CHAPTER 54
10 years AC
‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea
Jenny looked up, shading her eyes from the sun. ‘He’s what?’
‘Evicting us,’ said William Laithwaite nodding vigorously. The bent out of shape specs on the bridge of his nose wobbled precariously. ‘He said all the rest of us who aren’t in his church have got to move off his platform this afternoon and find space on one of the other platforms. It’s not right!’
Jenny stood up slowly, emerging from amongst the fruit-laden stalks of the tomato plants. She’d been busy securing the weaker branches of the more wind-battered plants to the cane support frames with lengths of twine. She liked working up here on the roof of the accommodation module and up the steps on the helipad, particularly on such a nice day. One hundred and sixty feet above the sea, it was the highest usable surface amongst the platforms; the highest and most peaceful place to work. It took her mind away from the gnawing concerns of the world below.
‘All right, that’s enough,’ sighed Jenny wearily. ‘I’m not having this. Where’s Walter?’
William pointed down at the empty davit arms below. ‘He’s taken the yacht ashore again. Said he needed to find some more bits and pieces.’
Damn.
He seemed to be trekking ashore more and more often in the last few weeks. He kept coming up with excuses to bugger off; components he needed to source in Bracton for the generator mark II. She really could have done with him being here right now, though. He had the keys to the gun locker.
That thought stopped her in her tracks for a moment.
My God, really? I’m thinking of taking a gun with me?
She realised that’s exactly what she’d love to do. Something small and discreet tucked into the waistband of her khakis. Something she could whip out and level at him whilst she told him she’d had enough of his divisive preaching.
For a while after their last confrontation, Jenny had allowed herself to believe some sort of an uneasy status quo had been established. That Latoc would keep his prayers and sermons to the drilling rig and that the hundred or so followers he’d attracted might have reached its natural cap. But the son of a bitch had recently insisted on segregated mealtimes - one breakfast and evening meal sitting for his followers.
And what had she done about that?
Nothing.
She’d excused herself from confronting him directly about it because it hadn’t caused the disruption she’d anticipated. But also because she’d noticed the mealtimes were fast becoming a recruitment opportunity for them; every sit-down session peppered with pockets of his followers coaxing the others to come along to a meeting and listen to Valérie talk.
Then, last week, he’d decided to move across to the compression platform - against her express wishes, given that he was technically speaking still on probation. And again, she’d argued herself out of confronting him head-on because, even though it was relatively crowded over there, yes, there were still spaces on that platform. What’s more, Latoc had made a private arrangement with Hillary Glossop - one of his flock of course - to swap places. People fancied a change of scenery, or found a neighbour’s personal habits irritating, swapsies like that happened quite often. Provided both parties were happy, Jenny had no obvious excuse to refuse that, since Hillary was quite happy to change places.
But this? Evicting people from there?
‘What are you going to do?’ asked William.
I’ve had enough of this.
‘Going to talk to him,’ she sighed, pulling on her cardigan. ‘He’s gone too bloody far this time.’ She stepped across the roof and grabbed the handrails of the steps down to the module’s third floor gantry.
‘He wouldn’t listen to us!’ William called after her. ‘We told him he couldn’t just kick us out . . . that’s our home for Christ’s sake!’
Across the void between platforms she spotted the laundry group scrubbing clothes in a long trough of soapy seawater on the cooler deck of the smaller compression platform. Lines of brightly coloured clothes flapped like a coalition of national flags across the sun-bleached deck. Amongst the laundry team she spotted Sophie Yun, the eldest of four Korean sisters. Sophie had told Jenny a couple of days ago that she and her sisters were moving off the large compression platform. She’d said the prayer meetings were now becoming too noisy and they were beginning to feel unwelcome amongst all the Latoc-faithful.
Jenny shook her head as she descended a third flight of steps down to the bottom of the module and onto the platform’s main deck. She winced with a stab of pain as her taut skin pulled under the dressings.
Segregation.
This is exactly what she’d hoped to avoid, border lines developing between a notion of Them and Us. Before too long, she was sure, it was no longer going to be known as the primary compression platform, instead ‘Latoc-Land’ or ‘New Jerusalem’, or something equally ridiculous.
Jenny cursed herself for letting the man stay in the first place. Cursed herself for finding him just a little attractive and fantasising that there was a frisson there that was going to lead somewhere. Cursed herself for being such a stupid bitch.
She’d let things inch slowly Valérie’s way because his people were still dutifully attending their various work groups and getting on with what needed to be done, and the children were still attending the classes being held by Rebecca. Jenny had been prepared to let things continue because the alternative was unthinkable; two separate tribes, each living on their own platform and eyeing each other suspiciously down the length of a one hundred foot long suspended walkway.
Us and Them was not how this place was going to survive.
She crossed the main deck and stepped onto the long walkway leading to the main compression platform. At the far end she could see a cluster of his people watching her coming over. She picked out some of their faces. Denise, Alice, Laura and baby Tom in her arms, the youngest member of the community at six months old. Jenny smiled and called across a ‘good morning’ to them. Nods back. That’s all. A wary nod from each of them. They stood at the end of the walkway’s long creaking wire cage like guards at a border crossing.
