We Float Upon a Painted Sea (21 page)

“Don’t killer whales ram small boats thinking they are seals?” Bull put a comforting hand on Andrew’s shoulder and said,.

“They would have probably attacked us by now if they had wanted to. There are two types of killer whale - one hunts fish and the other sea mammals. I think these are fish eaters so I think we’ll be alright. Maybe the raft has attracted some fish and that’s why they are following us?”

“There was something else, when you were asleep, there was…”

“What?”

“It was nothing. I need to sleep. Can you take the look out?” 

Bull erected the canopy. He crept towards the aperture to take up his position as look out for the morning. The pulse of the sea was beating faster and harder. Waves pounded the raft. He gazed out, watching as the natural illumination of the morning drained from the sky. On the horizon a wall of black. He spent the day counting the elapsing seconds between the forks of lightning cascading down the skyline and the rolling claps of thunder. A storm was approaching.

Chapter 15: Change

2036. Six months earlier

Bull’s father believed that most of the obstacles his son traversed in life were self-inflicted, and that one way or another he would resolve them in his own time, hopefully learning from the experience in due process. He was of the belief that a solution to a problem should only be derived from knowledge, and as he had only modest association with his son’s particular difficulties, it was better to change the subject. The notion of people talking openly about their personal issues was something he found difficult to comprehend. He would describe himself as from the
old school.

Bull had returned to Manchester on hearing that the family home had been flooded. A storm surge had breached the river Mersey flood barrier, sending a tidal bore inland, and coupled with the 390 mm of heavy rain which fell in one day, the river Irwell flood defences were overwhelmed. Salford was underwater. Bull's father was recovering at the National Football museum in Cathedral Gardens, Manchester, which had been turned into a rescue centre. He sat at a table wrapped in a foil blanket and was playing
muggings
with an old man. Bull’s father looked at his son’s face. He coughed and said,

“You’ve got a face like a bulldog chewin a wasp. What’s up with you?” Bull talked about Saffron and how his life was going through a period of turmoil and change, Bull’s father listened, sipping his tea. Finally, he said, “A change is good in some instances, but some people don’t like the idea of change. Take the Luddites for example, they smashed all the textile looms right here in Lancashire during the Industrial Revolution. Some thought they were just opposed to progress but they claimed they were only protecting their livelihoods. It’s all about adjusting to a new set of circumstances lad.” He then returned to the game of
muggings
he was playing with his friend.

Bull turned to Deirdre and making circular motions with his forefinger towards his temple lobe proclaimed incongruously,

“Dad seems to be taking it well.” Deirdre whispered back,

“He doesn’t know how bad the flood damage was and that the house is being demolished, so don’t mention that to him, not yet anyway. I don’t think he could cope.  He’s only coming to terms with finding out from Patrick that most of his possessions and that wooden box where he kept all Mam’s personal stuff floated out the door.”

“It’s about time he moved on. Keeping a box of faded photos and an old dress which he would occasionally take out and sniff was surely not healthy.”

“You have a cheek telling anyone to move on, and how the hell did you know about his photograph box? Did Patrick tell you?”

“He might have done.”

“That was between me and him. He’s a fucking gob shite and so are you. All my stuff is on the top floor but its just cheap shite and I wouldn’t have given a toss if it had been flushed away, but that junk of Dad’s, that really means a lot to him, its all he’s got to connect him with Mam.”

“I know the feeling.”

Deirdre sighed then said, “Don’t be going comparing Mam and Dad’s decades of marriage with some hippy bint you shacked up with for a season or two.” A look of hurt glinted in Bull’s eye. He said,

“Talking of chieftains of the understatement, where is Patrick?”

“He’s back at the house trying to see what he could salvage. He was hoping that you would help him but he couldn’t wait any longer for you. What was up with the trains this time? Software failure? Flooding? Vandalism? A dog shat on the line?”

“Industrial action.”

“I thought striking was illegal during a state of emergency?”

“The unions have a different opinion.”

Bull’s father stood up and greeted a man who had just limped into the rescue centre on a set of crutches. Together they shuffled towards the canteen. Bull moved to assist his father in carrying the two cups of hot tea but was told firmly to mind his own business. Deirdre put her hand on Bull’s shoulder and said,

“They had been down the pub all day, thinking the flood defences wouldn’t be breached. The emergency services had to forcibly remove him and his mates from the Squealing Pig. He refused to get on the rescue boat because he was winning a game of
Muggins
and that’s when it all kicked off.”

“Another fight?” Deirdre nodded.

“Did the fight involve the old fella he’s talking to, the one with the crutches?” Deirdre nodded again and then she said,

“Dad’s developed this horrible cough ever since he was rescued. I’m not sure if it psychosomatic but I’m going to get it checked out at the hospital, once the trouble dies down.”

