to Queen Elizabeth II. It makes me think of Shelley's Ozymandias. This stone was built to last, but nothing besides remains—including the overhead canopy. Glass shards—some of them melted into beads—litter the marble floor, along with pieces of concrete and twisted steel framework. It means the ground is exposed. Exposed to the sky, to the elements, and also to anybody watching from the upper floors of the museum—all of which overlook the Great Court. I can't see movement in the windows but that doesn't mean much. It's too dark to see anything in the windows.

There's two routes to the north wing—one across the open floor, and another via the spiral staircase that winds up and around the reading room. Both routes are risky, but the stairs, at least, are shielded by a waist-high concrete parapet that provides some cover. All I have to do is cross the intervening space, past a tourist information desk on the right, and the massive stone statue of a lion on the left. A chunk of its face has fallen away, giving it a sphinx-like appearance—acting as sentry to this stage of my journey.

I start walking, forcing myself not to run, counting the paces in my head. It takes me twenty-three steps. At the base of the stairs, I drop to the floor behind the parapet. Then I begin to crawl up the spiral staircase, picking my way over bits of glass, coming to you as a supplicant. On my knees. Penitent. I feel the jab of something sharp in my right palm. I tell myself to ignore the pain. I tell myself, too, to ignore the thought of all the people who were here that day. This is their ash beneath me. Further out from ground zero, rescue crews found scorched and withered bodies, laid out like charred fish on a grill, which they buried in mass graves all over the city. But here there was nothing but soot and incineration. I can taste them through my mask, feel them soft beneath my knees. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Halfway to the top, I take a break on the platform next to the reading room. There is a gash in my right glove, and a shard of glass in my palm. I pull it out. The wound isn't deep, but it bleeds. The sight of it surprises me, as if I half-expected to be as lifeless as my surroundings. Before the sweat cools beneath my suit, I start climbing again, leaving little spots of red, little signs of vitality, on each step. Above and behind the reading room, at the top of the stairs, I pass what remains of the museum cafe, with its rusted chairs, burnt bar top, and collapsed marquee. From here, a small footbridge should connect the landing with the north wing. Instead, as I crawl closer, all I see is a five-metre chasm. One steel railing remains, but the rest of the bridge lies in a twisted mess two storeys below, on the floor of the Great Court. I sit and stare at the empty space for a long time. Thinking. The railing doesn't look strong enough to support me, even if I had the upper body strength to pull myself along it.

I stand up with a grunt, shuffle over to the ruined cafe. The marquee was set up like a big top tent, with a steel centre pole supporting wires that extended to the awnings. The fabric has been incinerated, of course, but the pole might serve as a makeshift bridge. Torn loose from its concrete base, it smashed across a row of tables, and now lies there like a felled sapling. Maybe eight inches in diameter. I clear away the surrounding debris, panting from the effort, then take up position at one end of the pole and grip it with both hands. I tug. It doesn't budge, so I try pushing instead, leaning all my weight against it, and manage to shift it a few inches. I alternate between pushing and pulling, trying to free it up. It doesn't look that heavy, but it's solid—and I'm too feeble to make a difference. I throw myself against it, slipping on ash-coated marble, vigorous and ineffectual as an old lover.

Eventually I collapse, sucking air through my damp mask, dizzy from the effort.

"Of all the things,” somebody says, “I expected you to be doing, this wasn't one of them."

I look back. Riaz is standing at the top of the stairs.

"I relayed your message. I hope you were right about those Hibs. They're clearing everybody out. I volunteered to come after you, bring you back."

In answer, I shake my head, gesture helplessly at the collapsed walkway. There is a moment of decision. He's big enough to drag me back by force, if necessary. I don't doubt that. And I'm too exhausted to beg or plead with him. Just wait him out. Hoping.

"Christ,” he says. “Come on, then."

Taking up position at the other end of the centre pole, he lifts it free. I can't believe how easily it comes loose, how light it looks in his hands. With him carrying and me vaguely helping, we haul it towards the edge of the landing. It's too unwieldy to push across the gap; we have to stand it upright and then tip it over, lowering it like a drawbridge.

When it's down, Riaz wedges it into place with a chunk of football-sized concrete, then tests it with his foot. Solid. He says, “Might have been easier to use the north stairs."

I wheeze laughter. “I didn't know the bridge had collapsed. But, yeah. Probably."

From far off, a series of popping echoes reverberate through the Great Court. We stare at each other, taking a moment to understand the significance. Gunshots. A second later the radio crackles at his waist and a voice begins to bleat: “Riaz? Riaz?"

He reaches for it, presses the button on the side. “This is Riaz."

"We've come under attack—we have to get out of here!” It's the nasal voice of our team leader, rapid with panic. “The last group is returning. Have you found him? You have to...you have to...” There's shouting, and she seems to get herself together. “They're telling me that we're leaving in five minutes. With or without you. Do you hear me? Riaz?"

"Yes. I'm coming right now."

He turns off the radio, looks at me, questioning. I shake my head. For a second it looks like he might argue. Then he extends his hand, offering me the radio.

"Good luck,” he says.

And he's gone.

Our makeshift bridge is strong and stable. The pole easily supports me, and I keep my balance by clutching at what remains of the rail, inching my way along. Two Doric columns mark the opposite landing. The room beyond is dim, with less natural light, but I can't risk using my flashlight. Among the shadows I pick out the remains of a Mesopotamian display: more ceramic and pottery shards, the remnants of a frieze, some kind of ornamental headdress. The silence is broken by the occasional snap of distant gunfire as I creep through the rubble, passing into the next room and across the landing at the top of the north stairs.

