Brother in the Land (17 page)

We left the village and walked uphill, avoiding the road. Presently, around dawn, Kim saw a house. It was hidden from Osmotherly by a fold in the hills. She made sure it was empty and we moved in.

That was more than two years ago. Ben died of a creeping dose just a few days after we settled in, and we buried him in the garden. It was raining, I remember. We'd wrapped him in sacking but there wasn't quite enough and we could see a bit of his bald head glistening. I know you're supposed to say something over a grave but I didn't know what, so I said what Branwell once said. I said, ‘He who places his brother in the land is everywhere.' Just that. It's hard to talk when you're crying.

There was this book in the house. A ledger with nothing in it. What I did was I started to write down everything that happened after the nukes. I thought that someday, a long time from now, somebody might read how it was and maybe it would stop them doing it again. When spring came and we moved on I was going to leave it under the floor but Kim said, ‘Don't, Danny. It's not finished.' She meant our story. ‘Write
to be continued
, and bring it along.'

So I did, and she was right. It
wasn't
finished. There was this to add.

We reached Holy Island in May after the longest, hungriest, most frightening journey two people ever endured. At first we travelled by day, taking turns riding the donkey, but after twice narrowly escaping capture by bands of purples who seemed scarcely human, we took to lying up in barns or woods during daylight hours and travelling at night. We daren't light fires for fear of attracting attention, so what little food we scavenged was eaten raw. We ate frogs, slugs and woodlice. Often we'd throw up immediately afterwards, but it was good protein when we managed to keep it down. We chewed fresh young nettles that stung our mouths, as well as dandelion roots and anything else we thought might be edible. And yes, in the end we were driven to slaughter and eat the donkey.

We had the biker's gun, and we did it with that. I mean, Kim did. I couldn't do it, but I was glad enough of the raw meat. I know it seems cruel, but neither of us would have lived to reach Holy Island without it.

We arrived in May, very early in the morning with sunrise gilding the sea. The tide was out, and we might have set off across the causeway at once if we hadn't noticed a smudge of smoke over the silhouette of the castle. We installed ourselves in the rusted shell of a van and watched the causeway all day. When the tide returned to cover it we hadn't seen anybody, but the smoke was still rising. We waited, weak with hunger and fatigue, taking turns at dozing. It was twilight when the waters withdrew once more from the causeway. We were discussing whether to emerge and take a chance when we saw movement. A vehicle detached itself from the island and began crossing the causeway in a haze of spray. Kim and I watched its approach. There was nothing to indicate a connection with our presence till, on reaching the slipway, the vehicle swung right and came straight towards our hiding place. Too late to withdraw, we could only keep our heads down and hope we wouldn't be seen.

It was a forlorn hope. The vehicle, an APC complete with armament, halted ten metres away, its machine gun trained on the van. The hatch was raised. A man appeared with a loudhailer.

‘Attention, occupants of abandoned vehicle. You have been under observation for some time. You are completely surrounded and heavily outnumbered. Throw out the automatic weapon and any other arms you possess. Do this
now.'

Kim gazed at me in the thickening gloom. ‘A Rhodes soundalike,' she croaked.

I nodded. ‘'Fraid so. Do we fight or give in?'

She sighed, shaking her head. ‘You heard him, Danny. Surrounded and outnumbered. Maybe they'll give us one good feed before they shoot us.'

She threw out the gun. There was a pause, then the loudhailer quacked again.
‘Step out slowly, one at a time, with your hands on your heads. Any sudden movement will result in immediate death. Do this now.'

Kim crept out, then me. We stood shivering on the tarmac in a stiff sea breeze, hands on heads. It seemed a long way to have come, just for this. We honestly thought it was the end.

But it wasn't. Instead it was a beginning. Over the next few hours – hours during which we ate, drank, bathed and were given clean clothes – we learned that the place we'd come to had three names: Lindisfarne, Holy Island and New Beginning. The first two were old names, the third quite recent. New Beginning was an agricultural commune like Branwell's MASADA, but with one crucial difference: it was guarded day and night by men and women with an armed forces background and all the equipment they were likely to need. A sort of kibbutz, in fact.

So here we are. Kim and I have been here two years. We're expecting a baby soon, and we're not worried. It will be New Beginning's fourth baby, and the other three are thriving. No missing bits, no extra bits, if you know
what I mean. If it's a girl it'll be Kate, after a nurse we once knew, and if it's a boy it'll be named for little Ben, my brother. In the land.

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