C Fletcher - A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World

There were three of them. I recognised one from his gas mask, but the others were new. One was wearing a different kind of gas mask; the other had a scarf across the face and a pair of goggles.

They had old plastic baskets on the end of long poles. They came close enough to push the baskets against the bars of the window and then moved away fast, as if even touching the building we were in with the end of a long stick was potentially dangerous.

How are you feeling? shouted the man I recognised.

Fit as a fiddle, shouted Brand. He made his voice light and cheery, as though he had not a care in the world.

I hope you stay that way, shouted the man, like he was a friend.

Well, we’ll know soon enough, said the other. He didn’t sound as if he liked Brand as much as the other. Tomorrow night’s the inspection.

That reminds me, said Brand. Would you be kind enough to bring me my fiddle from the boat? It’s at the foot of my bunk. Black case, you can’t miss it.

We’ll bring it later, said the friendlier man. And look forward to hearing it.

Well, said Brand, we can at least share music without fear of infection.

Indeed, said the man.

Oh, said Brand, just one thing… who is monkeying around with the sails on my boat?

Oh, said the man. That’s Tertia. She just wants to see how it works. I can tell her to stop if you like.

That’d be good, said Brand. My boat is my home. I would not like it broken.

Of course, said the man. She’s too inquisitive for her own good anyway. But she’s doing a fine job of looking after your dogs.

Thank her for me, said Brand, glancing quickly at me.

They walked away and Brand, who was taller, reached out and brought the food and the water inside.

I won’t have people jiggering around with my boat like that, he said.

Tertia, I said. Never heard a name like that.

It’s old language, he said. A number. They use numbers to name themselves.

Why? I said.

I told you, he said. They like the past. That’s why they’ll do anything to make it happen again. But I reckon giving you a number instead of a proper name makes people feel they’re things, not people, if you ask me. That one speaking is Quintus. Means five.

What does Tertia mean? I said.

He shrugged.

I don’t know, he said with a shrug. Four? Three? Doesn’t matter. The women’s and girls’ number names end in an a . That I do know.

He looked at me.

What’s the inspection? I said.

Oh, it’s nothing, he said. They just stand and look at us and see if we’ve got boils yet, to see if we’re infected.

Where? I said.

Over there, he said, pointing to the bars at the end of the passage. We just stand there, turn around, show our armpits and our crotches. It’s no big thing. They do it every night.

So we have to take our clothes off? I said.

Yes, he said, but they don’t prod you around or anything. They just stand back and have a good look to make sure. Now cheer up. Let’s eat. The food’s good, and everything looks better on a full stomach. They’re not going to poison you.

Some poison goes in by the mouth. Other poisons go in at the ear.

And Brand was always a good talker, able to sweeten his words with a grin or a joke to make you miss the tell-tale taste of something that was going to eat you up from the inside later on.

The food was good: bread, potatoes, some green leaf that was pleasantly bitter and mutton—salt marsh mutton, he said. You could taste the sharp tang of the sea in the meat, as well as an underlying sweetness. It tasted a bit like the sheep did at home, and for a moment I went back there in my head, wondering what they were eating and what they were talking about as they sat round the table. And even though Mum would not be joining in the conversation, I had such a pang of longing just to be next to her and holding her hand by the fire that I stopped eating.

I’ll finish that if you’ve had enough, said Brand.

I shook my head and forked more mutton into my mouth. Chewing meant I didn’t have to talk until I was ready.

So you lied, I said.

Did I? he said, raising an eyebrow. That seems unlikely.

You said you were raised here. Back at home. When you were telling your traveller’s tales, you said you grew up on these marshes on an island in an estuary, and that your family died and you went off travelling the world. So either you were lying then, or you’re lying now. Either you didn’t grow up here, and are lying. Or you did grow up here, and you’re one of the Cons yourself.

He looked at me.

I like you, Griz, he said. I like the way you don’t give up. I also like the way you make me feel… uncomfortable. Like with that question.

It wasn’t a question, I said. It was just a statement of what must be true.

There you go again, he said. Did I tell you about the archipelago in Sweden and the pale girls?

Yes, I said.

That was home, he said. And they were my sisters.

Were? I said.

Maybe they still are, he said. But if you tell the Conservators about them, I will kill you. Understand?

When he didn’t smile, when he looked at you and his face went like a rock and his eyes turned into unblinking blue ice, he was someone entirely different.

Yeah, I said. If what you told me about them is true, I understand why you wouldn’t want them to know about your sisters.

And you understand I’m not joking? he said.

I don’t know, I said.

The lines in the crag that was his forehead rearranged themselves.

What? he said.

You’re a really good liar, I said. You know how to use stories to get what you want. And telling me you’d kill me if I told anyone you came from this archipelago thing is a really good way to try and make me believe it’s the truth.

His face went much more serious, colder, flintier and then the great red spade of his beard split open again and was full of white teeth and the pink inside of his mouth as he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Griz, he choked, and punched me hard on the shoulder—not to hurt, but to show some strange affection. Griz, I do like you. I like you a lot. You’re just a kid, but you’re no fool, that’s for sure.

I’m not a kid, I said.

When your beard comes in, that’s when you’ll be a man, he said. Nothing wrong with being a kid.

You’re right, I said. But my beard isn’t coming in.

Not yet, he said and punched my shoulder again.

Not ever, I said. And if you punch me again, I’ll punch you back and it won’t be the shoulder.

I meant no harm, he said.

I know, I said, but for a cunning man you’re pretty stupid.

Stupid, am I? he said.

Just as stupid as me, I said. Because I believed what you said, because you said it well and brought gifts like marmalade, and you believe what you see because you were told what to see.

He looked at me. And then he looked at me harder.

Then he sat back, like some of the wind had gone from his sails.

I am stupid, he said. Might as well shit and go blind. Can’t see what’s right in front of my nose…

You’re right, I said.

You’re—he began.

Yes, I said.

I’m a girl.

He blew out his cheeks and looked at his boots. Like he suddenly found it uncomfortable to look at me.

Well, he said. That’s no good. Not here. Not now.

No, I said. No, it isn’t.

Why did you have to tell me that? Brand said, after he’d given his boots a long and painstaking inspection. I told you how much they want girls.

Breeders, I said.

It might have been a trick of the light, but he seemed to wince.