Last One at the Party Read online

  I had an idea.

  I rushed down the path and she started to bang furiously again. I turned to tell her I’d be back, realised it wouldn’t be worth it, and so hurried on.

  Susan Palmers banged furiously the whole time.

  I picked a random house across the street, held my breath, and barged through the front door.

  It was, miracle of miracles, empty.

  I found what I needed and went back.

  I held up the piece of paper I had written on in marker pen.

  Hello

  She stared at my sign for a moment and then disappeared.

  A couple of minutes later she was back. She had her own sign.

  Don’t come in I will shoot you

  Not the most welcoming or warmest start to what might be the last friendship on earth.

  Also, I was not entirely sure she actually had a gun. I was tempted to ask ‘show me your gun then,’ but was still hopeful we could be friends, so was composing something when she held her sign back up.

  I’m starving get me food

  My first impulse was to be sarcastic and write ‘… get me food PLEASE’. Instead I wrote …

  How? I can’t come in

  Get gloves and boiler suit and face mask and put them on then get food and water DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING WITHOUT THE GLOVES ON bring it back to me. And I need statins from the hospital pharmacy. I have high cholestrol. And I want some gin.

  I burst out laughing.

  She was serious.

  She propped the sign up against the window and moved away.

  I waited by the window for her to come back.

  She came back.

  Go now

  What could I do? Say no?

  I felt like my brain was going to explode.

  I wasn’t the last person on earth! Susan Palmers was alive! It was a fucking, beautiful miracle!

  Not a perfect miracle of course, because she seemed a bit, well, a bit of a bitch actually.

  If I’m being completely honest.

  Maybe she was just one of those people it took some time to get to know. That was fine, we had all the time in the world.

  I spent the rest of the day getting what she wanted. It wasn’t easy, as the DIY stores were out of town so I had to drive around until I found one that had gloves and a boiler suit, and then I had to find a supermarket, check for rats, and get stuff as fast as humanly possible.

  I went to three chemists looking for her statins. None of them had any in. It looked like she was right and it would have to be the hospital.

  I went to the hospital.

  The doors to A&E were closed. I stood far back from them, thinking about what I was going to do. I was wearing the boiler suit, so was physically protected from anything … mushy … that might be in there.

  I walked slowly towards the door and paused again.

  Twice I walked forward slightly, genuinely intent on entering the hospital, twice I backed off at the last minute.

  It was no good. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go in after my last experience at A&E. She would have to do without her statins for now.

  I reasoned with myself that it would be too ironic and cruel for her to survive 6DM but then die from high cholesterol. Not even a vengeful God would do that, surely?

  The sun was starting to set as I got back to Susan Palmers.

  She was not happy.

  WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN????

  YOU’VE BEEN GONE AGES

  I felt a little guilty as I imagined how I would have felt if someone had taken ages to bring me food when I was starving. I shrugged an apology.

  I had found a new kitchen message board in the supermarket to write on, so scrawled …

  Sorry – no statins

  I thought I saw her sigh.

  Put the boiler suit and face mask on again

  I diligently obeyed.

  Stay there

  She disappeared, and five minutes later I heard bolts and locks being opened on the front door. She came back to the window wearing a homemade boiler suit of black bin liners that literally covered her from head to foot apart from two tiny eyeholes. She had welding goggles on over her eyes. It was the stuff of nightmares.

  ‘hmmmpf vrn strpk cren’

  I couldn’t understand a word she was saying with all the bin liners over her face. I shrugged. She indicated that I should bring everything in and leave it on the floor by waving her arms wildly.

  I picked up the bags full of food and two litres of gin I had got, and carried them through the front door and into a small hallway.

  Even with the face mask on the stench was unbearable and made me gag. For the first time since leaving the cottage in Scotland, Lucky left my side and stayed outside. He’s not daft.

  Turned out that she did have a gun.

  Slumped in the corner with an unmistakeable large red (or once red) stain across his chest was a rotting corpse. He was still ripe.

  I dropped the food and gin, shattering one of the bottles, and staggered back down the path, slipping and sliding in human shit along the way.

  I didn’t stop at the gate. I didn’t stop on the street.

  I called Lucky to me, and I left.

  I walked to the end of the road and threw up.

  I didn’t go back that day.

  I wasn’t even sure I was going to go back.

  Not a bloody please or thank you all day, and now this?

  I finally find someone else alive, and she’s a murderer.

  She has a gun and she shot someone. Who’s to say she won’t shoot me?

  I don’t want to die.

  At least not by being shot by Susan fucking Palmers.

  February 26th 2024

  Who was I kidding?

  This is what I had wanted, what I had dreamt of ever since London.

  Someone else alive.

