By Tim Lebbon
Six months have handed because the finish of the realm, leaving a handful of survivors holed up in a Welsh manor with little to do yet continue to exist. They've made the easiest of items, planting nutrients, ingesting their manner throughout the cellar's wine and ale, and reminiscing concerning the means lifestyles was. yet with provides working skinny, every little thing is set to alter. the coming of a stranger named Michael sheds new gentle on their situations. If the survivors can achieve Cornwall, a couple of days' trip north, they're going to discover a shelter, known as Bar None, fairly most likely the final bar on the earth!
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Extra info for Bar None
Jacqueline is whispering something as well, but voices raise and none of us can hear what she's saying. I stare from the window for a while, not joining in the exchange. It soon becomes so that I can't tell who is saying what, who wants to go, who wants to stay. Through all of it I hear Jacqueline's whisper, a background to the argument that will always be there when it's over. I know that we will hear her soon, and I know what she will say, because I'm thinking it as well. "Quiet," I say. The word breaks through at just the right moment, and the kitchen falls almost silent.
I remember sitting in The Hanbury's garden in Caermaen drinking Marston's Double Drop, a golden ale with a fruity malt aroma, a bright and yeasty taste with a bitter, caramel finish, cool going down and calm as it dulled my senses, while all around us families ate basket meals and bickered, kids scraped their knees hiding beneath the heavy timber tables, mothers fussed and spread sun cream and fathers ruffled their sons' hair and smiled as their daughters ran off to find other girls, sit in the shadow of the hedge, play with their dolls and pretend to be mothers themselves.
Old flowers are brown and fading, whilst new ones shine through. I kneel and cup one bloom, staring at its random perfection, and I try to remember my wife's face. I close my eyes, but there is a shadow blocking her out. All I can recall is the knowledge of her tears and pain as the plagues took her away. " I ask. Still only her tears, and my memory's response is her angered cry as she felt herself slipping away. I definitely need a drink. There's not much left, but that has not prevented us all from drinking every day.