PDF Sampler Download

What Kit Wrote Next - Sampler

As you’ll know from my blogpost, presented below are the openings of five projects I’ve either completed first drafts of, or have created around the first 10,000 words for, and I’m going to let lucky you decide which one I work on next, and which will form the background for my ongoing series of blogposts about the process and experiences of writing and publishing a novel. I won’t say too much about the plots of each, as those can change with the process of writing or revising, and the openings you’ll find below haven’t been tidied or even fully checked through for a first pass in all cases, but they should give you a good flavour of what the options are. There may be some e-formatting issues with one of them too but that’s a publishing challenge for if you happen to pick that one. There is naturally some overlap in style, but I’ve chosen options distinct enough for you to hopefully be able to decide which one you’d like to see written, read, and watch the process and challenges it presents. I’ll eventually complete all of these, but whichever the poll I’ll set up shows is the favourite will be my next to work on (if not the next to publication). I like the idea of knowing that you’ll be interested in the blogging process for one of these, and that will give me an extra incentive to keep doing them, and knowing you’re on the journey with me will make writing a bit less of a lonely process. At some point I’ll have some Q and A sessions too, so you can ask me about anything that you pick up, and can even throw in suggestions if you feel the urge.

Please do join my newsletter to find out which option the poll picks (after you’ve voted… natch)!

Poll available at https://kitderrick.com/influences/

Contents

The Options ...... 4 Love isn’t ...... 6 Hope is a six letter word ...... 14 Letters to Soloman ...... 20 Brf NCountr w a Nok 3310 ...... 24 Boiling Metal ...... 33

The Options

Love Isn’t : The story of five friends, all in their mid-twenties, and the convoluted dynamic resulting from their hidden lives and not so hidden desires. Set in the centre of Manchester, the novel shows the lives of a clique of University friends who have now grown up, told primarily from the vantage point of Kate, a romantic who tries to help all her friends, but finds herself helpless. The few days of the novel bring long hidden secrets to the fore, and there aren’t any happy endings to the revelations. As Kate discovers, this is real life and things don’t always work out as you’d hope.

Hope is Six Letter Word : William Stark liked to sketch. And when his parents died unexpectedly in a car crash, he had inherited a substantial windfall. On a whim, Will decided to buy a battered old Ford Cortina and travel around to draw all the places that held special memories from his past. William didn’t expect the journey to change him, but neither did he expect a girl who spoke no English to climb into his car one midnight and fall asleep in his arms. He didn’t expect to be sat on an island and crying, holding her picture forty years later.

Letters to Soloman: Jennifer travels to a little village in Wales, not to get away because of a breakup you understand, she’s very clear about that, but to see a musician she’d heard was playing there. While there, she meets Lawrence, an Irish performance poet who tells such compelling Celtic fables of lost love, it must have been fate that they met. But she knows nothing about him, and nor, Jennifer discovers, do his landlady or the lawyer holding his will after his sudden and tragic death. Soloman, by the way, is the stuffed bear she’s had since she were a little girl, who she could confide in, and send postcards and letters to when she needs a friend.

Brf NCountr w a Nok 3310: In days gone by, flirtations and affairs were a more physical thing. When Tiffany reconnects with old boyfriend Martin, the wonders of the mobile phone mean they don’t actually have to actually meet up, and the short messages and strangeness of these new ‘emoticons’

4 means so much more is open to interpretations. Far from being less romantic, a dalliance like this can be thrilling, and far more convenient than having to actually ‘be your chosen persona’ 24/7, or wear make-up. It’s also much easier to be daring remotely, which might not be a good thing.

Boiling Metal

“‘The Event’, which is all we call it now, happened on April 1st, which I only know because in the early days, we almost laughed at that. I couldn’t even tell you the actual year exactly. Not that it matters now, why would it?” This dystopian science fiction novel starts with the day that every form of metal on Earth instantaneously boiled to nothing, throwing the World into chaos. The implications are far more far-reaching than you might imagine, and a post-apocalyptic world is nothing like you read about in books or see in movies.

Love isn’t

Chp 1 - Morning

Fletcher moaned and slowly peeled his eyelids apart. He let out a low groan which tailed off as a dull pounding began to resonate around the back of his skull, a dull thumping echo of his voice. The hazy world around Fletcher Davis came gradually into focus and he found his head resting sideways on an unfamiliar pillow. He became aware that he was staring straight into the sparkling and expectant green eyes of a beautiful young woman. Fletcher closed and scrunched his eyes tight, momentarily disorientated. He felt his pulse beating fast against the cotton sheets, as his mind raced around looking for clues. He felt his own head shake in an attempt to clear the fogginess of the previous night’s drinking. Suddenly, Fletcher's bright blue eyes snapped open and his perfect lips spread into a wide grin, exposing his gleaming white (except for one small filling) pearly teeth. A voice spread out from his larynx, flowed across the duvet and soothingly enveloped the girl with a warm and undulating tonality. “Morning honey..." The girl's own grin and lipstick smudged teeth beamed back happily. “Mor...nin’ Fletch." She slowly allowed her still made-up eyes to blink closed and stretched her whole body lazily and catlike, allowing her hands to slide lovingly down the back of her long chestnut hair and rest around the nape of her neck. Fletcher grinned again and swept back the black cotton duvet, slipping his legs onto the floor and rotating his neck through three long and exquisite revolutions, creating a low cracking sound four times in the process. He turned, leaned over and kissed the girl lightly on the lips. “Coffee..?" “Mmmmn..."

She opened her eyes again and watched his well-toned body rise and walk over towards the door, wonderfully naked. His skin was smooth and pale against the dark paintwork. She softly bit her bottom lip as he turned out of the doorway and disappeared. The girl let her eyelids flutter shut and sighed softly. “ahhhhhemm." The girl glanced up at the sound of his throat. Fletcher stood in the doorway facing her, stark naked, his hands resting flat on the side frames. She tried desperately to keep her eyes locked onto his and not to look down. Fletcher smiled apologetically. “Where's your kitchen?"

“She never was!" “I'm telling you... she was a dyke." “But what about her and... coffee please." Kate smiled flirtatiously, raised her chin and batted her lashes mid-phrase at the smart young waiter. “...Andrew." “Look, that was for two weeks, and no I don't know why she went with him at all, but yes, she was definitely a dyke." “Please... the word is lesbian." Tracey let her expression twist into a wry but deliberately patronising smile as she turned momentarily to Suzanne. “... whatever..." She turned back to Kate. “But she was definitely gay. You could tell" Tracey turned her profile slightly away from Suzanne, and winked at Kate. “…and she went to public school. All girl's public school mind…" Tracey's voice caressed and lingered on and around the last phrase. “What? That's just... that doesn't mean... I mean, I went to public school but I'm not... you know... just because it was single sex doesn't mean I'm not... she's not... not one of 'them'."

