Chapters 15-16

Today, Issy is overwhelmed by the elements and Peter's relationships with Miss Mary Hain continues to develop; both walk ever deeper Into the Night. Tomorrow, chapters 17-19 will take us to the end of Part 2.

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Chapter Fifteen Late-Winter 2015 Isabella

I’ve just left my meeting with Mrs Bridges and because of what happened with the clouds casting over and the sudden sounds of rain and thunder in my head, my meeting overruns and I miss the bus. At the end of the session Mrs Bridge’s offered me a lift home, but I told her that the bus is usually late, especially when the weather is bad and that if I ran, I’d probably make it.

‘Well, I’ll be here for another twenty minutes or so, so if you do miss it, you can always pop back.’

‘Yeah, thanks miss. I mean it. Thanks.’ I hope she knows how much I mean it when I smile.

‘Of course, Issy.’

I did sort of mean what I said about the bus and about running, but when I get to the bus stop, I’ve definitely missed it because the usual crowd isn’t hanging around waiting. I look up at the sky and it’s seriously gloomy. I wonder how thick the clouds have to be to block out the sun, because the sun has definitely not set and the moon’s not out yet, but it’s almost dark as dusk. I think about calling Mum or Dad, but I’m not sure they’ll be done yet and it’s rush hour anyway and even coming from home it would take them twice as long as walking to get here. The traffic in this city really is atrocious. The ring road doesn’t so much ring around the outskirts of the city as it does all but pass straight through the centre.

I remember crossing under the Dartford Bridge once. In one direction there’s a bridge over the Thames and in the other you go through a tunnel. I remember approaching the tunnel and seeing the traffic on the huge bridge snaking its way over the estuary, one long line of headlights slithering towards me. I’m not saying that it’s not an impressive feat of architectural brilliance, but you also can’t help looking at all of those lights and feeling a little depressed about everything.

Going under the tunnel is better. It’s more mythical. A labyrinth.

Anyway, the city’s links to its mythic Roman past intact, I think I’ll have to walk home. I look up at the sky again and think that if I go quickly, I might just miss the break of the storm that looks like it is brewing with intent.

I start to walk away from the bus stop, and before I’ve been walking for five minutes the rain picks up. I zip up my coat, pull the hood over my head and pick up my pace. Cars seem to suddenly be moving faster; I don’t know if that is because the sound of tyres swishing through puddles makes everything seem more chaotic or because they’re genuinely picking up speed, hoping to beat the storm to the comfort of their warm homes.

The rain is really pelting down now, so heavily that the water is running down the paths and the roads like a fast-moving river, swelling at the drains, bubbling out as soon as it runs in, overflowing. The clouds that were dark are now a heavy sort of charcoal grey, and as I look up there is no distinguishing one cloud from another: the sky is one vast sheet of the darkest and dullest grey. The rain hurts my face, so I lower my head again, and march on.

I don’t know why I didn’t go back to Mrs Bridges’ office and accept the lift she offered. I knew I’d missed the bus. And I know I can’t handle storms. But so long as it’s just rain. So long as the skies don’t pound and roar, I’ll be okay. One step at a time and I’ll be home before I know it.

A car races through a giant puddle and the spray covers me from waist to foot, soaking my legs and already soggy feet. I move on with a new determination to get out of the rain, and I reach the boundary of the park. If I go round, it’ll take an extra fifteen minutes than if I take the short cut and go straight through. But there’s a war in those woods and I don’t feel well armed enough to fight.

My ears prick. No, it was just a car. I stand motionless, listening. The sound comes again, this time slightly more distinct, slightly closer, slightly louder. The skies have begun to roar. Somewhere, not too far away, lightning has struck. There is no choice now but to plunge through the woodland. Get home. Get home. Get home.

It is darker in here. Though it is winter, and spring has yet to bring the trees to life, the canopy above me is a densely knotted web of branches, brambles and birds’ nests that look oddly sinister in their barren homes. I ignore the path, desperate to save time, and cut through the trees. The wood is thick enough that branches scratch me. I feel my tights catch and ladder. My arms are protected but my hands feel sore from pushing the trees’ strangling limbs out of the way.

I keep running, and my breathing intensifies, though I’m only vaguely aware of it: when your mind is distracted, your body takes over, and, in autopilot, doesn’t tire or moan, but simply moves on.

