CHAPTER 8 - POST-TRAUMATIC SHOCK

After hours of negotiating re-routed machines and blackcoat cordons, Crabdale arrived back in his street exhausted in the second watch of the night, the sky misty and orange. The trees with their amputated stumps where branches had been reminded him of the nuclear war scenes he'd once seen in a museum.

Thinking the house might be all winked out, he crept in, but all in vain. A light snapped on, a door flew open and Frothie scurried out.

“Oh, they were very pleased with the new pots and pans I got them,” she began immediately, not noticing his dishevelled state. “I’d originally gone thinking that they might have non-stick ones at the market because I’d vaguely thought I remembered seeing them somewhere, only maybe not there. They had these ones which were rather a nice shape and were half the price I’d expected, though, what I hadn’t expected at all, they had,” rising to a meaningless crescendo… “METAL HANDLES! Well of course, I might have gone to the other stall if I’d thought about it. But Esmie phoned. Actually, did she? No, I was about to phone Esmie, that’s it, because I knew I had to ask her about the pots in case she hadn’t wanted the ones I was thinking of, although she had mentioned them before when I went round to see her after her autonomic therapy session…”

Crabdale let her trundle on for another few minutes until she paused to freeze her face in a grotesque frozen mask to illustrate some stray point.

“There’s been another bomb. I just got out in time.”

Frothie looked genuinely alarmed. “Oh, how awful! I should’ve seen it on the news, only I didn’t get around to watching it. I’d vaguely wondered if I should watch it – no that’s wrong, I meant to watch it, only Esmie phoned and started asking about the little infant, because it turns out he's having trouble mewling and scrunting, which is quite common in first castes now, and before I knew it another hour had gone by."

“I’m pretty rattled, actually, pretty shaken,” Crabdale said, only just controlling a desire to yell, “I think I need some of that autonomic therapy myself.”

“So where was the bomb?” Frothie attempted to show an interest.

“In the city bowels, between the Refreshments and Retail in Stocks Green; I can’t say exactly as there were so many people rushing around and all the blackcoats were directing everybody out towards the feed route.”

“Cilla wants to go too, to the therapy sessions, by the way - to help her recover from the eating disorder that I thought might have been some kind of hangover from the last time she had sloth, or else because she’s waking up before her natural wake-up time. Speaking honestly, I think she and Esmie both need something to relieve the pressure, if you see what I mean. I meant to go myself – I was debating with myself whether to, because I had a vague feeling that it might have been on the evening I didn’t have to look after the infant…”

Crabdale crept away, with some comment intended to sound final and sleepy. Frothie’s words pursued him up the long spiral staircase to his room, her voice growing more and more plaintive in another desperate attempt to connect.