Tracey sipped at her coffee to hide the smirk on her face as she watched Suzanne's face colour a deep crimson. “A dyke?" asked Kate. “Lesbian." corrected Tracey smoothly. “Whatever... Just because someone goes to school in a place where there aren't any boys doesn't mean... I mean she wasn't necessarily, and I'm certainly not... and never was..." Suzanne's voice tailed off as her chin fell lower and her eyeline disappeared towards her black patent heels. Tracey couldn't hold her breath any longer and spluttered her coffee back into the cup. Kate joined her with an infectious giggle. Suzanne raised her head up slowly. “Bitch." “Always honey." Tracey took a large bite of her croissant and reached into her purse for cigarettes. “But enough about me, what are you two doing after work." Kate took one of the proffered Marlboro Lights, Suzanne shook her head in disgust. Tracey beamed, but shook the packet at her again anyway. “I'm meeting Rob and Fletcher at the Owl-House for drinks around six- thirty if you fancy it." Tracey gulped the croissant, and lit her cigarette in one sublime motion. “Do I fancy it? Honey, Fletcher's there and I'm there." She drew heavily on the stub. “He is so..." “I'm going out for dinner with Ant but we're both free after that." Suzanne's comment went deliberately unnoticed by Tracey. “...so, oh I don't know…." She paused for effect, reached for her cup and lovingly caressed the rim with her thumb, before noisily slurping another mouthful. “…so… swallowable." Kate almost choked on her cigarette, drawing annoyed sounds and glances in their direction. “You're just wicked."

Tracey grinned and opened her mouth to reply, then snapped her neck sharply to the left and waved her right hand in a vigorous window cleaning motion. “Hey, Dave, hey, over here." The head turned back to the other two women and the voice directed itself towards Kate. “That's Dave. He's delish. And single..." “No Trace, really" “Dave... moi, moi." Kate chuckled silently under her breath at her friend's trademarked onomatopoeic air kisses, then looked up and felt herself inhale sharply as she met Dave's sharp, sparkling gaze. He was about five-eleven, tanned, blonde with cheekbones to die for. “Hi." “This is Kate Rigg, you know, like as in Diana... Diana Rigg..?" Tracey flashed an encouraging smile to her friend. “… from the TV?” “Hi." “She's one of my best girlfriends, we go way back. She does something really important for the Government, but you know how it is Dave, mum's the word. We're meeting for drinks later, why don't you come too. Kate's single as well, did I mention that? Anyway, the Owl-House about seven if you fancy it, oh do say you'll come..." Tracey paused for a breath and a pull on her cigarette. Dave spoke quickly before she could finish inhaling. “The Government. Impressive!" “Civil Service actually. Pen pusher. Professional pen-pusher though." They both laughed and Tracey sat back to watch and listen, satisfied with her efforts for the time being. “And I'm Suzanne. Suzanne Beeston." “Nice to meet you." Dave's infectious smile swung smoothly across the table and looped back around to Kate. “So where do you push your pens?" “Across the desk mostly. What about you?" “I don't use pens. I'm in computers."

“Really? That must be uncomfortable." Dave opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, unable to find a suitable retort. Kate sipped her drink and flashed her eyes at Tracey in silent communication. “I use computers too." Dave turned back blankly to Suzanne, who promptly blushed. “I mean I'm into computers... we use computers... I use a lot of computers." Kate watched the mischievous twinkle start to creep across Tracey's eyes and dragged on her cigarette expectantly. “And you know what else Dave. Even though she went to an all girl's school, she's not even a lesbian." Suzanne re-found a sudden interest in her shoes and Dave shook his head slowly. “It’s too early for this."

Bob moaned and turned over in bed. Amanda pulled on her shoes and stood by the door, fixing her silver sleeper earrings in place. She stood a moment and stared at the curled up shape under the duvet and the back of the closely shaven head facing away from her on the pillow. She shrugged to herself and left. Bob heard the front door slam and groaned loudly, then rolled onto his back and stared blankly at the artexed ceiling. He peered over at the clock as he reached down under the sheet and scratched himself, then groaned again, turned back onto his side and closed his eyes.

Kate picked up the phone. It was Rupert. Rupert Beswick worked in the next office over but never walked through the door to have a chat. He preferred the phones. They appealed to his physical shyness and to his

10 bizarre ego, which for some reason felt that there was somehow more kudos attached to a mechanically-assisted conversation. “Hi. It’s me." “It’s always you Rupert. Nobody else uses the internal phones when it’s so much easier to just shout." Kate slid the phone down between her cheek and right shoulder and removed the well-chewed gum from her mouth. Taking the top piece of paper from the pile of spoiled forms, she wrapped up the gum and tossed it into the waste paper basket. “So what is it today? Julia's shopping, Suzanne's legs, or just the general state of the Nation?" “Ha ha. Very funny. What are you doing for lunch?" Kate felt her lips start to curl upwards as they entered their usual midday banter. “Eating. What about you?" “I'm eating too. Fancy meeting up somewhere? We could eat together." “Now there's a novel idea." Keeping the phone tight to her shoulder Kate twisted her head round to check the time on the office clock. Failing to twist far enough she lifted her left arm to check her watch instead. Eleven thirty. “How about the Ramada? Or the Midland? No, I know, how about the cafeteria. Twelve-ish?" “I'll pick you up." Kate couldn't help grinning at the obvious flirtation and double entendre. “You wish." “Bye." “Later."

Robert Lacey looked over at his alarm clock and groaned again, the only sound he'd made all morning. Rolling onto his side he reached onto the bedside table to find some cigarettes. He found the packet. The packet was

11 empty. Rob groaned, quite enjoying the noise by now and rolled onto his stomach, then over again until he quite literally fell out of the bed. Rob was about six feet tall, or six feet long in this case, with shaved brown hair and a slightly sagging physique. He started to crawl across the short coarse carpet on his hands and knees, gradually rising to his feet as he crossed the bedroom like a pictorial history of Homo Sapiens. He reached the chest of drawers and swiftly unwrapped Amanda's Camel Ultra Lights. He sank into the chair and lit a cigarette with one of the loose matches which littered the empty ash tray. Amanda wanted a baby. Amanda wanted a baby. In fact, Amanda wanted them to have a baby. Rob drew deeply on the cigarette and then coughed approvingly. He coughed again, more disapprovingly as he thought about it. A baby. Rob stared around the walls of the flat. ‘I'm twenty nine and she's thirty four and we've been together in this flat for three years.’ He didn't speak out loud but let the thoughts roam free around his skull. ‘That makes sixty six. Six six six is the number of the beast. I can't have a beast. I'm not ready for a kid. Certainly not ready for a child of Satan. I can't even cope with the Amanda. Not properly anyway. I don't even know if I love Amanda... I don't even know if I love Amanda?' He shook his head trying to lose the thought. Rob flicked the spent ash downwards towards the floor and watched as the black and grey soot bounced and rolled down his hairy shin before coming to rest between two toes on his right foot. He wriggled the toes and smiled in satisfaction, inhaling again as he watched the ash crumble and disappear. Rob stopped thinking the flowing monologue in his head and sat back in the chair. His thoughts focused into a more abstract form. The relationship with Amanda had been difficult for the last six months at least. The only reason neither of them had left was that it was more convenient not to. That and company. And sex. Amanda thought having a baby would bring them closer together. She was wrong. It would probably rip them even further apart. Rob stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, making sure the burning tobacco connected with and lit the phosphorous of all the other unlit

12 matches first. An ashtray was for ash, and cigarettes, and gum. Unlit matches lived in matchboxes. Maybe that little habit was the one that really annoyed him about her. Maybe. Rob wandered through to the kitchen, flicked on the portable TV and the kettle, checked out of the window for rain, lit another cigarette on the gas hob and poured a tin of chicken soup into a saucepan. A bit of breakfast. Then he'd go back to bed.

