The Last Englishman and the Bubble

The Last Englishman

and the Bubble

By Simon Poore

Copyright 2013 Simon Poore

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Fragment 201b

Fragment 407s

Fragment 201c

Fragment 102(8)

Fragment 201d

Fragment 72

Fragment 201e

Fragment 407c

Fragment 204a

Fragment 017g

Fragment 017h

Fragment 337i

Fragment 417f

Fragment 407d

Fragment 206s

Fragment 206t

Fragment 207j

Fragment 407g

Fragment 017h

Fragment 47a

Fragment 48b

Fragment 49k

Fragment 407x

Fragment 51b

Fragment 201w

End of Translation

About the Author

The Last Englishman

and the Bubble

Fragment 201b: memory device 'blue beta' -

Recovered from site beta - memory extraction judged good but partial.

'Translation' advises this is probably the very first chronological fragment. Although exact sequence is hard to verify, it appears to begin narrative sequence and structure. Exact nature of narrative is under much scrutiny and debate, although subject appears to have had knowledge of event/events. Further study/verification required.

So. Here I am. Actually bloody writing this thing. Is this just a distraction? I guess it's just a relief that I finally managed to get it working. Electricity eluded me for a long time. Its ghostly wires and electrons whizzing. Invisible sparks of death. Blue wires and brown wires and yellow and green wires. They never struck me as the most obvious of warning colours. The generator is banging against the wall. I built a little three foot wooden shed against the side of the building to house it, but it's too small. Such a crappy nailed together construction. My DIY isn't great. I got galvanised nails so they don't rust but now I am not so sure why I bothered. Most of the nails are bent backwards; wobbly like one or two of my teeth. Scared of the hammer crushing my fingers. The generator isn't set straight and it's vibrating against the wooden slats of the wall. Thud, thud, thud. That's obviously going to do my head in. Another job on the list. Lists, lists, I honestly don't know why I bother.

The wind is getting up; I can hear the waves crashing hard on the shingle outside. I like the sound. Comforting.

I finally managed to get three laptops working and I have back up memory drives. Lots of them. At least I think that's what they are meant to do. Never been very good with computers either. Their intricacies confuse; they are billed as 'user-friendly' but they so often frustrate. Not always such a practical man, especially now I need to be. I did think about making some kind of video diary, but that seems too complicated and the thought of having to look at my dried up wizened old face on the screen every day repels me. I am a different man. If I do write this, then I need to preserve it; saved somehow, so it doesn't die when, inevitably, the electricity dies. And I die. I need a printer.

Anyway, now I have managed to get a computer to work I need to think about what I am going to type. I haven't really written anything since I was at university. A dissertation is a different ball game. It has rules and structure. It is a game of two halves; start, middle and end. Maybe that's three halves? Nothing like this. How will this end? I don't know. I guess this is just a distraction. I guess I foolishly think that someone might find this writing. Someone might find it after I die.

Fuck I hate thinking about death. Death has been on my mind since I got here. The thought of it constantly creeps in. Death and life. Trying to survive. Trying to live and all I can think about dying. I try not to. I try not to think about Sammie dying but always do. I dream of it. Her wet shiny eyes in that moment. Can't help it. Is this my death note? Will my final words be here? The condemned man's last words for no one to read. What a cliché.

I cut my hand yesterday when I was siphoning petrol into the Land Rover. Standing there shaking and swearing, like some jerking incoherent tramp. My thumb and the fleshy ball of my hand jammed under the manhole lid. Squashed. There was plenty of blood and it hurt like fuck. I am so scared of infection. It's why I can't even hammer a nail in like a real person. Stinging smelly diesel got into the wound. I hope it will be ok. Washed and dressed it when I got back to the shack. It still throbs and I am paranoid about it. There is no one here to look after me and make sure I am ok. There is no one here.

I think I have been here for three years. Well, I think three summers and three winters. The first bit is mostly a blur, and obviously I didn't count the days. I was in shock. I tried to count again for a while but kind of gave up on that pretty quick. Couldn't see the point. Where are you supposed to start? Now I seem to just measure the passing of the seasons, like some kind of prehistoric man or something. Like a painter you become more aware of the colours of nature; leaves take on a new significance. Their hue indicators of the passage of time. Natural clocks. I look at the sky and watch the weather. Now, for instance, it is autumn, I can feel a chill beginning when I walk the beach in the mornings. The sky seems sharper, it has an edge to it, the blue is deeper for longer. The harshness and dark time of winter is coming. I think I have stocked up well this year so I don't have to go too far for a while. Hopefully.

I live in a rundown shack on the beach. Been here for maybe more than a year. I settled here to watch the sea. Endless hours scanning the dull north sea for boats or ships. Or just something. The horizon shifting before my tired eyes. On warm summer nights I even slept on the roof, a woolly tartan blanket as my friend, the stones churning in the cement mixer surf. Occasionally waking to scan the dark summer seas for lights. Nothing. Always nothingness. My life is being and nothingness. Although I can’t just be in the moment; I guess Jean-Paul Sartre was wrong. My only company swooping seagulls.

