Breakdown (3 page)

Chris nodded again, but still he did not move, seemed uncertain.

Brian hesitated, took another breath. “Um, are you hungry? I have food—”

“No, I just ate, actually,” Chris said tightly. “I’m not some skinny.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Brian said, taken aback that Chris would use that word. “It’s just that...” He stopped.

“I look like shit, I know.” Chris leveled a stare at him. “I’ve been on the road. I washed when I could. Not much chance for laundry. Sorry.”

Brian figured the best thing to do was ignore the subtle hostility. He probably deserved it, but it still felt like a slap in the face. He thought back to the last time he’d had a conversation with Chris. It hadn’t really been a conversation; it had been more of a screaming match. It was the last thing he wanted now.

“Let’s go home, Chris,” Brian said, trying to sound welcoming, sincere. He gestured with his head toward the bus line where Ian stood, holding their place.

Chris blinked and looked away. “I have some things.” He stepped back to the wall were he’d been sitting, pulled a duffel and a blanket roll with a strap of some sort out from behind a small bush, and slung them over his shoulder. He joined Brian, walking beside him but keeping a distance. His face was not as hard as it had been. He seemed to be trying to think of something to say.

It was only a short distance to the queue.

Chris was looking at Ian. “I wouldn’t have known him.”

Ian watched them approach. As they reached him, Brian saw his son clench and unclench his fists.

“Hi, Ian. You were a baby the last time I saw you,” Chris said quietly.

Ian ducked his head. “Hi.”

The line had grown, and the regulars cast suspicious looks at Chris. Chris stood next to Ian and didn’t look at anyone. The bus pulled into the station, swung around to its stall, and stopped with a hiss and a squeal. Brian took all of their various packs and bundles and stowed them in the luggage compartment. He counted out the bus fare for himself and Ian and found his hands were shaking a bit. He turned to tell Chris how much the fare was, but Chris was already counting out coins from his pocket. When it was their turn, Brian and Ian got on first. Chris followed.

“Hold on,” the driver said. He waved Brian and Ian past, but his eyes narrowed as he looked at Chris. “I want to see your card.” He held out his hand.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out an official green card, dated and stamped. The driver scrutinized it with a frown, then shoved it back at Chris, took his money, and waved him on. Chris pushed past Brian and went all the way to the back, scrunching himself into the corner by the window. Brian sat next to him, giving him as much room as he could, and Ian sat across the aisle. Chris remained tense, drawn in on himself, his mouth a tight line. Ian shot defiant glances at the other passengers. The seat in front of them remained empty as everyone else boarded; two people stood at the front rather than sit there. Ian got up and took the seat as the driver slammed the door closed.

The bus lurched out of the station. Brian glared at the backs of the other passengers. They all knew him and Ian, and their suspicion of Chris angered him. But then he had to admit to himself that they had every reason to be wary in spite of a current blood-test card. The cards were a formality, renewed every six months, but everyone knew they didn’t mean much a week after they were issued. Incubation time could be days to weeks.

Brian glanced sideways at Chris. He realized he would have given anyone who looked like Chris a wide berth. He felt a niggling apprehension begin to grow. He had not thought this through. Of course he wouldn’t have left Chris there in the bus station, but bringing him into their group was going to change things. Jon would be ecstatic, but what about Laura? There was bound to be some tension...

Wondering about that made him wonder about himself. Now that he had looked at Chris and seen him as the others on the bus would, he realized that he didn’t really know Chris any more than they did. He himself had changed in the past six years. Those years must have changed Chris, too.
I don’t know him at all.
His head began to ache as his thoughts churned around in circles. Chris sat staring out the window, his jacket still bundled in his lap.
I have to talk to him.

“How did you get to Britain?” Brian asked, keeping his voice low. Ian shifted in his seat to look at him, then at Chris.

Chris kept his gaze on the back of the seat in front of him. “There are some ships. They don’t take passengers unless you have a hell of a lot of money, so I worked my way over. Came in at London.”

“Did you walk here from London?” Brian asked, startled.