###

Hope is a six letter word

Prologue 1: Middle Eight –Regrets

Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention. What a damn stupid lyric. I take my earphones out and let them hang. If you apparently have too few regrets to mention, then why are you mentioning the fucking things at all? I have a few regrets myself, but unlike Frank, I don’t mind mentioning them:

I didn’t learn any French at School. I don’t always explain things very well. I think too much. I’m thirty five years old, sat on a rock listening to a depressingly deliberate mix of ‘emotional songs’ on a walkman. I still use a walkman. I haven’t sketched or painted anything for two years now. My parents died.

The last one I list to myself jars, so I backtrack and pretend I didn’t list it at all. It isn’t like I had a choice in that one, unlike the others. On a different day my list of regrets might be different. Would be different. But today is special. It’s an anniversary. I miss her. Once a year. (Officially). I put my headphones back in and sigh to myself. This isn’t working any more. And where I should be looking out to the vast expense of eternity over blue, romantic seas there now sits a bloody big windfarm.

I add renewable energy to my list of regrets I wish I could do something about.

Next year will be better.

Prologue 2: Endings – Je ne regrette rien

I still hadn’t definitely decided what I was going to do when I got there. As soon as I reached the large supermarket I’d started to saunter, slowing my journey so that it wouldn't end quite so quickly. I hadn’t wanted to look out to the islands yet though. I’d just wanted to enjoy these last moments. And I was always acutely aware of the pieces of paper in my pocket. I’d taken a deep breath and licked my lips, looking up just enough to see the slipway. It was the end of that stage of my life. But I hadn't forgotten, I’d never forgotten a thing. And I’d never forgotten that I hadn't forgotten. I smile despite myself. I still can’t help over dramatizing my life, even now, when I’m old enough to know much better. I’m someone who I would have called ‘old enough to be my father’ back then. And pitied him for it. I don’t feel old. I take a deep breath and resolve to blank everything from my mind but these moments. For one last anniversary, I’ll allow myself to swim in the memories, head above the gentle waves, body and soul immersed in the warm feelings. And then I’ll let go of the crutch. Let go of my unreal hope. Remembering can’t change anything except the memories themselves. I wonder how much actually happened the way I remember it now? And why the funny parts were the first to drain out? I step down onto the golden, light shifting sands of the beach and take a deep, fresh inhalation of breath. This will be the next chapter. I deliberately turn off my mobile. I will let myself live in the past one more time. Immerse myself totally. Give myself over to every and anything my mind wants to put there. And then it will be time to move on. My rough fingers caress the folded papers in my pocket, stroking them gently. Not wanting to saying goodbye. Move on. Is that the right word for it? My mind doesn’t want to think about it, and chooses instead to wonder how the

15 teenage me would have reacted if he’d have known I’d have a telephone smaller than my wallet in my pocket. Which I could watch television on. Including the 70 year old Rolling Stones performing to teenagers at Glastonbury. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Chp 1 – William's Journey

William Stark stood back and admired the exterior of the battered, dirt- brown Ford Cortina for perhaps the hundredth time since the journey began. Which was an average of about seven times a day, a fact he counted as lucky. If it had been purely for pleasure, he would have preferred a Capri for the cliché of course, complete with window stickers and painted in an outrageously conspicuous colour, maybe lime green, but the Cortina just felt right. He nodded in approval and kicked the tyres on the driver side as he glanced absently over the scratched and dented roof towards the wide, seemingly endless beach with no sea in sight. Destination eight. Southport. He found himself repeating the rehearsed backstory with almost inaudible whispers. It had become almost a compulsion, a mantra of sorts as he'd repeated the events of the last year to countless people, some of whom had even asked. The narrative was now condensed into less than five minutes of speech but still sounded a little too pat. But having a pat explanation saved Will having to think too deeply about things he'd rather forget. And the speech now, after revisions and rehearsals between each performance, provided sufficient information to satisfy the casual (or freshly met) acquaintance. He kicked the front tyre once more to re-assure himself it wasn't going flat. Will deemed himself to be a hands-on type of man, but the plain truth was that he hadn't changed a tyre since the month after he passed his test, and he wasn't sure if the AA would come out if he had to call them. Or if they'd just laugh at him even if they did respond. Satisfied with his impromptu test, Will turned smartly on the ball of his foot and walked away towards the parade of shops, well aware that the exercise had been completely pointless and that he had no idea how a kicked tyre would feel if it was to reveal that the air pressure was lacking within.

As he walked, a thought occurred. The random kind of thought which Will was getting used to enjoying now that he had nothing in particular to occupy his mind. Why do people use the phrase ‘turned on his heel’? He stopped and tried it. Literally. Then tried again, going full circle and feeling faintly ridiculous. No, turning on your heel was definitely not a natural thing to do. The weathered shopfronts seemed a uniform grey as he idled along the pavement, leisurely taking in his surroundings. It could have been because most were closed, or because of the tattered fly-posters, or it could have been due to the overcast weather but the shops did seem to be grey. Forcing himself to pay attention, Will realised he was walking along with his neck twisted to the right so that his head was at approximately ninety degrees to his body. And that it probably looked very unnatural. He carried on anyway, only faintly uncomfortable that he was now aware of what he was doing. William enjoyed these sensations, liked to savour them. And he liked doing what he pleased, even if there was no rhyme or reason to it. Especially if there was no rhyme or reason. It felt liberating.

Chp 2 - Hailey

The first time Will had felt the need to explain his ‘situation’ had been at a campsite in Hastings, talking to a pretty young woman with who he'd shared the picnic trestle table. After the brief formality of exchanging names (this to allow the following conversation to flow more easily and give the appearance of being acquaintances at least, and thus making chatting more comfortable), they'd realised that neither actually had a topic ready to discuss. It had been mainly to appear polite and avoid an awkward silence that she'd asked if he was on holiday, a fairly pointless question in itself at a campsite on the South Coast in the middle of Summer. It had made Will feel flustered and under pressure, as though he needed to justify his existence and presence. Hailey, that had been the girl's name, had looked politely interested as he'd started to pour out his life history leading up to that moment, and had looked progressively more nervous as he didn't stop talking. She’d glanced uncomfortably at her sandwich as he

17 babbled on, eager to eat but brought up not to be rude, or so he had reasoned and deduced afterwards. And the more Hailey looked uncomfortable, the faster William had talked, wandering off on tangents to try and explain why he was explaining things, finding himself unable to escape from his own conversation or the sound of his own voice. Afterwards he discovered he was sweating heavily under the armpits and had felt guilty for talking so much. And stupid for spending almost fifteen minutes responding to ‘So are you on holiday here?’. A simple ‘Yes’ would have sufficed. Hailey had been so polite though, despite shifting awkwardly and letting the occasional pained expression slip. She’d nodded and smiled (a patently forced smile) right up to the second Will had excused himself and almost run along the path and around the bushes to hide. And then she'd gathered up her opened but uneaten sandwich and disappeared almost as quickly out of sight in the opposite direction. Looking back, it was a perfect example of the masochistic manners of the British holidaymaker. Will pushed at the door of a general store that seemed to be open for business judging by the bric a brac on the pavement outside. Mops and unidentified tools and dull coloured buckets and spades in baskets. There was a little bell connected to the glass door which tinkled at an alarmingly loud volume. Will peered inside for a few seconds, head around the open door, but could see nothing of particular interest so did his ‘ball of the foot’ turn thing again and continued up the Parade towards the traffic lights and the twinkling gaudiness of an amusement arcade. He hugged his fleece jacket tighter around the belly against the chill sea gusts. The explanation had got shorter with each re-telling since Hailey, and Cassie didn't even get a mention now, even though she'd been the catalyst for starting the journey. Not the reason, but certainly the trigger for starting out. She’d suggested it in fact. But in the last couple of days Will had become uncertain as to what really he’d been aiming to achieve, or precisely why he was doing this trip at all. Why had he originally thought it was such a good idea? He knew the justification he gave, certainly, but he really wasn't sure of the real ‘why’ any more.

