They ate and drank and talked. They talked for hours. Talked about the outbreak and shared their stories of survival, talked about their lives before, and the people that mattered most to them, wondering where they were now and whether they had survived. They cried a little and laughed a lot. They talked about the future and wondered what that might hold for them now. They felt as if they had known each other all their lives.
On the second night, they slept in each other's arms until dawn when they looked outside. It was as clear as it was ever going to be.
James knew there was a small rowing boat moored at the edge of the basin near the bridge. He'd seen it when he was out scavenging and had considered using it to explore further afield.
And so, they had returned to the barge and Lisa.
Chapter 12 - Day 15 - Hockley Heath
Over the next couple of days, Lisa and Anita covered more distance than they had at any other stage of their long journey together. They made steady progress as they left Stratford and passed through a succession of small villages, encountering virtually no trouble. Wilmcote, Wootton Wawen, Preston Bagot, Lowsonford all appeared and disappeared, empty and hushed without exception.
They slipped silently under, and over, roads and railways, floated past train stations, caravan parks and pubs. The locks were way easier to manage with three: Lisa steering the boat, Anita opening and closing the locks, and James distracting, or disposing of, any infected that threatened to halt their progress. The further away they got from the town, the easier it became, until they reached a point where they were simply chugging along leafy waterways as if they didn't have a care in the world.
Some of these places were familiar to Lisa. Country pubs, where they had whiled away warm summer Sundays, sipping cider, people-watching and chatting. Villages they had strolled through hand in hand, admiring quaint cottages and picturesque gardens, while Lisa fantasised about living in a place like that, raising a family and growing old together.
It all felt so different now. Travelling on the waterways presented the locations to her from a new perspective: familiar landmarks became unfamiliar; recognisable features became unrecognisable. Add in the empty abandoned houses, deserted streets and beer gardens, and the effect was startling, that of tiny ghost towns existing in a parallel universe.
After the physical and emotional intensity of the previous 48 hours, it felt good to permit themselves to relax a little. There was time to rest, time to talk, and time to think. Lisa felt a sense of calm begin to envelop her. She was definitely getting close now. This time she was going to get there. And Neil would be waiting. She felt it as strongly as if it had already happened.
During the day, as she stood at the stern gently guiding the boat closer and closer towards its destination, she listened to Anita and James talking in soft voices at the front of the boat. Their low murmurings were interspersed with occasional chuckles, peals of laughter and then long periods of silence. She wasn't sure, but she thought they were kissing in these long quiet moments.
She pictured them, eyes closed, wrapped around each other, lost in pleasure, shutting everything else out except each other. The relationship had developed fast. But why not? The phrase "life is short" had taken on a whole new meaning since the outbreak. Basic human needs, instincts and emotions were raw and exposed - all closer to the surface somehow, now that death was walking amongst them.
Inevitably though, as she watched their new relationship blossom, her head was filled with bitter-sweet memories of her own. Everything reminded her of him. Water washing over pebbles at the side of the canal in the boat's wake, took her back to a shingled beach in Cornwall where they'd spent a long weekend earlier that summer. She'd been sitting on the beach, knees against her chest, arms wrapped around them, watching Neil skimming stones at the water's edge. It was late afternoon, and the day was cooling down. She had a blanket around her shoulders. The remains of their picnic lay around her. She was a little woozy with wine … sleepy, cosy and content. He would pick up a stone and examine it for its suitability for the task, turning it over in his hands, rubbing its curves with his fingers, brushing off dust and debris, smoothing it and polishing it. Then he would crouch, tilting his head and leaning his body to the side, one arm raised for balance, and throw. He would watch it skip across the surface. Rising and falling, once, twice, three times in long graceful arcs. When it finally sank beneath the waves, he would stand, disappointed, and then start the whole process all over again.
She could watch him like this forever, both envying him and loving him for the amount of pleasure he could get from such a simple thing. He'd always been like that. For him, life was all about the simple things. He had effortlessly perfected the art of living in the moment. Whatever he was doing, whether it was eating, reading, working with his hands, or lovemaking, he always gave it his full attention. Savouring every moment, insensible to time, making sure it was perfect, never rushing to finish.
She, on the other hand, was always thinking, always looking forward to the next thing, impatient, hurried. For her, the clock was always