  And so what if Susan was a murderer? What was the worst that could happen? She shoots me. I’d literally been planning to kill myself anyway, maybe she’d save me the bother.

  I was never going to just walk away.

  I wasn’t alone any more, and I would just have to make it work with her, even if she was rude.

  Not the worst thing in the world.

  Loneliness. That’s worst thing in the world.

  When the Coronavirus happened in 2020 Xav quarantined alone.

  In the eight years that James and I had been together, Xav and I had gone from seeing each other every couple of days to snatching a few hours every couple of weeks and maybe a proper night out once a month.

  When we did meet we could no longer discuss the most important parts of our lives freely; he couldn’t understand my relationship with James, and I couldn’t understand his continued narcotic obsession.

  He no longer came for Sunday lunch at my parents’; I took James with me instead.

  Xav was still my best friend, but we were no longer an integral part of each other’s lives. The best parts of our friendship lived in the past now, mixed up in the memories of our younger, braver and easier selves.

  Xav’s dad died three weeks before lockdown. The funeral had been filled with Rupert’s banking colleagues and little-known relatives hoping to be remembered in his will. Xav had smiled, shaken hands, and patted shoulders, but he looked grey and tired and old. He wasn’t even high.

  I was worried about him.

  Going against James’s wishes for once, I had stayed at Xav’s for two nights following the funeral, and for those two days it was like old times. Xav smoked nothing stronger than cannabis and we danced to our favourite records, watched our favourite films, and talked until late into the night, successfully avoiding the taboo subjects of our respective most significant others.

  But on the third night he threw a huge party, snorted a massive amount of cocaine, and declared himself now to be one of the richest men in London.

  I left without saying goodbye.

  Lockdown started about two weeks later, and he was alone.

 
; We spoke every day during the first week. He said he was fine, he had food, booze, drugs, and the best party palace in London, how could he possibly be unhappy.

  I only spoke to him twice during the next month. Each time he was short and hurried, said he was going for his daily walk or was busy cooking himself some food.

  Xav never cooked.

  In the middle of week five he rang me, crying. He was lonely. So, so lonely. So lonely, it was like a physical pain.

  I was the only person who spoke to him, the only person who cared. He had no one else now his dad was dead. Rupert had left everything to him, so the distant family members who had attended the funeral had crawled back disappointedly to wherever they came from. Even his drug dealer wasn’t picking up the phone.

  He hadn’t touched another person in five weeks, did I have any idea how horrible that was?

  I do now.

  I begged James to let him come and quarantine with us. Begged him. James said no. It wasn’t allowed. Plus, Xav and he didn’t get on, and Xav would be crawling the walls in our small one-bed flat within hours.

  I knew James was right; he and I were having trouble enough getting along in such a small space while working from home, fielding constant calls from my mum and Ginny about wedding planning, and only going out once a day for exercise. Plus James and I had recently decided to start trying for a baby, so we were taking advantage of us both being at home and having a lot of sex. A LOT of sex.

  I told James I’d go to Xav’s.

  No.

  James was very firm.

  I should have insisted that I go and see Xav, insisted that I help him in some way, but I was scared; scared of the virus, scared of going against the rules, scared of giving James something else to worry about when he was already worried about his job, his family, the economy …

  Telling Xav I couldn’t help him was horrible.

  I didn’t hear from Xav for nearly three weeks. Every time I called his home or mobile I got his answerphone.

  Then, one day, on a regular catch-up call with my mum, I heard Xav in the background.

  I couldn’t understand it. How could I be hearing him? How was he there?

  It turned out that although he hadn’t been coming to Sunday lunch with me any more, he’d still been seeing my parents at least once a week. Probably more than I saw them. He had been for lunch or dinner, sometimes he would stay over.

  So, when he rang my mum, crying, she had immediately dispatched my dad to go and fetch him and bring him back to quarantine with them.

  I was absolutely fucking livid.

  I refused to talk to him on the phone, but on the day lockdown lifted I was at my parents’ by 7 a.m. so that he didn’t have time to sneak back home.

  I had never shouted at Xav. I did that day.

  ‘THEY COULD HAVE FUCKING DIED, YOU SELFISH ARSEHOLE.’

  He tried to explain, tried to tell me he was sorry. I wasn’t having any of it.

  I didn’t speak to him again until my wedding day.

  I understand why he did it now.

  Susan Palmers was ready with a new sign as soon as I walked into her garden the next morning.

  He tried to get in and hurt me

  I just stood there.

  Don’t leave again

  I didn’t move.

  Thanks for the stuff

  It was the best I was going to get.

  I cleared the front path of her faeces and hosed it down. I never did ask her what happened to her toilet that meant she had to throw her shit out of the window. Maybe she just did it as a deterrent.

