Them or Us

today is disappointingly monochrome), the other major difference is the pier itself. There’s now a large chasm about two-thirds of the way along its length where part of the structure has collapsed and fallen into the sea. Bent girders hang down like tumbling weeds, and several supporting metal struts have buckled. It looks like something impossibly heavy crashed down into the pier from on high. A plane perhaps? Aware that I’m wasting time but not giving a damn, I start to walk down toward it, curious as to how it came to be so badly damaged. Was there a bomb? Did something hit it from below? Was there a fire or a battle here at some point? At the entrance to the pier is a large pale-yellow-painted art deco building that looks like it used to house the usual seaside distractions: an amusement arcade, cafés, and gift shops. Running along the length of the pier, straight up its center, is a line of what look like wooden shacks—yet more cafés and shops, I presume. I resist the temptation to get any closer, and instead I turn around and look back along the beach toward the town, knowing that I have to stop putting it off and start doing what Hinchcliffe sent me here to do. The normality of what I see takes me by surprise—the waves crashing against the shore, the breakwaters jutting up through the surf and spray, a long line of small wooden beach huts … it all fills me with unexpected nostalgia as I remember long-gone family holidays. The economy of pretty much this whole town, I imagine, would have been based on tourism. Summer vacations, ice creams, buckets, and spades … all gone forever now. Christ, the very idea of a holiday seems bizarre and out of—
    “What the fuck are you doing here?”
    The unexpected voice catches me by surprise. I spin around and find myself face-to-face with a tall man carrying a rifle. Dressed in ragged, mud-splattered fatigues with his head wrapped up in a bizarre checked hat–scarf combination, he looks like a cross between a farmer and a freedom fighter, like he should divide his time between milking cows and hiding in Middle Eastern cave systems. A bushy gray beard hides his mouth and makes his expression frustratingly hard to read. Christ, I’m a dumb prick. He could have killed me ten times over and I don’t even have my knife ready to defend myself. All I’ve got in my hand is a fucking picture postcard. I drop it fast, hoping he hasn’t noticed.
    “Sorry … I was just looking. I didn’t know if—”
    “I don’t know you. Where you from?” he interrupts. He doesn’t sound like he’s going to stand for any bullshit. Whether he’d use his rifle on me or not is debatable, but I’m not about to take any chances. I try to clear my head and remember the back story I’d thought up for myself on the way here from Lowestoft. Act dumb . Pretend you’re lost . You’re not here to fight , I make myself remember, just to observe .
    “I’ve been working my way up the coast,” I lie.
    “Doing what?” he sneers. “Taking in the sights?”
    “Scavenging. Honest, man, I didn’t know anyone was here. Thought the place was dead like everywhere else. Just let me go and I’ll get out of your way.”
    “Found much?”
    “What?”
    “On your travels … have you found much?”
    “Not a lot. Not a lot left anywhere, to be honest.”
    “You on your own?”
    “Best way to be. What about you?”
    “Nope. Plenty more of us in the village.”
    “You live here?”
    “Yep, if you call this living.”
    He seems reasonably calm, although appearances can be deceptive. I don’t get the impression he’s looking for trouble, but I can’t risk making assumptions. For all I know, he could be head honcho of a family of cannibals or something equally unpleasant. Stranger things have happened.
    “Listen, I’m starving. You got any food? I’ll trade for it.”
    “You’ll need to talk to Warner,” he says, using the end of his rifle to gesture back toward the town. “He makes the decisions around here.”

 
    8
    HE TAKES ME BACK toward the center of town without saying another word, leading me all the way back along the beachfront promenade, passing level with the lighthouse, until we reach a pub. There we turn right and walk up a narrow road lined with odd-shaped, brightly painted cottages packed tightly together. The blues and yellows might have faded, but they still stand out amid the muted grays and browns of everything else. This place is in such relatively