The Fall of Man

Part I chapter 14

Chapter 14

I sit in front of Noah’s laptop in the hazy morning light, ordering our usual complement of groceries on the Internet. Suppressing a yawn, I laboriously check the credit card details for the tenth time, before clicking on the submit icon. However, in place of the usual THANKYOU FOR YOUR CUSTOM, a terse message pops up within an abrasive flashing yellow dialogue box:

AS A RESULT OF RECENT INCREASES IN PETROL PRICES, WE REGRET TO INFORM OUR VALUED ONLINE CUSTOMERS THAT WE ARE NO LONGER ABLE TO OFFER A HOME DELIVERY SERVICE. WE APOLOGISE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE CAUSED.

It was inevitable, of course. I check out the competition, but all of the big names’ websites bear similar messages. The hairs on my forearms prickle in spite of the warm air in the room. At least our cupboards are well stocked. I can already sense the panic that must be sweeping through the streets, spreading from door to door in a rampant blaze of gossip and misinformation. Outside, the feeding frenzy has begun…

Even locked away in our little enclave at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, it is impossible to escape the buzz of activity. Cars fill the streets, day and night, bumper to bumper. It seems like all of them at once; like everyone has heard the Klaxon call, and chosen the same precise moment to leave home and sit in their vehicles with the engines running. For six days the streets are gridlocked. Barely anything moves, apart from the gently rising waft of exhaust fumes that eddy about the stationary vehicles. Occasionally, a raised voice, the toot of a horn or the soft crump of a slow impact can be heard above the impatient hum of engines idling.

Then, on the seventh day, they stop moving altogether.

“You’re sure you want to try this?”

Noah sits in the front of the Volkswagen Golf, propelled as far forwards as the seat will allow. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the leather steering wheel and a huge grin all-but splits his face in two. I sit nervously beside him in the passenger seat. The car chugs quietly in neutral on the slight incline of the driveway. Not even Noah’s unbridled enthusiasm can detract from the knowledge that this is a terrible idea, but we will soon be leaving. Everything we own is packed into boxes and bags, washed and stored. We are almost ready to go, there are no perishable groceries left in the house, and the boy needs a break. He may never get another chance to drive a car.

“Ok. Just like I told you. Foot down on the clutch, gentle on the gas and then lift your left foo-”

With a whinny of revs, there is a sudden jerk forwards and the engine splutters to a halt. The car pauses for a moment, takes a silent breath, and then rolls gracefully backwards until it meets the garage door with the tinny crunch of metal crumpling against metal.

We negotiate the drive to the supermarket via a labyrinthine maze of suburban estate roads, each meandering loop of houses less distinct than the last. The roads themselves are almost entirely quiet, but both sides of each street are lined with stationary vehicles. Along some of the broader routes the line of abandoned cars is two or even three vehicles deep. Most bear the scars of the last week’s activity; bumps, scuffs and scrapes, wing mirrors missing or hanging limp from battered door panels.

As we approach the supermarket, the signs of its proximity come with increasing frequency. Any pedestrians we pass on the pavement are carrying their shopping in ubiquitous white plastic bags, or pushing ungainly store-owned trolleys. Most of them eye up our moving vehicle with unbridled jealousy. Within a few hundred yards, the chatter of castors on uneven concrete drowns out the slow chug of our car’s engine, and the occasional wheeze as its suspension eases over another speed bump. The trolleys totter in orderly, rickety lines along each pavement, pursued by their attendant pushers. Occasionally, one clatters off course and bumps noisily into a garden wall or a parked car. Finally, the low slung form of the supermarket comes into view.