The Wanderer (10 page)

I thrashed, writhed, moaned, sweated, then, this morning, the sickness loosed its grip. I sprawled, fatigued, on a bed become a sty. The first thing I did, when enough strength returned to me, was stagger down the Ark’s gangplank and across the estuary mud to the river’s edge, hauling my bedding, to wash some of the filth from it and from my clothes. But first, I wished to bathe. I stripped, waded out a little distance, crouched down; the water was cool, I ducked my head. The sun, low in the sky, diffused by a haze, was ochre, the sky, pale blue, wholesome colours, rare these days, the Earth’s last. I began to feel myself again, traces of the sickness waned. I turned my back to the shore, looked out across the broad reach, cupped brine to my face, sluiced away the bile dried in my beard.

Then, turning to look over my shoulder, I saw someone coming toward me, at a run, across the flats. Assuming I was discovered at last, and, wishing not to meet death naked, I stood to retrieve my clothes. But, as I did so, I saw it was actually a local tribeswoman, and modesty forced me back down into the shallows, covering my groin with my hands. Reaching my piled bedding, trousers, shirt, the tribeswoman halted, and, fixing me
with her eyes, unabashed, began to gesticulate and jabber in the ugly speech of the folk of the region. I realized that, for her to have overcome the fear of me her people seem to have conceived, her situation was certainly desperate. However, I felt incapable of empathy, gazed at her listless, before waving her away.

She stood her ground, continued to remonstrate in her gibberish tongue. I splashed water at her. She began to cry; tears beaded her lashes. She was young, comely, the petulant curl of her mouth, endearing, her skin soft, dusk, her frame lithe, and the long dark tresses that wreathed it, thick, lustrous. After the custom of her race, the tribeswoman wore a scanty shift of animal hide. I’ve been chaste an age, and, long denied, my lust has withered, but I’m still drawn to beauty; I felt my resolve weaken. Also, I’d the strange impression I’d seen her somewhere before, which lulled me; though I realized, on later reflection, this was likely because she’d been one of a native hunting party, which, a few days before, cowering behind the bulwarks, I’d watched pass close by the Ark. Doubtless her streaming pennant of hair had caught my eye then, even if I’d not been entirely aware of it. Then she pointed between her legs, stabbed at the air with a flat hand. Thinking she was offering sex in return for whatever she was after, I looked away in disgust. But perhaps I misread the gesture. Whatever, she barked in anger, dredged up a handful of mud, slung it in my face. By the time I’d wiped my eyes, she’d reached the reed beds, was soon hidden from view.

After scrubbing myself, and washing my clothes and bedding as best I could, I got out of the brackish water, feeling better, and returned to the boat, laid out my things to dry off in the sun. Later, sore hungry, I dressed, my clothes by then only slightly damp, and strolled to the clearing where I have my firepit. I fried, in a skillet I’d found in the ruins of London, and gorged on strips of smoked pork and drop scones made from oatmeal. After, I returned to the boat, spent the rest of the day reading over and correcting my recent writing, the incident of the morning
forgotten.

With dusk’s approach, I stopped work, went again to the firepit, kindled, then smothered a fire, and roasted some vegetables in the embers. After this supper, I returned to the Ark, took up my banjo, went to sit on the bowsprit. I’d found the instrument in the same museum, in the abandoned metropolis to the west, I’d got my typewriter from, likewise sealed in a case. I sat, with my feet dangling over the water, the banjo in my lap, picking the melody to the migrant farm workers’ lament, ‘Going Down the Road, Feeling Bad’, an old plaint of the indigent and persecuted against hardship, closed hearts, the dust of the trail. In a canebreak, across the mudflats from the hulk, croaking toads accompanied me.

As I played, my hands began aching, a lingering weakness, and I put the banjo down. I pondered the sickness; I doubted I’d caught it by contagion, as I’d not been close to another person in months; perhaps it was given to me by one of the midges that harry me at dusk, or maybe I drank or ate contaminated water or victuals. Whatever the case, it was among the worst ailments I’ve ever endured; I suspect, ordinarily, a mortal one. If only I could have died, rather than remaining shackled to a life that’s long ceased to offer anything other than tedium and suffering. It might seem these two states are opposed, that my trials must at least offer respite from boredom, but unfortunately they do not. I’ve already told how aeonian life renders many joys meaningless, friendships cannot endure, achievements are hollow; it also saps extremity’s vigour, for adversity merely stretches days, misery bloats nights. Time, for me, has no wings. There’s an early twentieth-century gospel song, whose lyrics I still recall, a song of laying one’s burden at the feet of the Lord. I find the notion keenly poignant; if only I believed there was a God who could relieve me of my burden of undying flesh.

