Last Words (40 page)
Yeah.
Life has not been the same without you. You stirred something in me that no other person has ever come close to reaching. I miss you more than you will ever realise but I will never admit to that. I will lie and say I’m over you. I will lie because I didn’t stir in you the same feelings I had in me.
I just realised we broke up a year ago yesterday.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Yeah. I want to know that you were torn up inside thinking about me, that you were a wreck while I was travelling, that you woke up night after night because you couldn’t stop dreaming of me. Most of all, I want you to be single. I want us to meet. And I want you to smile when I ask you out again.
10 April
I have paperwork affecting my future. It’s more of a brochure, really. Nothing about when I get out of here, more about what will happen to me when I do. Get this: upon my release from quarantine I have 48 hours to report to my nearest special services branch. Since I’ll be living with my folks, the Bracknell office will be my port of call for the time being.
I’m required to join the army reserves in order to help England’s recovery. There’s a lot of rebuilding bullshit written in this thing. I guess there’s a good deal of urgency in tearing down houses and rebuilding roads. There’s a lot of money in it as well if the right company wins the contract. We tear them down, they rebuild them.
The army reserves, for fuck’s sake. It’s not permanent, just six days a week. I notice how there’s sweet fuck all about any mention of pay. Will it be food stamps? Will it be in the form of care packages? I guess I’ll be sleeping in a barracks for a while until they train me not to run off. They’ve probably noticed my history of doing exactly that.
I’m also well aware of what happens to deserters who are caught. I live on an island, and a small one at that. What chance do I have of getting away?
Every soldier I’ve seen in the last year has said just two things: “I don’t know,” or, “I’m not allowed to say anything.”
I’ll never be allowed to quit or leave the country. I’m not special or qualified enough.
13 April
I’ve been given more papers. I’m a free man now. Tonight I will be able to sleep in my old bed in my parent’s house, under my very own blanket. I haven’t slept there since graduating uni.
The cold will keep me company and it will be a welcomed relief from the Spanish summer, the African summer, the Italian winter, and the Gibraltar spring. Mum and Dad are coming to pick me up. I’m just dawdling in the airport. I’m able to leave whenever I want, I just don’t have any money for a bus or a taxi. It’s irritating, being free and still stuck at an airport. When I get home I’m going to sit in the bathtub and listen to Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Oasis, and everything else that is awesomely British. I haven’t heard proper music since Sicily.
Now I just have to wait the twenty minutes until my parents find a place to park so they can come and get me. If they ask me what I would like for dinner I’m going to say chips. How many do I want? All of them. All the chips. Is that too much? Not at all. I want so many chips that I will never see the plate. Even when I’m full and about to throw up from too many chips I still want to see a mountain of them on my plate.
I can’t, though. Austerity measures. At most I will be allowed to have a scoop of chips. Enough for a snack. If my parents chip in (hehe) then I might be able to get a decent haul. I need malt vinegar and lots of salt.
There are too many soldiers for a vacant airport. There’s mostly only cargo going through here. The only other humans are not passengers but quarantine release patients. The soldiers outnumber us two to one. They have a scowl on their faces. Come on fellas, give me a break, I’m about to join the reserves and be one of you!
No one is smiling, no one is talking. They look at me as though they lost too many of their comrades because of high risk people like me, and now here I am about to waltz back into their country. At least no one has blamed me for a lot of blatant criminal activity, of which I have done my fair share.
I’m just going to sit here and wait. I won’t risk spending too much time writing in my diary in case they become suspicious that I’m writing about them. I can’t do that. I need to keep it all blasé and cool.
There’s nothing like waiting in an airport to cheer me up.
Part 2.
I’m home. No word from Clint about if I can pick up Basil. There’s about twelve hours worth of check points and closed roads between here and his parents place and I’ll only have one day off a week from the reserves. Add to that all the petrol rationing that’s going on. I can’t afford to even get my fucking cat back.
Mum squeezed me so tightly when she saw me that she nearly broke my ribs. Dad as well. He looks like an old man. They both read the emailed version of my diary and saw my photos. They don’t think writing a book about my experiences is a good idea. Not that it’s a bad idea, just … it won’t help the relief effort. I was off seeing the world while everyone here had creatures running through their back yards, attacking hospitals and biting babies in the maternity wards. It’s not what people want to read about.
The car ride home was difficult. London is a mess. There were soldiers everywhere. Entire streets have been demolished and burned down. I passed a burnt out bus that was on the back of a giant tow truck. I’d never seen one that big before. That was from a riot yesterday.
There are billboards telling us all to be alert and proactive. There were no ads for foreign goods. In their place were pictures of soldiers helping a small girl cross the street. I’ve come back to a police state.
Mum made chips. My old room has been made up. I still have some old t-shirts in the closet. Good thing, I guess, since I don’t have the money to buy a new wardrobe. I’m borrowing some clothes from Dad, who quietly showed off his stockpile of canned food and bottled water in case they ever have to run from the undead. It isn’t enough, but it’s all they were able to get. They went over their inventory with me for an emergency escape to see if I could think of anything they might’ve forgotten. Dad is sure he can carry sixty pounds on his shoulders. He’s tested it around the living room.
I asked about Rachel as soon as I got in the car. He said they would tell me everything as soon as I got home. I sat in the car, quietly thinking about that. Now that I know, I’m emailing this diary to everyone I can. Including you, Alana.
Rachel left a note for me but her mum refused to hand it over. She said it doesn’t matter what her last words were, even if they were for my eyes only. She doesn’t want to see me either. Flat out, ‘No, and don’t contact me again.’
Mum asked if I slept with Rachel. I told her I did not. I asked if she came back pregnant. Mum was sure that she was at least three months along upon her return and weighed only forty five kilos. Abortions are now illegal here.
Rachel ran a bath and drowned herself. She was cremated three days ago.
Go fuck yourself, England.
###
Thank you for reading!
Being an independent author has quite a few perks. One in particular is that I can spend all day in fluffy slippers if I want. Sometimes, though, I have to ask for help: if you could find it within you to write a review, even just a few words, you would really be helping me out a lot. Honest reviews is one of the hardest things to get as an independent author. It’s also invaluable for being able to afford to write the next book.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A great big shout out goes to Karen for her meticulous notes, revisions, and patience through the many drafts that fell in front of her. She really is the best editor you could hope for.
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