Bar None by Tim Lebbon Read Free Book Online Page B

time when we needed them. Most of us, me included, rarely thought beyond a few days ahead.
    I have volunteered to ride Michael's motorbike. I am the most experienced, and the thought of riding alone appeals to me. The bike is something of a talisman in my mind, a physical proof of Michael's presence. It was only the night before last that he spoke to me—spoke to us all—but already I'm finding it hard to believe that he was ever here. He has caused us to move on, yet I can barely remember his face or voice. If I close my eyes it's almost there, like someone's name on the tip of your tongue, but there's nothing that quite jars the memory and makes it concrete.
    But the bike is solid, the bike is there. Its seat is worn, its tyres old and nearing the ends of their lives, and oil has spattered much of the engine and congealed. I took a rag to it earlier in an attempt to clean it off, but succeeded only in smearing the oil onto new places. It's been a long time since I looked after a bike, and this one is older than any I have ever ridden. It almost belongs in a museum. It's worth a fortune , I told Cordell that morning, and I smile yet again at his response. Gets you where you need to go, it's worth your fuckin' life . I have kick-started it several times already, and every time I take comfort in its familiar voice.
    We're ready to leave by mid-morning. Hangovers have mostly lifted now, and there's an unexpected air of excitement amongst our small group. I had expected the beginnings of our journey to be downbeat and filled with dread, but even Jacqueline is smiling, and Cordell is keeping any doubts to himself. My thoughts lie at journey's end, and I guess everyone else is thinking the same way. I'm trying to imagine Bar None, the last bar in the world, sitting aloof on a Cornish cliff overlooking the wild sea, seagulls buzzing its old slate roof, windows long-ago painted shut against bitter ocean winds, walls painted white and chimney smoking a welcome. Inside . . . I cannot see. Michael has given me nothing for that.
    I dwell little on the trip between now and then. The hundred and fifty miles of open countryside, dead towns and cities, burnt out power stations, abandoned cars, impassable roads, fields spotted with the humps of rotten cattle, rivers swollen with spring rains and bodies from the hills, and other things we cannot prepare for, or even imagine. We are not the only survivors, we know that since Michael came. I try not to think about meeting others. When I do, the outcome I envisage is never good.
    I glance down at the city, pleased to see that the skies above it are empty today. Those things have never bothered us. But they are there. Their impossible truth is something we have never had the confidence to really discuss.
    "So are we ready?" Cordell says. He's at the Manor's front door, looking out at us where we all stand on the gravel driveway. The door is open behind him, and looking inside feels like staring into the past. I can see the staircase that I will never climb again, ever. The banister already seems to have gathered a veneer of dust, and I'm sure I can make out a huge spider's web on the upstairs landing.
    "I am," Jessica says. "Never thought I'd have wanderlust, but I just want to get out of here now."
    "Yeah," the Irishman says, "this doesn't feel like our fuckin' pad anymore."
    He's right. I look at the Manor's upstairs windows and they're impenetrable.
    Jacqueline sighs, nods, then climbs into the first Range Rover and starts it up. The growl of the engine startles a flock of birds from a tree in the garden, and they loop around our heads a couple of times before disappearing over the building's roof. I imagine them following the contours of the land until they reach the tower, roost in the Manor builder's folly, ready to watch us leave and reclaim their home again.
    "We should leave the doors open," I say. I expect one or two of the others to disagree, but only the Irishman offers a