*****

It's now about two hours later maybe. My typing was interrupted because the generator went off suddenly. Must have lost the writing I didn’t save. I thought this generator would be reliable and was cursing it when I heard a scrabbling and scratching outside. I was scared. I am so often scared.

I took the shotgun and tucked the first knife I could grab quickly into my belt before going outside to look. It's a bright day; so glad it wasn't night. I crept round the back of the shack with gun raised. There was a dog. A Labrador. What should have been a shiny sleek yellow Labrador. Or at least the kind of dog that people loved; the typical family pet they took for walks and the kids hugged and teased. Instead this one was thin, scraggy and dirty. Mangy even. It had its muzzle shoved in a gap between the planks. Pulling at the cable from the generator with its teeth. Fucking thing.

It smelled me or something, sensing my presence, stopped and looked up at me. For a moment I felt it recognised what I was, as if it realised it was supposed to be 'man's best friend'. I felt I could see recollection in its eyes. Then it turned. Recognition turned to fear, fear to aggression. Its instinct. Yellow teeth bared, it let loose a low growl; muscles taut in readiness, neck stretching like one of Cerberus' heads looking for a cheap kill. I stepped forward, gritting and baring my teeth too. I held the shotgun to my waist like something from a western film and quickly fired both shots. Thin blue acrid smoke from the barrels. Gun smoke.

Shot pellets had studded the dog all over, mainly in its face. A myriad of little black sooty indents in its thin flesh. It yelped and spun and rocked; falling fast on its side. One of its eyes was gone. A bloody, splattered socket now unseeing. I patted my belt and pockets furiously; fingers scrabbling for more cartridges. There weren't any. The dog started to whine horrendously and try to scramble to its feet. I stepped closer, dropping the shotgun. It was on three legs now, backing away slowly like Bambi learning to walk. All wobbly and pathetic. I took out the knife. I have a lot of knives; hunting knives and suchlike but this was a short kitchen knife. Very sharp but clearly not the ideal knife for the job.

The dog bared its teeth again, snarling a mealy pathetic growl. Its one remaining beady eye on me. I gripped the knife hard, bandaged throbbing thumb trying to hold it tight. My hand was shaking. Couldn't get close enough. So scared it would bite me. A dog bite would be bad. Very bad. They might even have rabies, who knows? I've always run from any dogs. I saw big packs of them in London, fighting each other and ripping into any carcass they could find, or even into each other; the desperation of the hungry.

I had no choice. I kicked it as hard as I possibly could. Sturdy walking boot connecting with its teeth and face. It hurt my foot but knocked the stricken dog sideways. In that moment I stood on its neck, pressing as hard as I could with the sole of my boot. Then I stuck the knife in. It was hard. Sinew and bone bending the blade as I shoved it again and again into the back of its neck. The dog shook. I shook. I stamped my foot on its neck once more and then stumbled back. The dog whimpered pathetically, blood and spittle seeping over its outstretched tongue. Its eyes weeping. Weeping blood and jelly brain.

I wept too. The poor dog shuddered its last breath weakly out into the clear air. Its last bit of consciousness escaping. A feeble heart rending whine and it was gone. I could feel it go.

It's not the first time I have killed since being here. I hate it so. It's just one more morbid reminder of mortality. I don't think I am cut out for killing. Or for dying. I guess that's why I am still here.

Why did I write about that? Killing that dog? That pathetic Labrador, once somebody's beloved family pet? It was just trying to survive, just like me. But I had to kill it. Where there is one dog there are probably more. It had done quite well to survive so long, alone, with no pack. I took the carcass down the beach road in the back of the Land Rover. I did think about eating it; they used to eat dog in Asia. Makes me think of Chinese takeaway. Thai dog curry would be good, but I am no chef. I have eaten worse, but right now I am not that desperate. Instead I dumped it in a field about five miles away. Don't want to attract scavengers. I dowsed the bloodied ground where it had died outside the shack with diesel, and set fire to it. The last thing I need is more dogs sniffing around.

So why exactly did I write about any of that? I don't know really. Still don't know why I am writing any of this at all. Why I have gone to all this effort? I guess I wrote about that poor dog because it happened. If anyone ever finds this and reads it then they will know what it was actually like for me, alone here. Maybe someone will come here from another country. I imagine some future historians studying the writings of the last Englishman. Me. Fanciful idea I know. Will they know from this what it was really like? Of course this is bollocks. I guess I just hope that if I do die alone here, then maybe someone might find this and know that maybe it wasn't all for nothing. If there is anyone...

*****

If anyone does find this stupid journal I guess I had better say who I am. My name is Kris Astley. Not that names mean much without anyone else to utter them. I am either thirty eight or thirty nine years old, I think. Having lost track of time I don't know. Fancy not knowing how old you are? Did ancient people count their years? For them, a few thousand years ago, I would be an old man. Now I often wonder how many years I have left. I won't be able to look after myself forever. Don't like to think about it but can't help it. My Dad made it to his eighties, bless him. My parents were older when they had us, my sister and I. So when Dad went I felt a bit cheated. Cheated out of the years we couldn't have. Cheated but relieved too. He was losing it and needed looking after when he went. He was lucky. He went surrounded by people. He was loved. Now I feel cheated again. I don't want go alone.