I was lost in reflection a time. Then an angry hubbub, carried on the breeze to my ears, roused me, and, looking in its direction,
behind me, I saw a rabble careering through the marsh weeds, a little distance up river. Standing, shielding my eyes against the dying sunlight, I tried to make things out. As the rabble drew nearer, I saw there was one out in front, chased by the others. Stones were thrown. Then I saw the quarry was the young woman who’d come up to me that morning. Terror contorted her features. As I watched, a rock struck the side of her head, cut her scalp. Blood welled, ran down her neck. Then she was running past the Ark, the pack at her heels. I recalled a similar scene I’d seen just after settling on board the hulk, which ended with a bloodied and broken corpse on the slob, surmised the tribe punished offenders against their codes with a brutal death.

Such are the customs of the last-days folk, the end-of-the-world folk.

Tripping, the young woman stumbled, fell, and the mob were on her, pummelling, kicking. Amid the ruck, I saw a tribesman’s snarling face, gore-spattered. The woman wailed, a pitiful cry that roused my long torpid compassion.

I climbed on the gunwale, teetered there, yowled.

All heads turned. I spread my arms, yawped again.

The beating paused a moment, then went on; the tribesfolk were not cowed. I felt useless, knew I needed to act quickly, or the woman would die. So, with little deliberation, yammering, I threw myself off, tumbled, plummeted. It was a death drop, but, though when I struck it was agony, and I sank deep into the mud, I was able to recover myself fairly swift, clamber from the pit, charge the natives. Aghast on seeing I’d survived the impact, they broke, ran howling. The young woman sprawled on a patch of silt darkened with her blood and piss.

I carried her limp, broken, gory, and stinking body on board the Ark, laid her on my bedding, tended to her injuries, swabbed her cuts clean. Then, leaving her to slumber, I came out on deck to write up the recent, violent events.

It is now the evening of the following day. On waking, the young woman tussled and wailed, her brow very hot. I sat by, nursing her, moistening her lips with fresh water. I thought she would die. She clawed at the bedding, arched her back. After some hours, though, the agony seemed to pass, and she fell into a deep sleep. I came out on deck to prepare myself a frugal repast. I think it best I leave her now to rest. I will press on with my account.

IV

On the evening of the gathering in the Nightingale, once I’d finished telling my tale, I sat back, took a sip from my pint, glanced round at the company. Elliot looked concerned, Jane nodded, her expression serious, Duncan scowled, Rashmi seemed bemused, and William tried to cover a smirk by feigning to fish for something in his eye. Rashmi spoke first.

‘Who’s Blind Willy Johnson?’

‘A blues musician, but that isn’t important,’ I said, impatient. I turned to William.

‘What’s funny?’ I asked, irked, but striving to hide it.

‘Nothing. Really.’

But he snickered.

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘I believe you,’ he said.

Then lit a cigarette. His face was set. But the corners of his mouth twitched still.

‘Haven’t you experienced something like it? Or, if not, why are you here?’

‘Hey, calm down.’

I grimaced, looked away.

‘Don’t tell me to calm down,’ I muttered.

‘Have you ever seen the Punch and Judy show again?’ Jane, asked me, gently.

I swigged at my drink.

‘No, I haven’t, thank fuck, otherwise I’d be back in an institution. But, look, I want to know what he,’ I pointed at William, ‘found so amusing.’

William sighed, ran his hand through his hair.

‘You know. Blind Willy?’

‘Prick! So childish. I’ve just told you how my life was destroyed, and you snigger at that?’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. My life’s over too.’

‘Alright. Tell us about it.’

He’d smoked his cigarette to the filter, lit another from the stub.

‘Fine.’

Then Elliot spoke up.

‘My son was killed in those attacks.’

He slumped, head in hands, began sobbing.

