He was stopped by a loud whining that came from the other side of the glass sheet of the only window in this main room. As it fell silent, he stared again at the book he was still holding. But the lights came on, and there was a loud gurgling and splashing from the bathroom. By the time he was back from closing off the tap that had suddenly started gushing water into the bathtub, Simeon was looking at an illuminated panel on the wall. This was filled with a brightly-coloured picture that moved and very softly spoke. Michael reached forward to touch the panel. He drew his forefinger across a smooth and slightly flexible membrane. On closer inspection, this covered a mass of tiny dots that changed colour to produce the effect of movement.
He stood away. “I suppose we can ask Tarquin about what function this thing serves. I doubt its name would be embossed so prominently. So we can take the word Sony as the name of its original owner.” He tipped the panel forward, noting how it was barely a half inch thick, and was attached to the wall by flexible cords. As he turned to speak again, there was a knock on the door and the sound of a key. Two men with brown faces walked in, one of them pushing a metal trolley loaded with food and drink.
Simeon appeared to have trouble with pulling his eyes away from the moving panel. It was for Michael to smile and nod at the attendants as they set out plates and jugs on a small wooden table beside the window. “Eat, drink and be merry,” he told himself. Who could tell what the next day might bring?”
Chapter Six
The American insurance agent paused his narrative and joined in the chorus of Amens from about the campfire. “It was now that I was sore afflicted,” he began again, sounding, though not entirely looking, like one of the more restrained televangelists of old, “and given up for dead by many. But, if, when I awoke, I had lost my business, and if all my loved ones were taken from me, yet had I heard from the Lord God Himself in my visions, that I was reserved to witness the final working of His Heavenly Will. Yea, though I come before you with no possessions but the clothes that I wear, shall I not stand with you, O brethren, and see God?”
There was a ragged chorus of “Praise the Lord!” in a variety of accents. Jennifer took advantage of the movement in the crowd to push herself closer to the heap of wood splinters that had been gathered and set alight. With the coming of darkness, they’d taken shelter under the M25 flyover. The following afternoon, she’d been assured, they’d pass into the outer suburbs on London. She wondered again if she should have got off her bicycle to walk with this group. It had meant losing more time. But her legs had been tired from the endless cycling, and the invitation had been pressing and repeated.
Her rising doubts were quelled by the American. Still on his feet, he’d noticed her. “But tell me, young Sister in Christ,” he asked, pointing straight at her, “what brings you to seek the Lord?” He put a pitying smile into his voice. “Did you lose your mummy and daddy in The Break? Or was it in The Hunger?”
She nodded and got up. She could have tried a few tears before dodging back into the shadows. But this was a semi-regular prayer meeting. If these people had willingly shared their bread and soup with her, the least she could do was play along. She waited for the ritual grunting and carrying of hands between stomach and mouth that was the approved response when The Hunger was mentioned. “Not in The Hunger,” she said. “They were visiting friends in Holland.” No one there seemed to be Dutch, so she’d not be questioned about where in Holland. “Before the mobile network went down, they told me they’d set out home once the Great Storm was passed.” She paused and turned her mouth down. “That was the last I heard of them.” There was a murmur of sympathy from everyone about the fire. An old woman whose black armband showed clearly against the grey of her cardigan embraced her. “I am now travelling to London to take aspirins to a sick friend of my aunt.” A young man who looked Japanese turned round and smiled sorrowfully.
That was enough of her. It was back to the American, who passed into a loud sermon about the worthlessness of the possessions he had lost—and there had, by his account, been many of these—and then a self-deprecating and almost funny account of how, once recovered from his sickness during The Break, he’d gone about, trying to use his credit cards. Of course, he’d been turned out of his hotel, and there had been a few weeks of begging for charity from the organisers of the conference he’d been attending in Brighton. The story would once have passed for something from one of the more inventive episodes of The Outer Limits. But, its personal touches aside, there must have been millions of similar stories nowadays to be heard.
Once the American had finished, it was the turn of the young man, who was indeed Japanese. England hadn’t been all that he had hoped, he ended with a certain reserve. Even so, he had improved his English, and had found Christ into the bargain. Life as a salariman in Kyoto had never offered this much. As everyone seemed likely to join in another sad rendition of O God, Our Help in Ages Past, someone else got up and asked the obvious question: “Before we can see God, we have to get through the barriers. How shall we be allowed to pass though those to the appointed place?”
Before Jennifer could turn to the woman and ask what was this “appointed place,” another woman was on her feet. “We are many; they are few!” she cried vehemently in an accent that was somewhere between French and German. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd, and the American smiled again, raising his arms in a gesture of piety. Jennifer looked at the woman. Where was she from? It would have been useful to see more of her. But her head was covered, and she spoke from just beyond the glow of the fire. “Was not the army of the English mostly out of this land when The Break called England away?” she went on. “Is not the rest of that army fighting the natives of Ireland? Have not the natives taken up English weapons in defence of their land and liberty? I tell you—there will be little food out of Ireland this year,” she added in a voice still louder and more dramatic. “Such food as may be wrested from the children of the soil shall be watered in English blood!” There was a cheer from all assembled. “Are there enough armed men in all England to chase away the multitudes that shall now assemble in waiting? I tell you, my brothers and sisters in Christ—we are many; they are few. None shall block our path to the glory that waits in the great city of London.”
This got a round of “Praise the Lord!” from several dozen excited mouths. Jennifer looked nervously out into the surrounding darkness. The woman was an Outsider. During the first chaotic weeks, before the imposition of iron control, Outsiders had been a common sight in the streets of Deal. They had been welcomed for the food they brought in exchange for those items of modernity that had value across the Channel. Since then, the law had been plain: all contact with the Outside was forbidden, and any Outsider found in England was to be shot on sight. Yet here was one in plain view—one who’d even learned good English. It would have been interesting to take her aside, and ask for her story. It would be more interesting than those of the various foreigners caught out by The Break. But Jennifer moved quietly out of the crowd. If she’d decided in the late afternoon that there might be safety in numbers, she had changed her mind.