No one argued and one by one they fell asleep.
They were rudely awoken by a prod from a paddle.
‘You must be Wildflower,’ said the old man with a broad Scottish accent standing upright in the green canoe with painted crocodile teeth at the front.
He wore a waistcoat and cloth cap over his long grey hair and his long trousers were rolled up just above the knees. His face was heavily creased with age and adventure and he could twist and turn like a young ‘un.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘I’m the ferryman, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last. H speaks of no one else.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not bad, but see for yourself. Are these the guys that got you out?’
‘Yes.’
‘The canoe only holds three.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ sighed Jambit, his leg unable to carry him any further.
‘Can any of you paddle?’ asked the ferryman.
‘I can,’ said Bastian.
‘Then sit at the back and grab that paddle.’
‘I’ll come back for you,’ said Bastian to Jambit, as he continued to slip in and out of consciousness.
‘Maybe I’ll keep an eye on him,’ said the ferryman, ‘but I ain’t promising. There’s some croc meat in the middle of the canoe, help yourself. People round here eat it boiled but I like it fried.’
‘What’s the secret, ferryman, of keeping fit?’
‘You mean at my age. Always reinvent yourself and never be frightened to let go of the past.’
‘I meant your body,’ said Bastian.
‘So did I, you never heard of mind over matter? But no one escapes that fella in the black cloak carrying a scythe and he always wins hands down. You die a success and regret dying, you die a failure and regret living.’
‘When you gonna retire?’ asked Bastian.
The ferryman laughed.
‘If you’re talking about dying, like I said no one escapes.’
‘I meant in the care homes.’
‘And what kind of life do you think those folk have?’
‘Edward says it’s where dreams come too.’
‘Edward says a lot of things. You believe them all?’
‘My parents retired to Scotland not long ago.’
‘Then let me put it like this. People like being lied to, they always have, cushions them from the truth before it’s too late to escape the inevitable and what they always suspected in the darkest corners of their mind.’
The smell of the sewers was nauseating but finally there was light at the end of the tunnel.
‘Welcome to the inner zone,’ said the ferryman.
Wildflower recognised him instantly even from the back, still trying to disguise his limp. It was Holroyd and her heart jumped.
‘Thank God,’ he said, as she stepped out of the canoe onto land.
They embraced and kissed one another swiftly on the cheek.
‘Bastian, I knew you could do it. Where’s Jambit?’ asked Holroyd.
‘Resting, but he made it out.’
‘Look, we have to go to the airship now, the pilot won’t wait.’
‘I’m not coming,’ said Bastian. ‘I want to see my parents one last time in their apartment and then go back for Jambit. I can’t leave him.’
‘Then good luck. Take a lift from the cart rank and give them one of my IOU’s. Everyone has security clearance here, so you’ll be free to come and go as you please. But keep the armband on, administrators check the running of the homes.’
Holroyd grabbed Wildflower’s hand and she quickly stepped with him to the airfield. Bastian went to join the others cooling off in the fountain and wash himself.
Chapter Forty-Three
Bastian joined the end of the queue of those marching to retirement and under an archway that read ‘Where dreams come too.’ They were mainly smiling old-timers being helped by carers happy to alleviate any concerns.
‘This way as quick as you can,’ said the HCA. ‘Let’s get you out of the sun.’
‘Don’t worry about your cases, we’ll bring them to your rooms,’ said another care assistant.
Bastian wondered what it was like, how it felt to be old and enter a care home, knowing it was your final destination. Did you play along with the staff, happy to be here, yet wonder why life had moved so quickly? And reminded of your first day at school as the care assistants told you what to do as if you were a child.
‘You must be the auditor from head office,’ said the MHCA standing in his blue shorts and string vest. ‘I’m Smitt, follow me please.’
He was mid-twenties and checked his armband for the umpteenth time making sure the letters MHCA were displayed on the outside for all to see.
Bastian stepped into the golf buggy as Smitt took the wheel.
They passed a group of retirees playing water polo in one of the large outdoor swimming pools. Others were meditating on the lawns under the watchful eye of a yoga teacher. Bastian could see the front of shops, restaurants, and a hairdresser, and his worst fears were being carefully dispelled.
‘It stops those with dementia wandering too far away,’ said Smitt of the approaching wire fence.
It surrounded a small compound of three huts and a solitary militiaman raised the crossbar that ran along the gatepost. Bastian followed Smitt out of the buggy and into a long white hut surrounded by a white picket fence and orchids.
Inside, the baggage taken from new arrivals was being sorted by a group of care assistants that didn’t look up. Smitt and then Bastian stepped into a side office with a vase full of roses on the desk beside a stethoscope.
‘I cover the west side,’ said Smitt after smelling the roses.
‘How many retirees are here?’ asked Bastian.
‘Not nearly enough. I keep telling the Party to lower the retirement age to fifty-five, but they never listen to me.’
Bastian saw a notice board covered with the photographed faces of new arrivals. Some looked happy, others nervous.
‘Could I interview a couple, just to get an idea of the place?’ he asked.
‘Sure, take your pick.’
‘What about these two?’
‘Having the time of their life, but hear it from them.’
Bastian was standing with Smitt seated at the desk looking through a file just pulled from the drawer.
Bastian