Rashmi stared open-mouthed, Duncan tugged at his beard, William smoked, and I threw back another draught of my pint. Only Jane made to comfort the old man, reaching out, putting her hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry too,’ I broke in. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

‘Don’t be silly, lad,’ through his tears. ‘How could you know?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘The police never could tell me anything,’ he went on. ‘Now I know why.’

He sat back, wiped his eyes. Looking over his shoulder, I was disconcerted to notice the cover of an old issue of Punch hanging in a frame on the wall, the hooknose grinning out at me, impish.

Just then a man approached our table, asked to borrow one of our ashtrays, broke the taut silence. He was middle-aged, wore a three-piece, pinstriped suit, and a pink tie; I took him to be a solicitor or city banker. William told him, go ahead. As he reached over, his sleeve rode up, revealing an ostentatious gold watch and a tattoo I recognized, with a shock, as identical to the one inked on the neck of the young homeless man I’d inadvertently woken earlier. William blenched when he saw it, let his cigarette fall to the table.

Once the man had gone, Jane addressed Elliot.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I don’t really, no. It’s got no bearing on the events I want to tell you all about.’

While this exchange took place, Rashmi pulled a compact from her purse and, looking in its mirror, which threw a patch of faerie light on her face, reapplied her lipstick. I stared, incredulous.

William spoke up.

‘Elliot, do you want to tell us your story?’

The pensioner smiled.

‘Why don’t you go ahead with yours?’

‘Well,’ William stammered, seemingly afraid.

Then he appeared to recover his composure. Turning, I saw the suited man leave; it seemed he’d only been fetching the ashtray for a friend on the way out.

‘Alright,’ William continued. ‘This all happened about a year and a half ago now,’ he began.

Then he stopped, took a swallow of his beer.

‘In former times,’ he said, fretting at a beer mat, ‘the void was a stage and the sidereal throng players on it. Now things are utterly otherwise.’

‘What?’ said Rashmi.

William sighed.

‘Nothing, doesn’t matter. Anyhow, that evening I’d been out drinking with a friend and, a little drunk, decided to walk home across the Heath…’

The Lamia

It was one of those rare nights in late May when, after several weeks of warm weather, the North Wind rallies for one last desperate assault, and there is ice in the air. But it had been a pleasant day, and evening, and William and his friend had been drinking outside, in the garden of the Spaniards, an old inn on Hampstead Heath, in bygone days a haunt of highway robbers. There was still a little light in the sky when they left the pub, and thinking himself in no danger, and having a scarf and jumper with him to ward against the chill, William decided to cut across the Heath to Gospel Oak Lido, then walk on through Dartmouth Park to his flat on Junction Road. It would sober him up a little before he got home to his girlfriend, Catherine, who was probably working late, waiting up for him. William’s friend was going to catch the Northern Line back to his flat in Tooting, south of the river. They walked together a little way, towards the underground, then parted company by Whitestone Pond, on the edge of Hampstead Village, exchanging childish feints, taking their leave with curt valedictions.

‘Fuck off, then.’

‘You fuck off.’

His friend headed off, but William stood a moment in contemplation of the pond. In earlier times, it had been a watering hole. He pictured a team of horses, weary, sweat-drenched, having drawn a carriage from Cambridge or Northampton, slaking their thirst with long swallows, breath ghosting in the cold air.

On his way to the Heath, William passed a butcher’s van parked up. Its rear doors stood ajar; inside William glimpsed hanging carcasses, a mottle of red muscle, white fat. Holding his breath against the reek (here Duncan shook his head, muttered something), he went on by. Then the butcher came out of a door
from which the clamour of a restaurant kitchen could be heard. He was handsome, had a harelip, wore a white cap on his head and a blood-smeared apron. Crossing to the back of the van, he clambered in, lifted down a side of pork, hefted it onto his shoulder. Turning to tote it into the kitchen, he smiled, nodded, friendly, at William. There was, on the back of the hand the butcher held the meat with, a blue tattoo, blurred, looked like a knife. There was a red provenance mark printed on the meat, also difficult to make out, perhaps the rough outline of a watermill.

Then William cut down a short mews, cobbles underfoot, Georgian buildings, wrought-iron lamp posts. A few steps in, he was hailed by an old woman wearing nightdress, hairnet, and curlers, who leant out of the ground-floor window of an incongruous ’70s block of flats.