Bar None Read Free

brightness and heat, and this miracle vision before me.
    I took another swig of beer, draining my glass. Smacked my lips. God, I loved beer. There was something so intensely powerful about that taste, and yet so primal, as though with each fresh mouthful I was blinking back to the early history of myself, a potential that could not even shift a speck of dust in those ancient African plains where humanity was born. Sometimes I had moments when I thought the truth of things was so very close to my lips, just a whisper away. The feeling would last forever—a second, maybe two—and then I would speak, and I always said the wrong thing. I used to wonder whether I was the only person this happened to, but sitting on that riverbank with an empty glass warming in my hand, I shifted to the side just enough to see her face. And I knew then that it was not only me. We all have the potential of truth and revelation within us. I saw the way her whole body paused, as though the world held its breath on her account, and then her hand went to her cheek, fingertips tracing the smooth skin.
    "Don't speak," I said. I knew that she heard me, though she showed no sign. "You'll never say the right thing."
    After a dozen rapid heartbeats Ashley turned and stared at me. The sun allowed us that contact now, still hot, still blazing the ground dry, but permitting us to see each other without its interrupting glare. "I had a moment, but it's gone. That's okay. I like mysteries. Can I buy you a drink?"
    I smiled and held out my glass.
    She sniffed the empty glass, closed her eyes. "Abbot."
    And there was no way I could ever fall out of love again.

Two: Old Peculier
    I am exhausted. I've had more exercise since the plagues than in the two decades preceding that catastrophe, but I am still on the wrong side of forty, and my body is far less forgiving than it once was. My legs are burning from running up and down the tower, and as I stumble down the steep path my shins feel as though they're being sliced with a blunt knife.
    I can hear the motorcycle engine above my laboured breathing. It is close, probably approaching the long, overgrown lane that leads eventually to the Manor's gravel path. Three minutes away? Two?
    Jessica appears at the Manor's rear door, gesturing with her hand. "Come on!" she shouts. I can see the Irishman behind her, face clouded by concern. There is no sign of Cordell. Probably at one of the front windows with our shotgun.
    "Coming as fast as I can!" I say. I run past the pond built into a terrace in the hillside, sent on my way by several splashes as things jump back in. The wildlife here is diverse and fascinating, and I have spent long, spring afternoons sitting by the pond drinking ale. It seems to be a good venue for my memories.
    I keep glancing at the long curving driveway that leads to the entrance between rows of old trees. We never bothered closing the cast iron gates, even though Cordell suggested it several times. Why bother? There's no one else , Jacqueline whispered. Now I wish we had listened to him. Just in case , Cordell said. Easy enough to open them if and when we do need to leave, and they're strong. They'd withstand  . . . But no one wanted to hear any more. Withstand a lorry ramming them , he said. We all remembered those final days of martial law and curfew, NBC-suited soldiers shooting any civilians who dared sneeze or hold their heads, the Prime Minister on TV telling us why he'd had to nuke London, the mass graves, the burning. And we all wanted to think that was in the past.
    As I pass into the shadow of the Manor—warm to cool, as though someone now stands between me and the sun—something appears between the huge stone gate posts. The motorbike roars, and gravel sprays behind it like heavy rain.
    I run past Jessica, offering her a smile. It does not cool her frown. "Cordell!" I shout. I know he'll be the one most likely to open fire first.
    "He's in the front room," the Irishman says. He's