It was a brave new start. Eirwen told her friends, “You must come and see me. I’m 14 floors up and the views … honestly! It’s like living on a cruise ship!”
Now she was confused. Very confused, her cheek pressed hard against the carpet. The sun fell in a sharp line across her face. She remembered a deafening sound. There had been a roll of thunder, except it wasn’t thunder, because it came from below … a helicopter, in trouble, rapidly closing in, skimming the surface of the sea … But now, everything was strangely muffled and she was on the floor, paralysed. This must be what a stroke is. Without moving her head, she could see the clock on the wall, in bright sunlight. It was 3 minutes past 4.
***
She is standing at the window, looking out across the bay. 2 days on. She hasn’t slept since. It wasn’t a helicopter and it wasn’t a stroke. It was shock, from the fall. The clock still says 3 minutes past 4. Nothing is working. The power for the whole flat is down. Not just the flat. The whole building. At night, it is black – everything, black – except for the track of the moon across the sea. The sea isn’t where it is meant to be. It is slapping and glooping against the walls of the tower, just 20 feet below her window, lullaby to a floe of broken boats and jostling corpses. She is still in shock. She can’t take her eyes off the moon. It is huge and ash-grey, prowling the Devon coast in broad daylight, barely off the ground, its mountains standing out like varicose veins.
Once or twice, she thought she had heard sounds from inside the building. The first time, she went to the door to listen. She doesn’t really know anybody, yet. The corridor was windowless and pitch black. There was a cold draught and it was dank. She had knocked on her neighbours’ the day she moved in. A professional couple in their 30s. They had chatted in the doorway. They are out at work all day. She wouldn’t see much of them. It was the same for many people. There were holiday flats, too. She might find it quite quiet. An elderly gentleman lived on the floor above.
She has no water. The tap coughs, like a diseased lung. She has been capturing the melting ice from the freezer. That has kept her going, but not for much longer. She hasn’t been able to eat. She has no appetite. Now the food is going off. She doesn’t quite know what to do about the toilet. In the Middle Ages they just threw it out of the window. Let the sea deal with it.
There have been more sounds. She is sure, this time. There was a muffled banging. It could have come from the floor above. She listened through a crack in the door. Muffled banging, then raised voices and then a yell. She was sure of it, but immediately doubted herself. HELP. She only heard it the once. She closed the door and slid the chain across. She stood with her back against it and prayed.
Outside nothing changes. Every day the sun shines – out of boredom it seems – morning to night. The sea is flat and couldn’t care less. The moon never goes out of sight. Only the corpses are getting fatter. Every day now, she prays. There is no sign of life. Nothing of Mumbles and West Cross is visible, except a long, low-lying island. The streets of Swansea are 100ft under. She feels that her past has been wiped out. She is left only with what she has, right here, right now. Boxes still waiting to be unpacked. A view to die for.
