We Float Upon a Painted Sea

2066. 9 months earlier

The following day Bull climbed to the summit of the Necropolis and stopped at the bench where he and Saffron would sit and talk. He lit a cigarette and stared over the city. His gaze centred to the east where military drones circled a tower block which was engulfed in flames. The flashing blue lights of emergency vehicles flickered in the urban expanse and public alert sirens sounded all around him. A distant scream sent a shiver down his spine. He wondered if it was a fox or someone in distress. He stretched out his hand and touched the rough, weathered wood of the bench. A magpie hopped out from behind a tombstone. He saluted the bird. Seeing it felt like reacquainting with an old friend. Like him, it was alone. He remembered the time when he watched Saffron holding onto the bench, facing the city, her hair blowing in the wind. He remembered thinking she was the embodiment of everything he felt was perfect in a woman. He considered her feminine compassion, her respect for life, her passion for the planet and the strength and resolve she showed against injustice. He missed her peculiar sense of humour, her silly quips and nonsensical stories. He began to feel foolish. He conjured up the pathetic image in his mind where he was Greyfriar’s Bobby, the Skye terrier who spent year after year pining for his master and guarding his grave until the end of his days.

He drew deeply on his cigarette and leaned back. He examined a wasp stripping a few layers of wood from the bench. He pondered on the point of wasps. They contributed little or nothing to the world and most thought of them as parasites. To him they were merely an annoyance. During late summer they would get drunk on fermenting fruit and subsequently launch unprovoked attacks on people, he thought. And then Bull reflected, if Saffron had been present she would have laughed at his hyperbole and point out the irony of his statement, considering the same criticisms could be laid at the feet of mankind. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of an explosion and then gunfire. A petrol station on the Gallowgate was engulfed in flames. It was getting dark and the curfew would soon be in place. It was time to go home.

Walking down Cathedral Street he heard further explosions and gunfire from the east. He picked up the pace. When he arrived at Queen Street station he found it closed. The city streets were unsettlingly empty. George Square was littered with discarded protest signs and overturned crowd control barriers. On his walk home, Great Western Road was blocked off by a police checkpoint. A twitchy police officer holding an assault rifle asked Bull to identify himself. Bull lifted his arm and paraded his shackle. After a brief examination he was waved through. He continued his walk until he reached the St Mungo’s brew shack. He pressed the buzzer but it was closed. Across the road he noticed a soup wagon. Waiting for his order he heard a young woman’s voice from behind.

“Faerrleah, is that you Faerrleah? It’s me.” Bull’s heart stopped and his guts churned. In the gloom his eyes tried to focus on the approaching form. Aisha stepped out of the shadow and said, “It’s Aisha. Saffron’s friend? Don’t you remember me? We met in George Square before setting off for the anti-vivisection protest in Ayrshire. You spilt ketchup on my sandals.” She kissed him on the cheek. Bull said,

“I think you might have got your revenge when you repainted my narrowboat.” Aisha laughed,

“All Saffron’s idea, Faerrleah. She gets the credit. Hey, I was gutted to hear about you and Saffron breaking up. You two made a lovely couple. She wouldn’t say why things ended and I didn’t want to ask. So what are you doing with yourself?” Bull feigned a smile.

“Oh, drinking myself to death, watching Swedish movies, playing Solitaire. You know the usual stuff.”

“Great.”

“I thought you were in Venice?”

“Rome actually. It’s heavy. Most of the protest groups had been infiltrated by filters and the police were giving it laldy to every covenanter on the streets. I had to come home and what do I find?” Bull’s face contorted in confusion, and then he said, “More laldy?”

“You guessed it, loads more laldy. I barely got out of Rome with my life and the journey home, particularly getting through this country’s border control was an ordeal in itself.”

“Its time to leave the cities, they’re not safe.” Aisha reached up and put both hands on Bull’s shoulders. Bull took the opportunity to smell her. Her odour was different, not natural like Saffron’s. It was masked by a strong perfume or deodorant, but not something he was familiar with. Not mentioning his indiscretion, she said,

“Ye can’t run from it you big fud. The whole world has gone mad. Folk have lost their livelihoods. They’re being flooded out their homes, they’re starving and they’ve had enough. Not everyone has the luxury of just upping sticks and moving to pastures new.” Aisha smiled and then said, “You’ll be alright in your narrowboat. You don’t care if the electrics go off. You generate your own energy, collect and filter your own water. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m selling the Wagamamma mafia, Aisha. I’m moving away.” Aisha grinned and said,