There was no actual deadline and no objective to speak of, and that knowledge had been starting to unsettle him slightly, despite all attempts to block the question from his conscious mind. Will stopped at the traffic lights and for no particular reason decided to wait until the little green illumination turned to red before crossing. There was no traffic around so it wasn't really a big deal.

###

Letters to Soloman

Chp the first – ‘about me, darling’

It’s New Quay. Not Newquay. That’s an important distinction because it’s a different place. A lot of people make that mistake, but it’s important, to get the details right. It was New Quay where this first started.

My name is Jennifer, I’m twenty seven, and I’ve never been in love. I’ve never really been in love before. God, I’ve never said that out loud to anyone. Not a human person anyway. But it’s true, I’ve had boyfriends but I’ve never been in love. Not really in love. Not the way you’re meant to be, the way they tell you should be, in books and films and things. What am I like? I don’t know how to answer that and I don’t really want to say anyway. I don’t think I’m beautiful but I’m certainly not ugly either. Some men certainly find me attractive so I must be doing something right in that respect. I’m pleasingly shaped (I think), I sometimes feel like someone squeezed me at birth pushing some of the width of my chest down to my belly, which is more of a gentle curve than a noticeable waist; something else I’d never admit out loud. I live and work in the Manchester area for a magazine you won’t have heard of, no particularly great insights to be told there. I have a small group of close friends (male and female), most of whom I’ve known for a long time, and wider group of acquaintances (including exes), none of whom are particularly remarkable, except perhaps Jerome, who once had a period in the youth academy for United, but left either because he had a lingering injury problem, or because he wasn’t good enough, depending on who you believe. I suspect the latter but it doesn’t really matter as he’s dined out (and in) on the story for many years now. I don’t smoke, I exercise twice a week at the gym to little effect, I drink moderately (red wine if possible). And I’ve never broken the law to my knowledge. My one vice is music. The guilty pleasure of unpopular but beautiful, soaring, haunting music. Folk music.

No, don’t laugh some of the most amazing music I’ve ever heard is like this. And sitting in front of a lone guitarist, singing, even in a crowded room. It’s like he’s singing straight into your soul. Last October I went to New Quay in West Wales for a holiday. On my own. A short break of a few days for a change of scenery after a particularly impressive break up with a quite unimpressive man, but that’s by the by and I only mention it for context. There was a musician I’d been longing to see, and he was due to play there. Wales is peculiar when it comes to music. North Wales in particular, there are any number of out of the way little pubs, cosy little off the beaten track pubs. Where musicians who love the opportunity to play for a real audience visit from time to time. And not just folk musicians. If you know where to look and listen to find out you can see (or could see before they died in some cases) Steve Harley, Mark Knopfler, Davy Graham, Steve Tilston, Charlie Landsborough, Sally Barker, and Mick Ronson, to name but a few. It’s bizarre, but quite true. This particular time there was a secret gig by Roy Harper in Aberystwyth, followed by an open mike night with a highly rated young singer songwriter called Colm Llewellyn playing at a pub in New Quay the following night. I really wanted to see the first and had heard good things about the second, who was compared to a less suicidal Chris Bell (of Big Star fame). So I decided to set off there.

Chp the second – As it happened

New Quay is difficult to get to. That’s my first impression as I’m sat on the train from Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth. On a map nowhere looks very far away these days. But without a car (I don’t drive, never needed to), you’re very reliant on public transport. And public transport adds virtual miles on any journey away from a major city. Now there is one little secret I should confide in you, though I know it will probably make me sound strange. I don’t travel alone. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had a succession of cuddly toys who’ve given me comfort

21 through any number of break ups and difficult times. And who I occasionally confide in. On this particular journey, Aubrey the Owl was my companion. I stared blankly out of the window listening to my MP3 player, ignoring the hideous towns and ugly villages that flashed past. I have nothing against Hanwood or Welshpool or NewTown, but when I’m heading away from urbanisation, and particularly to the coast, I’m not happy until I see the sea. Even though my first stop off was in built up Aberystwyth to see the legendary Roy Harper the sea would ameliorate the effects of the concrete. Music helped. Music always helps. I like to read on the train with some background noises blocking out the other people travelling so I can immerse myself in the World of my fiction completely. James Taylor was the order of the day on that occasion as I remember properly. I don’t actually recall the book except that it had something to do with Led Zeppelin. I suppose I should explain something to you, to help you understand why I was doing this, why this is my escape from my everyday life. It is one simply word. Music. Since I was young I’ve found music soothing. Even un- soothing music. I always search for that perfect song that encapsulates a mood or experience, something to remember it by. On occasion I realise this and spend more time searching for a suitable song than I pay attention to what is happening in my life. That’s not unusual I guess, but I need background music the rest of the time too. When it all gets too much for me, I sometimes pretend my life is nothing more than a movie, that everything happening is fiction. Having background music helps me into that frame of mind. Sets the scene and takes the focus off me. Pulls focus. I like that. This particular occasion I wanted to pull focus away from a man. I won’t dignify him by using his name, in fact I won’t even refer to him as my boyfriend. ‘X’ had seemed beguiling at first, enchanting even. He seemed to take a genuine interest in me above the neck, was intelligent, funny, not bad looking, and could quite possibly have been The One. Or one of The Ones anyone. One for a while. We never really had a relationship though. We had sex, something I’d rather not go into beyond saying it was quite satisfactory and would have rated a Portishead song easily, but before that could develop into anything

22 more substantial, I discovered he was less than ‘The One’. For me he was perhaps ‘the half’. I wasn’t the only woman he was ‘The One’ for. It didn’t upset me. I wouldn’t let something like that upset me. I’m worth more than that. I just happened to have a few days leave left and it occurred to me that I’d never been to Aberystwyth. That’s all. That isn’t quite as random as it sounds. One of those pubs that plays host to musicians on a regular basis was in Aber and I’d always wanted to visit. When I checked the message boards on my favourite ‘insider’ internet site to see what was happening events-wise and saw that Roy Harper was playing there I knew it was fate. I’ve never been a huge Roy Harper fan, but he’s supposed to be very good live. I searched a bit further and found a listing for Colm Llewellyn playing just down the coast a few days later. And I HAD wanted to see him for some time. So it was definitely fate. That was a week after I discovered about ‘X’ but I happened to come down with a bug that had been going round about two days afterwards so took a couple of extra days to stay in bed and make sure I was fully recovered for my holiday. That was the only reason. That’s why I was now in my way through mid-Wales at an annoyingly slow rate, trying to get into the holiday mood and finding myself staring out of the window more than at my book. James Taylor was a pleasant distraction. I hadn’t packed much. I never did when I went away, preferring to slum it. In my line of work you have to dress and act at least vaguely fashionable most of the time and it was lovely to go away incognito in just jeans and a t- shirt with nothing but the essentials in a rucksack. You’re probably wondering who Soloman is by now? Soloman is the love of my life, the one I depend on most and always confide in, and is my conscience. Soloman is a small stuffed bear.

