CHAPTER 63
10 years AC
‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea
‘Do you see? Once upon a time it was said that money was the root of all evil. Money was a bad thing, yes? But not as bad as the oil,’ said Valérie, his voice carrying across the still assembly of faces and bouncing off the hard metal ceiling of the compression chamber thirty feet above them. The ideal place to address them all, his voice seemed amplified in here.
‘Oil was the truly bad thing. It turned us into slaves, yes? We became lazy and greedy and selfish because of it. It allowed us to fill this world with too many people, to cover the land with endless cities, to fill the sky with poison and the sea with chemicals. You see, oil was a bounty we did not earn through hard work. It was merely found. It came to us as a free gift. A treasure we discovered in the ground. An offering from the Devil, you understand?’
They listened to him intently, all faces turned up to a gantry which served perfectly as a pulpit.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘for a hundred years mankind has lived on the back of this free gift; learning how to be the lazy man, becoming fat, forgetting how to care for himself. We became like the drug addicts, dependent on our fix of heroin. Unable to do anything other than wait for the next fix.
‘Then God made the painful decision. That the world was wrong. The Devil’s offering was poisoned and the poison had spread into our veins and infected everyone. God really had no choice, you see? We should not be angry with Him.’
Valérie dipped his head in thought for a moment.
‘When He stopped the flow of oil, the Lord knew that was to be the end for almost everyone. He knew that billions of people would starve, would turn on each other for whatever food could be scavenged. He knew that the powerful nations would fight over the places still producing oil until their fuel ran dry and they could fight no more. He knew all these things . . . and it hurt Him that He had to do these things.’
His audience considered that in silence.
‘You know, I have seen London. I have seen Paris. I have seen Brussels. I have seen Berlin. I have travelled across much of Europe. I did this in the early days. And back then we all hoped that there would be places that survived and started to rebuild things, yes? I remember that I was heartbroken by what I saw. Burning cities, bodies everywhere. Roads thick with migrating people, all starving or sick with water-borne diseases.’
‘After a few years the world did finally become quiet. Most of the dying was done. Those that were left were the ones least poisoned by the evil oil. Farmers in far-off countries, uncivilised savages who could make life on a stretch of dust. And,’ he gazed down at them, ‘people like you.’
‘It was three years ago, walking through a city empty and crumbling, nothing but the wild dogs and cats. It was night time and completely dark. It was then that God spoke to me. He said to me, “Can you hear my voice now that it is still and silent?” I said “yes”. He said, “Can you see the stars in the sky now that they are not drowned out by man’s bright lights?” I said “yes”. It was then that I realised that this . . . this crash, it was no disaster. But a new beginning. Like the flood, God was clearing away all that was wrong.’
‘Then He told me there was a special place, a place out at sea, an ark. And on this ark were good people who had survived and learned good habits and old ways. He told me these people . . .’ he gestured with his hands, ‘you people were the ones He had chosen to rebuild the world.’
The audience stirred; he heard an ‘amen’ down there amongst the upturned faces.
‘But,’ he continued, ‘you had started to make mistakes, to make the wrong decisions, to adopt old bad habits.’
He could hear some in his audience shuffle uncomfortably.
‘Yes,’ he said smiling patiently. ‘Yes, the generator and the lights. A return to the habits of the oil world. This is why I was directed here. He told me to hurry, to make my way as quickly as possible. So, that is why I came. To lead you back to the correct path. The simple existence God wants for us. Not polluted with lights after dark. Not cluttered with a million metal and plastic things that flash and make noises.’
‘Come on,’ he shook his head, ‘come on . . . do you remember how unhappy we all were? How unsatisfied we all felt? Yes?’
A chorus of voices in his audience agreed with him. Thoughtful heads nodded.
‘Children could not play outside because we did not trust one another. We all walked around in lonely little bubbles with headphones in our ears to block other people out. We could not talk to each other any more, instead we typed messages through computers. We were unhappy with the possessions we had because the television showed us people who had so much more. We were unhappy with ourselves because we did not seem to smile as much as the beautiful people we saw on the television. You understand?’
He lowered his voice, tempered with sadness. ‘That was never what God wanted for us. That was not living. It was existing, nothing more—’
A door noisily squeaked on rusting hinges and a gust of wind stole into the cavernous chamber, setting the laundry lines aflutter. Valérie turned to his right and saw a blurred bar of daylight narrowing as the door swung shut again. He heard footsteps ringing out on the metal treads of the walkway, then, out of the dimness at one end and into a pool of daylight cast from a skylight far above, stepped Jennifer Sutherland.
‘Jennifer.’ He smiled warmly.
She stared at him in silence, her eyes lost in the shadows cast by her brow.
‘Jennifer, have you finally come to join us?’
She pulled something out from beneath her cardigan. He recognised the dull metallic glint of a gun in her hands.
‘You’re a bastard,’ she hissed under her breath.
He took a step backwards. ‘Jennifer, I am very sorry about the vote this morn—’
‘Shut up!’ she snapped.
‘You are still welcome amongst us. Welcome to join—’
‘SHUT UP!’ She shouldered the shotgun.
Valérie bit his lip and nodded. Several voices called up from below. Pleading voices.
‘Jenny!’ cried Martha. ‘What’re you doing?’
The side of her face scarred with a spiderweb of knitting skin gave nothing away. The other side, unblemished, hardened as her jaw clasped; lips tightened like purse strings. The gun wavered unsteadily in her hands.
‘Jenny?’ cried Martha again, ‘please, put the gun down, love!’
‘You,’ she hissed at him. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
Valérie shook his head. ‘I do not know what—’
‘Natasha . . . and Hannah.’
‘Those poor sweet girls,’ replied Latoc. ‘They are . . . they are in a far better place now, Jennifer. They sit with our L—’
‘SHUT UP!!’
He slowly backed up another step. ‘You know it was Walter who killed them. You know that . . . but I think you cannot accept that, no?’
She racked the gun. ‘I know Walter! I know Walter. But you . . . I can see what you are now!’
Valérie smiled. ‘I am what?’
‘You’re f*cking dead,’ she whispered. The chamber echoed with the deep boom of the shotgun.