The Visitors - Part the Fifth
Apologies for the delay - a busy life - but here we go:
The lorry contained half a dozen soldiers who said they were from “Western Command” and reported to the seat of Regional Government for the South-West though no one seemed quite to know where it was or who was in charge.
Michael’s father had told him later of the tense meeting between the villagers and the Second Lieutenant in charge. The other soldiers fanned out through the village but said little. Michael remembered the face of one of the young men that day – he had killed, of that Michael had no doubt, but he too was bereaved. He was a shell, barely holding on to his humanity in the face of a world in turmoil and torment.
The meeting lasted an hour – the soldiers and the villagers emerged tense but in good humour. The officer called the rest of his group together and they moved out.
Michael’s father had called their group together in their house. He had told them that much of what the hotelier had told them in the days following the attack was true. London was gone – most of the main cities and towns had been devastated. Millions were dead but there was still a functioning Government and authority – Portsmouth had inexplicably survived and the seat of Government was there with William Whitelaw as the Prime Minister.
Michael remembered Woods asking about the Royal Family – Michael’s father had no answer. Michael himself had asked whether there was still a war – his father had replied that the soldiers had said the fighting worldwide had ended, there was some kind of truce between what was left of NATO and the remnants of the Warsaw Pact.
The soldiers had wanted to know about food stocks and had been firm in asserting the authority of the Regional Government.
They had spoken of the destruction of the town and the hundreds of bodies in the streets in the final orgy of violence and had warned against going back. They had mentioned disorganised bands of people roaming the countryside and had advised caution and vigilance. Michael’s father had told them they had not mentioned the patrols of the local villagers. The officer claimed they could restore law and order and there was no need for vigilantes.
On food, the villagers said they had enough but needed seed potatoes and other products for the year’s planting. The Officer seemed pleased about the food and had promised to “do what we could” about the seeds and had recognised the importance of the next year’s planting.
“How were you living?” Adara interrupted earning yet another silent rebuke from Paul.
“What do you mean, how were we living?” asked Michael.
“Well, I mean, cooking, washing, working, things like that” said Adara.
Michael tried to remember the early days at Trink. There was food to eat, though plain and repetitive. They would all eat together in the village hall – after breakfast, it would be out to the fields to prepare the ground for planting. Fuel was being rationed – no one knew if there would be any more petrol or oil so the machinery was used sparingly. The fields were worked by hand – it was hard labour and within a few days, some of the older people were suffering.
For the men, the only relief came from a turn on the security patrol which went round the village every hour or so. If the odd person or group got too close, the threat of a shotgun soon chased them off. There were also the foraging parties – the lake up at Nance provided some fish and the local woods some roots and other bits and pieces. The foraging was dangerous and soon got more so as other supplies of food began to run out.
There was a small group up at Trencrom Hill but Lelant Downs had been abandoned – the homes afforded little in the way of food but had been good for fuel – wood and in a couple of cases, some oil. The night patrols were the worst but with people not eating well, there were soon very few moving at night and within a few weeks, the night patrol had become easier than the day patrols,
There were communal washing facilities – basic but water could be heated. It wasn’t luxury by any means but better than the vast majority of people in the British Isles endured in the weeks after the Exchange.
The military patrols initially came by quite regularly – a couple of times each week. They had brought some seed potatoes and other crops which were eagerly planted and once brought some oil which was rewarded with a hot meal eagerly accepted by the Army.
The weather though had not improved – it would be a very long winter and late spring. Frosts in May were unheard of in that part of Cornwall but the ground was often frozen and the new crops withered. Michael knew that the accumulated debris of hundreds of nuclear blasts was up in the atmosphere and had created a cloud of dust which was cooling the world. He prayed every night – something he had never done before the Exchange.
Mercifully, apart from a couple of occasions, they had avoided significant radiation. On days with the wind in the east, they stayed indoors as much as possible – the air, for all they knew, still carried molecules of London, Exeter or Plymouth.
The spring was late and the summer short and by July, four months after the Exchange, the group at Trink was beginning to struggle. Four of the elderly women had perished during the long winter and three others had taken their own lives.
One night, not long after Midsummer, Woods’ son and some others had gone on a foraging trip toward Nancledra but had never returned. The night guards said they had heard shooting in the pre-dawn light but had seen nothing.
Woods and some of the others had gone the next day to try and find what had happened. They had found Woods’ son hanging from a tree while the others had been shot and, though it was not widely mentioned until later, partially eaten.
“Cannibals?” interrupted Paul.
“I’m afraid so, “replied Michael, “some people had got so desperate they had resorted to killing other human beings for food. I can understand it. Everything that had happened – there were those who had been psychologically damaged far more than being physically damaged. They simply couldn’t cope with the world as it had become.”
“Cannibalism is the ultimate sin – we are taught that,” said Adara as if by rote.
“Yes, “replied Michael, “but don’t they also say judge not lest ye be judged. It’s easy for us today to condemn but in those weeks and months after the war, it was so different. There were too many people chasing too few resources and that was before the plagues.”
“Look, this isn’t easy for me to talk about, “said Michael suddenly, “can we have a break?”
Michael swept out of the living room and up the stairs to his own room. He dared not admit it but he had come far too close to breaking that most ultimate of taboos himself. The death of Woods’ son had shattered their group – the woman had been inconsolable for days and had tried to take her own life. Michael remembered how both he and the Goddard girl had found her after she had eaten the berries and had nursed her back to health. In that time, Michael realised, he had formed an emotional bond with them both and that would be with him through the dark days ahead.
Woods himself had gone mad with grief and about a fortnight later had blown his brains out with a shotgun. He had been buried on the hillside next to his son. The hotelier’s wife had meanwhile drawn closer to Gus, a widower whose wife had died five or so years earlier. That new partnership was a blessing as it made Michael’s group a key part of the village but it didn’t alter the fact that the food supply was running low.
The summer had finally come – late and timid but there were signs of recovery after the months of cold and darkness. Some crops, potatoes, oats and barley – did grow and even a few vegetables in one area set aside as a form of greenhouse.
Michael had always suspected that the death of Woods’ son had been more than had been first assumed and after some weeks, tales began to be heard from other travellers of mysterious deaths in the night. The night guards would hear shots in the distance and one morning a body was found near Trink, a woman, emaciated but otherwise healthy. Her body was riddled with bullets and Michael guessed the real culprits weren’t brigands but soldiers.
The military had continued their visits but they had become more infrequent as the year went on and the soldiers rougher and less tolerant. Michael had spoken to Gus and Gus came to understand that the Army were no longer the trustworthy guardians. Indeed, the soldiers came one day and took food and a couple of sheep at gunpoint. Cyril protested only to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. In that moment, Michael recalled, we all realised the Army were the enemy.
Michael had recovered his composure and returned downstairs to see Paul and Adara sitting in the gathering gloom with the candles lit and the broth poured.
“Do you wish to continue, sir?” asked Paul respectfully.
“For a while longer, “replied Michael, “there’s still much to cover and I don’t want to keep you here too late tomorrow. Mary will be expecting you back well before sundown.”
There was a knock at the door and Bob entered without invitation.
“Is all well here, Michael?” he asked.
“Yes, my friend. We’ll be retiring soon. It’s an early start tomorrow. Could you thank Crowther for the fish for me, please?” said Michael.
“Very well, “replied Robert. “Peace to you all.” He turned and left without waiting for any salutation. Perhaps he will tell the Peacekeeper Superior about all this, thought Michael, not that he cared too much. There was little the Peacekeepers could do to him now and while he was actively working on the Testament, he was quite safe.
“So, where were we?” Michael said, turning to Adara.
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