We Float Upon a Painted Sea

2066. Six months earlier

Bull’s father held the view that most of the obstacles his son traversed in life were self-inflicted, and in one way or another he would resolve them in his own time, and hopefully learning from the experience in due process. He was of the belief that a solution to a problem should only be derived from personal knowledge, and as he had only a modest association with his son’s particular difficulties, it was better to change the subject. Moreover, the notion of people talking openly about their personal issues was something he found difficult to comprehend.

Bull had returned to Manchester on hearing the family home had been flooded. A storm surge had breached the river Mersey flood barrier, sending a tidal bore inland, and coupled with the 390 mm of heavy rain which fell in one day, the river Irwell flood defences were overwhelmed. Salford was underwater. Bull’s father was recovering at the National Football museum in Cathedral Gardens, Manchester, which had been turned into a rescue centre. He sat at a table, wrapped in a foil blanket and playing a game of Mugginswith another old man. Bull’s father looked at his son’s face. He coughed and said,

“You’ve got a face like a bulldog chewin a wasp. What’s up with you?” Bull talked about Saffron and how his life was going through a period of turmoil and change, Bull’s father listened, sipping his tea. Finally he said, “Change is good in some instances, but some folk don’t like the idea of change. Take the Luddites for example, they smashed all the textile looms right here in Lancashire during the Industrial Revolution. Some thought they were just opposed to progress but they claimed they were only protecting their livelihoods. It’s all about adjusting to a new set of circumstances lad.” He returned to the game of Muggins he was playing with his friend.

Bull made circular motions with his forefinger towards his temple lobe. He said,

“Dad seems to be taking it well.” Deirdre whispered back,

“He doesn’t know how bad the flood damage was and that the house is going to be demolished, so don’t mention anything to him, not yet anyway. I don’t think he could cope. Most of his belongings and his wooden box, where he kept all Mam’s personal stuff, floated out the door.”

“It’s about time he moved on. Keeping a box of her junk wasn’t healthy.”

“You have a nerve telling anyone to move on. Dad’s box of junk was his connection to Mam.”

“I know the feeling. Saffron left a lot of her junk on the narrowboat.”

“Don’t be going comparing Mam and Dad’s decades of marriage with some hippy bint you shacked up with for a season or two.” A look of hurt glinted in Bull’s eye. He said,

“Talking of chieftains of the understatement, where is Patrick?” Deirdre sighed and then said,

“He’s back at the house trying to see what he can salvage. He was hoping you would help him when you arrived, but he couldn’t wait any longer for you. What was up with the trains this time? Software failure? Flooding? Vandalism? A dog shat on the line?”

“Industrial action.”

“I thought striking was illegal during a state of emergency?”

“The unions have a different opinion.”

Bull’s father stood up and greeted a man who had just limped into the rescue centre on a set of crutches. Together they shuffled towards the canteen. Bull moved to assist his father in carrying the two cups of hot tea but was told firmly to mind his own business. Deirdre said,

“They had been down the Pig all day, thinking the flood defences wouldn’t be breached. The emergency services had to forcibly remove him and his mates. He refused to get on the rescue boat because he was winning a game of Muggins. That’s when it all kicked off.”

“Another fight? With the old fella he’s talking to?” Deirdre nodded and said,

“Dad’s developed this horrible cough ever since he was rescued. I’m not sure if it psychosomatic but I’m going to get it checked out, once the trouble dies down.” Bull’s father helped the man with the crutches back towards his table and together they sat down and started a new game of Muggins. With tears welling up in her eyes, Deirdre turned to Bull and said,

“Anyway, he won’t be here for long. Patrick is sorting out a bungalow for him in Croker Hill.”

“And he agreed? I didn’t think he would ever leave Salford?”

“There’s nowt much left of Salford that isn’t under ten feet of water, Faerrleah. Have you been to see the damage? It’s like the four horsemen of the apocalypse rode into town and had a major strop. The whole of the Mersey Basin, including the Irwell Valley was flooded. We got six months of rain in one day. They’ve been picking bodies out the river all night. It’s much worse on the east coast. It wasn’t just all the rain, there was a big tidal surge. Did you not see it on the news? All the inmates at Strangeways thought they were getting left to drown so they all went mental. There’s been riots all over the city. A terra-drone opened fire on a group of protestors in St Peter’s Square and I’m not talking about sonic blasters or Taser cartridges either. The feds claim it had been hacked by insurgents and it malfunctioned but they’re not convincing anyone. The whole country is in uproar. There’s talk of an armed revolution. It’s not just the shanty towns anymore. Where have you been recently, living in a cave?”

