The Risen Page 14

  “We gonna follow the track out?” asked Ruby.

  “Probably best, most likely the clearest route.”

  “Let’s jog,” she said, picking up the pace to a jog.

  “These bags are a pain.”

  At pace, the river disappeared behind them and the city of Worcester raised itself to their level so they were no longer running along on a bridge, and they crossed mostly empty four-way intersections, the barriers permanently raised. Their bags bounced gently on their backs, causing Nate to wish they could just drop them. They passed St John’s cemetery on the right with its rows and rows of headstones mirroring every other cemetery in the country – not enough for everyone who had died in the past few months – and passed a ten-pin bowling alley on the left with its pins waiting patiently to be knocked down, before the buildings dissipated and the track opened out into hedgerows and latterly, a wide ‘road’ flanked by fields.

  Ruby slowed, stopped and turned, looking back from where they had come and raising two middle-fingers to it.

  Nate stopped his jog and joined her. “Goodbye, Worcester!” he shouted, “and go fuck yourself.”

  “Alright, captain.”

  “Want to eat?”

  “Let’s keep moving,” and they carried onwards, distant suburbs suggesting they weren’t completely out of Worcester, and soon they came to another main road where the track crossed on a bridge and then deepened into one of the suburbs, causing Ruby to say “For fuck’s sake, how big is this place?” but it wasn’t for long. It passed through without hindrance and they were in open fields again, an occasional farmhouse in the distance.

  At a small bridge, they stopped and looked over the railing to the River Teme – shorter in width than the River Severn, which joined up with its counterpart south of the city. Here, they spotted a woman standing in the water just off from the embankment, her long white hair shifting with the current. She was throwing something – bread? Nate looked closer. Can’t be bread, he thought. But maybe it was – it was green, and she ripped it up into pieces and chucked them at ducks gathering around her.

  Nate was about to open his mouth, but Ruby placed a hand on his chest.

  The woman was wearing a long yellow dress that billowed around her knees. On the embankment was a large black bag, but they couldn’t see what was inside. “Come,” she said quietly, “come, come,” as she held out her hand offering mouldy bread to the ducks; crouching now and arching her back, until one duck dared to pluck from her palm and she grabbed its head and wrenched its neck with a crack.

  Turning, Nate and Ruby pushed themselves from the railing, out of sight. They listened as her feet smacked wetly on the ground, and she started to sing.

  “Five little ducks went swimming one day, over the hill and far away. Mother duck said quack quack quack quack, and only four little ducks came back!” They heard her make movements towards the bridge and Nate peered cautiously over. She continued to sing; “Four little ducks went swimming one day, over the hill and far away. Mother duck said quack quack quack quack, and only three little ducks came back!” She had picked up the black bag and was walking beneath the bridge, feet muddy, arms bare and dripping wet, the dead duck clutched in her hands. Behind her, the remaining ducks vied for the remaining mouldy bread.

  “Three little ducks went swimming one day,” she sang again, the sound contorted by an echo, “over the hill and far away. Mother duck said quack quack quack quack, and only two little ducks came back!” As she disappeared under the bridge, there was a wet thud as something was thrown to the ground, and then silence. Nate and Ruby looked at each other – what should we do? – and shrugged.

  “Two little ducks went walking one day,” sang the old woman from behind them – she had walked up the embankment the other side, “over the hill and far away. Mother duck said quack quack quack quack, but how many ducks came back!?” Her white hair was thick on her head, and though her arms were wrinkled with age, they had an underlying wrought sturdiness. Water dripped from the bottom of the dress.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she drawled. “How many ducks came back?”

  “One,” said Ruby.

  “Well, I’d hope not!” she laughed. “You two lovebirds hungry?”

  “Always,” said Nate.

  The old woman laughed again; “Oh, come, don’t be so dreary dear,” and for a moment Ruby saw her own grandmother in one of her floral dresses, pouring tea from a china pot into small, china cups, offering the china saucer to her and remarking “Nothing a nice cup of tea can’t cure. Would you care for a scone? Or a biscuit? Only Rich Tea I’m afraid – I can’t take too much sugar these days, you know.”

