Joe Treasure - The Book of Air

‘I like to see the sky.’

‘And when you’re not in bed?’

‘Everything else – the orchard, the cottage roofs among the trees.’

‘You don’t mind being watched?’

‘This high up?’

‘They’ll see your candle.’

‘Who? Who are you talking about?’

‘We’ve no idea who’s out there.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Beggars and scavengers – half-wild already before everything crashed, before the lights went out. Ready to take whatever we’ve got.’

‘What if there are good things happening? People better equipped than us, with generators and access to petrol, getting things organised.’

‘You’re a hopeless optimist.’

The rain comes on heavier. I hear it rattling the slates, washing into the gutters. It’s filling the downpipes and slopping from the hopper heads. I’ve got to get up on a ladder and clear the leaves out, see where the slates have slipped. I know what water can do. It’s somewhere in the attic already, trickling along the undersides of the rafters, collecting in pools between the joists. A ticking clock.

Deirdre has filled two glasses with red wine. She sits on the bed to hand me one. The candle flickers on the bedside table, catching a draft from the window.

‘I’m sorry for waking you.’

‘I was dreaming of the sea.’

‘It’s because of the storm. I can’t sleep. Doesn’t it excite you? Drink with me.’

‘Why?’

‘So I don’t have to drink by myself.’

‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’

She shrugs. ‘I found the bottle in one of my bags. One thing at least Abigail hasn’t got her claws into.’

I sit up and take the glass. Her face softens. She clinks my glass with her own, and winces as they collide more noisily than she intended. She pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at the bedding.

‘Sorry. Sorry. Poor sheet.’

‘It’s not important.’

‘Poor glasses.’

‘They look all right.’

‘This time. But for how long? And nowhere to buy more of them.’ She reaches out to draw my hair back from my face. ‘How are we going to cope?’

‘With plastic and cracked mugs, I suppose, and plenty of booze.’

‘From where?’ Her hand is rough and scented with wood smoke.

‘We’ll make our own. We’ll grow hops or cider apples. We’ll use potatoes and set up a still. We’ll find ways of getting drunk. People always have.’

‘When did you last have a haircut?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘I’ll give you one tomorrow if you like.’

‘Tomorrow I’m finding the leak.’

‘You said it made you dizzy, going up the ladder.’

‘Yes, but I’ll get over it.’

She lifts my left hand towards the light. ‘Do you always wear this?’ She’s looking at my wedding ring.

‘I take it off to work. My fingers swelled up when I was sick and I thought it was stuck for good. Now it’s so loose I’m afraid of losing it.’

She turns it on my finger. ‘Is it just the light or is there a thread of silver in it?’

‘It’s white gold.’

‘Just round the edge, like a wave. You’d hardly notice.’

‘My wife chose it.’

‘You’ve got blisters.’ She winces as she touches them.

‘I’m not used to digging.’

There’s a flash of lightning. Deirdre pulls back, startled, looking out at the sky. We’re both waiting for the rumble of thunder. When it comes, she says, ‘Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Neither am I really. We’ll get so bored of eating the same things we’ll forget to eat.’

There’s more lightning and we wait again for the thunder.

‘The thing about the wallet… I know you all thought I was making a ridiculous fuss. And you were right. What is it all – credit cards, business cards, club cards, loyalty cards – worth nothing now. Driving licence, gym pass, lovely crisp twenties from the cash machine. And what’s it for?’ She blows her nose into her handkerchief. ‘Maybe it was Aleksy, now I think about it. He’s obsessed by me. It’s his room we should have searched, not mine.’

‘How long have you known Aleksy?’

‘A couple of weeks. Which makes him my oldest friend.’ She shivers. Do you mind if I close the curtain? There’s a draught from the window.’

‘If you like.’

‘Or I could get in beside you. It’s a big enough bed. And we could watch the sky together.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘How English you are.’ Her smile wavers in the candlelight. ‘I saw the way you were looking at me before. In my room. How you touched my things, folded my underwear. You have good hands, in spite of the blisters.’

‘I didn’t like to see them on the floor.’

‘I bet you wouldn’t mind seeing them on me though.’ She stands up from the bed and turns, pulling her dressing gown open. ‘What do you think?’ She poses in the candlelight, head turned, decorated in nylon, satin, lace – playful and embarrassed, enjoying her embarrassment, enjoying mine.

I say, ‘Tell me about Aleksy. How did you meet?’

‘You’re jealous of Aleksy?’

‘Should I be?’

Her face hardens and she covers herself. ‘Ah, I get it. You’re deferring to Aleksy. You feel you should get his approval, maybe. Well when you two have worked something out, be sure to let me know.’

‘Where did that come from?’

‘How about if you wrestle for me. I get a ringside seat and the winner throws me over his shoulder.’

‘Christ, Deirdre, that’s not what I meant.’

‘I met him on the road, all right! He helped me pull the cart out of a ditch. It was his fault, because his car backfired and startled the horse. A couple of miles later, there he was again – he’d run out of petrol. I gave him a lift. We’re not married. I’m not his woman . I’m not anybody’s. When did the rules change?’ She starts to cry – deep wrenching sobs.

I reach out to her and she slumps beside me on the bed.

‘It’s OK.’ I’m holding her, stroking her hair and she’s clinging to my neck.

‘You shouldn’t drink if you’re sick.’

‘I’m not sick.’

‘I heard you earlier. After dinner. I heard you outside, out in the rain, throwing up. Afterwards you sat by the fire. Your hair was wet.’

‘Too much garlic.’

‘Really? I didn’t notice. Abigail does her best with what she’s got.’

‘Yes, but she’s a salt and pepper kind of cook. Now she’s hiding the salt and using garlic instead.’

‘While stocks last.’

‘It grows wild in the woods. It’s the salt that’s irreplaceable. And the pepper. And sugar, chocolate, coffee, olives, oysters, crisp dry Muscadet…’

‘Don’t.’

‘Everything’s ending.’ She mumbles this at my chest. I feel her breath against me. ‘You can have me if you want, Jason. I mean obviously. That’s why I’m here.’

The wind rattles the window.

‘Or am I too pale for you, too white?’ She giggles nervously. ‘I could never get a tan. Five minutes of sun and I come out in freckles. I used to slap it on. Lovely brown legs out of a bottle. But you won’t notice in the candlelight. We’re all beautiful by candlelight. Pain and sweat and struggle and hunger, that’s our life from now on, and more beauty than we can bear.’

‘Your legs are fine.’

‘Because I’m probably not your type. I suspect you have a thing for exotic women.’

I lift her head away from me and look into her face. Green eyes, she’s got, and ash blonde hair, dark at the roots. ‘How drunk are you?’

‘One glass, that’s all. Maybe two. I meant because of the boy, because of Simon. Not that you can afford to be picky – given the way things are, I mean.’