Chapter Eleven
‘How’d you get on at the Ministry of Retirement?’ asked Bastian, stepping through the front door the day after their return.
‘You know?’ replied Jeremiah in his kitchen and serving them both a spoonful of honey layered over roasted dung beetles.
‘Mandrake saw the licence plate.’
‘Me and your mother are retiring to Scotland next week.’
‘Congratulations, then the village gets to throw a party.’
‘There’s something else you should know,’ he said before removing an insect leg caught between his teeth.
‘Don’t worry, if Mandrake gets to keep your old pots and pans, he’s welcome to them.’
‘Take a seat, Bastian.’
‘This sounds serious, Dad.’
‘Your mother’s been taking illegal medication for the last year.’
Bastian stood up.
‘I’m going, you don’t have to tell me anything.’
‘Bastian, please listen to me. Nabulus, the Party, they know.’
‘So why are you still here?’
‘Nabulus is prepared to overlook it.’
‘Let me take it from here,’ said Nabulus stepping into the kitchen from the lounge. ‘Just in case Bastian here says something he might later regret.’
‘Nabulus, what a surprise,’ said Bastian.
‘A pleasant one, I hope.’
‘Another spoon of honey?’ Jeremiah asked.
‘Thank you, I hear it’s good for one’s wellbeing,’ replied Nabulus.
‘Nature’s medicine,’ said Bastian.
‘Of course, and that’s why I’m here, Bastian, to keep nature on track.’
Bastian sat back down at the kitchen table in front of the bowl of fried crickets. He grabbed one and began to chew, savouring the rich protein flavour.
‘I told your parents that they can retire to Scotland on the next ship,’ said Nabulus pulling up a chair.
‘I heard. They deserve it,’ said Bastian.
‘Quite, but things are never quite that simple,’ said Nabulus. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I want to help to them.’
‘But?’ asked Bastian.
‘You must drop the investigation into that old fool from Freya’s Anchor, and the hanging girl.’
‘The care assistant?’
‘Not quite. She was a student at the University of Holistic Medicine who couldn’t cope with failing her final exams. Do we have an agreement?’
‘Consider the investigation closed.’
‘Good. And, Bastian, would you be kind enough to escort me to the gate?’
‘Thanks, Son,’ said Jeremiah upon Bastian’s return.
‘There was nothing to it, but what was Mum thinking?’
‘I guess she wasn’t. Forgive her, Bastian. When you get to our age you become terrified of fading away. You want some minted lamb?’
‘Sorry, Dad, I have to go. I’m meeting May at the memorial in half an hour.’
He grabbed a handful of crickets from the bowl on the table, fried in sunflower oil last night with Eliza unable to sleep.
‘Then have fun. After all, that’s what life’s about, reproduction. Everything else is just window-dressing.’
Bastian shivered.
‘Reproduction, it makes love sound so technical,’ he said.
‘Trust me, Bastian, everything to do with the body is mechanical at my age, what goes in and what goes out.’
‘Well then you’d better keep taking the honey.’
‘You think they have it in Scotland?’ asked Jeremiah, his eyes sparkling.
‘Of course, they do. It’s five-star treatment, isn’t it?’
‘You should tell your mum, she’s feeling a little down at the moment.’
‘Where is she?’
‘At church praying.’
Eliza would be in church all day and half the night before walking back alone, unafraid of the dark. The only crime was not enjoying your life with the things money never bought. And the churches were now open 24/7 like the shops had once been, although Malthus was only available during holy office hours.
Jeremiah was in the garden throwing stones at the monkeys trying to steal his bananas. But his throwing arm was weaker these days and he moved it from left to right as his brain ordered, wondering what it would be like to be mechanical with just a drop of oil on the joints to stop him rusting away. He didn’t tell Eliza that he also feared death and wished with all his heart it wasn’t inevitable, but there was no escape and it was no comfort that out of all the dead before them, none had come back. In fact, a more sobering thought, none had proven there was an afterlife. Death was final.
Chapter Twelve
Bastian and May were strolling through the gardens of a thousand flowers outside the retirement memorial surrounded by a wall of gravestones taken from cemeteries turned into farms. All manner of exotic species were growing wild and no longer were the flowerbeds barren in winter with snow and ice only to be seen on the memory cards for those losing theirs in glorious Scotland.
‘I’d love to collect them,’ said May, as she trapped a blue-winged butterfly in her cupped hands. ‘Framed in a case on my bedroom wall, they’re so pretty.’
‘Wouldn’t that be a little cruel?’ asked Bastian.
‘A lot,’ she replied, smiling.
May laughed and let the butterfly go.
‘I hope you’re not going to put me on a pedestal,’ she said. ‘I’m only flesh and blood.’
‘Then prove it and give me a kiss.’
They walked under an archway and through the short tunnel towards the memorial, a celebration of those gladly accepting it was time to move aside. There was a large circular stone facing them with a snake eating its own tail carved into the granite. Its shadow loomed over a freshly raked pebble garden. There were several such monuments in GB with the only difference the names of retirees etched onto the surrounding paving slabs beneath their cemented hand prints. Jeremiah and Eliza Dana would be next and already there was a paving stone with ‘Reserved’ written across in chalk.
May touched the snake’s eye and felt a shiver pass through her body. She didn’t tell Bastian who refused to touch any part of it. There was an old wife’s tale that said those who felt cold would have a bitter retirement, whilst those who sensed warmth would enjoy many a golden year in Scotland.
Malthus was approaching. The sun was beating down and the vicar held a parasol above his head.
‘The village’s newest couple,’ he said, bowing.
‘We’re just getting to know one another,’ said Bastian.
May pinched his arm.
‘Nonetheless, I shall have to forward your names for compatibility testing,