Chris shook his head and finally looked at Brian. “No. I spent a short time in London, then got another ship to Portsmouth. They—” He bit off what he was about to say, started over. “I worked there for a while, then at another place near there. That’s where I walked from.”

“Weren’t there any buses?” Ian asked, keeping his voice down too.

Chris shrugged. “Might have been. But I didn’t mind the walk.” His face softened whenever he addressed Ian, Brian noticed.

“That’s a long walk,” Ian said.

“It is. I found a bicycle, thought I might ride, but the tires had gone bad.”

“We could have got tires for it,” Brian said.

“But I would have had to push it here on the rims, wouldn’t I? I pushed it to the nearest town and traded it.”

“I hope you got a good price for it,” Brian said without thinking.

Chris looked at him straight-faced. “I think so,” he said, in that flat tone he had that carried weight.
You’re not the only one who knows what he’s doing
, the tone and the look together conveyed.

Brian kept his mouth shut and nodded once, conceding. Chris hadn’t changed so much after all.

“What’s London like?” Ian asked.

Chris glanced at him briefly, then back at Brian. “You’ve not been to London, have you?” He meant since the crash, Brian knew, and this time his voice held a hint of something else—not quite superiority, but something close.
You haven’t seen what I’ve seen
, Chris had said. Brian shook his head. “You don’t want to go to London,” Chris continued, swiveling his head back to Ian to answer his question. Ian was smart enough not to ask, “Why not?”

The bus reached its first stop and several passengers got off. The man and woman who had been standing took the seats, with a peek toward the back.

“So how did you end up in Hurleigh?” Chris asked once the bus was under way again.

“Bought an estate there, before the crash. Well, Simon did, really, though I paid for most of it. Simon was fixing it up. We left Bath that first winter, just after Christmas. Just in time.”

“Estate? Big place?”

“Big enough. Land to farm. We do okay.”

Chris nodded. “Farms are safer. Are there many outbreaks?”

“Nothing in the last year, that we’ve heard of at least. Rumor is the small ones go unreported.”

Chris turned his head to gaze out the window at the countryside. Brian and Ian exchanged looks, stayed quiet. Brian felt that some of the tension had eased, but he was wary of asking Chris too many questions. The bus made its scheduled stops, and the seats emptied.

“How is Laura?” Chris asked, breaking the silence.

“She’s well. She had a bad time of it. Lost her husband...” Brian trailed off, uncomfortably aware that he had made no mention yet of Chris’s apparent loss. For some reason, it seemed impossible to ask.

“It’ll be good to see her,” Chris said, and took up watching out the window again.

Brian berated himself for not saying anything. He felt sick with the strain of the whole thing and was glad that the ride was nearly through.

The bus pulled over by an old stone shelter. Ian was down the aisle in a flash and had the cargo bay open by the time Brian and Chris joined him. In spite of the long day, he was full of energy. He pulled out their bags and bundles and held Chris’s out to him.

“Thanks, mate,” Chris said, and Ian almost smiled. The bus pulled away.

Chris looked around him as he slung his bags and adjusted the straps over his shoulders. The shelter stood at a crossroads. On their right the road curved away up a hill; on the left it continued down. A petrol station stood on the opposite corner with a few stone houses across from it.

“The village is down the hill.” Brian pointed. “We’re up this way. We’ve got a bit of a walk from here.”

“Lead on,” Chris said. “Can’t be all that far.”

Brian turned and started up the road. Chris followed. Ian hurried to take the lead in spite of his heavy pack, head down, determined not to lag behind. Usually, Brian took his time going up the hill from the bus, especially if Ian was with him, but today even Ian knew this was no time to dawdle, and all three set a quick pace at the edge of the disused tarmac.

“Not much further,” Brian said. The top of the chimney became visible past the trees on their left, and shortly after, the little attic window under the peak of the roof glinted with the reflection of the sinking sun at their backs. Brian realized the house would soon be alerted. He wondered if he should tell Chris. The road straightened out some. They could see the gate in the high wall that surrounded the house and yard.

“Nice place,” Chris said. Of the three, he was breathing the easiest, but he seemed tightly wound, anxious.

“Yeah, plenty of room,” Brian said.

He turned a bit, and Chris slowed.

