The Dead Horizon Read online

‘Goodbye, Dawn,’ Theresa said.

  Dawn raised a hand but didn’t look at her.

  Her mother set off the way they’d come.

  Scott walked into the house. ‘Are you coming inside?’ he asked Dawn. ‘You must be hungry.’

  Dawn lifted her head, her eyes dark, her mouth a straight line, and followed him.

  Scott showed her into the living room and asked if she’d like to sit. She looked at the jug of water, then at Scott.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  She grabbed the jug with two hands, lifted it and drank. Her fingernails were black, her hair matted, her hands bruised and cut. Eventually she stopped drinking and gasped for air. Water dribbled down her chin and onto the front of her baggy coat.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  She placed the jug on the table and sat on the settee. She was clearly exhausted, but there was a mistrust in her eyes that meant she would not relax with Scott in the same room, so he left.

  Returning half an hour later, he found Dawn asleep, in the same position she was in when he left, except now with her head slumped back against the chair and her eyes closed. Scott took a blanket from the back of the settee and covered her.

  Outside, the fire was still burning.

  Two

  Knocking at the door made Scott open his eyes and sit up. The room was cold, the hearth filled with ash. Dawn was asleep, one arm hanging over the edge of the settee. He checked the clock on the wall and made out the two hands pointing to somewhere close to early morning.

  More knocking.

  He’d gone months without seeing or speaking to anyone, and now there was a young woman lying asleep on his settee and someone knocking on the door.

  Scott opened it. Two men stood outside, each dressed in a long grey coat. Watchers.

  ‘Scott Beck?’

  Scott looked over at the pyre, which smouldered in the chilly early morning air.

  The taller Watcher, young but clearly the one in charge, followed Scott’s gaze. He had one blue eye and one brown eye.

  ‘It’s necessary,’ the Watcher said. ‘Not pleasant, but it’s the right thing to do.’

  The other Watcher, a short, sickly looking man, said, ‘May their souls be with God.’

  Scott focused on this Watcher and lifted an eyebrow. ‘They are not here,’ he said.

  The tall Watcher said, ‘We know.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Mathew wants you to have this.’

  Scott stared at the envelope. He knew what it was.

  The second Watcher nodded at what remained of the pyre. ‘May you gain a place in Heaven.’

  The tall Watcher seemed to be embarrassed by the other man’s religious language and moved uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

  Scott took the envelope. Something made him turn. Dawn, standing behind him, rubbed her eyes then stared coldly at the two men.

  The second Watcher’s face softened, his smile twisting as if he’d forgotten how to do it. ‘Hello,’ he said, moving to look past Scott.

  ‘Don’t,’ Scott said.

  The first Watcher appeared to register Scott’s disapproval and took a step backwards. The second Watcher didn’t.

  Dawn’s face hardened.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Scott said.

  The tall Watcher laid a hand on the other Watcher and gestured for them to leave.

  ‘Soon,’ the second Watcher said to the girl. ‘He will come for you and then you shall be truly home. Do not fear Him.’

  Scott stood directly between Dawn and the Watcher, who looked surprised at Scott’s disapproval.

  The tall Watcher held up his hands. ‘Forgive him. My friend is devout. He means well.’

  ‘Please leave.’

  The other Watcher stared into Scott’s eyes. ‘You don’t believe?’

  Scott glanced behind at Dawn.

  ‘Just go,’ he said.

  ‘No matter,’ the short Watcher said. ‘He believes in you.’

  Scott shook his head slowly. He despised their language, their unwavering, unfounded belief.

  The short Watcher raised a hand to Dawn, who glowered at him. The Watchers left, walking away in the same direction Dawn’s mother had walked the night before.

  Scott closed the door and motioned for Dawn to follow him, but she remained by the door.

  In the living room, he made a fire. The sound and smell took him back outside, to the pyre.

  After several minutes, Dawn appeared in the doorway, clasping her hands across her stomach, over her enormous coat.

  Scott turned the letter in his hand.

  Dawn walked back into the room and lay down on the settee, covering herself with the blanket.

  He walked to the large window and gazed out over Lake Buttermere. The mountains were dark blues and greys. The sun would rise fully soon.

  ‘It’s my date,’ he said. ‘They know the year now. After twelve years, I’d know.’ He looked over at Dawn, who was staring into the fire. He tapped the cream envelope against his other hand several times. If he opened it, he would no longer have to fear his date. But it would be final. He would know. He walked over to the fire and held the envelope to the flames. The edges curled and smouldered before catching light. The flames covered the envelope until he had to drop it into the fire. It folded in on itself and began to fall apart, the charred embers dropping through the spaces between the logs.

  He turned away from the fire. Dawn was sitting up, watching him burn the letter.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ he said.

  She pushed her hair, lank and greasy, back from her face and shook her head.

  ‘I’ll get you some food, anyway. It’s up to you if you eat it.’

  She didn’t do or say anything. Scott took this as a win.

  Dawn’s eyes were a dark brown, almost black, and he couldn’t get over how sad she looked.

  ‘Take no notice of what the Watchers say.’ Scott sat forward in his chair, unsure of what he was saying, or why he was saying it.

