At the Edge of the Game (30 page)

People part to let
us through. There’s more blood here, all over the ice. Puts me in mind of a
seal cull. Lined up over to the left are several military corpses. Nearby,
machine gun-toting Italians stand over a bunch of men sitting miserably on the
ice. Irish soldiers. The Italians and the natives must have had a shoot-out.

‘Alright,
George. You made it, then.’

Heathshade.

‘You did it for
nothing, mate. Bastards are letting nobody on.’

He sees Helen,
and a light flashes in his eyes.

‘Hey, mate!’

He beckons to
one of the Italian sailors, points at Helen.

‘Sick lady.
Pregnant.’

The Italian
comes over with a colleague, and they peer at her, mutter to each other. One of
them speaks into a radio.

Heathshade
glances at me with those sly reptilian eyes.

‘They’re getting
ready to leave.’

Four Italians
are sitting in the boat at the ice edge, ready to return to the ship. The four
on the ice are obviously making ready to disengage.

‘What are
those?’

I point to the
crates.

‘That’s food.
Those soldier fuckers will be on top of it once the Italians set them loose.
What I wouldn’t give to have me gun back.’

‘Where are
Daisy and the child?’

‘Over there,’
he says without evident interest.

I see them through
the cluster of dejected refugees. They’re sitting on their packs of belongings,
looking across at us. Time to remind this man of his responsibilities. I
gesture at them to come over. Daisy takes her daughter by the hand and they
trudge across to us. She kneels down beside Helen, touches her belly in
universal sisterhood.

‘Is she all
right?’

‘I think so,’ I
say, mainly for Helen’s own benefit.

The Italians
come back over. One of them speaks in slow English. ‘The pregnant lady can come
with us. And the father.’

Heathshade is
ready.

‘That’s great,
mate. Thanks.’

He steps forward
towards the boat.

I grab his arm.

He shoves me,
and I fall onto the ice. I scramble forward and rugby-tackle him. The two of us
fall into a heap.

I shout at the Italians,
but they’re lifting Helen, pay no attention to me.

Heathshade
clatters me in the jaw. Grab at him rolling across the ice. He’s over me,
kicking. I grab his legs, pull him off his feet. He lands on his back, and I
throw myself on top of him, delivering a punch powered by all the pain this man
has caused me since he got mixed up in my life. Gristle and bone yield as fist
impacts with nose. I get upright, steady myself, finish off with an excellent
kick in the ribs.

Where’s Helen? Call
her name.

There she is looking
back at me from the boat, flanked by Daisy Carruth and child, and by the rowing
Italians. I call again, but she does not answer, just stares. They reach the
ship, help her on board, get her down below. She’s gone.

The ship’s
foghorn sounds again, and its propeller starts turning. People around me
scream, as though it has just occurred to them that their chance has gone. One
man leaps into the water and starts swimming. Several more follow. I find that
my legs are all of a sudden bereft of strength. I slump down, watch as they
flail and struggle.

Heathshade
comes over, crouches beside me, wipes some of the blood from his face.

‘No hard
feelings, mate.’

 He looks at the
splashing swimmers.

‘Well, I’m not
finished yet. I’m going for it.’

‘Do it. Go.’

He strides to
the water’s edge and dives in.

His first few
strong strokes take him metres out, and then I can distinguish him no more from
the others out there.

The ship moves
slowly away at first, leaving a trail of white water behind it. It’s not all
that long before it’s beyond the reach of the swimmers one by one expiring of
hypothermia.

It rounds the
headland, slips out of sight.

I go and sit
beside a crate for shelter against the cutting gale and the resurgent snowfall.
But someone pushes me away so that they can get at what’s inside. It turns out
to be sacks of flour.

The soldiers
haul these into the APCs and, twilight gathering, start up the engines to
return to the city. Civilians cling to the vehicles.

When they’re
gone I am alone, the only live human being left at the edge of the ice.

I stare out to
sea, at the bobbing corpses and the darkening horizon, at the surf. It’s
getting rougher as another angry storm makes ready to scour the earth.

The old man
wheezed Luca’s name. Luca came from the window of the derelict old palazzo,
where he had been watching the ships bob about in rough Tyrrhenian waters
beyond the red pensioni roofs of Positano. He crouched beside the old man and
laid a gloved hand on the rattling chest, felt the shallow rise and fall of the
bony ribcage.

‘What is it,
signore?’

‘I had a dream.’
The ancient, faded eyes remained closed.

‘What was it?’

‘I was at home.’

Luca glanced
about the damp, mildewed room with its cold stone floor. ‘This is today’s home.
Tomorrow you’ll have another.’