###

Brf NCountr w a Nok 3310

Emojis didn’t exist once. It was a more straightforward time. I think the youth of today assume they invented passion and secret love but it’s as old as life itself, only the method of delivery changes. And I had dreams once too. Even unhappy dreams can be worth lingering on for a while.

Conversation one

Fri 22/4 9.30pm, bottle of Chianti, shoes off, box-set of Sex and the City being worked through. My phone went.

Unknown number 9.32pm Gr8 2 c u again hun. Missed talking to u.

Tiffany 9.39pm Martin?

Unknown number 9.39pm Who else have you been meeting who's missed talking to you? ;-)

It had been a shock seeing him, but I passed it off as serendipity. I’d been browsing the shops (cheaper than buying) and sat down in the cafe for a cup of tea and a slice of cake, a little reflective if I’m honest. You know those times that occasionally happen when something quite innocuous hits you hard. It was an expensive pair of jeans of all things. Labelled ‘vintage’. I guess that’s what I am to some people now. And the child serving had given me such a look seeing my interest. I tried not to look directly at her and maybe I imagined it, but amusement, contempt, and settling on the conclusion I must be thinking about getting them for my daughter. That was what my mind told me anyway. I scurried off, blushing I knew, my confidence knocked. And I’d owned a pair of jeans like that once, and looked good in them, if I do say so myself. I’d wandered in a bit of a haze, ignoring the voice telling me I’d never look so good in anything like that again, and yes, I would have looked too try hard maybe but… contempt, amusement. And hating the lingering voice whispering the child was right.

I hadn’t really looked at anything else, well, only my eyes had, the rest of me was thinking back to my days at University, and a certain guy who took a shine to a certain part of me in those, admittedly snug, denims. And those denims were the reason we’d got together that first time. Martin. I’d been so besotted with him, everyone was. Not exactly reliable boyfriend material but that smile, that way he had, the way he actually listened for real and everything wasn’t about him. Charming, easy to talk to. And yes, I’ll admit it wasn’t just his personality… Well, I say we ‘got together’. I was… let’s just say I was an innocent, and that didn’t bother him, he never pressured me to go further than I was comfortable… three glorious weeks I’ll keep forever. It can’t have been sunshine the whole time, the rain couldn’t have been that warm and comforting as we walked through the countryside, not every glance from the girls at Uni could have been jealous and admiring, he couldn’t have been that perfect. He wasn’t of course. The reason he wasn’t pressuring me physically to go further was that he was sleeping with at least two different girls at the same time. One of them in my tutorial group. I’d felt such an idiot but when he explained it… I’m embarrassed to admit it now, but somehow his explanation made sense, that it was because of me and for me that he was so considerately fucking other people. It took me about a week and countless conversations revolving around me being an idiot with the girls before I got mad. Even then, a small part of me was still happy we’d had that time together. I guess Martin was my first real love. The total bastard. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would never have ended up with my Nick. My lovely, reliable, caring, dull husband Nick. I was wary for so long, and I guess I was pretty shitty to Nick when he shyly started to find ways to spend time around me. But persistence pays off sometimes. We were friends for almost two years before he finally plucked up the courage to properly kiss me. And, a close friend of Chianti by then, it was inebriated Tiffany who almost dragged him into bed for my first time, re-assuring him constantly everything was fine and for God’s sake just fuck me and get it over with! I don’t think I had the courage to actually say that out loud back then but I may well have. I was certainly thinking it. And it was… sweet I guess.

Awkward. Fumbling. Uncomfortable. But sweet. Thank God my first time was with him rather than with bastard. Though then again… Anyway, Nick and I kind of fizzled out after a few months and as we were all living in the same area still, I’d see them both sometimes in pubs and clubs. I’d flirt with Martin outrageously (yes, I was definitely a little less naïve and shy several boyfriends and encounters on), on occasion in earshot of Nick to punish him. I don’t know why. He didn’t deserve that but knowing he wanted to protect me even after we weren’t together pissed me off when I was drunk. But times and situations change. Years later I met him in a bar in town, Martin I mean, and we swapped numbers. Texted flirtatiously and with increasing innuendo for a week or two until we bumped into each other again waiting for a table at Bella. By we, I mean me and Nick, who’d been dating again for six months or so. Martin pretended we hadn’t seen each other of course, asked about how we got back together and Nick happily regaled him with stories as I tried to hide the rising colour in my cheeks. Nick suggested he join us but Martin glanced at me, that wicked smile on the corner of his lips as he said he couldn’t, he was only there to get a takeout, had a hot date. I don’t know if it was true but I’d waited for my phone to go all that evening, and for days afterwards, part of me hoping the date was a virtual one with me. I hadn’t heard from him again. I was reliving all that, as I admit I sometimes did, sat there with my Earl Grey and a slice of sickly-looking carrot cake, determining to go back and buy the jeans. ‘Hey denims…’; those were the first words Martin had said to me, and it became a running joke. ‘Hey denims’. It was almost like I could hear his annoyingly appealing Leeds accent. ‘OI… DENIMS!’. And there he’d been. Sat two tables away with a bottle of lager and a paperback. And that smile. I’d blushed again (I blush a lot) and given a shy smile, panicking I’d somehow conjured him, and then that he might know what I’d been thinking about. Like I say, serendipity. He bounded over and pulled out the metal chair, scraping the legs of the thing carelessly. It’s not like I was paying particular attention to every detail you understand, I just happen to, you know, remember things. And in minutes it was so comfortable, like being in an old sweatshirt and jogging pants. If they were sexy old sweatshirt and

26 jogging pants and were paying close attention to my cleavage with a disarming grin. But genuinely interested in me too, in fact deep in conversation with me about things as wide ranging as my mother, nephew, embarrassing past crush on John Craven, work, my shoes (we had a discussion about shoes! The man actually referenced Jimmy Choos ) and an hour had gone before I knew it. “So are you still with Nick the knob?” He said it with a smile. It had been years ago and I think he was flirting, after a fashion, finding out if I was single. The problem was. Yes, I was still with Nick the knob. We were married in fact. And as I felt the colour rising I couldn’t really do anything but admit the fact in a stumbling, almost apologetic way, feeling small and naïve again. And his face fell, his smooth conversation stuttering. I honestly don’t think he’d actually considered that possibility. But at that moment, seeing his crestfallen expression, something wonderful came over me. My mind flitted back to everything I’d been thinking before he’d called out to me. How I’d been back then. How I was now. And I wasn’t the same woman. No. I wasn’t a girl any more. I almost kicked myself for slipping so easily into the pattern of testosterone prey. His conversation wasn’t interest. It was his technique, wasn’t it. And for some reason my admission had broken his spell. I felt a rush of warm confidence. Looked at my watch. Told him it had been so wonderful to see him again but I must dash. I had a work meeting so I must be going. But he should look after himself and we must meet up again sometime. Knowing full well now I was ‘off the market’ I’d never hear from him again. And I went to buy those jeans. I’d take them back of course, they would look ridiculous on me. But fuck it, I was going to buy them first! That had been lunchtime. And now he was texting me. I felt good (nothing to do with the Chianti, I assure you… probably). I felt surprised. I felt like Samantha Jones (nothing to do with watching the show… probably). Well, Samantha Jones if she was from Kent.

