Helen’s earliest memories of living in that lonely end-of-terrace, red-brick house, in that forlorn neighbourhood, was vegging out on the warm grey rug in her bedroom, writing her journal. Brown study. She would occasionally hear Emma chat on the phone in the next room, talking about school. And she would hear Martin, talking to a recruit somewhere in Europe from the basement. The exclusive secret space built for the family. And she would feel safe, imagining the things that went under the hood to maintain this level of normalcy.
It could be rain, snow, sleet, and endless yellow warnings outside. But she would be cosy in her mind, cook an easy out-of-the jar dinner, indulging in an occasional after-dinner coffee.
But the apocalypse changed that. The missiles. The spies. The Belugas. ‘Funny you bring that up, Dom’ Martin smiled, when Dom mentioned the Beluga. It was the gentlest smile hiding that steel interior, thinly covered by those wise wrinkles, like a hint of a sun ray in the perpetual mist.
Dom imagined what her own dull evenings would be like. Similar to the ones Helen wrote about in her journal. Only perched on top of that ridiculous hill, as she had mentioned somewhere before, I’m sure. Not used to city living. Finding people or more than two people (more specifically) a perpetual bother. But everything has changed now.
Emma has gone to Edinburgh. Martin sees her rarely. Very rarely. Damayinti is always a call away. But she has to drive from the north-west to the south-east, on M1. After exhausting 5 playlists and pulling over for 4 bio breaks. Not easy.
Helen had been on these journeys with her. Many times. Going to meet Jo at Fishguard, travelling to Dom’s for the summer huddle at Needle Rock…plenty of memories before the zombie apocalypse.
‘Do you think the world will end soon?’ Dom had asked the ever-wise Helen. ‘No, it will go on just fine. We will cease…so what?’ Helen had replied. Truer words were never spoken.
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