“I’ve been busy.” Bull’s father looked up and said,

“Riots? It’s not the first time there’s been riots there. Parliament sent the army in to attack the crowd at St Peter’s Field in 1819, just after the end of the Napoleonic wars. They called it the Peterloo massacre. Those Dragoons didn’t care for whoever got in their way. Women, children and all were cut down. The people were starving and protesting about the Corn Laws. They were ruthless back in them days, ruthless.”

Later, Patrick joined them at the table. He shook his head remorsefully, sighed and said,

“The house is gone. I’m sorry Dad, there was nothing much to salvage. You’re coming to stay with me until we get a new place sorted. The car’s waiting outside. We need to be leaving now to avoid the chaos. There’s an Atlantic storm on its way and the floods will be even worse this time.” Bull’s father sunk his head into his hands and when he showed his face again his eyes were red and glazed. He coughed and said,

“Well not until I finish this game.” Bull patted his back gently and said,

“You need to go now you daft old bugger.” Bull’s father turned and looked him in the eyes. He emitted a rasping cough and clutched his chest. His breathing sounded shallow as he said,

“I was always waiting for the right time but now is probably as good a time to tell you. You were adopted. I hope knowing brings some clarity to your life son.” Bull’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. As Bull’s father stood up to leave he noticed one of his friends making an unscheduled move in their game of Muggins. He grabbed his companion by the throat and the domino pieces spilled across the table and onto the floor. The old man with the crutches was trying to join in the affray but only succeeded in falling over and taking the table with him. The pile of pensioners grappled and thumped their way across the floor until Bull, Patrick and Deirdre intervened and separated them. Bull’s father protested, “Cheating bastards. The whole lot of them!”

Bull’s father was dragged outside and bundled into the back of Patrick’s car. Before they drove off Bull offered his brother an apology for burdening him with his problems, involving his family in his complex life, and not being there for him during the ending of his own marriage. They said goodbye in their customary fashion of a playful punch to the shoulder.

“Look after yourself brother in the Outer Hebrides. I’ve got a feeling we won’t be seeing each other for a while.” Deidre linked her arm around Bull’s arm and together they watched Patrick’s car speed off to the end of the street. They walked towards Victoria train station, taking a detour when they came across lines of police battling with protesters.

“You’re quiet,” said Deirdre.

“It’s just something Dad mentioned. Silly old bugger. He said I was adopted.”

“Adopted? His head’s always been a bit ragged but he’s making even less sense recently. Never mind him, what’s this life changing experience you were buzzing about when you called?” Bull’s expression changed. He felt a rare wave of optimism wash over him. He said,

“I feel silly talking about it now but I now know why I reacted so badly to the break up with Saffron. It’s much like the predicament with Patrick’s divorce. Different people react differently to different situations, and all in their own different way.”

“Flipping’ heck, now you’re the Salford Confucius?” Bull laughed.

“Hardly, what kind of world would it be without diversification. Look at our family - you’re the voice of reason, Patrick represents stability, and I’m turmoil.”

“What about Dad, what does he represent?”

“After the barney back at the rescue centre - anarchy by the looks of it.”

“Maybe I only appear reasonable when sat beside you, and that’s an unfair comparison considering you’re such an impulsive big sod. I have my moments. My head gets cabbaged from time to time. I just don’t go around bleating on about it like you do.”

“You mean talking about stuff rather than manning up and taking it on the chin like Patrick does?”

“You don’t know for sure how Patrick is dealing with all this, Faerrleah. It’s often the silent types who end up taking their own lives. You have an outlet for your feelings. It’s the healthy thing to do, but there are others who find it near impossible to open up. They keep problems concealed until it festers away and one day, they can’t contain the pressure anymore and it explodes.”

“I suppose you’re right sis. I think you’re most definitely the Salford Confucius, not me.”

“Anyway, what do you mean by reliable? You mean stuffy and boring don’t you?” Deirdre clouted Bull across the back and then asked, “So what happened in Glasgow? Tell me about this revelation.” Bull became excited. He put his arm around his sister’s shoulder and pulled her in tight. He said,

“I met up with an old university friend called Brian and we went out to an old brew shack called the Scotia bar. The place has remained unchanged while the city redeveloped around it. There’s like this atmosphere like the pubs of old. A bit like the Squealing Pig before it got washed away.”

“I still can’t believe the Pig has gone,” moaned Deirdre. Bull’s mind was still in Glasgow. Like a story teller Bull described a scene of log fires and steamed up windows, of drinkers high on poitín arguing in an animated state one minute and then hugging each other the next. He made a point of describing an old man and woman dancing a jig while a Celtic folk band played on an impromptu stage, and where young couples fornicated in the dark alcoves. Deirdre sighed,

“Is there a point to this story Faerrleah, I’m growing face wrinkles here.” Bull went on.

