breathing beside the bed, two glasses, and a door between theirs and Gemma’s bedrooms. Thought I might see some of my folk over the next day or two, the mad old fool had said. And though he had claimed to hate people, Doug could see that this was what Peter had wanted more than anything else.
After a hearty meal of steak, fried potatoes, vegetables and great, thick chunks of garlic butter-soaked bread, the four of them made their way into Peter’s living room and sat down with a drink. Gemma went to sleep almost immediately, nestled against Peter’s arm, and the three adults — though tired — sat talking until the sun set fire to the day outside.
There was a strange atmosphere between them, a feeling that they had known each other forever and that there was not a chasm of ten years between this and their last meeting. Lucy-Anne and Peter seemed especially comfortable, finding it unnecessary to resort to reliving old times or talking about absent — or dead — family members to get by. Instead their talk was of Gemma, what she had done in her short life to date, what she wanted to do. Her prospects.
And for a while, Doug was happy to let this go. He half-closed his eyes, enjoying the sense of the brandy sweeping through his veins and setting his stiff muscles afire, listening to Peter and Lucy-Anne’s tempered voices. He found solace in their tone if not their words. He soon tried to tune out what they were saying — because none of it held true meaning any more — and enjoy instead the peace their voices conveyed, the sheer pleasantness of this unreal scene of family conviviality.
But then Gemma stirred and began to mutter in her sleep.
“Never done that before…” Lucy-Anne said idly. And she said no more.
None of them did. There was nothing to do but listen to what the little girl was saying.
“First birds were in the Jurassic period, two hundred and thirteen million years ago,” she mumbled into Peter’s side.
The old man stared down at her wide-eyed, but he did not move. Moving may have disturbed her.
“First mammals and dinosaurs in the Triassic two hundred and forty-eight million years ago, but the dinosaurs reached their peak in the Cretaceous, one hundred and forty-four million years back. First land plants in Silurian times, four hundred and thirty-eight million years ago.” She struggled slightly then, frowning, as if searching for something hidden behind whatever she had been saying. “First humans. Couple of million years ago. Pleistocene epoch.”
She sat up and opened her eyes. “Blink of an eye.”
“Gemma?” Doug whispered, but then she began to cry.
“Bright girl you’ve got here, folks.”
“Gemma? Honey?”
Gemma’s face crumpled as sleep left her behind. Tears formed in her eyes, her nose wrinkled. “Dad,” she said. “Mum…” Then the tears came in earnest and Doug darted across the room, lifted his daughter from Peter’s side, hugged her close to him.
“Gemma, what’s wrong babe?” Lucy-Anne said. Her voice betrayed none of Doug’s concern or confusion. Hadn’t she heard what Gemma was saying? Hadn’t it registered?
“Got a headache,” she sniffled into Doug’s shoulder. “And I need to pee.”
“Here.” Lucy-Anne took Gemma and carried her from the room, and seconds later the two men heard her footsteps on the bare timber risers.
Doug was breathing heavily. Something about the last minute had scared him badly, some facet of Gemma’s sleep-talking sat all wrong with what was happening, what they were going through.
“Well, I bought her a dinosaur book,” he said. “All kids like dinosaurs, but I’m sure… well, that was pretty detailed.”
“Like I said, bright girl.”
“We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” Doug said. “You, me, Lucy-Anne… Gemma.”
“Of course,” Peter nodded. “Nothing we can do about it. But we have some time, don’t know how much but there’s some. How about we make it the best we can?” He smiled and poured Doug another drink. “Here. Been saving this for a special day.”
“End of the world?”
The old man surprised him by laughing out loud. “The end of the world. Hell yes, why not? Might as well enjoy it before those damn little robots get their grubby mitts on it.”
The two men drank to that.
“Sun’s coming up,” Doug said after a couple of minutes. “Today will be the day, I reckon.”
“We’ll go for a walk,” Peter said suddenly. “I have a large estate, you know. A herd of deer, a lake, and a walk up into the mountains that you’d kill for. It’ll be wondrous. I’ll do a lunch for us. I bake my own bread, you’ll faint with delight when you taste it, it’s simply heavenly. And I’ll even take a few bottle of wine I’ve been-“
“Saving for a suitable occasion?”
Peter nodded. “Absolutely. A suitable occasion. You’ll see, we’ll have a fine day. We’ll watch the sunset from the mountains. And if it’s not the sunset we get to see… well, we’ll watch the other from up there. I imagine from what I’ve heard about it, it will be quite a sight.”
“Reality being unmade before our eyes. All matter unstitched. Quite a sight, yes.”
“Ah, yes.” Peter sat back in his huge chair and steepled his fingers, peering between the arches.
Doug wondered what he saw. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I suppose I am. Not the circumstances, mind. Just… well, having you here.”
“I thought you didn’t like people.”
Peter looked surprised for a moment, then lowered his eyes slightly. It was the only time Doug ever saw a hint of humility or shame in the old man. “Well, generally maybe… but it’s different. You’re my folk. And as I said, I knew some of my folk would turn up here sooner or later.”
He raised his glass, and the new sunlight streaming through the windows set the liquid aflame.
Before they left the house Peter found Doug in the downstairs bathroom, trying to contact someone on his mobile phone. They’d already tried the TV that morning… a blank screen and an endless repetition
“Selling your shares?” The old man smiled.
Doug could only stare at him for a few seconds, trying to see whatever was behind the joke. “Well actually, I have a couple of friends living in Newcastle. I thought I’d… try them. See if they’re still there.”
“Any reply?”
“No. No, none. Line must be down, or maybe they’re working on it. Or something.”
Peter stared back, chewing his bottom lip for a few seconds, obviously turning something over in his mind before he said it. Then he put his hands on Doug’s shoulders and drew him close, so close that their noses were almost touching. When he spoke, Doug smelled Brandy and tobacco. It was a sweet smell, lively, not at all unpleasant. It inspired a surprising nostalgia for his long-dead grandfather.
“Doug,” the old man said, “let it go. We’ll likely be dead before sunset, all of us, and there’s absolutely nothing you, me or anyone can do about it. And the crazy thing is… it doesn’t matter.”
“How do you figure that?” Doug said, anger rising like the sun in his chest. “Why doesn’t it matter that my wife and my daughter are about to die?”
“Everyone is going to die. Everything is being ruined. Within a day or two, there will be nothing left of the surface of this planet, just a sea of mindless, voracious mini-robots. Nothing animal, mineral, metal. And when there’s nothing left for them to destroy, I guess they start to take each other apart, reconstruct, take apart again. Everything will be pointless, forgotten, and the only physical thing left of humanity will be a few space probes wandering the stars and a century’s worth of radio and TV transmissions winging their way into deep space. Nobody to grieve, nobody to remember, nobody to miss us. It will be like we’ve never even existed. Nothing… will… matter.”
He squeezed Doug’s shoulders as if trying to knead the truth into his unwilling muscles.
Doug stepped to the window, pulled the net curtain aside and stared out at the rising sun. It seemed bigger than usual, redder, and as he glanced away he retained its image on his retinas. Looking at the hillsides, the forests and the sloping moorland leading up into the mountains, the sun’s red after-image touched them all.