  The girl stared back at him, her mouth closed tight.

  ‘They are foolish men,’ he said, ‘who believe in fairy tales.’

  The flames from the fire were reflected in her eyes. The burning of bodies had become a way of life for Scott and he’d grown accustomed to it. But for a moment he saw it through the eyes of a young woman. He’d set fire to whole families, whole villages. The thought of entering a town or city filled him with a visceral dread that kept him well away from them. To go anywhere new meant having to take care of the bodies. It was easier to stay in the small hamlets and villages in the Lake District. Everything he needed was here: shelter, food and water. The few survivors stayed well away.

  Scott left the room, leaving Dawn to stare out of the window. She’d be with him for a while, and already he resented it. Even before the Rapture he’d preferred his own company to that of others. Now that he’d had the experience of being alone – truly alone – for months on end, the company of another person was excruciating.

  He opened the pantry. Hundreds of cans, labelled and organised. He took a can of baked beans, opened it and tipped them into a bowl. He’d made a loaf earlier that day. He took the plate into the living room and placed it on the table. It was clear Dawn wouldn’t eat while he was there, watching her, so he left.

  He hadn’t asked for her to be there and it annoyed him that she showed little thanks. He was done with other people and their needs and desires. Humanity had walked blindly into what Mathew had planned for it and he wasn’t going to fight it any longer.

  After several minutes, he heard the sounds of Dawn eating and drinking.

  Three

  The days passed and snow and ice covered the mountain tops. The lake was still, but for the ripples made by the boat and oars.

  Scott stopped rowing and the boat drifted towards the shore behind him. In the bucket next to his feet were three trout. The boat ran aground, grinding through the pebbles bef
ore stopping. He stepped out of the boat, taking the bucket with him.

  Dawn was further along the lake, sitting on the bank, wrapped up in a thick cardigan and the too-big coat. In almost a month, she’d spoken only a handful of words. And even though she must have known she wouldn’t see her mother or brother again, she was completely closed off from him.

  He’d not tried to talk to her; the silence suited him. During meals they sat together in the dining room, silent, not looking at one another. It was never uncomfortable, simply something they both preferred. At night, Scott read: the large house had an extensive library filled with all the books he’d wanted to read when he hadn’t the time. Dawn had found art equipment in one room: paints and pencils. It was easy to see how good she was and how much she must have practised. In the room she’d chosen, she had replaced the pictures and paintings of the lake and the house with her own artwork. She mostly painted landscapes, not only of Lake Buttermere, but of places she must have seen travelling with her mother. Her landscapes were always dark with menacing skies and looming clouds. There were only three paintings of people – all of her mother. The largest showed a dark figure painted from behind, her mother’s head turned to the left, the silhouette of her features painted the blue of early morning. Scott didn’t ask Dawn about her paintings but he did all he could, without saying a word, to encourage her. She had even hung a few of them along the hallway outside her room, with the suggestion they were there to dry.

  In the kitchen, using a barbecue and gas bottle he’d taken from a nearby shop, he’d set up a functioning stove. Having prepared the trout, he placed the fillets in the pan. He’d not eaten much fish before it happened, but since he’d lived beside the lake, fish had become his favourite meal. It was the ritual of catching and preparing it that added to its enjoyment and taste. The meal was also something that Dawn, even though she would never say so, clearly enjoyed.

  The sound and smell of the fish cooking brought Dawn into the kitchen where she sat at the large table, laying out a piece of paper and her pencils.

  Scott seasoned the fish, now and then glancing across at Dawn. She sat hunched over the page, her pencil moving slowly at first before bursting out in sweeping arcs. Her drawing always exhibited a confidence, a knowingness, that fascinated him. It was as if she could see the lines there already, before she made them with her pencil.

  The fish sizzled in the pan, its smell filling the kitchen.

  He poured two glasses of water and placed them on the table.

  Dawn stopped drawing momentarily and laid the table with placemats and cutlery before returning to her drawing.

  Scott shallow-fried some potatoes, with the vague notion he was making fish and chips. He wanted to ask Dawn whether she’d ever had fish and chips, the way he remembered it, wrapped in paper, the sharpness of vinegar rising from the crispy chips.

  He placed two plates on the table and doused his plate with salt and vinegar. Dawn did the same.

  As always, they ate in silence, the only sound knives and forks clinking against plates. The sound of eating had always irritated him, but in the kitchen, with Dawn, it didn’t trouble him. In fact, he welcomed it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dawn said.

  It was one of the few times she spoke to him: to thank him after a meal. It was during these moments, when she thanked him, waited for him to finish eating and took the things to wash up, when he felt the most pity for her. In these moments, she was older, losing the childishness he saw when he watched her draw. She had just over two weeks before her date. The meals he made her were about keeping her healthy, giving her nourishment. But for what? He thought about a time when she wouldn’t be there. The date and year of her death were definite and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about that. He placed his knife and fork on his plate and Dawn stood to take both plates.

  ‘Thank you,’ Scott said.

