The Citadel and the Wolves (18 page)

Father checked cautiously later, giving the all-clear, but the shutters remained closed.

Wendy and I shared in my room that evening because my bed was larger than hers. It had more leg room. Doubling-up with your elder sister was fun when you were scared of things in the night. We were often scared of things in the day too. You shared it together. We did a lot of it when we were small. It was like that again. Then we feared child-eating witches and wicked fairies. They were imaginary characters from our picture books. The nasty, vicious street gangs beyond our walls weren’t imaginary. They were real enough. Wendy ignored my objections when she brought in her favourite teddies. My older sister was like a big kid. She hadn’t grown up yet. I gave all of my old teddies to Tommy sometime ago. She laid one on my pillow. I was going to spend the night with two glass eyes watching me as I slept. His name was Freddie, her favourite. She put the rest of her teddies around the room watching over us. I suspected that her teddies were something to hold onto in the dark nights, comforting her in these bleak times. They were her protectors too. We undressed and disappeared under the covers in our satin pyjamas.

She talked about boys. They were her favourite subject. “When things return to normal, I’m going out to a night club in the bright lights of the West End, find the best-looker there, and snog him rotten till his lips fall off.”

We giggled loudly, forgetting for awhile.

“You?”

“Finish 6
^th
form college and pass my A-levels,” I answered. I was being more practical than my sister.

“Jade, do you think it will ever return to normal?”

I couldn’t answer Wendy’s question because no one knew that.

We lapsed into silence for awhile, each with her own thoughts that she couldn’t share with the other. My beautiful, long limbed older sister stirred beside me. I felt her breath on my cheek in the dark. Her sweet perfume filled my delicate nostrils making me feel a little dizzy and light-headed. As she sleepily laid her head deep in my shoulder, I stroked her hair lovingly. She fell asleep quickly.

Something woke me.

With the shutters closed, I couldn’t tell whether or not it was still dark outside. How long had I slept? I turned on the oil lamp by my bed and checked my watch. It was 1 a.m. in the morning. I looked around me. The strange,
alien creatures
in my room were still watching over us with frozen expressions on their faces, offering us their wisdom and love. I quickly reminded myself that they were stuffed toys. I glanced at Wendy. She was sleeping beside me clutching Freddie. I changed my mind. The teddies were more than stuffed toys. They had souls too. A fine tousle of blonde hair formed a silky spray on the pillow. Wendy was sucking her thumb like a contented infant sleeping beneath her blankets. I stared at her troubled. She had my love always, and she knew that. I lovingly stroked her cheek before I kissed her. I smiled when she frowned, brushing it away in her sleep. Then I heard the murmur of voices coming from downstairs.

I was puzzled.

I rose without disturbing Wendy. I put on a dressing gown over my pyjamas. I was inquisitive too. I slipped out of the room.

Looking back once or twice, I crept downstairs barefoot, carefully avoiding the ones that always seemed to creak in the dead of night when you couldn’t sleep. The living room door was ajar. I bit my lip, peering through the gap.

A group of people sat around the living room drinking tea or coffee or whatever from mother’s best bone china cups and saucers beneath the oil lamps after another power cut. I recognised one or two faces from the Close, the Braithwaites, the Party People from Number 24 and Tom Finch, a retired army colonel, a kindly, gentle man, who saw action in the Gulf Wars at the end of the last century, from Number 34. He was wounded twice. They were our neighbours. Mr Martin was also there with his plump wife. Then I caught a glimpse of daddy. He was sitting in the armchair, lighting his favourite pipe, which had gone out again, with a match. I couldn’t see mum. What on earth was going on here?

Father rose and addressed the group: “I agree with the last speaker. We shouldn’t let the Roamers and the other street gangs drive us out. These are our homes, and this is our street. Some of us have lived here in the Close all our lives.”

We have, I thought. It was fighting talk from my father. I was pleased. The dusty main street and the man alone wearing a tin star facing down the bad guys slipped into my mind briefly. I let a smile cross my face.

“But how can we protect ourselves against the street gangs, Frank?” asked someone else in the group.

Was it Mr Martin? It sounded like him. I didn’t particularly like him. He was always telling Wendy and I off for riding our bikes up and down the pavement when we were little. He thought that he owned the Close.