  “Follow me,” the old woman almost sang. She disappeared down the embankment.

  Nate and Ruby looked at each other again, raising their eyebrows. What’s the harm?

  They followed the old woman down; there were large poured-concrete blocks that could be used for steps running up the side of the bridge. At the bottom, the softly moving river was melodious; it sprinkled its splishes and splashes on the reeds and mud as it lapped gently where the woman had made a home. A large tent overlooked the river, and a campfire space was ready to go at the gush of some lighter fluid. An array of fishing rods were lined up along the brick wall, and hanging on a line that ran to a nearby branch, fish hung, drying.

  “Homely,” said Ruby.

  “Thank you, dear,” smiled the old woman. “You got names or am I going to have sweet talk them out of you?”

  “Nate – and this is Ruby.”

  “So nice to have company, so nice. I’m Agnes.” She set a pan of water on a gas stove and turned a knob. There was no ignition. “Don’t get a lot of visitors these days, you see. On account of all this death. Care for tea?”

  “Umm, tea would be nice,” said Ruby.

  “Good, good, sit down, make yourself at home. I’ll just brew it. You hungry?”

  They sat on two fold-out camping chairs. “Yeah.”

  “Good timing. Just got me a duck,” said Agnes, grabbing another pot and chucking the duck into it. She put the pot on the pile of logs. “Won’t take long to cook. I miss vegetables, that’s what I miss, but it’s not the season, no dears. We have to make do, you see? I’d love some vegetables, make a lovely stew. Richard, he always loved my stews. Rush home for dinner, he used to say, if he knew there was a stew on. Of course, beef back then. But! You have to make do, as they say!”

  “Is Richard around?” asked Ruby.

  “No, no, no,” replied Agnes, taking the pot of water and pouring it into two mugs that were sitting on a stool. “Careful now,” she said, offering the mugs, “hot.”

  They accepted the cold mugs with the cold water and looked at each other.

  “No, Richard, bless him, he died. Can’t remember now how exactly...” she picked up the black bag – Nate noticed unopened loaves of bread inside – and carried it inside her tent. When she reappeared, Nate and Ruby had finished their water. “He was such a lovely man. Married forty-three years we were.”

  “Wow, congratulations,” said Ruby.

  “But look at me, rattling on. How long have you two been married?”

  Ruby took Nate’s hand. “Just a few days, bit of a whirlwind, you might say.”

  “Oh my god!” said the woman. “Congratulations! And here you are, on your honeymoon and everything, and you’ve been so kind as to give this old woman some company. Oh my! I must fix up your dinner for you.” She took the pot from the pile of logs and used kitchen tongs to remove the duck. Its head hung limply and flopped, its neck a silvery green.

  “Maybe, we should help you, with that?” asked Nate, looking at Ruby.

  “Nonsense – you’re on your honeymoon!” She took a cleaver and began hacking at the bird. “Not much, I’m afraid, but better than nothing!” She reached for a plate and put the bloodied carcass on it, and then handed it out to Nate and Ruby. “Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

  Nate took the plate, the c
oppery, metallic blood pooling thinly around the lacerated, splintered bones of the duck. Downy feathers floated. Agnes sat down opposite and watched them with a smile on her face.

  Nate tipped the plate slightly and dribbles of watery blood trickled to the floor. “Try not to waste any, dear,” said Agnes.

  They met eyes, furrowing brows and feigning disgust. Nate’s stomach grumbled – it wanted the meat – he imagined picking up a hacked leg and ripping off the feathers and plunging his teeth into the soft skin and still-warm flesh and having the blood-juices spurt over his face as he chewed and swallowed. Stomach satiated, he would tip the plate and drink the blood. He would run his tongue over the roof of his mouth, collecting tiny feathers, and spit them into the nearby river.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t like duck? I could rustle you up a fillet of fish. Short of lemons though I’m afraid.”