  Dawn put the plates in the sink. She covered them in hot water from the kettle. After washing and drying them and placing them in the cupboard, she sat at the table and continued drawing.

  The drawing, too, would end. All the drawings she’d never do would disappear with her.

  ‘You’re good,’ he said, his voice deep and croaky. He cleared his throat. ‘They’re really good.’

  Her hand stopped, hovering above the page. Then she continued.

  He took a can of pineapple chunks from the pantry, prepared two bowls and set one down in front of her.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t like pineapple?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Have you tried it before?’

  Dawn looked up from her drawing and eyed the bowl suspiciously. She shook her head.

  ‘It’s good,’ he said. ‘Try it.’

  As Scott was finishing his, she put down her pencil and began to scoop up the chunks of pineapple with her spoon.

  After she’d finished, Dawn carried the empty bowls to the sink.

  Then she began to cough.

  Scott noticed her face was flushed, her lips swollen. She held her throat. He looked at the opened can of pineapple on the kitchen worktop.

  ‘You’re allergic,’ he said, standing quickly.

  He reached for her but she recoiled.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘It’s an allergic reaction,’ he said again, raising his hands.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, wheezing.

  Scott backed away. ‘We need to get to a pharmacy. Have you had an allergic reaction before?’

  She shook her head and folded her arms, shivering, reaching for her throat again.

  The nearest pharmacy was twenty minutes away.

  Outside, he opened the passenger door to the 4x4 and waited for her to get in. Gasping for air, she arranged her large coat and folded her arms across her chest. He covered her in a blanket.

  ‘It’s difficult, I know, but you must keep your breathing slow. Try not to panic.’

  He ran around the front of the 4x4 and got in.

  Dawn wheezed, trying to speak. ‘Dying…’

  ‘No,’ Scott said. ‘You’re not dying.’

  Her eyes were sad again, filled with tears; she wiped them with a shaking hand.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not your time.’

  Her eyes pierced his and he couldn’t hold her stare, knowing he’d given too much away. He held the steering wheel tightly and set off.

  The roads were narrow, made even more so by the hedges left to grow across the road.

  There had been a boy in his class at school, Jimmy, who had to have some sort of injector with him. They had a lesson once on how to use it in case Jimmy ever needed help with his. Scott had listened intently because the nurse who was speaking to them said Jimmy could die without it. It was ridiculous that he could die from eating nuts. The nurse said he didn’t even need to eat one. Just being around them was enough. Scott never ate nuts after that lesson.

  With no other cars for miles, he sped along the lanes. He’d visited the pharmacy once before to stock up on basics and knew roughly where it was.

  Scott emulated the speed at which she should exhale and inhale. ‘Slowly…’

  ‘Hurts,’ she croaked, holding her throat, then her stomach.

  ‘Everything will be okay. I know where the pharmacy is. You need an injection.’

  He drove quickly through the village and came to an abrupt stop outside the pharmacy. He showed Dawn to the door he’d broken to get in the last time. Inside, it was as he’d left it.

  He sat Dawn on a chair and began searching through the drawers and cupboards.

  Dawn coughed and gasped for air.

  Scott pulled out drawers, letting them fall to the floor.

  He stopped and closed his eyes, trying to remember. Anti-something … histamine? He opened his eyes and began to read the labels of the tubes and bottles in front of him. He ran his finger along the labels until he saw it: EpiPen. The memory cam
e back to him and he clutched a handful of the tubes.

  He scattered them on the counter and held one of them closer to read the instructions.

  ‘Wait,’ Dawn said, gasping. She unfastened her coat and the thick cardigan beneath. She looked down at her stomach.

  Scott, holding an EpiPen, watched her stroke her swollen stomach.

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ he asked. ‘But you’re…’

  She cradled her stomach and nodded.

  She was fifteen. A child. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  There was nothing he could see on the EpiPen instructions about pregnancy.

  As he read the label again and again, he thought about her silence, the way she looked at him, the way she recoiled from him. She was scared of him because he was a man.

  ‘We have no choice,’ he said.

  He removed the cap from the EpiPen.

  She nodded.

  He injected her in the top of her leg through her trousers.

  It worked almost immediately. She began to breathe more easily and deeply. Her face regained colour and her hands were no longer shaking.

  He leaned against the counter and closed his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dawn said, holding her stomach.

  Four

  As usual, swirls of smog enveloped the centre of Birmingham. It was no surprise that Noah had come to Birmingham to hide from Mathew and his Watchers. There was no surveillance as far as Scott could see: no CCTV apparatus on buildings or high poles, and no drones flew above them.

  Freya reached for Scott’s hand.

  ‘Is this the one?’ Freya asked, pointing to a bar.

  ‘It’s the one I was told about.’

  He held her hand and led her down some steps into a bar next to New Street Station. It was busy. A loud, dull, thudding beat vibrated through the floor. Now the prohibition had been lifted, people had returned en masse to try the latest chemically enhanced drinks, maybe with some hope of forgetting what was happening. Scott couldn’t get used to how people appeared to carry on as if nothing had changed. It was either defiance or denial: whichever it was, most people behaved as though they hadn’t been told the date of their death.