“Maybe you should go on ahead,” Chris said. “Tell them.”

“They’ll know anyway. Likely we’ve been spotted from that window. Preston takes his binoculars up there and waits for us on Saturdays. He won’t know you, but he’ll tell them someone is with us.”

Chris nodded, his face a mask.

“You okay?”

Chris nodded again. “Doesn’t seem real, after so long.”

They reached the gate. Ian grabbed it and pushed. It swung inward on squeaky hinges. Brian and Chris followed him through into the yard.

To their left stood the small gatehouse, then another section of stone wall. Beyond that, the garage, barn, and other outbuildings ranged around the left side and back of the yard, casting long shadows as the sun continued its fall. The big house rose up on their right, the end wall of the kitchen with its tall windows facing the yard. Fiona was already coming out of the kitchen door, with Preston right behind her. She stopped on the step, saw them, and came out through the small walled garden. She had her blond hair pulled back and clipped, the way she wore it when she was working in the kitchen all day. She rarely wore an apron, but she had a small towel tucked into the front of her jeans. She stared at Chris. Her hand went up to her mouth, and she quickened her pace, meeting them only a few steps from the garden.

“Hello, Fiona,” Chris said, his voice low.

“Oh, Chris!” she gasped, and stepped forward to hug him. Brian was surprised at how readily Chris accepted the hug, how he put his arms around Fiona, his face against the side of hers. “Chris, this is wonderful! It’s so good to see you!”

“I’m so glad you’re all okay,” he rasped.

Fiona pulled back to look at him, bit her lip. “Sophie?” she asked in a whisper, and then almost immediately, with a look of pain, “Rosie?”

Chris shook his head, blinked a few times.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

“It’s okay.”

She hugged him again, sniffed, put a kind of smile onto her face. Preston had been hanging back, shy and wary, but wanting to be in on things anyway.

“You’ve not met Preston,” Fiona said, motioning him forward. “Preston, this is your Uncle Chris, Uncle Jon’s brother.” At nine, Preston was generally more adventurous than his older brother and therefore needed closer supervision. He had a more rugged build than Ian, and his hair was dark like Brian’s. He had his mother’s grey eyes. At the moment they were wide and curious.

“Hi, Preston,” Chris said.

The boy echoed a shy hi.

Brian glanced off toward the Dealy farm, saw Jon just opening the gate in the gap between the machine shed and the henhouse. He was watching the group of them, but obviously hadn’t recognized Chris yet.

“Here’s Jon,” Brian said to Chris, pointing, and Chris froze for an instant, then moved, stepping around Fiona and the boys, pulling the bedroll off his back and letting it drop.

CHAPTER 3

J
on scowled as he scuffed along the path between the two farms, his jeans leg rubbing unpleasantly against the raw spot on his shin where that bloody beast Queen Anne had got him with her hoof, again. What a silly name for a cow.
I’ve had it with that animal.
He vowed to stop trying to make nice with her. It did no good; it never had. He wondered idly what supper would be as he reached the gate and unlatched it. As it swung open, he glanced into the yard, saw that Brian and Ian had got home, and realized that there was someone with them, hugging Fiona. Whoever it was had a bag of some sort over his shoulder, but his face was hidden from Jon’s view by Fiona. She seemed to be introducing Preston to the man.

Brian looked over and saw him, pointed, said something. The man took a step, and Jon saw his face.

It’s Chris—

It took his brain a moment to catch up from the shock that jolted him, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water full onto him.
It can’t be
, was his next thought, and he tried to think rationally around the dizzying rush:
swing the gate closed, listen for the click of the latch, step forward...look again, see who it really is...

Chris was thinner, his hair longer, he had a stubble of beard, but there was no doubt now. Jon had given up the forlorn hope, had stopped going into Bath to check for messages at his flat or the telegraph office, had ceased scanning faces in the market-day crowds in Frome. He’d never even dreamed that his brother would someday walk right into the yard, alive and well.

Chris stood frozen for an instant, then started to move, pulling a bedroll off his shoulder and letting it drop, almost running toward Jon, who had not stopped moving, only slowed, staring, still taking forward steps in a kind of daze.