Page 120 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

The Afterwards

The Boy and the Girl – Year 17 AG

The dog runs the wide curve of the beach, a black and tan blur racing for the tip of the bay, kicking up dirty white gouts of sand behind it and barking furiously in the way only a terrier can.

There’s a body floating in with the tide, on its back, arms and legs spread wide in what could be the abandonment of sleep or something deeper. There’s no movement other than a vague bobbing of the head as the breeze-blown wavelets move past it across the surface of the water, racing the body to the shore.

The dog reaches the point of the beach that’s closest to it and bounds right into the sea sending up fans of spray until it bounces to a halt chest-deep, its rough-haired fur beaded in water and redoubles its barking.

The body can’t hear the barking, not here in the real world, not in this place.

She’s lost in her long dream, like she hoped she would be, but she’s still searching, still waiting.

And in that dream, there is also barking but it is somewhere far in the distance and it’s something she can’t be distracted by in case she misses who she’s looking for.

Then there is a furious splashing and it’s far away too, but then very quickly it isn’t, it’s almost too close to ignore though she tries hard, and then she is grabbed and dragged through the water and though she scrunches her eyes up to stay in the dream where she might still just find him waiting she cannot then ignore the fact she has been lifted from the water and is being carried at a stumbling run through the shallows on to the dry sand where someone puts her on the ground and shakes her shoulder and says:

“Hey!”

And she relaxes her eyes because it’s OK, she’s still dreaming because he is here and so she opens them and there he is, looming over her, panting with exhaustion but smiling at her in relief.

And it is him, but a different him, a weather-beaten, thinner him with a beard and hacked-about hair and a livid scar that starts on one cheek and angles up to the bridge of his nose, where it forks into two smaller scars, one of which disappears into his hairline. And he looks at least half as starved as she does.

But it’s him.

She feels the sting of salt cracking her lips as she smiles into his eyes and lets herself fall up into them.

He’s dragged her onto a big coat and is using it to rub warmth into her.

She wants to say something. She needs to say everything. But she’s too groggy to say anything more than:

“Hey…”

Like it’s nothing.

He keeps furiously chafing at her with the rough material. Doesn’t pause, just smiles wider and shakes the wetness out of his eyes.

“I thought you were dead,” he says.

“We are,” she says. “We’re in a dream. Or just the Afterwards…”

“No,” he says. “We’re here. And I’ve spent a very long time trying not to be dead so I could get here. I’m so sorry it took so long—”

“… maybe the Afterwards is heaven after all,” she says.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I’d be better-looking in heaven and the water wouldn’t be so bloody cold.”

And now she has strength to reach up and grab him, clinging on to his wet neck to make sure he’s there and won’t slip away.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “Now you’re here I don’t mind anything. I don’t mind being dead a bit, as long as we’re together.”

It’s the right moment to kiss her, so he does. Both their mouths taste of salt. So do their faces. The dog barks and he stops kissing her and looks at her. The scar hasn’t spoiled his slow smile.

“We’re not dead,” he says. “But the dog’s right. You might have hypothermia. Let’s head back to the house and get you properly warm.”

He pulls her to her feet and helps her into the sweater and then wraps her in the long coat. She’s unsteady and shouldn’t be able to walk. She can see her arms and legs have gone blue with the cold. But her heart is so light it feels like it’s holding her aloft like a balloon. She smiles as he zips the coat around her.

“We are dead,” she says. “But it’s really OK…”