Isabel Rose

   I’m sorry it’s been a few days. I’ve been in one of those what’s-the-point moods since my return and have found it difficult to shake, and even more difficult to answer. I didn’t want to burden you with the endless tirade of shit that goes on in my head, so I wallowed, feeling sorry for myself while at the same time trying to massage some heat back into my extremities.

   I went out again this morning. Still not prepared to face my own house, I went back into George’s and found a crate in the cellar. It had rotten away in places but the contents seemed to be as good as new. Inside, I found a letter addressed to me – well, to Book Girl as he would call me, though he knew my name perfectly well. There was also a treasure trove of useful items; thick steel-toed walking boots, several flasks, gloves, a thick duffle coat and more tinned food. I thought I was dreaming when I first saw it.   

   When I imagine the days immediately following the bombs, I picture utter chaos. Fear. Rioting. Looting. Every man for himself. I can’t for the life of me figure out why George – a man I barely knew beyond an awkward smile and a nod – would spend his last moments thinking about me. My family has lived in the same house all my life, and he has always been our neighbour. I barely remember his wife, and about all I remember of her passing was mum taking a few lasagne’s round. We were never overly friendly; as nasty as it sounds, he was more of an afterthought. ‘Oh, we have some extra biscuits, why don’t you take some next door?’ was about as far as it went.

   The longest conversation I’ve ever had with the man was on the day he caught me down in his bunker. I knew he never locked the door; it had to be easily accessible. I’d been lying on the settee, feet up, book glued in front of my face and was blissfully unaware of the world around me. I didn’t even hear him enter, and it was only when he smacked a rolled up newspaper against my feet that I realised he was there.

   “Get your shoes off the furniture, girl. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

   I was terrified. It seems so pathetic now, but I never was the type of girl to get into trouble; I just tried to fade away into the background. Still, Jess and her new boyfriend had been following me around wherever I tried to find a comfortable place to read, laughing, teasing and just generally being dicks. I’d had enough and I knew it would be quite some time before they thought to look for me here.

   I tried to apologise and flee, but he was having none of it. He wasn’t one for eloquence, George. He simply grunted and said that as long as I left things tidy – and kept my damn feet off the damn furniture – I was welcome to stay. That was it.

   So why had he gone to so much trouble on my behalf? It seems unthinkable. There’s a motive behind any act of kindness. Needless to say, I approached the letter with scepticism, convinced that he would ask something impossible of me, even from beyond the grave. His words went some way towards explaining his actions; I won’t share it all with you, but I learnt a lot about George and his family today.

   ‘I’m an old man. I’ve lived a full and happy life.’ He wrote. ‘That I have, quite possibly, saved the life of a bright young thing like yourself gives me the comfort and courage I need to join my dear Wilma.’

   It’s almost enough to make me feel ashamed for my cynicism... and then I remember whats outside that door, and how it got that way in the first place. I do wish that I had been a bit less self-involved when George was alive. His letter hints at a loneliness I’ve only recently begun to understand. Luckily, I have such a good friend in you, Rachael.

   I’d like to say that it was his thoughtfulness that gave me the strength to break the fugue, but it was the sudden bang from the air conditioner thing in the bunker.  I honestly thought someone was shooting out there somewhere, someone actually alive and kicking. I can’t explain the sudden welling of hope that brought out in me. I don’t like people. I’ve never liked people. Why the hell would I want one to show up now? Especially some psycho with a bloody gun? Where would someone even get a gun in England, anyway? This isn’t like America where everyone and his grandma has one tucked under the bloody bed!

   It was only when a rattling wheeze started up in the corner that I realised what it was; the air conditioner was working, but it sounded like it was on its last legs.

   Fan-fucking-tastic.

   Could I learn how to fix it? How to replace it? I managed to figure out the generator – mostly – with the instructions, maybe this is something I can do too? If not, I’m going to have to leave here a lot sooner than I had originally planned, and not only will I have to find a secure place, but I’ll have to carry a shit ton of things with me.

   I may have been pleasantly surprised to find houses still standing around me, but none of them are fit for living in. I need something sturdier; a place to make my own fortress. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea where to even start looking. One thing is sure; I’ll have to leave home.