Unknown number 9.32pm Gr8 2 c u again hun. Missed talking to u.

Tiffany 9.39pm Martin?

Unknown number 9.39pm Who else have you been meeting who's missed talking to you? ;-)

Tiffany 9.50pm Wouldn’t you like to know ;-) And you missed talking to me? or missed ogling my cleavage? xxx

Unknown number 9.52pm Can’t a man do both? ;-) One can discuss Kant while at the same time admiring the scenery you know :-)

Tiffany 9.55pm So my breasts are scenery now are they? xxx

Unknown number 9.57pm Pretty as a picture :-D Undulating landscapes. A majestic valley… err… pert hillocks :-)

I can’t deny I like that he used ‘pert’.

Unknown number 9.58pm Though that may be a better description of your bottom :-D

I should have stopped texting then but it happened so fast. And it’s always nice to be complimented with pert. Even geologically.

Tiffany 10.01pm I didn’t think I’d hear from you again xxx

Unknown number 10.01pm Why ever not?

I didn’t want to say. I was enjoying myself. And strange as it was, I’d felt better for seeing him. Whatever else, I always seemed to feel better after seeing him. The bastard. So I ignored the question.

Tiffany 10.03pm Where are you? Xxx

I didn’t care. It was just something to ask. Unsurprisingly he was in a bar. No doubt waiting for a date, I thought uncharitably, and probably accurately. You don’t really need to know the rest of that conversation, it did go on a bit, but if he was meeting someone, she was either incredibly late or so uninteresting he chose me by phone instead. That thought did occur to me,

28 with mixed emotions. A little bit pleased if it was true, but at the same time uncomfortable, imagining how I’d feel if it had been me on a date while the guy flirted with his (long time ago) ex. I wanted to ask but I was a little tipsy and if I’m honest I didn’t want to know in case my suspicions were correct and he either left or I was forced to myself through misguided solidarity for whoever the skinny little bitch was. I’d have to re-watch the last two episodes (if I could be bothered, they weren’t the best ones) as we said our goodnights and promised to talk again soon.

Emoticonversation One – (the following night, 10.30pm. Slightly pissed)

The tone I’d selected for him pinged and I jumped. Even though I’d been half expecting and half hoping for it.

10.30pm :-) x

10.30pm :-) xx

10.31pm ;-) … x … :-p

10.31pm :-o

10.31pm :-D :-p :-p :-P

10.32pm :-o :-o :-O ;-)

10.32pm :-O? :-D xxx

10.33pm :-P = :-O ;-) xxx o 0 O 0 O

10.34pm %D… mwx3 lol

10.37pm ?

10.37pm m(3) w(3) lol

10.39pm ???

10.40pm press m(x3) + w(x3) lol. :-P + :-O

10.42pm doh… 69?

10.42pm OK lol :-D

10.43pm ok xxx

10.43pm F < ~ M F<~ M F< ~M F<~M

10.45pm mmm. Not many characters left to use now lol

10.46pm hmmmm… always @ ;-) lol

10.46pm sorry, too much? { }

10.48pm s'ok… @ ok… xxx

10.49pm xxxxxxxxxxx OMG off for a W now lol

10.50pm think of me :-O < @ xxx

10.51pm u2 :-p> :-p> + ~O :-p> ~> = OOO 4u

10.53pm 3 x O? %D ty xxx

Well, that was quite unexpected and escalated quite quickly. I’d regret that in the morning. Probably.

10.58pm You should probably delete these. Don’t want to get you into trouble with our fella! ;-)

Conversation Two (Part 1 – A week later)

My feet were curled up under me on the couch. Sleepless in Seattle continued on my television, ignored for the most part except for providing

30 background noise. I was watching it, but it was a movie I knew well enough that I didn’t have to pay attention. Which was fortunate. And why I’d chosen that video (I’d never seen any reason to move up to buying everything again on dvd, they’d probably just invent something new after that if I did). Well, it was partly why I’d chosen this film for tonight anyway. I wasn’t waiting for his texts, I was watching a movie I enjoyed. And I didn’t keep looking at the front of the phone to see if I had a message I’d somehow missed. And I didn’t jump whenever that loud double tone went off (I really did have to change that tone). And my pulse didn’t race whenever that blue light flashed, and I didn’t try to second guess what he’d written before I opened the text. In my head I didn’t do any of that. Looking back at what I’d just been doing none of that had occurred. “You should probably delete our messages”. He’d texted it again tonight. I could almost hear him saying it. Almost see the imperceptible upturn of his lip as he did, the slightly amused crinkle in his cheek. Or was it said all gravely, in all seriousness? I could hear him doing that too. Or was it a question framed as, well, as concern? Or was it real concern? And if it was, was it concern for me or for himself? That I wouldn’t get into trouble (was what I was sending that obvious? I’d thought I was being subtle… most of the time. Last night didn’t count. We were pretending last night didn’t happen), or was it that it might get found out and I might be made to stop? And why did he care? Did he care? STOP IT Tiff! And stop looking at the phone. Listen to Jonah talking to his dad. You can’t reply yet anyway, 5 minutes at least until you can do that. Well, at least 3 anyway. Or 2. He can’t know I’m paying that much attention. He does anyway of course, of course he does, but its all part of the game isn’t it. Anyway, more to the point, what do I say back?

Conversation Two (Part 2 – some wine later)

It was like a massive exhalation of tension I hadn’t known was there. And I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. At the same time my arms felt

31 limp, numb, disconnected. My thumbs hit the keys clumsily and I read the words on the small backlit screen as they appeared.

Pm Do you fancy a meet up? ;-) x

I knew him but I didn’t know what he meant. Or rather, I didn’t know IF I knew what he meant. The wine was almost down to the top of the label on the second bottle (so sue me, it was a Friday) I’d been distractedly peeling at. Which also meant that my usual caution was a little ambivalent to what I would consciously or deliberately think or do. Did I want to meet up? Or, feeling a warm flush in my cheeks (probably the wine), was it the innuendo I thought (hoped) it was? And he knew me as well as I knew him, so he probably knew what I was thinking as sure as I did.