Bull’s father helped the man with the crutches back towards his table and together they sat down and started a new game of
Muggins
. With tears welling up in her eyes, Deirdre turned to Bull and said,

“Anyway, he won’t be here for long. Patrick is sorting out a nice bungalow for him in Croker Hill.”

“And he agreed? I didn’t think he would ever leave Salford?”

“There’s nowt much of Salford that isn’t under three metres of water Faerrleah. Have you been to see the damage? The whole of the Mersey Basin including the Irwell Valley was flooded. We got six months of rain in one day. They’ve been pickin bodies out the river all night. It’s much worse on the east coast. It wasn’t just all the rain, there was a big tidal surge. Did you not see it on the news? What about the prison, the riots? All the prisoners at Strangeways thought they were getting left to drown so they all went mental. There’s been riots all over the city. The police opened fire on a group of protestors in St Peter’s Square and I’m not talking rubber bullets either. They said that were trying to set fire to the town hall. Didn’t you even see that? The whole country is in uproar. There’s talk of an armed revolution. Where have you been recently, living in a fucking cave?”

“I’ve been busy.” Bull’s father looked up and said,

“Riots? It’s not the first time there’s been riots there. Parliament sent the army in to attack the crowd at St Peter’s Field in 1819, just after the end of the Napoleonic wars. They called it the Peterloo massacre. Those Dragoons didn’t care for whoever got in their way. Women, children and all were cut down. The people were starving and protesting about the Corn Laws. They were ruthless back in them days, ruthless.”  He looked at Deirdre and Bull for a brief moment and then returned to his game.

At that moment Patrick returned from the estate agents. He greeted Deirdre but ignored Bull. He said,

“Right Dad, you’re coming to stay with me until we get a new place sorted. The car’s waiting outside.” At that moment, through the glass window, Patrick noticed a group of children congregating around his car. He ran to the street and Deirdre followed. Bull’s father lifted his head. He looked concerned. He said to Bull,

“Ok, but we need to stop off at the house on route. I need to pick a few things up.” Bull said,

“The house is gone old man, didn’t they tell you? You need to be leaving now to avoid the chaos. There’s an Atlantic storm on its way and the floods will be even worse this time.”  Bull’s father sunk his head into his hands and when he showed his face again his eyes were glazed. He coughed and said,

“Well not until I finish this game.” Bull patted his back gently saying,

“You need to go now you daft old bugger.” Bull’s father turned to him and looked him in the eyes. He emitted a rasping cough and clutched his chest. His breathing sounded shallow. He drew closer to Bull and said,

“I was always waiting for the right time to tell you this but now is probably as good a time as any time.”

“Tell me what?” replied Bull.

“You were adopted.” Bull’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His father put a hand on his shoulder and tapped it saying,

“Hope that brings some clarity to your life son.”

Patrick returned with his sister. He approached the table and said,

“I’ll be outside waiting in the car - it’s not safe out there…” Patrick froze. His father had grabbed his companion by the throat and the game of
Muggins
spilled across the table and onto the floor. The old man with the crutches was trying to join in the affray but only succeeded in falling over and taking the table with him. The pile of pensioners grappled and thumped their way across the floor until Bull, Patrick and Deirdre intervened and separated them. Bull’s father protested, “Cheatin bastards. Whole lot of em!”

After Bull’s father settled down, Patrick turned to leave. Bull stopped him. He offered him an apology for burdening him with his problems, involving his family in his complex life, and not considering his brother’s feelings during the ending of his own marriage. He offered Patrick an embrace to which Patrick declined. They stepped outside of the rescue centre and said goodbye in their customary fashion of a playful punch to the shoulder. Patrick bundled his father into the backseat of his car. Before leaving, he put two strong arms around Bull, held him and said,

“Look after yourself brother, I’ve got a feeling we won’t be seeing each other for a while.” Bull turned and shrugged his shoulders at Deirdre. They watched Patrick’s car speed off until it turned the corner at the top of the street.

Deidre linked her arm around Bull’s and they walked in silence towards Victoria train station. They took a detour at the end of the street when they came across lines of police battling with protesters.

“You’re quiet. Sommat up?” said Deirdre.

“It’s just something Patrick and Dad said. Silly old buggers. Dad’s not making much sense these days. He said I was adopted.”

“Adopted? His head’s always been ragged but he’s making even less sense recently?” Deirdre paused and then said, “Never mind him anyway, what about this decision to leave your old life behind and start afresh? What’s this life changing experience you were buzzin about on the phone?” Bull’s expression changed. He felt a rare wave of optimism wash over him. He said,

“I think I now understand more about myself. I now know why I responded so badly to the break up with Saffron. It’s much like the predicament with Patrick’s divorce. Different people react differently to different situations, and all in their own different way.”

