Louise Welsh - Death is a Welcome Guest

Raisha said, ‘I waited for the sweats to take me too, and when it didn’t I went to one of the quarantine centres where I was sure to catch it. I worked there until there was no one left to help and then I started to walk. I didn’t have the courage to kill myself, but I was sure that if I kept on walking I would die eventually. Every meal I took, every drink of water was a betrayal of my family. I knew I should die, but I kept on going.’

‘And now?’ Magnus asked. He had not told her about his own family and his hopes that they might still be alive.

Raisha was curled in the crook of his arm. The tears that had slid down her face as she recounted her story had dried.

‘I keep on going. Father Wingate says that God has saved me for a purpose.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘No, because that would mean He had a purpose in killing so many people. But Father Wingate is a nice old man who believes we can make a better world and so I keep my thoughts to myself.’

They had made love twice in the night. Magnus had put his arms around her by the glow of the candle, but Raisha had leaned over and blown out the flame before she allowed him to kiss her. Magnus wondered if she had been thinking of her husband and imagining that he was him.

‘I think about them all the time,’ she said, as if she had read his mind. ‘Thinking about them keeps them alive. But sometimes it hurts too much and I need to shut out the memories. Her hand slipped beneath the covers and her smooth fingers began caressing his body. Raisha put her face to his and kissed him. He kissed her back and when she drew him to her, Magnus tried not to mind that she closed her eyes.

It was afternoon by the time they got out of bed. Raisha slid from beneath the sheets and dressed quickly with her back to him. She gave Magnus a smile before she left the room, but did not say where she was going or if they would see each other again. Magnus lay there for a while staring at the ceiling. The plaster was old and crisscrossed with thread lines. He saw a man’s face in the cracks, a disjointed dog, a shape that might have been the outline of Australia. He had never been there. Never would now. Were there still people left alive on the other side of the world? Perhaps there was a man like him, way down under, lying somewhere in bed, his limbs heavy from sex, wondering about the future.

Magnus heard the sound of activity in the kitchen and hesitated before he entered. The man at the stove was tall and young with thick blond hair and a profile that would guarantee him an audition for a Boris Karloff biopic. It was an ugly, dignified face not made for smiles. The man took a pot of coffee from the burner, poured two cups and handed one to Magnus without asking.

‘Your friend’s awake.’ His voice was a surprise. It was soft with a faint accent Magnus could not place: Scandinavian or perhaps German.

‘Thanks.’ He took the cup and held out his free hand. ‘I’m Magnus.’ He wondered where the man had been while he and Jacob had struggled to carry Jeb into the house.

‘I know. Father Wingate told me.’ The man was dressed in muddy jeans and a soiled sweater and Magnus guessed he had been working outside. He looked at Magnus’s hand as if he were uncertain of what he was meant to do and then shook it. ‘I’m Will.’

‘Been here long?’ Magnus asked.

Will shrugged as if to say, what did it matter, and raised his cup to his mouth.

‘He was asking for you.’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend. Father Wingate said to tell you that your friend wanted to see you.’

Will topped up his own cup with coffee from the pot. He turned off the stove and went out into the garden, closing the door softly behind him.

At first he thought that Jeb was sleeping, but then his eyes opened and Magnus saw the weighing stare he had grown to know.

‘I thought you’d be on your way.’ He was back to the man Magnus had met in prison, the solitary inmate, bitter and self-reliant.

The room they had put Jeb in faced on to a kitchen garden. Magnus could see Will in the garden below, digging one of the beds. He was putting his back into the task, shifting soil as if his life depended on it. It was harvest, not sowing time. Magnus wondered if the task was therapeutic, or if Will knew nothing about the order of the seasons. There was a chair by the edge of the bed. Magnus sat on it.

‘I will be soon. Someone said you wanted to see me.’

‘They were lying.’

‘It was the priest.’

‘They’re the biggest liars of all.’ Jeb straightened himself awkwardly in the bed, grimacing against the pain. ‘The old one or the killer?’

There was a slurred edge to his speech and Magnus guessed Jeb was still medicated. ‘The old one.’

‘That figures. That old bastard’s having the time of his life.’

The room smelled of dampness, sweat and detergent, as if it had only now been pressed back into use after a long period of neglect. Jeb pulled back the bed sheet. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts and Magnus saw the damaged leg bandaged tight to a splint.

‘How is it?’

‘How do you think?’ Jeb held on to his ribs and leaned down to touch the bandages. ‘Fucking sore. Christ knows what that bastard did to it while I was comatose.’

Magnus forced a grin. ‘Maybe you should check your arse for love bites.’

He had helped to hold Jeb down while Jacob had pressed the bones of the broken leg into place as best he could and strapped them to the makeshift splint. Jeb had ground his teeth, groaning and muttering like a corpse fighting against resurrection. The cleric-captain had been grim-faced and efficient and Magnus guessed that this was not the first time he had performed triage. He said, ‘You don’t remember any of it?’

Through the window Belle was walking across the garden to where Will was still digging. They looked strange together, the large ugly man and the slight blonde girl; like different species. Will kept his eyes trained on the ground until Belle touched his arm. Something about the way he moved his head told Magnus the man had heard her coming and was impatient at the interruption. Will listened to what she had to say and resumed his task. Belle lingered for a moment, as if expecting him to give a response, then walked away. When she was gone Will stopped digging and leaned on his spade, staring down at the earth. Something about the way he stood reminded Magnus of the way his mother had been after his father’s death; her silences, the half-finished tasks.

Jeb said, ‘I remember the crash, that fucker coming towards us with the machete and Jacob blowing his head off, then nothing much until I woke up with Old Father Time snoring on the chair beside me.’ He touched his bandaged leg. ‘Jacob reckons we should slap some plaster of Paris on it. He’s on the hunt for some now, but in the meantime…’ He shook his head. ‘I’m fucked.’

There was a cross on the wall above the bed, a skinny Jesus pinned like a fly on a dissecting board. Magnus gave it a glance and said, ‘I haven’t told anyone where we met.’

Jeb touched his bandages again, as if to check that his leg was still painful. He grimaced and looked at Magnus, his expression wary.

‘Why would you?’

‘There are girls here. Young girls.’

Magnus shifted the chair back from the bed, though he knew Jeb was in no condition to reach him from where he lay.

‘Christ.’ Jeb closed his eyes. ‘You seriously think I’m a danger to them?’

‘All I know is where we met.’

‘Where we met. You were there too, remember?’

There was a sound on the stair outside. Jeb’s eyes met Magnus’s and he stopped mid-sentence. The door opened and Belle put her head into the room. She had tied her hair into sleek gold plaits and looked like a pretty supermarket assistant dressed up to promote Edam cheese. She said, ‘Jacob has asked us all to assemble in the ballroom.’