I notice the darkness ahead of me slightly lighten, and I break free of the tree line into the circular clearing of the park. To my right is the now swelling pond that has broken its banks and flooded the earth around it. Ahead and to my right, the great, spontaneous hill rises up, and, with the clouds so low and the air so consumed with rain, it takes on the guise of a mountain, the tip of which is lost in cloud and mist. I think of Dad and Art, and what they’d say if they saw it looking like this. They’d think of Merlin and the Mists of Avalon.

I glance back and feel the unmistakable presence of something following me. I have broken from the protective cover of the trees and am now visible as I run alone across this vast open clearing. I turn again, facing back momentarily as my legs continue to propel me forwards. I am being pursued. I must reach the protective cover of the opposite tree line. I cannot go back. Home is ahead, and I am pursued from behind. I look up and the sky has turned to pitchest black. The night has moved in. The sun has set. The sky is blind. No twinkling lights. Just black. I run on.

The tree line ahead gets closer, as my pursuers close in on me. I look to my right and to my left and I panic. Where is Sarah? Why is she not beside me? Has she run another way? Is she ahead, waiting for me? Has she been captured by our pursuing enemies? I don’t know what to do. If I run on does that mean I am leaving her behind? But if she is already ahead, it would be senseless to stay. How can I save her if I don’t know if she needs saving? How can I save myself, unless I know that she is safe? I call her name. SARAH. SARAH. SARAH.

The process of thinking has taken me forwards, my body making my mind up for me. I pound the earth and only now do I start to feel my body, the scratches on my hands and legs, the strain on my lungs, the cold of my head. My hood has flown back in the wind and my hair is tangled and wet. I run on and on and on, and then I see her. Ahead, at the foot of the first tree, I can see something, a person surely. It must be Sarah. I run on and on and on. SARAH. SARAH. SARAH. I wonder if she has been caught. Is she trapped? tied to the tree by our assailants? I press on and on and on.

I am barely ten metres from her. She does not appear to be moving. I hastily make the sign of peace to the fairy king of the wood, still running, and I finally reach her. I skid to a halt and bend over her. She isn’t moving. I reach over and hold her. She isn’t moving. I hear someone shouting and I feel my heart pounding against my rib cage. The voice is screaming now. It is saying the same thing over and over again. A name. What is it? Not my name. But. SARAH. SARAH. SARAH. I hold her head in my hands. SARAH. SARAH. SARAH. My throat hurts and I realise that the voice I can hear is my own. I’m screaming her name. She isn’t moving. I pull her close to me. We are soaked through. I’m shivering in the wet and the cold. I can’t hear myself crying. The thunder roars. The rain pounds. My tears bleed into the streams of rain streaking down my face. I pull her closer. She isn’t moving. SARAH. SARAH. SARAH. She isn’t moving. SARAH. SARAH. SARAH. She feels like lead in my arms. SARAAAAAHHHHHHHHH.

And all is black.

I am vaguely aware that things are happening to me, but I drift in and out of the past, and all the while the storm continues to rage around me, to remind me. I hear my name being called from a distance, and then closer. Someone leans over me, touches my head, shakes me gently. I feel water dripping onto my face. Is it rain or tears? I feel warmth transfer to my body as I am drawn close to another. I open my eyes to see if this is real? My sight is tangled in matted, soaking wet hair. Brown. No, blonde – just wet. I breathe deeply. It is cold and wet but tinged with the scent of someone. I feel like it is my first breath of life.

It’s mum. I’m not holding Sarah. Mum is holding me.

I still don’t become fully aware, but I know that I am moving and I’m not doing all the work. Mum must be half dragging me through the wood.

I know we have left the park because the light shifts. The rain has eased, and I can hear no thunder when I open my eyes.

And now I am weightless. I am not moving myself at all and yet I feel as though I am gliding through the air. I hear another voice. Deeper. Dad has picked me up. He is carrying me home.

I’m in front of the fire. Dad is stoking it to life. Mum is frantically rubbing me dry with a large bath towel. Art comes in with a steaming mug. He hands it to me and I drink, spilling some of the contents, as Mum continues to rub me down.

It seems as though time stands still for me, though I watch it continue rapidly for everyone else: Art leaving the room and returning with his arms full of something – clothes – Dad still stoking the fire, Mum still rubbing me down, the whole house busying around me.

But now Mum is helping me change. I feel instantly warmer, more alive, as the soft fabric closes around me. I become more aware of my senses. The fogginess in my head subsides and the numbness in my body begins to ease.