“We’ve been forced to turn our homes into virtual fortresses,” complained another.

“It may not be enough,” warned father darkly. “The Roamers or the other street gangs could return tomorrow with hijacked trucks or buses to batter down our gates. It has happened at other places, and that’s why I’ve invited PC Woods around to this meeting of ours to discuss this present crisis.”

As father sat down, I shifted my position slightly behind the door, giving me a better view into our sitting room. I saw him for the first time. The tall VPF cop with the rod-straight back stood up. PC Woods was unshaven, granite-faced with dark, cropped hair, and he wore tinted glasses that made him look even more sinister. I couldn’t tell his age. He wore a holstered sidearm.

He addressed the small gathering in the living room in a deep, unemotional voice: “The VPF is prepared to provide 24/7 cover for this area.”

“And how much will this new, 24/7 cover cost us?” quizzed a cynic in the group.

Was it Mr Martin again? I couldn’t see him through the narrow gap.

Woods remained expressionless.

“Whatever it costs,” answered father in a quiet voice, the man alone wearing the tin star. “We need the VPF.”

The others murmured reluctantly. Father had got his way.

I was suddenly reminded of the scent of wild flowers in an English meadow on a warm summer’s day so long ago. I let the gentle breeze touch my face. How very odd, I thought. I turned around startled. Mother stood behind me with her arms folded sternly.

Oh, DROKK! Again.

I was curious.

I opened the shutters a fraction in my room. The other spoke to someone on his helmet radio briefly before he climbed into his white, VPF
armoured vehicle. His headlights cut through the black, starless night as he drove away.

I noticed the red glow on the city horizon troubling me. Yes, we did need the VPF whatever it cost. Daddy was right.

10. THE STRANGER

Early Autumn 2020.

Today is Harvest Day.

I was up early. The other wasn’t. She murmured in her sleep. I looked over my shoulder and glared at the lump under the blankets. Although she is my elder sister, and I do love her lots, she can be a lazy cow sometimes.

I opened the shutters, allowing another morning to creep into my room, though I quickly wish that I hadn’t as I gazed at the sickly sky. It sometimes seems like twilight all day long. Other days, it’s much brighter. Daddy says that nature will take its course in time; the planet will repair itself, and the thick clouds that now cover a large part of our world will disappear one day. Our little world in this infinite universe will be cleansed once more. When will that be? I wonder. One day very soon I hope to open the shutters in the morning and gaze upon a beautiful azure sky. I do live in hope. I’m frightened of forgetting what it looked like. I let out a small sigh as I turned away from the window. It was beginning to depress me.

“Harvest Day, Sis,” I declared, dismissing the other thoughts from my mind quickly.

“Do you have to sound so cheerful first thing, Jade?” asked the muffled voice under the covers.

I laughed.

“What time is it, anyway, Jade?” she inquired.

“Early.”

“Then I’m not getting up till late,” said Wendy petulantly.

“Daddy, who expects our help with the harvest on this very special day, won’t be too pleased if you’re down late to breakfast, Wendy.”

She grunted.

I sat on the bed by the misshapen lump under the blankets. I nudged it with my elbow. Although it murmured, it didn’t move, so I nudged it again, only a little harder this time. I smiled when it finally stirred.

“Do that one more time, Jade Robinson, and I’ll box your ears,” warned Wendy under the blankets.

I laughed and leapt to my feet, pulling the covers away playfully. I froze in the middle of the room holding the bedding foolishly in my arms. Wendy lay in the centre of the bed curled up in a ball clutching her favourite teddy. She looked so small and vulnerable there in my big bed. Then I noticed a tear running down her cheek. I felt a sudden rush of guilt. I covered her quickly. She was safe once more. Why do I do things sometimes without thinking?

As I vanished out of the bedroom door, regretting my own actions, I almost fell arse-over-tit over the plastic tipper lorry that had been ‘parked’ right outside my room.

“Tommy Robinson, I’ll brain you one of these days,” I breathed, rubbing my bruised shin. I suspected that he was hiding somewhere out there, watching me with a big grin on his cheeky face.

