White and Other Tales of Ruin

“But it does work,” she says, pained. “More food, more medicine, more water. Times have changed since the Ruin, you know.”

“I never dreamed …” I cannot finish. I can barely comprehend the terrible truth of what I have seen. On the harbour, the bodies … I suppose I thought that they had died in some natural, acceptable way, and merely been stored or placed there. The gunshots I heard, the shouts, and the riots I had placed in a mental file marked ‘Disregard’. My own tenuous hold on reality, perverted by the Ruin, could never stoop as low as this, and so my mind precluded the possibilities that had been laid out so obviously for me to see.

“I don’t believe it,” I say. I have stopped crying, but the anguish is even deeper now that the tears have dried. “It’s just horrible.”

“I’m sorry,” Jade says suddenly, “I should have warned you.”

I smile up at her where she stands next to the tricycle, reach for her uninjured hand and feel a warm rush of relief when she returns the pressure of my grasp. That means a lot. It helps.

We turn from the terrible sight and I try to crowd the hateful images from my mind. But though I avert my eyes, my senses will not let me forget. I can still smell the unmistakable stink of death. I can almost taste it in the air. Either that, or the bitterness of my own impotence is polluting my body as well as my mind. And even as I cycle away, Jade walking beside me, I can hear the sounds from the pool of dead people. The sounds of dying, and corpses deflating. The sounds of the Ruin.

“What will happen to them?” I ask.

“They’ll be put to use,” Jade says quietly. “Things are too bad now to waste anything.”

I cannot ask what she means. I don’t wish to know.

V

We travel a further three miles that day, taking it in turns on the tricycle, before exhaustion claims us. I wait by the side of the road while Jade wanders off to find somewhere to camp, trying to find some shade under a shirt stretched across the handlebars. She is gone for nearly half an hour and I am becoming worried, but this does not stop me from falling asleep. When I wake up she is standing there, looking down at me, a strange expression on her face. Yet again I don’t know whether to be frightened or excited by this unusual, confident, aggressive woman.

We wheel the trike most of the way, but for the last few hundred paces we have to virtually carry it up the steep gradient. By the time we reach the small plateau she has chosen for our camp we are both exhausted, and sleep claims us before we can erect the shelter.

I wake up from a dream of cool water, innocent nakedness beside a waterfall, greenery and fruit growing all about. Jade is rubbing cream into my bare legs where the sun has found its way through the cotton of my trousers, which I see lying in a heap beside me. Before I am fully awake I see that curious expression in her eyes once more and her hands move quickly up to my groin.

Whatever stresses had been tempering Jade’s attitude to me earlier that day seem to have evaporated with the sun. Perhaps it was the tension of knowing what was to come, but feeling unable to tell me beforehand. Maybe the fear that we could have fallen into trouble leaving Malakki Town had distanced her from me; after all, she has been this way before. She is doing all this now as nothing more than a favour for me. Whatever the cause, she seems as happy now as she was last night.

The memories of the day, the trials of the journey thus far, the twinges from my chest cause me to remain limp, even as I watch Jade strip. But she works on me with her hand, her mouth, and soon we are making love under the astonished sky.

We drift towards sleep around midnight. I see a shooting star, but Jade says it is just another falling satellite.

PART THREE: THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS

I

“I’m older than you think,” Della said to me. “It’s as if losing my legs provided less of me to age; time can’t find me, sometimes, because I’m not whole, I’m a smaller target than most. I’m older than you think.”

I almost asked how old, but in reality I did not want to know. Her age was just another enigma which identified her, an unknown that made her even more mysterious and exotic in my eyes. She scratched her stumps as I looked around the overgrown garden. I tried to appear blase but actually felt so nervous in her presence that I could faint. She was not ashamed of her terrible wounds — seemed to display them as a badge of worldliness, sometimes — but still I hated them. It was extremely disorientating looking at the stumps of legs that should continue on down to the floor. Instead, they were cut short at the edge of the wheel chair. Sometimes, when Della scratched them all night, she drew blood. I tried to get her talking.

“So what happens now?”