  Ruby took hold of the plate and passed it back to Agnes. “I think our appetite is just a little off,” she raised an eyebrow towards Nate. “Thank you anyway, it was a kind gesture, especially in these times.”

  “Oh nonsense,” said Agnes, accepting the plate. “If you can’t look after your own in the here and now, then we may as well pack our bags and go, don’t you think, my dears?” She picked up a fleshy breast and slurped the juices from it, then bit.

  “I think we’ll be getting on our way, unless there’s anything we can help you with?” asked Ruby.

  “Oh, wow, that is a shame. I’m so sorry I couldn’t offer you anything more to your taste. A little soy perhaps would’ve made it a little more palatable.”

  “Okay,” Ruby looked at Nate. “Ready?”

  “Yep,” he said, standing. “It was nice to meet you, Agnes.”

  “Oh you too, two little ducks. Enjoy your walk,” she smiled, her lips red, her long, thick, white hair glowing effervescent almost, a ray of sunlight hitting the wall behind her. As Nate and Ruby made their way back up the embankment, Agnes started to whistle the tune to ‘Five Little Ducks.’

  Clambering back onto the bridge, they continued south-west along the track, and waited until the old woman’s whistling was out of earshot before speaking. “We shouldn’t have just left her there like that,” Nate said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s obviously senile. How’s she even survived this long?”

  Ruby said, “Come on, she was fucking with us. She weren’t senile. Didn’t you see the look in her eye?”

  “I was too busy looking at the duck. Which she ate, unless you didn’t notice.”

  Ruby laughed. “And you wouldn’t? If I hadn’t taken the plate?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course not.”

  *****

  At the ‘Bear and Ragged Staff’ country pub, where the two-track path led, they departed the rails and climbed up to the narrow country lane, fighting their way through brambles left unattended and which now blocked the natural route. In front of the grand building – painted cream on the brick facade, with green window-frames and sills, they sat on a pub bench. It was easy to imagine a waitress coming out of the front entrance to ask them if they wanted tea, coffee, or perhaps something stronger. They placed the bags down on the table and began rummaging through them for chocolate.

  The sun shone intermittently between the clouds; a high wind gusted through the treetops but was barely registered at ground level. Stillness permeated; an atmosphere not just merely devoid of other people, but empty of time. A high-hedged country road lead blindly around a bend, and there would now never be a car – or more appropriately, a tractor – about to hit you head-on. Just around the next one.

  “We used to come to places like this,” said Nate. “Dad would take us out to the middle of nowhere and just drive around, looking for interesting places. Sometimes Mum would pack a picnic – because we never knew if we’d end up at somewhere like this, or the top of Clee Hill or the Malverns, or down by some riverside somewhere. Usually though, Dad would end up pulling into country pubs – especially if there was a play-area – so he could just stretch his legs, and then read his newspaper with a beer as we played on the swings. This was Dad’s idea of hiking. We hardly ever took walks – this is easily the furthest I’ve ever walked probably if you count all the walks we ever went on and put them all together. He didn’t walk. But he did ‘drive’.”

  “I bet that was nice,” said Ruby, between a mouthful of chocolate.

  “Yeah, but then we grew up, we wanted more and more to just stay at home and play games. There was probably a sweet-spot of about two years or so, of being a real family who did things, together, you know. Before we resented being driven out to places like this. It’s almost like they could be inside.”

  “You’re missing them.”

  “I miss them. I’m glad they’re not here. But I still wish they were. Is that weird?”

  “No. I’m glad my parents don’t have to try and survive this. But I still wish they were here.”

  “Who’s to say we wouldn’t be stronger together.”

  “Way we are now – we’d end up having to protect them all the time.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Whatever it is that is happening to us,” said Ruby. “It’s like every time we wake, we wake up different.”

  “Does it still scare you?”

  “Not as much. Probably feel better now than I ever have.”

  They sat opposite each other, and Ruby reached out a leg and rested it against Nate’s as they continued to eat. The sun, falling towards the horizon, disappeared behind a cloud. After a while, Ruby said “Shall we check this place out then? Stay the night?”