As I wandered into the bathroom, stifling yet another yawn, I glanced at the large water tub in the corner. Daddy filled it every morning at dawn. It had replaced the shower that had become a luxury of another age not so long ago. Wendy and I had mourned its passing. I let out another little sigh. I caught myself. I seemed to be doing a lot of that this morning. Snap out of it, Jade Robinson. Be happy. I am happy.

I scooped out the water from the tub with an old saucepan, which had been provided for this purpose, and filled the wash basin. I splashed the water into my face. I gasped, for it was freezing. I’d forgotten. It was a shock to my system. It cleared the cobwebs out of my head instantly. A hot bath is a weekly luxury now. I slipped off my dressing gown, standing in my briefs. I sponged myself down quickly. After a moment, I became aware of an alien presence in my bathroom. When I looked down, I saw it with a big grin on its face. I squeezed out my sponge on its head. It giggled.

Afterwards, I rubbed down with a dry towel. I never felt entirely clean.

I opened the bathroom window as I dried my face. The tall, deep wall that protected us in our little
Citadel,
our fortress home of the 21
^st
century, hugged the garden reassuringly. The new, red brick had aged a little and had been blackened by the rains of past times. She stood firm and defiant against nature, our manmade structure.

I smiled when I saw him. Daddy was already up working on the plot in our big garden. He has turned our beautiful garden into a smallholding, digging up the lawn, our rose bushes and the flower beds not so long ago. Every square centimetre of space is used for our vegetables and the fruit that daddy had the foresight to plant before food rationing was introduced by the government, for he saw it as inevitable as crops failed throughout the world. We couldn’t rely upon the government food warehouses, he said. We had to become self-sufficient, though our plot doesn’t supply us with all of our needs. We have to manage without some things. Oranges and bananas are now a luxury. But we do have apples. The apple tree in our garden was there before all this madness started. It was planted by my grandfather who bought our beautiful house when he first married my beautiful grandmother in the middle of the last century. He was a teacher too, so it does run in our family. I fell out of the apple tree once when I was little. The apple tree yields an abundant crop each autumn. The apples are small and sweet. Daddy had thought of making cider in the past. The fruit crops are new. Mother plans to turn them into preserves for the long winter ahead and pickling some of the vegetables, the small onions and beetroot. Father also keeps bees for honey. I hate bees because they sting. I was stung once when I was small. I blamed myself. I got careless. Daddy has fenced off one area of the old garden for wheat, so mum can make bread, biscuits and cakes from the flour. The golden wheat swayed in a light breeze from the west, I thought. He’s growing tomatoes in the greenhouse. We’re luckier than most in town because we have plenty of useful land behind our big house. The land area is over three quarters of an acre. That’s almost four thousand square yards, daddy said in old measure. I still miss the old lawn and the beautiful colours of the flowers in spring; however, daddy said that we couldn’t be sentimental about such things now. They belonged to another time that had past. We’re simply grateful that our crops are coming up. The soil in our smallholding is rich. Father explained that it has something to do with the black rain which surprised me. It contains lots of rich minerals. Winter storage of our crops isn’t a problem since we built a brick outhouse in the back where our old conservatory used to be. What happened to it? We knocked it down. We found the bricks for the outhouse on old building sites around town. The scientist has turned farmer. He hasn’t been in the attic for many months. If he did look through his telescope at night, he wouldn’t see any stars through the thick, permanent clouds.

I pulled the plug, draining the wash basin, but I wasn’t flushing the dirty water down the drain. It was piped back into the water barrels and recycled. Water was a precious resource that we couldn’t afford to waste. Although we collected rainwater in the barrels, we still needed drinking water. A water tanker comes around to our street once a week. We go out with our plastic bottles and containers. Father fears that it will stop coming one day. What will we do then? We could drink the rainwater, couldn’t we?

As I dressed in my room, putting on a pair of old jeans with holes in them and a sweater top, I looked on the open window. The VPF
vehicle stood at the top of the road. It was a reassuring sight because it kept
the Roamers
and the other street gangs away from our street…at a price. Each household in the street pays a weekly contribution towards the cost of maintaining a 24/7 VPF
presence here in the Close. How much does it cost? My parents are rather coy about the sums involved. I suspect that it’s a lot. Mum’s jewellery box is almost empty. Daddy never wears his gold watch anymore. Mum gave it to him on his fortieth birthday.