“So we approached the bar as if we were regular drinkers. I ordered some drink then asked the bar person, if the place had any darts for the dartboard. I was greeted with a huge puckered mug, snarling teeth and the growling reply, look you big fud, your here to drink, not to play games. A large hairy hand came slapping down on the wooden bar, shaking the glasses. Bull was inwardly impressed with his Glaswegian accent despite his sister’s unsubtle and disapproving shake of the head.” What’s a fud?” said Deirdre. Bull deliberately ignored her question. He continued his tale.

“I stood there startled at first, staring into her face with amazement. She had hit the nail on the head. It has all been a game. Everything up until now has just been one big silly game!”

“She?” Bull nodded his head. He was smiling. His face was lit up like a Halloween pumpkin. Bull went on, describing the moment when his mind began to fill with revelations like a nebulous gloom being dispersed by the appearance of an illuminating star. He concluded his happiness was to be found in the act of being honest with himself and with others. Bull was now only concerned with the present moment in time. What happened in the past could not be changed but he could influence the future. He was ready to let go of the past and moreover, he didn’t feel mourning his loss was a waste of time. This was a transitional period which many go through when a relationship ends. He had devoted enough time to analysing the past, mulling over why Saffron had left him for someone else, even though, deep down, he suspected it was for other reasons. It was time to move on, look to the future and stop chasing shadows. He said,

“It was like a wall of confusion or some mental impasse, but it crumbled - presenting a way forward. I had a direction. I began to experience a strange excitement in a way I had seldom felt before. I was now aware of time running away from me and change had to be embraced before time ran away from me and I got stuck in a maze.” A broad grin began to spread across his features, flexing facial muscles not used in a long time.

“So you got all that from a Glaswegian barmaid?”

“Messages can come in the strangest of ways. It wasn’t as if she was the Glasgow Confucius, she just said something and it triggered a reaction within me. It was like someone opened a door inside my head. The next day I got word about the wave energy job in St Kilda. I need to sell the narrowboat. And I won’t be able to pop back home to see the family as often. It will be tough, but I’ll achieve nothing just crying into my beer.”

“Patrick did mention that even your tears had a wee frothy head on them.”

Deirdre was thankful her brother had come out the other side of the tunnel and was rejuvenated by his life changing plan. How he arrived there still seemed to trouble her. She suspected he was suffering from some temporary mental reaction to grief, not just the loss of Saffron but also the lingering childhood pain left behind after their mother died. Deirdre had a muddled recollection of how poorly he had coped as a child with the transformation of his life when she had passed away. Her predominant memory was of Bull taking to wearing his Batman costume and refusing to take it off, even for the funeral. She later came to understand he had felt protected from the hurt by pretending to be someone else and by hiding behind his black masquerade and his fake padded muscles. He could believe he was a superhero, taking all the pain the world could throw at him.

She remembered sitting beside him on the church pew, Patrick felt both sorrow and embarrassment when the priest addressed the family individually, in front of the congregation of mourners, and feeling relieved he hadn’t mentioned Bull’s costume. He ignored it as if it was somehow normal to dress as Batman to your mother’s funeral. Bull refused to take his outfit off. He would even wear it to school under his uniform and wear the mask at break. One day Bull was set about by the school’s self styled bully, Robert Clark and his sidekicks. When Patrick arrived on the scene, Bull was in floods of tears. His mask had been unceremoniously ripped from his face and was lying on the ground in tatters. With one well directed punch, Clark was dispatched to the floor where he stayed until Patrick was dragged off him by a teacher. The following day Bull’s bruises had gone and he left his Batman costume at home.

Outside Victoria train station they watched a news bulletin. Gazing at the avatar, Bull said,

“It’s as if she’s fighting back the urge to break into a grin, despite how distressing the news is.”

“She can’t help it. She’s just a computer animation.”

“Well, whoever programmes her, they should make more of an effort and start by wiping that insincere smirk off her face.” Scenes of the storms and floods sweeping across the country were shown, followed by a smiling family drinking a branded fizzy drink at a rain drenched Euro Disneyland in Paris. When they approached the armed guards at the entrance to the railway station, Deirdre said her goodbyes.

“Send me a postcard, you daft bastard,” she shouted, managing to laugh while fighting back the tears forming behind her eyes. Bull sat on the train, staring out of the carriage window at the 3D projection advertising display. Developers were selling houses, with weather proofing facilities such as storm moats, in the Cambrian Mountains of Wales.