Then I see a shadow move. Near the stairwell. And another—in the doorway opposite. I stop dead, but it's too late. I can hear more of them behind me. Closing in.

I turn on my flashlight.

The beam picks out ghoulish faces. Gaunt. Pale. Feral. Most of them are suffering from the sickness. Dark mirrors of myself, clad in dirty jeans and sweatshirts, wielding a motley selection of weapons—clubs and cricket bats and the occasional firearm, probably scavenged from someplace in the zone. These are them. These are the Hibs. Britain's home-grown version of the Japanese Hibakusha. Most people just think it means survivors—those that were here during the detonation and ensuing fallout, and who refused to leave. But the literal translation is explosion-affected people.

I wonder if I can impress them with that knowledge.

"Hello, hello,” one of them says—a squat woman with a broken nose.

"I've got no beef with you,” I say, holding up my hands. “I just—“

"Shut up."

She hits me with her club. The impact sends me reeling, and they descend on me. For several seconds all I can see are shadowy faces, sneering and snarling. I feel the blows rocking me, and the knowledge that this might be the end—that they really intend to keep me from reaching you, after all this time—is worse than any physical pain. I fight back, feebly, with all my strength. My ears are ringing from that first blow so I don't even realize I'm screaming at first. No—not screaming. Keening. A high-pitched wail that echoes off the walls, like a wild animal's, vicious and rabid. As desperate as them. More desperate.

Then the whirlwind stops, and they're all looking down at me. In the fray, I've lost my hardhat and my mask. With my protection stripped away, they can see me for the first time. My bloody, gap-toothed grimace. My emaciated features. My hairless head.

In this place, like knows like.

I can barely breathe, but I manage to gasp, “Kill me if you want. Or take me hostage. Hell—I'll fucking join your campaign. Just let me past, first. That's all I came here for."

The one that hit me asks, “What are you on about?"

I point a trembling finger behind them, towards the entrance to the drawing room.

"There's nothing bloody left up there,” she says.

"Don't you think I know that?"

The pack looks at their leader uncertainly, waiting for her judgement.

"Fuck it. You.” She taps one of her men. “Go with him. Then take him back to base. We'll figure out what to do with him later. The rest of you, on me."

And that's it. They scuttle away into the half-dark like a pack of rats, the glass crackling beneath their feet. The one left behind hauls me upright with surprising gentleness. I almost expect him to dust me off, pat me on the back. Instead he trails behind as I mount the steps, shadows me as I pass through the remains of the revolving door that leads to the drawing room. There are no windows here; direct sunlight would have damaged the delicate parchment and paper that they had on display. I turn on my torch to see. Where once there were the soft etchings of Rembrandt, the messy lines of Matisse, the sculpted sketches of Michelangelo, now there are empty display cases set into the walls. My bench is still there, blackened by heat. I often sat on it as I waited for you, staring at Da Vinci's massive Madonna and child. You taught me about composition, and symmetry, about the triangle connecting mother, baby, and St Anne. I studied it for so long I can almost see it still, in negative, against the soot-soaked space that remains.

The drawing hung on a partitioned wall; behind it is the set of double doors that separates this room from the archives. I stare at it for some time, then turn to my escort.

"It's an enclosed room,” I say. “I'd like to go in alone."

He shrugs, checks his watch—both uninterested and unmoved. “You've got four minutes."

The set of wooden doors is blasted and warped, but by putting my shoulder into the one on the left I manage to force it open—just wide enough to slip through. Inside is the antechamber, a small space with a desk where the curator sat. I do not think she liked me, much. She always gave me a forced smile as she made me wash my hands, pull on latex gloves. Perhaps she could sense I was indifferent to her treasures. They didn't mean the same thing to me as they did to the students and artists; I was only ever here to see you.

On the other side of the chamber, only a few steps away, another door marks the final gateway. It is solid, and metal, and has held up better to the blast. It was unlocked at the time of detonation, and I'm betting that it's unlocked now. I put my palm to the handle.

And ease it open.

The light startles me—the flare blossoming, like the flash you must have seen that day. It comes full through paneless windows, washes my vision out white. I blink and squint. I'd forgotten about the windows, but now I remember you explaining how they'd been treated to keep out harmful UV rays—adopting that shy, embarrassed tone you always used when discussing your work and expertise. As my eyes adjust, shapes materialize out of the haze: the spindly frames of burnt bookshelves, like used matchsticks arranged in strange geometric patterns; metal desks, bowed with pressure; gobs of molten glass, dripping from the window sills like something in a Dali painting. And dust, of course. Everywhere, dust.

I shut the door, wedge a steel chair beneath the handle. It won't do much, but it affords us some privacy. I move into the centre of the room, kicking up clouds at each step. The ash swirls around me, caught in the sunlight. There's an entire universe in here, each particle a planet. The stuff of stars. What we all came from, where we're all going. Treading carefully, as if on ice, I make my way to the desk in the far corner of the room. I touch the heat-buckled chair. This is where you would have been sitting. You liked to sketch near the window, enjoyed looking down at the people passing in the courtyard below.

"I'm here,
cariad
,” I say, using the only Welsh you taught me. “I'm here, my love."

I don't know what I expected to find. A Hiroshima shadow? Some trace of you? Maybe an engagement ring, or your last drawings? But there's nothing. Just dust. I run my palm across your desk, across your chair. It comes away black. I touch it to my face, leave streaks of war-paint there. Is this it? Is this you? Is this what I've come looking for?

A staccato burst of gunfire startles me, followed by the resurgent sounds of violence. It's much louder here, near the windows. As if in answer, the radio crackles at my waist.