So, back to who I am. Or was. Until I found myself marooned here (is it possible to be 'marooned' in a whole country?), I had a life. A real life. I worked in a museum in my previous incarnation. Just an ordinary provincial museum. I had studied history and it seemed a natural move. Storing and restoring artefacts. Explaining things to school kids. It seems like another age now. The 'Pre-Stone' age; now I live beyond the age of civilisations. The world is reverting now. Reverting back to stone. Funny how I still have that sensibility. The historian. Comparing myself to Neolithic people, like time has gone backwards. Stupid really. They would have been much more capable than me. I bet they wouldn't have cried at killing a dog. Maybe this writing is my history.

What is my history? Well, I never married, but I loved. I never had children, but I loved. I don't want to think about that now. So many regrets. Oh God, I wish I could see Sammie again. See her for real, not just in my fitful grasping dreams. But even if I wasn't here that couldn't happen.

*****

It's the next day now and I feel a bit brighter. Killing the dog shook me up, understandably. I woke early today, before the sun was up. Lit the kerosene lamps and the wood burner; oily smoke smell of morning filled the shack. I might grumble but right now but I do have some home comforts here. Last week I found some sealed ground coffee in the back of an articulated lorry. The trailer was upturned in a big drainage ditch by the side of the dual carriageway, so I hadn't spotted it before. It's so unusual to see crashed vehicles. Puzzling it was there. A supermarket lorry too, a treat, lots of goodies in there. Tinned goods, my staple. Dried rice and pasta. A whole host of things. But it was the coffee that made me smile. I had to rip the seal, breath in that heady aroma as I stood there on the verge. Saliva flooding my mouth at the thought of the caffeine taste. Haven't had that in so long.

This morning I brewed the coffee and sat on the roof with my chipped tin mug and binoculars. I watched the golden orange sun rise slowly over the sea. The ozone of the chilly morning sea air in my lungs. The coffee did indeed taste so good. Just like the adverts used to promise. I even rewarded myself with a cigarette. Who cares about smoking if you are going to die anyway?

I love smoking now. Even more than I did before. A deep drag in the clean sea air makes you feel alive. A certain buzz to it. Funny though, I don't feel addicted anymore, I have been for months without. The scary part is I love drinking too. The first hit of burning spirit on the throat seems to relax the shoulders; tensions sucked out as the drink is sucked in. I need to control this. Too many days lying about fucked, with the finest malt whisky as my companion.

I spent some time last night thinking again about what I should actually write on here. Why exactly I am doing this? The lone mind thinks too much.

The only conclusion I can come to is to tell it like it is. Not worry about it, just write it, isn't that what writers are supposed to do? 'Write about what you know' and all that. Not that I am a writer, but I do know what happened. Well, I know what has happened to me.

If anyone does ever find this then they ought to know what happened. Someone else ought to know; not just me. Maybe it happened to them too. Maybe they can find a way here. I sure as hell can't find a way back. I've tried. I spent months trying when I first got here. In-between getting pissed and trying to find food. Just trying to survive. Those first few months were bad. Maybe I will write about that later.

I don't really know where to start. Tradition dictates I should start at the beginning. But right now this scares me, so I will get to it later. I don't think I can do this today. I need to go.

*****

I do a lot a beach combing. I walk the long flat beach. It's a stony beach here. This is Suffolk. No maybe it's Norfolk. I forget. I should bloody know, I have maps; lots of them. Books too. They are all stacked up around the shelves of the shack. I run my fingers along their spines daily as I shuffle about my shack. Books about how to do things. Practical things I need.

It might seem that if my objective is to find people then such a remote place is not the place to be. But built up places are difficult. There is the ever present stench of death. It's not just the dogs, but the feeling of emptiness. Empty streets. Empty shops. Empty houses. Empty everything.

This place, this stony bit of beach, never had people much to start with, so it doesn't feel so disconnected.

In the city the stench lingers, like a reminder of my loneliness. A smell you can't describe. The smell of decay. At first it was rotting food. Naturally I went to supermarkets for food. I still do. But you would be amazed at how quickly these places were full of the stink of unbelievable putrefaction. Obviously with no power all fresh food is inedible within days. It was summer when I was first alone and the oppressive heat quickly turned meat and fish into disgusting mush. I remember vomiting whisky and my empty stomach heaving and retching bile more than once, within a week of being here. Throwing up uncontrollably in the aisle of a supermarket. All that rotting meat and fish was too much to bear. Fat gorged maggots like you've never seen and flies everywhere.

Supermarkets are not so bad now. Just tinned and dried things I can eat, mostly. I could survive for years on that. The only fresh thing I have at the moment is fish. I have lines and rods along the beach; read books on how to do it. ‘Y’ shaped sticks lined up on the beach every hundred metres or so, like sentries, each primed with a long waggling