###

Boiling Metal

Prime

I think I was perhaps six years old when I saw my mother using the kettle to pour boiling water onto the flags of the path up our back garden. I was curious. I watched, eager to get closer and watch but warned I would get burned, as the entire kettle down to the last drip was emptied along the crack. “Ants.” Was all my mother said by way of explanation. I’d watched, fascinated for a while. The water ran down the flagstones and into the earth of the garden either side. A few of the stray insects circled around on the dry stone, one or two caught by the liquid but most just hurrying round in circles. My mother didn’t chase down those single ants of course, why bother? Their nest destroyed they didn’t matter. If they tunnelled underneath the garden it didn’t bother us if we couldn’t see them. My mother never gave them another thought I think. I remember going back for several days to see if any ants re-emerged. The occasional one was there, and I found some further in the earth of the garden but then I lost interest. I never worried about the ants and wasn’t upset in the way I might have been if I’d seen a rabbit or guinea pig die, it was a purely intellectual interest in what happened. And then I forgot. I’ve thought about it numerous times over the last few years. Some of the others, without really understanding the concepts I think, talked about ‘the God’ and others ‘aliens’, a third group blamed ‘the mad scientist’, and it doesn’t matter to us now. I jokingly told some youngsters years ago that the event was ‘Mother with the cosmic kettle’. I don’t know whether to be amused or scared that I’ve heard whisperings recently that ‘the Event’ was caused by ‘the Mother’.

‘The Event’, which is all we call it now, happened on April 1st, which I only know because in the early days we almost laughed at that. I couldn’t even tell you the actual year exactly. Not that it matters now, why would it? We could years from ‘The Event’ now. We don’t use months or days, again, why would we? Today is day 365 of year 59 since ‘the Event’. I guess that would make it sometime at the end of January in ‘old time’ as we don’t bother to do leap years any more though we’ve had the first murmurings we should do something about that, to better track the seasons. Why bother I say, the first daffodils or first orange leaves on the trees are enough. I don’t know who might read this, if anyone, but as far as I know I’m the oldest survivor of ‘the Event’. Which makes me the object of awe by some, and dangerous to others. Of course with no communication of any distance there could be life going on as normal on other land masses, as it used to, oblivious to what happened here. Or I could be the last surviving man on earth who really remembers it. Life expectancy still isn’t good, and who knows why I’ve been granted (or cursed with) this longevity. Maybe to write this. We still occasionally try the ‘message in the bottle’ in the seas but I’ve never seen had a reply. It’s a ritual now, four times a year. I think I’ll protect this in the strongest case I can find and I think I know just the cave to hide it in. And one day you may find it and read it. If you can still read, and those that find it don’t destroy it. I should start by describing those first minutes and days I suppose, though I still feel queasy think about them, even now. And tell you a bit about me. I grew up in a suburb of what was once Manchester, a quiet middle class family. I wasn’t academically inclined, just not interested, but I did love sport and adventure. I liked camping and adventure holidays, extreme sports, and I liked going out drinking with my friends. At the time of ‘The Event’ I was nineteen and invincible. And I was on a stag in North Wales. As we partied every week, we decided kayaking, a zip line, a little weed and off roading was our send off for Steve, and thank God we did. I just realised that by the time you read this, most of the statements in the paragraph above will probably mean nothing to you, and make no sense. You have no context. In terms you might relate to I guess you could essentially say that as a youth I was strong rather than clever, and when it happened my

34 friends and I had decided to celebrate the bonding of my friend and his breeding partner by leaving the city and proving our strength in the mountains. It was around 8am (there are a few plastic clock hands I’ve seen across the years that support it), and I’d left my tent to urinate in the bushes. I wore my tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt I’d slept in. And I was barely awake as we’d been up until the early hours. So I was facing a tree when I heard it. I don’t know how to explain the noise. It happened so fast and there is no comparison that exists. A fast, hard, urgent ‘hiss’ of maybe three seconds, but from nothing to almost deafening. Then it seemed silence. I doubt it was. As I remember it there was a beat of dead silence as I continued to pee, looking around for the source of the noise. And then the first screams. The first creaks and bangs. And it grew. We were on a small farm site of half a dozen tents as it was April, a five minute walk from the nearest shop, a couple of stones throws from the nearest outbuilding. The first screams died sharply and more took their place, and the rumbling began. The first explosions in the distance were minutes away, or so I remember now. And facing the trees I couldn’t see much, even the tents behind me were blocked by bushes. I could see tiny trails of wispy smoke though. In the undergrowth, and soon after over the bushes. I know now that the first things were starting to crumble and burn. And the moans and wailing got louder and closer. I don’t know how to best explain what it was, as you’ll probably have no idea how to visualise what I’m telling you but somehow, instantly, as far as we can tell everywhere in the World, the substances we referred to as ‘metal’ all boiled. Though it comes from the ground in its raw form as part of rock, the processed minerals we called metals, whether they were in the sky or underground, in forms we called Gold, Steel, Iron, Aluminium, Lead, Mercury, Silver, all boiled. Everything. And by the terms we used then, that meant heating of up to several thousand degrees in a second or less. Imagine putting your hand in the centre of a roaring fire, and then imagine it five times hotter if you can. As far as we know, no-one has yet managed to create metal again, or perhaps no-one wants to, for fear of the same. I’m not clever,

35 but even according to those who are, there is no known reason or way for this to happen naturally. It must have been intentional. We never knew why, or saw evidence or reason. I still think it was some form of powerful mother with a ‘cosmic kettle’, whatever you want to call him or her or them. And they never gave the survivors a moment’s thought afterwards. Why would they?

I doubt you can comprehend how absolutely dependent on metal the human race was back then. I had no idea myself. It had never crossed my mind. But almost everything that let us live relied on metal. It should have been impossible for it to boil as it did, but some people say bumblebees can’t fly, so perhaps out grasp of knowledge isn’t as great as we think. Destroying the obvious ‘metal’ would have crippled civilisation on its own, but now imagine jewellery, watches, bangles, piercings and rings, superheated to instantly char and set light to throats, amputate fingers, hands and ears. Mercury and gold fillings in teeth burning jawbones. Pacemakers, metal pins. Hospitals, cars, aeroplanes, buses, trains, tubes, all modern buildings. Burning hot enough to incinerate the occupants in seconds. Now imagine clothing. Zippers everywhere, studs, rivets, burning holes in flesh, long scars deep and hot enough to kill. Hair clips, the rivets in shoes and trainers, the joints in glasses. And all attached to material flammable at such extremes of temperature. In any building since the modern age, every support beam and structure, the metal in window frames. Every single nail and screw in existence, even those holding together ancient wooden beams and roofs. Almost every piece of furniture. The springs in your bed, nails and screws in your chair and settee, light fixtures. In modern times we have replaced many of the underground pipes for water and gas with plastic, but taps, filters, control mechanisms, the tiniest spring and washer. All gone in a breath. It’s ironic to think that those we thought of as the most primitive, people rarely interacting with ‘civilisation’, indigenous tribes in some parts of

Greenland, Africa, South America. They may have been the only ones relatively untouched. I’ll never know.

