I tried to make myself eat something in readiness for leaving, but tonight, more than ever, the thought of food is making my stomach churn. I managed a few mouthfuls, but that was all. Fortunately, the beer Hinchcliffe gave me was easier to swallow. The gas made me retch, but the alcohol has taken the slightest edge off my anger. I forced myself to finish the first can, then immediately started another. Halfway through the second can I ran out of the side door and threw up on the driveway.
I slump back into my chair and struggle with cold, unresponsive fingers to open the ring pull on my third can. I put it down on the table, the beer frothing and fizzing over the rim, then strap on my miner’s lamp reading light and pick up the first book I can find. My eyes are tired and hard to focus, but I stare at the cover. It’s a picture of a man and a woman, locked together in a passionate embrace that’s a million miles from what I had to endure earlier today. Even though the figures on the cover are airbrushed, overly perfect caricatures of how people used to be, I can’t stop staring at them and remembering. The man is rugged, strong and powerful, clean-shaven with short, black, slicked-back hair … Then I look at the woman he’s holding: her full figure, tight clothing, painted lips … when the light starts to flicker and fade (didn’t get those damn batteries from Hinchcliffe), I throw the book across the room in frustration, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the cracked screen of the useless flat-screen TV that sits in the corner of this room. I look like a fucking prisoner of war—spine curved, eyes bulging, arms and legs spindly and thin, skin scarred …
The beer makes me belch, but I keep drinking. It must be having an effect, because now I can’t stop thinking about my kids. Usually I try to stop myself from remembering, but tonight I’m desperate not to forget.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve drunk like this. I feel like I’m floating above my chair now, looking back down and watching myself below, and I don’t like what I see. In the darkness and quiet there are too few distractions. I keep looking around, half expecting to see Ellis standing there like she used to appear at the side of Lizzie’s and my bed when she couldn’t sleep, all wide-eyed and vulnerable. I keep waiting to hear Ed arguing with Josh, or playing his crappy music too loud, or switching the TV in his room on again after I’d told him to turn it off. My kids were annoying little fuckers at times, but that didn’t matter. I miss them.
Hinchcliffe’s vision of the future is terrifying me. I don’t want to be responsible for bringing another life into this world. I imagine a child like the kids I fathered before, trying to survive in this foul and hostile place. What if they were born Unchanged? I picture Hinchcliffe backing them into a corner, leering over them and either screaming at them to fight if they won’t, or locking them away in isolation and trying to break them if they’re too feral and wild to control. What if it’s twins? One Unchanged and one like us? Would they fight in the womb … that’s more ridiculous than it sounds. Now I know I’m drunk.
I force down more beer, but I’m starting to feel really sick. My mouth’s watering like I’m going to throw up again. I’ll stay still in this chair for a while until the nausea has passed, then start packing my stuff. Whatever happens, I’m leaving this godforsaken place tomorrow.
20
MY HEAD IS FUCKING killing me. Feels like someone’s split my skull in two with an axe.
Rufus is pounding on the door again. Why can’t he just leave me alone? I’m sure no one else has to put up with this much bullshit. I moved out from the center of town to put some distance between me and the rest of the population of Lowestoft, but certain people seem to spend most of their time out here hassling me. Fuckers. Jesus, it’s not even light yet. Couldn’t he have at least waited until morning? He can fuck off and leave me be. Whatever he wants, I’m not interested. I’ll wait until he goes, then pack up and get out of here. I’d have gone already if I hadn’t let the booze get the better of me.
He’s not going anywhere.
The knocking has moved now. Persistent little shit. Now he’s banging on the living room window. I screw my eyes shut and stifle a cough, doing all I can to swallow it down so the noise doesn’t give me away. Jesus, I feel bad. My guts are more sensitive than ever, and my head’s about to explode. There’s a welcome moment of silence; then the noise changes again. That’s the side door this time. He’s shaking the handle, rattling the chains I used to secure it after the vagrant woman broke in. Maybe it’s another one of those useless underclass fuckers, trying to get in and steal from me. Bastards.
Got to move.
I reluctantly get up from my chair and immediately lurch over to the right, reeling from the aftereffects of the booze. Feeling faint, I stoop down and grab a heavy wrench I keep by the front door for dealing with unwelcome visitors like this. I’ve just about managed to stand upright again when another coughing fit hits me hard. Whoever’s outside must know I’m here now, and they’re still not going anywhere. When the coughing subsides for a second I angrily yank the front door open and run along the side of the house, wrench held high, ready to attack or defend myself. A combination of sudden surprise and the ice-cold temperature outside immediately sobers me up and stops me in my tracks. Standing in front of me is Peter Sutton, the bastard who stalked me around Southwold.
“How in hell’s name did you find me?”
He walks toward me, and, hands raised, I lift the wrench again and block his way. Fucker’s not going anywhere.
“I guessed you had some connection with those fighters who turned up in Southwold yesterday morning.”
“They were nothing to do with me.”
“I didn’t say they were. But you turned up, then they did. It seemed a pretty safe bet that it was more than just coincidence.”
“So what’s this? Revenge?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you found me.”
“I just went into town and asked for Rufus.”
“But I’m not—”
“I know who you are now, Danny McCoyne. Here’s a tip for you: If you’re going to use a false name, never use the name of someone who actually exists. I asked for Rufus at the barricades and ended up being introduced to your friend. He seems like a decent enough guy, but you might want to have a word with him about his loose tongue. I described you to him, and he says, ‘Ah … you’re looking for Danny McCoyne.’ So here I am, Danny, and here you are, too.”
“Rufus told you where I was just like that?”
“Pretty much,” he answers. “He didn’t need to say a lot. He told me about this place and he said you were the only one here. I just started knocking on windows and doors until I found you. Wasn’t that hard, really.”
“How come? There are hundreds of houses—”
“I know, and I’ve been here for fucking ages. However, yours is the only house with a fresh puddle of vomit on the drive. I thought there was a good chance you might have something to do with it.”
Sutton’s breath billows in clouds around his face. We’re both shaking with cold. There’s been a heavy frost overnight, and everything glistens with ice, white-blue in the first light of dawn.