“You mean the Wangari Muta Maathai. That’s a shame. Look, have you heard from Saffron since she left?” Bull shook his head. Aisha continued, “I’m worried about her. If you do hear from her, would you let me know? I’ve pinged your shackle so you have my contact details in case you need a wee chat. Maybe I’ll come round sometime and say goodbye properly, before you go? Saffron always said what a great cook you were.” Bull smiled thinly and then said,

“Cushdy.” Aisha hugged him and then left. Bull stood like an immoveable piece of urban sculpture until the sound of a police siren brought him out of his trance.

The following day Bull took a train to Manchester. He found his father in the Squealing Pig, playing a game of Muggins with three old-timers. Deirdre was living up to her reputation as a precocious harridan, scolding the men for their belligerent behaviour and general immaturity. Later she gave Bull an anecdotal account of the argument between their father and Patrick, when it was suggested he should vacate the family home. She said,

“The last flood damaged the foundations. The house is worthless. The insurance company said it was pointless carrying out any repairs. Dad won’t even have the interior redecorated. He says he likes it the way it is but I know the real reason. It reminds him of Mam.” Bull offered no verbal response. Deirdre continued, “Patrick says it’s not healthy. It’s as if he’s living in a museum dedicated to a memory.” Deirdre stopped and slapped Bull on the shoulder,

“Are you listening?” Nonchalantly, Bull turned his head and said,

“How is Patrick?”

“He’s coping. His decree nisi came through. I can’t remember the exact date of the divorce, but he’s a bit clearer in his mind now he knows what’s going on but you know Patrick, you never know what he’s thinking.” Patrick could finally empathise with my own misery, thought Bull. At last they had something in common. Deirdre continued, “Anyway, it’s been nearly thirty years now. Dad needs to move on and it starts with the house. What do you think Faerrleah?” Bull was lost in his own thoughts.

“What did you say? He said, “I was watching the game of dominoes over there, looks like Dad’s going to punch someone.” After a sharp intake of breath Deirdre said,

“Leave it out soft lad, you were thinking about her. Saffron. I can tell. You have that doleful, pathetic look on your face again. Like a drowning kitten in a bag. There are more important things going on in life Faerrleah, but you’re too busy staring at your feet to notice. You’ve got to snap out of this melancholic hole you’ve dug yourself into or life is going to pass you by. Others need you, like Dad, Patrick and me, so give your head a wobble. She’s gone Faerrleah and all the mourning and drinking in the world won’t change a thing. It’s like when Mam died, it was hard at first we had to get on with things. I’m sorry if I sound heartless, but it’s the way I see it.”

Their father joined them at the table. He sat down, tasted his beer and pointed at Bull. He said,

“What’s up with him?”

“Since he broke up with Saffron, he’s been in a right mingin mood. Acting like a soppy martyr” Before he returned to his game of Muggins, Bull’s father took a gulp of beer from his glass and offered an anecdote concerning the plight of the Tolpuddle Martyrs and their fight for a trade union. Clutching a silver chain around his neck Bull whispered to Deirdre,

“All I have to remember Mam by is this medallion of Saint Jude. When she gave it to me, she said he was the patron saint of lost causes. I know what she means now.” Deirdre sighed and turned her head away towards her father and the old men arguing over their game of dominoes. Raised voices came from the far side of the bar. A fight was breaking out.

“At least you have a job, a roof over your head and food on your table. It’s more than some folk have. You still working in Lapland, building igloos or something?”

“Svalbard actually, but you need snow to make an igloo Deirdre.”

“I know Faerrleah. Where’s that famous sense of humour gone?”

“I’d rather not talk about work.”

“So as usual, it’s a secret.” Deirdre beat Bull to his standard response, “It’s complicated. If I told you, I would have to kill you.” Bull drew his finger across his neck. With a weak smile he said,

“I’m considering a job opportunity. A wave energy converter project in St Kilda, the Outer Hebrides and then some. I’ve said too much. I will have to kill you now.”

“I thought you always hated water?”

“I don’t know where you get that idea from.”

“I remember you screaming when Dad threw you into a rock pool. You said you had nearly drowned the last time we were at the beach. You said you had been cut off by the tide, but you were talking shite, because it was the first time the old man had ever taken us to the beach. We wondered if you had been reincarnated but decided you were just a big queer hawk, as Mam would say.” Bull raised his exasperated eyes to the ceiling.