Trying to appear reasonable. That was her big mistake. So far she’d realised her only strong suit was to make a big thing of appearing unfalteringly reasonable, whilst quietly hoping that Valérie’s embarrassingly Old Testament shtick was going to start unravelling and sounding ridiculous.
The old ‘give him enough rope’ strategy.
But instead, since making his bed over here, it appeared that his congregation was growing in size again; a lot more ears for him to bend. And ridiculous-sounding tales of floods and Noah’s Arks and God’s plan seemed to be exactly what people wanted to listen to in the candlelit gloom of an evening.
At the other end of the walkway, she stepped out of the cage and beamed a friendly smile at the women.
‘Where’s Valérie?’
Alice Harton’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she took a step forward. ‘Why?’
‘I need to talk to him about some accommodation issues.’
Alice made a show of giving it her consideration. Finally she shrugged and shuffled a half step back, as if she was giving Jenny permission to step on board.
‘All right. He’s up on the top deck near the scrubbers.’
Jenny’s smile was thin and utterly insincere. ‘Thank you, Alice.’
She pushed past them and used the external flight of stairs up the side of the tall compression module. Jenny realised she’d not actually seen any of those ladies for days. Not since the segregated meal sittings had started taking place.
In fact, she’d not seen Martha for several days either. Last time she’d seen her they’d passed each other on a walkway. She’d been talking animatedly with Kaisha and Hamarra, talking evangelically about the wonderful future, filling the wire cage with her sunny voice. Her face had lit up at the sight of Jenny, a genuinely friendly smile and a little wave as they passed each other. Jenny thought she saw a ghost of sadness in Martha’s eyes that she couldn’t talk her friend into joining them.
Jenny missed Martha. Really missed her.
Not for the first time, she wondered how easy it would be to do that - to join her, let Martha talk her round. She could announce she was standing down and someone else could run things. Perhaps she’d sit in on one of Valérie’s sermons. There might be comfort in that, finding faith . . . allowing herself to believe that Andy and Hannah were somewhere wonderful waiting for her, to believe she might see them again one day.
Better still, to have faith that God was looking down on Jacob and Leona, keeping them safe and well on the mainland and would one day soon lead them back home to her.
Her tired knees creaked on the second deck landing as a fresh gust of wind toyed with her cardigan and tickled the untidy tufts of her shorn hair.
Shit, that would be so easy.
She could hand the reins over to Valérie Latoc, let him organise things from now on; assign, rotate and shuffle the work schedules so that everyone was kept happy, the sleeping arrangements, the water runs, arbitrate over all the petty disputes and squabbles, make sure everyone was turning up each mealtime and getting a fair food allocation, as well as taking his turn shovelling human shit, scooping up bird poop, carrying heavy water butts from one terrace to the next, endlessly watering and nurturing their valuable crops.
Let him do all that.
She grabbed the guard rail and pulled her way to the top of the final flight of steps, stepping onto the top deck, cluttered with snaking lubeoil pipes, sump tanks and the flat-topped cooler units; a lunar landscape of blistered white paint and seam lines of rust. He was on the flat top of one of the cooler units, using it like a small stage. He was standing in the shadow of one of the towering twin vent stacks, the breeze playing with his long dark ringlets as he engaged an audience of listeners, perched amongst fat pipes, exhaust outlets and gauge panel cabinets, hanging onto his every word.
My God . . .
She realised it could be a scene from the Bible; that’s how the wily bastard was staging it. She was reminded of some old movie; a sermon on the mount, a young Robert Powell as an implausibly photogenic Jesus promising the meek that they’d inherit the whole shebang. She recognised young Edward amongst the audience, perfectly cast as the meek, smiling contentedly, perhaps even understanding some of what Latoc was saying.
So easy . . . to just give up and join them. How about it? You in?
But the scene transformed into satire as she recalled one of Andy’s favourite movies: The Life of Brian. She recalled one of the Pythons in the audience mis-hearing the phrase ‘peace-makers’, and asking what was so bloody special about the ‘cheese-makers’. Why the heck they should inherit the earth.
She looked again at Valérie Latoc and this time he didn’t look like Jesus. In fact he looked no more like a prophet than any number of orange-tanned television evangelists she’d seen on cable. No more like a prophet than any number of self-improvement gurus peddling their own brand of psychological snake oil. No more like a prophet than some oily timeshare or kitchen salesman.
‘Mr Latoc,’ she called out, her words whipped from her mouth by the stiff breeze.
Heads turned to look at her. So many familiar faces she was used to being greeted by, now distant and guarded - strangers to her.
He shaded his eyes from the sun as he turned to look at her.
‘Jennifer,’ he smiled pleasantly. ‘I presume you’ve come to discuss the sleeping plans?’
‘You’re damned right I have.’