“Flippin’ heck, now you’re the Salford Confucius?” Bull laughed.

“Hardly, what kind of world would it be without diversification. Look at our family - you’re the voice of reason, Patrick represents stability, and I’m turmoil.”

“What about Dad, what does he represent?”

“After that barney back at the rescue centre - anarchy by the looks of it. Not everyone is impetuous like me, or reliable like you.”

“Maybe I only appear sensible when sat beside you, and that’s an unfair comparison considering you’re such an impulsive big sod. I have my moments. My head gets cabbaged from time to time. I just don’t go around bleating on about it like you do.”

“You mean talking about stuff rather than
manning up
and taking it on the chin like Patrick does?”

“You don’t know for sure how Patrick is dealing with all this, Faerrleah. It’s the silent types like Patrick that ends up blowing their heads off with a shotgun. Not everyone is as open about their emotions as you are. You have an outlet for your feelings and that’s healthy, but there are others who find it near impossible to open up to anyone. They keep things all shut up and under wraps until it festers away and one day, they can’t contain the pressure anymore and it explodes.”

“I suppose you’re right sis. I think you’re most definitely the Salford Confucius, not me.”

“Anyway, what do you mean by reliable? You mean stuffy and boring don’t you?” Deirdre clouted Bull across the head then asked, “So what happened in Glasgow? Tell me about this revelation.” Bull suddenly appeared excited. He put his arm around his sister’s shoulder and pulled her in tight. He said,

“I met up with an old university friend called Brian and we went out to a pub called the Scotia bar. The place has remained unchanged while the rest of the city redeveloped around it. There’s like this hedonistic atmosphere which most modern pubs have lost. A bit like the Squealing Pig before it got washed away.”

“I still can’t believe the Pig has gone,” moaned Deirdre. Bull's mind was back in Glasgow. Like a story teller Bull described a scene of log fires and steamed up windows, of drunken people arguing in an animated state one minute and then hugging each other the next. He made a point of describing an old man and woman dancing a jig while a Celtic folk band played on an impromptu stage, and where young couples fornicated in the dark alcoves. “Is there a point to this story Faerrleah,” sighed Deirdre.

Bull laughed, I’m just setting the scene for you.”

“Well get on with it, I’m growing face wrinkles here.”

“So we approached the bar as if we were regular drinkers. I ordered some drinks then asked the bar person, if the place had any darts for the dartboard. I was greeted with a huge puckered mug, snarling teeth and the growling reply,
look ye big fud, yer here tae drink, no tae play games.
A large hairy hand came slapping down on the wooden bar, shaking the glasses. Bull was inwardly impressed with his Glaswegian accent despite his sister’s unsubtle and disapproving shake of the head.” What’s a fud?” said Deirdre. Bull deliberately ignored her question. He continued his tale. He said,

“I stood there startled at first, staring into her face with amazement. She had hit the nail on the head. It has all been a game. Everything up until now has just been one big silly game!”

“She?” Bull nodded his head. He was smiling. His face was lit up like a Halloween pumpkin. Bull went on, describing the moment when his mind began to fill with revelations like a nebulous gloom being dispersed by the appearance of an illuminating star. He concluded that his happiness was to be found in the act of being able to be truthful with yourself and with others. In the long run, respect and fulfilment will follow. Bull was only concerned with the moment in time. What happened in the past could not be changed and only he could dictate what could happen from that day forward. He was ready to let go of the past and moreover, he didn’t feel that mourning his loss was a waste of time. This was in actual fact a transitional period that everyone went through when a relationship ended. He had devoted enough time to analysing the past, mulling over why Saffron had left him for someone else, even though, deep down, he suspected it was for other reasons. It was time to move on, look to the future and stop chasing shadows. He said,

“It was like a wall of confusion, that represented a mental impasse, but it had fragmented and crumbled - presenting a way forward. I had a direction. I began to experience a strange excitement in a way I had seldom felt before. I was now aware of time running away from me and change had to be embraced before time ran away from me and I got stuck in a maze.” A broad grin began to spread across his features, flexing facial muscles not used in a long time.

“So you got all that from a Glaswegian barmaid?” said Deirdre.

“For messages come in the strangest of ways,” said Bull playfully. “It wasn’t that she was the Glasgow Confucius, she just said something that triggered a reaction within me. It was like someone opened a door inside my head. The next day I got word from the Coast Guard about that job I told you about and I’ve been successful. The down side of it is that I’ll be stationed in St Kilda.”

“Where’s that?” said Deirdre.

“The Outer Hebrides. It’s going to be hard. I need to sell the narrowboat. And not being able to pop back home to see the family as often. It will be tough, but I need to enter the next phase of my life. I’ll achieve nowt just crying into my beer, as Patrick would say.” Deirdre smiled and then said,

“Patrick did say that even your tears have a frothy head on them.”