The old man
sighed. He did not speak for some time, and Luca thought that he had gone back
to sleep. But then his eyes opened.

‘I once had a
fine, warm house.’

‘Yes. In
Dublin
.’
It was a name Luca had learnt from the old man.

‘A beautiful
city, it was. Have I told you about the Cylinder? Like nothing else on earth. A
wonder.  It rose to touch the stars.’

‘That place is
gone now. It’s under the ice.’

‘My girl, she
was pregnant.’

‘They took her
away from you before the baby was born. It was cruel.’

‘I never saw her
again. So long ago. Eighteen years.’ Luca had heard the story many times
before, knew it to be nonsensical (for who ever heard of these people the
Neanderthals, or a time when the sea was a desert?), but he did not interrupt
the old man. ‘We sat on the Atlantic beach with the Neanderthals. For what, I
don’t know, since we were sure the world was about to end. Most of them sat in
silence, as was their way. Here and there small groups gathered and recited
their tribal sagas. They paid no heed to what was happening around them,
captivated as they were by the magnificent visions of their ancient ancestors. Their
faces lit with joy as they recounted great victories and exceptional harvests. They
wept at the memories of plague and persecution.

‘Then someone
cried out and pointed out to sea. Vessels were approaching from the north. Even
from a great distance I could see that the boats were of Neanderthal design. Leather
sails caught the ocean wind. Flying from the mast of the lead vessel was the
Neanderthal crest that signifies Europe.

‘They anchored
some way out. Rowboats came to shore, and the first refugees were taken aboard.
Those not chosen were angry and desperate, and it became difficult for the
sailors of the following boats to control the multitudes pressing forward. Mothers
proffered babies; men pushed forward their wives. Blood started to spill as
warriors turned on each other. An attempt was made to storm a ship, but it was
repulsed. Eventually, however, assailants did take control of a ship, and
called for their families to join them. A toothless warrior wanted Helen as a
prize, and spoke a challenge to me. I delivered a blow to the side of his
massive Neanderthal skull, but he called to his friends and they set upon me. I
was struck down by heavy zurks, and fell into the shallow salt water. They
carried Helen away with them. The ship made sail.

‘I watched the
vessel head north across the short stretch between Mons Abyla and Mons Calpe. By
the time they were halfway across, stars were tumbling again. A fireball
streaked over and crashed into the sea somewhere far out to the west. Another
was visible arcing groundwards some distance to the south. It struck on land. The
earth shuddered after the impact flash. Half a dozen fireballs hit in a
straight line far down the African Wall in the Salt Desert, raising plumes of
smoke and dust. Then one hit between the Pillars. It gouged a great gash in the
barrier that held, in those days, the Atlantic at bay. The sudden ocean surge
poured down the precipice, and a lake began to form below even as I watched,
the lake that is now the Mediterranean Sea. I never knew if she had made it to
the other side, or if her ship slipped over the falls. Anyway, that’s now I
lost my wife and child.’

‘I was thinking,
signor. Perhaps she survived this disaster. I am an orphan. I am eighteen. Maybe
you are my father.’

The old man’s
eyes brightened. He clasped Luca’s hand with surprising strength. ‘Perhaps I
am, boy.’

When the old man
slept again, Luca returned to the window. There was some activity at the docks.
A Libyan ship was coming into port. A band of militia was there waiting to meet
it, guns at the ready. Tomorrow, the local militia would leave Italy for North
Africa with all their stolen riches. They would abandon the weak and the poor
to the spreading ice. Luca hated them. They took everything for themselves,
left the ordinary people to starve, shot at them for scavenging in empty houses
for firewood. They shot at Luca simply for being what he was, a young wanderer.

The old man had
been a good friend to him these past few months. He slowed Luca down, but he
made the nights easier to sleep through. He told Luca about old times, when
lives had been better. Luca was never sure whether the old man was telling the
truth, or whether he was half-mad. But he liked to hear the stories.

It occurred to
Luca that evening was approaching. ‘Signore, we should move down into the town
before it gets dark.’

The old man did
not respond. Luca went to him. ‘Signore?’ He shook the withered body. The old
man was dead. Luca stood over him for some time. Then he leaned down and kissed
the old man’s forehead. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’

He emptied out
the old man’s pack and transferred what was of use to his own. He left the body
where it rested in the palazzo. The cold would preserve it. Long after Luca was
gone, even when he had managed finally to stow away to Libya, the old man would
still be there. Still slumbering, still dreaming of his home, dreaming his
dreams of an age Luca had never known.