from the air, followed. Mountains in Switzerland were falling apart. Glacial melt rates had also reached new records.
When the news moved to North Africa he switched channels. No one could look at Africa and not believe that they were next in line. He flicked down two channels and waited for the local service
to come on after the international links.
The British nationalists’ shaky unity, The Movement, had endured a big rally earlier that day, followed by a sluggish, heat-battered march through Torquay. He’d heard them in the
distance that afternoon: drums, muffled chants, the odd tinny blurt through a microphone.
The Movement planned to walk through Paignton the following day. Progress would be slow because even The Movement’s determination would stumble in such heat, but there’d be more
people than usual in the area, and the available police would gather further along the coast around the refugee camps, filling their boots with sweat they could ill afford to lose.
Heat kept people indoors. A good thing because the recipient of the father’s coming move would probably be home, just like Robert East had been. He’d go in real early, when it was a
bit cooler.
The father turned the screen off and looked at the open window: a black square of hot night. He dropped the blinds as a precaution. An intruder would disturb them and the noise would wake
him.
His thoughts swam. The bottle of rum was empty. He hadn’t intended to finish it in one sitting. It used to take him three nights to go through a bottle. Half-asleep, drunk, feverish, then
strangely chilly, always more dreaming than thinking, the father waited and waited for Scarlett to call.
At eight in the morning, she finally made contact. The father believed he’d dropped off only for a few minutes in the night, but could now see the intense bars of light at the side of the
blinds.
‘I have the address,’ she said. ‘You ready?’
EIGHT
The father peered through the windscreen at the sky. Glimmers of dawn’s thin light seemed more evident. Soon there would be a merciless clarity for early-morning eyes to
squint into.
If the heat was to last forever, he knew that everyone would go mad. Or maybe everyone had already gone mad without being aware of the disintegration, and not only the mutterers or
head-slappers, the screamers or the too silent, who were plentiful. But perhaps those still shuffling through domestic routines, or frantic with some purpose, in what was called the war against the
climate, were incapable of fully remembering what life was like before. Back when? When was it not like
this
. When was that exactly? He often wondered if the lucky ones were those who had
known nothing more than this.
When it had gone five, he was still sat in the car, slowly sweating and sipping at his water bottle. Public information about heatstroke stayed on repeat in the local media he had playing. He
knew the health advice by heart like an old song: symptoms to watch for were quick, shallow breaths and a rapid pulse followed by dry skin, nausea, dizziness, irritability. Stay indoors, do not
move during the hottest part of day, use cold compresses, stay in the shade, sip water.
Stay, sit, sip
.
There had been no room in intensive care since June so good luck with an ambulance. With heatstroke, a coma might be only a stumble away. And a move could be a boisterous business, as was the
retreat or extraction. If there were delays or tussles, he would need to periodically check his skin and make sure the sweat never stopped leaking.
He returned his attention the house across the road.
The last time the father saw his target, Murray Bowles, the man had been returning to this address, carrying two fabric bags packed square with cartons of food. And the man had managed to remain
overweight, so he wasn’t eating only soya products, fruit and vegetables. He was probably supplementing his fare with sugary black-market victuals, and they weren’t
When the news moved to North Africa he switched channels. No one could look at Africa and not believe that they were next in line. He flicked down two channels and waited for the local service
to come on after the international links.
The British nationalists’ shaky unity, The Movement, had endured a big rally earlier that day, followed by a sluggish, heat-battered march through Torquay. He’d heard them in the
distance that afternoon: drums, muffled chants, the odd tinny blurt through a microphone.
The Movement planned to walk through Paignton the following day. Progress would be slow because even The Movement’s determination would stumble in such heat, but there’d be more
people than usual in the area, and the available police would gather further along the coast around the refugee camps, filling their boots with sweat they could ill afford to lose.
Heat kept people indoors. A good thing because the recipient of the father’s coming move would probably be home, just like Robert East had been. He’d go in real early, when it was a
bit cooler.
The father turned the screen off and looked at the open window: a black square of hot night. He dropped the blinds as a precaution. An intruder would disturb them and the noise would wake
him.
His thoughts swam. The bottle of rum was empty. He hadn’t intended to finish it in one sitting. It used to take him three nights to go through a bottle. Half-asleep, drunk, feverish, then
strangely chilly, always more dreaming than thinking, the father waited and waited for Scarlett to call.
At eight in the morning, she finally made contact. The father believed he’d dropped off only for a few minutes in the night, but could now see the intense bars of light at the side of the
blinds.
‘I have the address,’ she said. ‘You ready?’
EIGHT
The father peered through the windscreen at the sky. Glimmers of dawn’s thin light seemed more evident. Soon there would be a merciless clarity for early-morning eyes to
squint into.
If the heat was to last forever, he knew that everyone would go mad. Or maybe everyone had already gone mad without being aware of the disintegration, and not only the mutterers or
head-slappers, the screamers or the too silent, who were plentiful. But perhaps those still shuffling through domestic routines, or frantic with some purpose, in what was called the war against the
climate, were incapable of fully remembering what life was like before. Back when? When was it not like
this
. When was that exactly? He often wondered if the lucky ones were those who had
known nothing more than this.
When it had gone five, he was still sat in the car, slowly sweating and sipping at his water bottle. Public information about heatstroke stayed on repeat in the local media he had playing. He
knew the health advice by heart like an old song: symptoms to watch for were quick, shallow breaths and a rapid pulse followed by dry skin, nausea, dizziness, irritability. Stay indoors, do not
move during the hottest part of day, use cold compresses, stay in the shade, sip water.
Stay, sit, sip
.
There had been no room in intensive care since June so good luck with an ambulance. With heatstroke, a coma might be only a stumble away. And a move could be a boisterous business, as was the
retreat or extraction. If there were delays or tussles, he would need to periodically check his skin and make sure the sweat never stopped leaking.
He returned his attention the house across the road.
The last time the father saw his target, Murray Bowles, the man had been returning to this address, carrying two fabric bags packed square with cartons of food. And the man had managed to remain
overweight, so he wasn’t eating only soya products, fruit and vegetables. He was probably supplementing his fare with sugary black-market victuals, and they weren’t
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