  “Yeah, that’s probably about all the walking for one day.”

  “I’ve been watching the windows. No sign of movement anywhere.”

  “Me too.” They stood, and Nate pulled a knife. “Hopefully it’s not locked.” And it wasn’t. The large stained-oak door swung heavily inwards on iron hinges, and immediately the smell of musty old ales gushed out – inside was all dark wood and shadows and benches against walls laden with old photographs and copper tankards. Rickety circular tables adorned with once-damp beer mats and dusty pint glasses sat next to longer tables, where it was easy to image cribbage and dominos being played well into the night; a faint smoky odour hung in the air from lock-ins evading the smoking ban – old farmers perhaps in green jumpers, with pipes twitching and hooked between lips as they tried to add up ‘15’ in their hand. At the far end in the deepest shadow, a dart board with the adjacent blackboard still marking the last game that had ever been played on it. Evidently, ‘R’ had won as he was on ‘tops’, unless ‘H’ had taken out a 148 outshot.

  “Wow,” said Ruby. “Talk about ‘old-school.’”

  “Look, through here,” pointed Nate. “These old places, they’d keep half the pub old-style for the regulars, but then refurbish the other half all nice and new for dining.”

  Looking at the non-descript beige carpet (the total antithesis of the colourful carpet in the old section), and the perfectly square tables, each side with a chair, Ruby said “I think I prefer the old-style. More character. Anyone here?” she called.

  They listened for a reply, or a knock as someone was startled, but there was nothing.

  “Take a look down here, check the water. I’ll check upstairs,” said Nate. A door marked ‘Private’ revealed stairs that lead up, but also The Smell – it hit his nostrils hard and he held his breath. He looked up to the darkness of the landing and listened. The ceiling fixture was a simple, bare bulb.

  He took a deep breath, held it, and went up the creaky steps. The landing was sloped, host to old cabinets and a writing bureau, and doors that were open, all but one. On that door, it said ‘Do Not Open’ in white paint, the brush encrusted and left on the carpet beside it. Nate checked each of the open doors and found bedrooms with thin blankets on old spring-mattresses, corners damp with peeling wallpaper, cobwebs on curtains. A bathroom wit
h a bathtub rimmed with black mould, a spider in the sink, a bin overflowing with toilet tissue and plastic bottles, a yellow toilet. A living area with the curtains drawn showed signs of a struggle – a knocked over lamp and magazines half-open thrown onto the brown carpeted floor. One side of the room was a series of shelves full to the brim with DVDs and videocassettes, and Nate noted both a DVD player and a videocassette player beneath a 60-inch television. A pair of old-man slippers in front of an old reclining armchair. Another room was a small kitchen, and it was empty of anything edible. Opened tins sat on a small table. Jars of condiments grew mould. The floorboards creaked noisily as Nate headed back down the stairs and closed the door behind him, breathing again.

  “Anything?” asked Ruby, appearing from behind the bar.

  “Just death,” said Nate.

  “Beds?”

  “No bed tonight.”

  “If there’s no beds, I’m not stopping here.”

  “Well there’s no beds.”

  “Then we find one. Water’s dead anyway. Got enough pork scratchings to last a lifetime.” She hefted her bag from the bar to her shoulders and headed for the front entrance, closely followed by Nate.

  “Which way’s west?” asked Ruby once outside.

  “Judging by the sun, I think it’s that way,” pointed Nate, and they set off. They entered a field through a gate and walked across it, beginning a journey that would evade roads and towns when necessary, following the compass and their instincts and the birds as they circled the sky and landed in fallow fields, on scarecrows and in the swells of tilled earth that had never been replanted. If they saw a distant farmhouse they headed towards it, chasing pheasants from bee-considered ecosystems where farmers had allowed the edges of their fields to grow wild, or from swampy areas that sat in the ever-increasing rise and fall of the countryside as it neared Wales.

  That night, they found a farmhouse empty of life and death and they stood at the upstairs window, looking out as the sun set and the sky darkened. “Does part of you want to just keep walking?” asked Ruby.