“You don’t need to bring childhood stories up every time we meet up. It’s embarrassing. Anyway, you were too young to remember. You’re just listening to Patrick’s version of events.”

“Do you get to claim you’re saving the planet? Is this job a ruse to impress Saffron and win her back?” said Deirdre in a teasing voice.

“I wouldn’t be saving anything. It’s more to do with a career in marine technology. And I won’t be anywhere near a rock pool, so don’t fret. I just need a change of scenery.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me. Are you in trouble?”

“No, I just need to get my head together. I’ll stop off soon. I just need to pick up my birth certificate and a few documents.” Bull’s father returned to the table. In an unusually austere tone, he said,

“What documents?”

“The audiologists report on whether your cochlear implants are working effectively, but they seem to be fine, right Dad?” Bull’s father turned to Deirdre and said,

“What’s he chattering on about love?” Deirdre huffed,

“He’s talking about your hearing dad. Don’t mind him, he’s just in a foul mood.”

“Tell him to go shave and take a bath, he looks dead on his arse. What’s he doing here anyway?” Deirdre turned to her brother and said in a loud voice,

“He wants to know why you are here…” Bull finished his drink and stood up to leave. He said,

“I know what he said Deirdre. I’m not the one with the hearing aid.” Deirdre took her brother’s hand as he moved towards the brew shack’s door and said,

“Faerrleah, she isn’t worth this, no one is.”

It was getting dark as Bull left the Squealing Pig. Walking along Adelphi Street he saw several young boys, their faces partly concealed by their oilskin hoods. Some of them walked while the others rode scooters. One of the boys took out a knife and as he passed Bull, scored a deep gash along the side of a burnt out police transporter. Since the Change many symbols of authority were being targeted by a new wave of disaffected youth trapped in spiralling poverty, with few opportunities in life other than becoming wage slaves for the corporations. He didn’t condone their methods but he could understand their anger and sense of grievance. To them, the police were defenders of an inequitable system, designed to maintain the current class structure, and keeping them languishing in the most abject position in society. Accordingly, in their minds, the police were an integral part of a partisan state and viable targets. They had given up policing the inner cities, they were declared no go zones.

Bull wondered how civilisation had arrived at this impasse. As Saffron was fond of saying, capitalism could offer no solution to climate change. When the first floods came, they arrived with such ferocity and destruction even the climate scientists, who had predicted them, were taken by surprise. Tidal surges and landslides wiped out homes, sources of employment and arable land. People started to move. Across borders, sometimes across seas in whatever would float. Border security could not halt their progress. The United Kingdom shut the Channel Tunnel but still they came, crammed into boats, crossing the Straits of Dover and dodging the freight vessels in the world’s busiest shipping lane. A siege mentality gripped the nation.

General strikes were followed by long summers of social unrest. The young, the old and the sick were always first to suffer as a result of the gluttonous excesses of the wealthy and they blamed them for the complacency shown towards the planet. The first riots started in mainland Europe and Central America. The corporate controlled Media compared the disorder to the spread of a disease. Soon it was pandemic. A symptomatic reflex to the fear and panic gripping the world. A Ministry of Food was established and Governments diverted more funding to build inadequate sea defences, but it was too late. A state of emergency was declared in, not only the UK, but many countries throughout the world. Soldiers were now a common sight on city streets. Bull, like others, had ignored the Change, it was something you watched unfold on a documentary or a news bulletin. Now it was at his doorstep. The world was shrinking and it seemed so real.

Bull watched as a large gang crossed the footbridge over the river and converged with the hooded youths. Bull could see the flashing blue lights of a police drone hovering above the tower blocks towards Broughton Bridge. It appeared to be struggling to maintain its balance, and then it completely lost control. The malfunctioning drone plummeted from the sky and crashed into a row of derelict terraced houses, sending a ball of flame into the sky. The gang of hooded youths ran towards the crash site, no doubt eager to get their hands on some of the drone’s graphene components to sell for scrap, thought Bull.

Coming close to the family home, he could hear the roar of the swollen river Irwell in advance of seeing it. As long as he could remember there was always an orange tint to the water. Old mines collapsing upstream after heavy rains were to blame, polluting the river with iron oxide. Today was no exception. Bull entered the family home and spent an hour searching for his documents. Later, he walked back to Victoria train station empty handed.