Rob Ewing - The Last of Us

Sometimes my memory works better.

Do the checks: radio, same old noise. Tucking into bed, smell of fire on my jumper, trousers. I feel less thirsty, so maybe that’s a good thing.

This morning I spoke to you Mum, explaining things. Asking for some answers. Telling you where to look.

You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.

There’s enough clothes on the island. Of all different sizes. I could grow and still find clothes to fit.

Plus there’s shoes. And trousers, in the second-hand shop. Plus clothes left in the Cròileagan.

I could keep teaching myself to read. The library has all its books. I could borrow all the books from people’s houses to make it even bigger. I could teach myself sums, though that’s harder than reading.

And for food. I miss milk, miss cereal. I miss bread and I miss bananas and apples. All types of fruit.

In the spring we found tiny strawberries in the polytunnels. They tasted the best ever, but they were only a nibble. There’s no apple trees on the island. Or at least if there was any I wouldn’t know where.

There’s a new light in the rainbow Elizabeth made. I’ve never seen it since the sun turned into all-day.

Could go and check? But not before I’ve had a rest. When I get up again I’ll check what it was.

Make another list tomorrow: of all the skills I got, so I know the best strengths of mine to use.

From the roster we could see the last runs had gone through late-Feb. Four, five months ago.

There was a shorter run: shorter than the removals, taking in towns, any open harbour. Anchorages a nightmare, frequently: wrecks up and down the coast, cos nothing got tied proper for the weather.

Shipping lanes: empty. Told us about the last. Belfast picked up a man – a farmer – on Colonsay. Guy had set fire to his fields and was brought mainland in April.

By consensus he was a one-off. Oldest by a mile, how’d he lived? All the rest was for clean-up.

Murdo saw first. There was an early front: low coming in from sou-west. Punching through that, over above: smoke. Stood out hardest at dusk, then we lost it. Too far, not Morven, not Mull, not even Inner Hebs.

So then we get off shift. Inverness said they’d pick up in the morn, otherwise not keen to send out a search, conserve this, conserve that, usual story.

Calum goes on his VHF, runs up and down the channels. Got a bit of stick from Donnie: said there was something like half a boat between here and Newfoundland, so he was better off shelving it and focussing on salvage.

Admit I couldnae sleep – thinking about that smoke. Set me thinking on everyone I was missing.

Family. Pals. All the older folk.

When ye meet or hear of someone from before it’s like: no way. Can’t believe there’s an auld-lifer.

Skip, he has a nephew who’s survived. So Skip has his family. That’s pretty remarkable.

Kept asking him, what’s it like? There’s someone from your before. What does that feel like?

He’s a dour bugger though. Hard to get a word out of him for what went. Nor any word of outlook.

Where did my kind go, I think, when I’m not guarding against thinking too much. Where are they?

Stayed up late, blethering to Donnie. Why’d I come to the coast? he asked. All the way up here?

Had tae think. Know something: clearest answer, crazy but. It’s hardest being in the city. Even the towns. When ye’re there it hits ye, ye cannay escape it.

Empty streets. Whole districts: empty. No cars on the roads. No folk in the town centres.

Here at least, looking out where there was never much in the first place, ye can pretend no much changed.

The wool over yer eyes, Donnie said.

So what? I answered back. Better that than getting to see how bad it did us.

Plus in the city there’s all the eyes on ye: all the time, so ye feel like a museum piece. Some type of freak.

Hundreds – no thousands – of kids, looking at ye like ye’re the faither and mother they need. Because it was the adults that got it worst: which makes us, the few survivors above the age of twenty, truly remarkable.

I won’t say lucky. Remarkable will do for now.

Next morn, the front in. Overcast, rain. So you take the chance, or what? Plus we had a fix, or maybe no. Western Isles, southern end? Donnie thought it was off the map and a waste of diesel. I didnae.

Cleared a bit on the way out. We could use the trip for salvage, I said to Skip, laying it thick. He didn’t have much to say to that. Anyway, it was a chance for fishing, and we’d maybe get the fuel back good from cars.

Basking sharks halfway. Idled for a bit, watched them: until they dropped and disappeared.

Boat never got into the bay last time. Big Spanish trawler holed on rock-reefs at its entrance, buoy to beacon, so too risky. She was slicking terrible in Jan when we came, which put us off anchorages closer.

She’d broken up, now: rudder, hull, one side, radar, mast the other. Skip navigated the channel, face like thunder. I kept out his way meantime.

Already binoculars on the beach, three of us.

Nothing doing. Nobody.

Murdo looked fed up, like I felt. But it was on the map for salvage: so it wouldnae be a waste, no really, we could recce here for a bit, then run a lorry up the Uists. Maybe work the chain, make some dough? Skip said nothing.

Dogs, gulls setting off a racket. No place to tie, pier-boats wrecked side-on against each another. We dropped the dinghy, which took long enough, Skip too crabbit, or lazy, or both mebby, away to sleep in his cab.

Murdo’s bet was for a whin-fire. But that couldnae be right: the smoke was coming from inside the village, far side of the bay. Then we saw something on the pier.

An SOS in stones. Plastic bags, kids’ clothes.

Radio said nothing. Skip ran the channels. We started shouting, but it made the dogs bark like crazy.

Murdo used his loudhailer. We waited on the boat. Blew the air-horn. Gulls didnae know what hit them.

Then Skip sent up a flare: and when nobody came he said, ‘Check out what’s burning.’

Saw straight away that someone started it. Radioed to Inverness. They said we should stay put. It was a drag, for sure, what could we do? Told us to get masks and gloves on, report back, keep them updated.

Row of three houses: burnt. Blast area, smaller fires set about. Nothing that’d go up on its own though. Two of the houses gutted. Somebody had lit up a bunch of milk bottles, probably petrol or diesel, for the blast.

We shouted, blew our whistles. Nobody came. So we stopped for eating. Clearly were survivors: Murdo found what looked like petrol-gathering: cars sprayed, caps open. Doors of houses marked up: G, B. Had to be kids.

So now everyone interested, even Skip.

Plastic bags on the shore, close to the pier. Had they set a fire for a beacon and then left? No sign on the road. The dogs weren’t cared for, cats feral, half-away.

Ended up house-to-house. Lots of dead at home, they never had time. Checked the mortuary, field hospital at the school. Children’s refuge: someone covered in stones and flowers. The hospital, only the early dead. GP surgery: doors forced, empty. Supermarket: empty. Coastguard’s office: empty. Council offices: empty.

Kids are great trash-gatherers; they build nests just like birds. Seen it on the other islands. Just follow the trails of rubbish, tins, plastic. So there was this one house.

Kid tried to hide at first. Scared. Murdo reminded me to stay wee, kneel down, let the kid come.

There was a marine VHF – not cabled. She wanted a drink. Drank and drank. Face pocked, so safe enough. Scrawny, bad teeth, not starved. Somebody cared.

Asked if we were real. Here to take you home, Murdo says, and the kid goes: I am home. Nice start.