Deirdre was thankful that her brother had come out the other side of the tunnel and was rejuvenated by his life changing plan. How he arrived there still seemed to trouble her. She suspected that he was suffering from some temporary mental reaction to grief, not just the loss of Saffron but also the lingering childhood pain left behind after their mother died. Deirdre had a muddled recollection of how poorly he had coped as a child with the transformation of his life when she had passed away. Her predominant memory was that Bull took to wearing his Batman costume and refused to take it off, even for the funeral. She later came to understand that he had felt protected from the hurt by pretending to be someone else and by hiding behind his black masquerade and his fake padded muscles. He could believe he was a superhero, who could take on all the pain that the world threw at him.

She remembered sitting beside him on the church pew, Patrick felt both sorrow and embarrassment when the priest addressed the family individually, in front of the congregation of mourners, and feeling relieved that he hadn’t mentioned Bull’s costume. He ignored it as if it was somehow normal to dress as Batman to your mother’s funeral. Bull refused to take his outfit off. He would even wear it to school under his uniform and wear the mask at break. One day Bull was set about by the school’s self styled bully, Robert Clark and his sidekicks. When Patrick arrived on the scene, Bull was in floods of tears. His mask had been unceremoniously ripped from his face and was lying on the ground in tatters. With one well directed punch, Clark was dispatched to the floor where he stayed until Patrick was dragged off him by a teacher. The following day Bull's bruises had gone and he left his Batman costume at home. 

At Victoria train station they watched a news bulletin. Bull said,

“That presenter has an annoying face. It's as if she's fighting back the urge to break into a grin, despite how distressing the news.”

“She can't help it. She's just a computer animation.”

“Well, whoever programmes her, they should make more of an effort and start by wiping that insincere smirk off her face.” Scenes of riot police arresting protesters were shown, followed a smiling family drinking a branded fizzy drink at a rain drenched Euro Disneyland in Paris. They turned and walked to the platform when the bulletin showed close up shots of the Prime Minister arriving at the G13 Summit in Brasilia. There had been no mention of the storms and floods sweeping across the country. When Deirdre left him at the railway station, she saw her brother in a different light. He appeared more like his old self - determined and at peace with himself.

“Send me a postcard, you fat bastard,” she shouted, managing to laugh while fighting back the tears forming behind her eyes. Bull sat on the train, staring out of the carriage window at the 3D projection advertising display. Developers were selling houses in the Cambrian Mountains in Wales.

Chapter 16: Operation Savage Elf

Professor Burke sat on a plastic chair. The room was dimly lit and undecorated. He had been staring at his shoes for at least an hour. His hush puppies were by far the most interesting feature in his line of sight. After leaving the Splurge Bucket in Leith, he had been taken to an abandoned power station outside Edinburgh. His introduction to the Elves was not as cordial as he was expecting. He had been escorted off the street, put into the back of a lorry and strip searched. His body was scanned from head to foot for hidden transmitters and listening devices. Such an undignified experience, he thought, and they hadn’t even offered me a cup of tea.

He heard the metallic sound of a key in a lock. A bright light illuminated the figure of a woman standing in the doorway. He heard a shrill voice with the slightest hint of a North American accent.

“I would like to apologise for the treatment we have subjected you to, but we had to be sure you weren’t spying for the Government. I hope you understand Professor Burke, but there is much at stake. I am Itaridlë, the leader of the ELF.” She handed him his spectacles. The Professor clipped the legs of his glasses around his ears and pushed the bridge up the length of his nose. He said nothing in response.

Itaridlë approached him holding a paper cup of hot tea. She passed him back his leather satchel. She was small but with an athletic build, shoulder length brown hair, oval eyes and a perfectly symmetrical face. For an instant, he imagined that her appearance would befit his daughter. She was dressed in combat trousers, boots and a black tight fitting vest which revealed both her muscular shoulders and salient breasts.

“I think we should eat and then you can tell me all about this Silent Wave project,” said Itaridlë. The Professor nodded but remained silent and then he said, What about the detonation, am I too late?”

“No Professor Burke, the event has been delayed.”

“Thank God,” said the Professor, dropping his head.

He was led off to a canteen and offered a choice of foiled bags. He examined the labels. He chose one and looked questionably at Itaridlë. She took it off him, twisted the lid, and laid it on a deep tray. The foiled bag rumbled as if coming to life, then after a few more seconds, steam came from hundreds of perforated holes. They walked to a set of tables and chairs and sat down. The Professor opened the bag and indulged himself on the contents. It had been a while since he had eaten a warm meal. Itaridlë waited for him to finish his food. She cleaned dirt from under her fingernails with her combat knife.