I am vaguely aware of myself saying ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’, and my face is wet again. Mum pulls me close. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’ Mum holds my face in front of hers. She looks deep into my eyes. Then she pulls me closer again and squeezes me. ‘Don’t say sorry, Issy. I love you.’ She smiles, and I know that she means it in so many different ways. I think I smile back. At least, I mean to. I walk out of the room and into the downstairs lavatory. I don’t need the toilet. I feel sick. All of a sudden there is no question that I am going to be sick. I grab my hair and collapse over the toilet – no time to lift the seat.

I feel better once it is done.

I remain on the floor for a while, the coolness of the tiles now refreshing after the warmth of the fire. I ache as I push myself up.

I turn and lean over the sink. I turn on the tap and wait for the water to run cold. I cup the water in my hands and raise it to my mouth. I swish and spit, then swallow in long gulps.

I splash my face, ignoring the water dripping over the basin.

I finally raise my head to look in the mirror, and as I stare blankly at my reflection, I begin, again, to cry.

Chapter Sixteen Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

It is becoming easier and easier to maintain the balance between the work I loathe, and the freedom I love. I do not think I will ever enjoy the populist mind-mush we churn out every day; truly it is the most degrading product ever known to mankind, but it is becoming easier to disconnect myself from it. The work and the books and Mary sustain me. Surely the nineteen-hundred-hour screenings are a small price to pay for the stimulation of working and reading and connecting again.

If it’s true that the people out there love their diet and the people who can’t digest it live in here, then I’m starting to see the harmony. The only flaw is that there are inevitably some meat eaters lost in the forest where only vegetables grow. That was me, but now I’m here with the rest of the meat eaters. And one day I’ll be able to bring the others in too.

Over the next month time goes quickly and slowly at the same time. My head feels lighter than it has for a long time, and if ever it begins to weigh down on me again, Mary is able to soothe it, and the creases in my brow dissipate. I still attend around half of the nineteen-hundred-hour screenings, and the other half of the time I eat dinner with Mary and we talk about whichever book she has found for me this time.

I know that there is more to come. It will soon be opened to you in all its wonder. I am eager for that day, but I don’t want to be like a petulant child, constantly asking for things before they are ready. I’m not there yet, but I will be soon.

I think back to the day she whispered nostalgia in my ear at NSSolarFarmOne and no-one else could hear her. I think back to the way we locked eyes for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. And I think back to the dream I had where I was compelled towards her.

Last night she told me the simplest story from her childhood and it felt like the greatest love story ever told. When was I last told a story that I did not tell myself?

‘We’d just got him. We called him Dreamer because out of all the puppies in the litter, he was the only one who looked up when we arrived. I remember thinking it looked like he was still asleep like the rest of them, but he had raised his head and his eyes were open, looking directly at us, like he was awake and asleep all at the same time. I instantly liked him, and we took him home that day.’

I mutter something under my breath. ‘Do androids dream of electric sheep?’

‘What’s that, Peter?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just something I can’t quite remember from a book. Carry on’

‘So, we took him home and obviously he wasn’t allowed outside yet, but one afternoon I couldn’t find Dreamer anywhere. I looked in all of the cupboards, under all the beds and behind all the furniture, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I called Mum and Dad in to help and eventually we started looking outside, thinking he must have snuck out when the door was open or something. Well, we looked all around the house – we had one of those houses where the garden goes all the way round – and we still couldn’t find him. And then I spotted something, just beyond the fence between our garden and the fields beyond.

‘It didn’t quite look like a dog, but it was moving around as if it was alive. I went closer and you wouldn’t believe what I saw. He’d got his head stuck in a small rabbit hole and his body was sticking out from behind.

‘Of course, I was terrified at the time – the thought of him stuck in there for I don’t know how long. But when I pulled him out, do you know what he did? The blithering idiot stuck his head right back in again.’

She laughs, and she lights up the world.

‘I don’t know if he was chasing a rabbit or trying to make friends or if he really was just the stupidest puppy on the planet, but I always liked to pretend that he was a character from Alice in Wonderland trying to get back to all of his friends down the rabbit hole.’

Her story made me smile. I felt sorry for the puppy, cut off from Wonderland, but he still had Mary to look after him, so he could still be happy. Happy to live and to dream.

The next time we meet, I tell Mary about the long summer days we used to spend in the park with the hill rising from the middle of nowhere and how we used to ride our bikes so fast we thought they might fall apart before we would lift off into the cool waters of the pond at the foot of the hill.

And she tells me about when she was younger, in the old world, before the change.

And we read more books and talk about more ideas, sometimes until we are so tired we fall asleep in the middle of speaking.

And something settles over us and it feels so good after so long.