I didn’t move for perhaps thirty seconds. Not until I’d finished. I wasn’t being heartless, I was disoriented, confused, hungover. And coming back to the fields it took a moment to register. Where the cars had been was a patch of dry grass. Smoking. Lumps of rubber and plastic smouldering, stinking. And the tents were a heap of writhing and smoking plastic, parts alight with green flame. I stood still, then ran towards the bundle of frantically writhing fabric in the nearest tent. A torso was half emerged from the second, inching forward with low moans. I stamped on the brown sheeting of the tent, ripping the flapping opening wide and dragging the bottom of a sleeping bag clear. I fell backwards onto the wet grass as the bag came free and the person inside slipped out of the half bag that remained. All of a sudden I could hear the distant screams louder, and I remember the chill as they disappeared. Not faded. Stopped. I scrambled up, not knowing what was happening but sure I needed to help my friend as the tent was now burning up all over, the flames catching. I grabbed the nearest foot and pulled, falling back again, pulling and pushing myself backwards until Aaron was free. For some reason I remembered it was Aaron. I reached up for his hands to pull him further but my own fingers slipped past. I tried again and froze. There was no hand to grab. A cauterized stump with a black and slick bone protruding. My eyes move to the rest of Aaron. I remember it vividly. He was naked except for socks, but with a vivid red line reaching right up his leg, across his hip and up his chest, which was scorched red across. Though the redness of the rest of his body hid the worst of that from me. And his face. Aaron must have been awake and had his glasses on. His nose was mostly gone, his temples scarlet, his eyes… his chest rose and fell and he didn’t even attempt to move away the black smoking mess across his face, that I guess had once been glass. There was no hair left except a smoking stubble. His right arm raised weakly and I noticed his middle finger was missing, cauterized like his other wrist. I truly hope his movements back then were spasms and muscle memory, and that he died insensible. That might sound hard but so am I now.

I shuddered to think afterwards what would have happened had we been elsewhere. You would think a tent was the safest place to sleep the day the metal boiled, but there are tentpegs, the metal that holds the pieces of plastic tentpole together, zips on the tent and, as Aaron discovered, all around the edges of the tight, inescapable sleeping bag, where the involuntary action of pushing away from her just rolls you, onto the zipper. People wear watches, and spectacles. They have thermos flasks, gas canisters for cooking outside to ignite, the metal caps of bottles of whisky, lighters, clothing with studs and zippers. The heat inside would have been indescribable. I looked away. Two more tents and my own lay in smouldering heaps with no movement or sound, except the lumpen shapes in the middle. I scrambled to where the body had emerged from the other tent, tears running down my cheeks, coughing at the thickening smoke of plastic and human flesh, even out there in the open air. Steven lay there, panting and rasping and moaning. Aaron had been the lucky one, because Steven had escaped the immediate worst. He still had on the remnants of his boxer shorts, and all his limbs were there. But his thick blonde hair was gone too, his skin almost throbbing red, his tongue pushing out between his lips, his eyes shut tight. “Steven?” I don’t know if he heard me. I barely heard myself. But his heavy breaths and moving tongue made me act on instinct. I looked around and saw a bottle of water discarded outside the night before and reached for it, muttering meaningless lies as I unscrewed the top and moved it to his mouth. If it was me these days, I would have found a rock to end him immediately. You learn to end suffering quickly. You learn to know on instinct when it’s best to finish someone. For their sake or the good of the group. Even trickling water to his tongue, the racks and spasms the water brought were horrifying to me. As though I was the one killing him. Perhaps I was. The Prime told me his lungs and throat were probably burned beyond hope already and I did the only kindness I knew. And it was a good lesson to me. Not to waste resources on emotion. I’d have been shocked at that thought once. I was then when he told me the first time. Now though I hate to admit it, I accept he was right. I needed the lesson.

I tried to talk to Steve, to take his hand but it clearly hurt him too much so I tried to say it would be alright. I don’t know if he was ever aware enough to try and talk back, even if he’d been capable. I don’t know if it was seconds or minutes until I moved again. I didn’t even go back to Aaron. It was clear from the stillness of the other tents that my other friends hadn’t survived, but I kept tight hold of the fact the man in front of me was alive, and for some reason, the fact he was to be a married man. I talked about his wedding to him. I didn’t try to give him any more water. But when he stilled, just lying there, chest rising and falling shallow with each rasp, I went leadenly to look. Aaron was gone. Moving the remaining tent material, Evan and Stuey were gone too. My eyes looked at the smoke in distance all around, the dozens of plumes of smoke thickening into one all around me. The real horror still hadn’t hit me. I returned to Steven and sat there. I know I cried. I know it was darker by the time I moved myself again, though whether that was the smoke blocking out the sun or the hours passing I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t try and go for help. Well, yes I suppose I do. I didn’t know what had happened but it was clear it wasn’t just us. And I knew I couldn’t leave my friend like that. To die alone. I must have stopped talking at some point and looked over the fields and trees, looked at the field that was out campsite, wondered what the hell had done this to us. At some point Steve died. Silently and alone, inches from my feet. When I did finally find my feet, stumble and drink from the water, I moved towards the road. I didn’t think. I walked to the road and walked down the track to the hill, barely taking in what I was seeing around me. I know there were sheep ambling across the road, with fences gone. There were no signposts. There were a few piles of rubber and plastic that may once have been cars. There were wooden totems with nothing between them, scorch marks in the grass. I know I almost ran when I saw the shape of the cottage at the bottom of the hill. Until I got closer. The roof had mostly fallen in, there were window holes with some small pieces of remaining glass outside. A scorched wooden door flat on the pavement like a tombstone. And water everywhere.

I learned later that most of the pipes were new and pvc, rather than the traditional lead, but every filter and tap was gone, every copper and lead pipe. Any everywhere was flooded. I started to wade in but paused, remembering something from the television about floods, how sewage quickly got mixed with the water. The house was in a hollow and belonged to the farmer who’d allowed us to use the field. Who’s form I could see was face down at the bottom of the stairs. Unmoving. It was cowardly I know but I had no inclination to go further. The nearest village was a further… well, I had no way of knowing how far or how long away. But as I neared the first structure I somehow knew I wouldn’t find help. It was eerily quiet. The shopfronts were missing, glass shattered on the pavement, water was filling the street here too, the loudest sound as it gushed and gurgled. And here were bodies too. Burned bodies. Horribly burned bodies. Throats and windpipes cut through with silver chains or pendants, eyes missing, limbs missing. Bodies half out of the rubble of the newer buildings. But the thing I saw was a child. What had been a child face down in the water along side a rubber pedal and what could have been part of a bicycle seat. I refuse to describe what I saw, but I dragged a piece of a coat I found across what was left of the lower part of her small body. And I sat on the steps of the stone cross in the centre of the green, out of the water. And I wailed like a banshee. It had started to rain and the sky had darkened more by the time I moved. Without hope I looked in four or five of the most accessible buildings. To the parts I could reach. Not a single door remained in place, not a single window, not a single picture frame on the walls, no furniture I found remained whole, nothing recognisable except a wooden kitchen chair. My hand rested on the back and I almost fell as it came free. For some reason that made me cry again. More than the bodies I found. It was some time later when a form of reason kicked in. Without consciously planning it I turned and headed back up the winding road, shivering, despite the sweater, zipless coat and crocs I’d found. Away from that place. Towards the campsite. We’d been planning to go climbing and had found some caves perhaps a mile further up the small mountain, through the trees, following the path of the stream that ran beside our field. I guess I

40 figured shelter and water and no dead bodies was what I needed. I suppose it was sometime on the walk back I started to figure out what was missing. Not what happened, but that there was no metal. I was halfway there when my thoughts turned to Steven and Aaron, and the others, and if I should bury them. Thoughts turn to the religion you were raised in at these times. I almost laughed when I realised my plan to find a shovel was pointless. And I spat a bitter laugh at my next though that maybe they could be cremated. And I cried as I walked. I breathed easier as I walked through the woods, even though what light there was had faded. I drank from the clear stream and started to imagine it wasn’t real, which was when I met him for the first time. In the open clearing ahead of the rocks and the caves. ###