  Once the faeces was finally gone, I got a garden chair, sat in the front garden, and we talked, as much as you can talk without, well, actually talking. Susan wouldn’t come outside, and I sure as shit wasn’t going back in.

  I’ve been to Scotland. I met your sister.

  She’s alive???

  Whoops.

  No. Sorry. She’s dead. Sorry. I heard your answerphone message and that’s how I found you.

  Pause.

  Its all right. We haven’t spoken in 7 years. Shes crazy.

  Oh.

  I’m so glad I found you

  Pause.

  I had to eat my cat

  Pause.

  And next door’s cat

  I told her more about me.

  I used to live in London. My husband died there.

  And I learnt more about her.

  So? All my family is dead. And everyone on this street. And everyone in town. Everyone’s dead. We’re the only two here now

  Rude and blunt.

  I bet it was them muslims that did it

  Rude, blunt, and racist.

  We should have let Trump do what he wanted to them

  Rude, blunt, racist, and stupid.

  I saw two planes in the sky yesterday. It’s the goverment seeing if we are alive.

  Rude, blunt, racist, stupid, and possibly insane.

  I want to get out of here.

  Rude, racist, stupid, possibly insane, and potentially my new life partner.

  Six days later, full of the food and gin I had got her and revelling in having someone to spout her crazy theories to, she was positively ebullient.

  And very keen to get out into the world.

  I, on the other hand, was growing more reluctant to grant her freedom.

  Having spent more time with her, I wasn’t sure she was that stable – mentally or physically. What if she ate me?

  Also, in all the peace and quiet of life as it was now, I had forgotten how fucking annoying it is when someone talks on and on about, well, nothing. And I couldn’t even hear her! What on earth was it going to be like if she got out and could just rabbit on constantly with no barrier between us?

  But she did make me feel better about myself and how I had handled the end of the world – at least I had managed to come this far without shooting someone or going completely insane.

  Also, I was hardly going to leave her in her house to starve to death and, if I was completely honest, she had single-handedly stopped me from killing myself.

  I reasoned that any companionship was better than no companionship.

  So, I devised a plan.

  I would get her a proper hazmat suit from somewhere, and then I could at least move her to a slightly nicer location while we sorted out what to do long-term.

  Preferably somewhere that didn’t have a corpse in the front hallway.

  It took me two days to get the hazmat suit.

  I had to find an army base, break into the army base, realise that there were no hazmat suits at that army base, so then go to an RAF base, realise that the only hazmat suit had a body in it already, drag that body out, vomit many times, have a freezing night’s sleep in the back of the Defender, get up, not bother with breakfast, hose the hazmat suit down (inside and out), vomit again, and then wait for the hazmat suit to dry.

  I was running low on diesel, so was bloody delighted to find that the RAF base had working fuel pumps, so I spent another couple of hours filling canisters and packing them into the back of the Defender.

  It was pitch black by the time I was finished and, with no lighting, I couldn’t see my way out of the base so was forced to remove all the canisters I had worked so hard to pack away and then spend another cold and uncomfortable night in the back, cuddling Lucky for warmth.

  March 7th 2024

  She had a new sign ready for me as soon as I arrived back.

  FUCK YOU

  Her mouth was spewing words I couldn’t hear, but I knew they weren’t friendly. When she paused mid flow to cough, blood splattered onto the clingfilmed window.

  She was sick.

  6DM sick.

  Was it me? Was it the food? The gin? Something in the air that I’d let in?

  Who knows.

  I felt awful.

  All that time alone. Eating all her food, her cat, her neighbour’s cat. Posting her shit through the front door or throwing it out of the window for w
eeks on end. Finally thinking that it had all been worth it, that she was saved.

  Compared to her existence I had been living the life of Riley. Freedom, food, drink, drugs, travel – like something from a Sunday Times supplement.

  I can get you T600

  I could faintly hear her shouting something profane.

  I wondered if she was always this way. If she was always this horrible and mean and cruel and, well, lacking in basic humanity. Maybe she used to be nice and sweet and someone’s grandma, with dishes of toffees scattered about her house.

  Maybe not. I’m not sure my grandma even knew the word ‘cunt’.

  I went to get her T600 and nearly didn’t return to Collister Avenue.

  But, I felt giving her the T600 was probably the least I could do, seeing as it was highly likely I had also given her the 6DM.

  you bring that fucking stuff in the house I’ll shoot you

  She didn’t want the T600.

  It took another four days for her to die.

  I was convinced she was going to shoot me through the window – so I moved my chair back across the street so that I could still see her but was, hopefully, out of range of the gun.

  I sat there each day and went to the house across the road to sleep at night. Lucky sat by me and whined every time Susan Palmers appeared.

  When she had the energy she banged on the window and held up signs calling me a variety of colourful names normally involving the words ‘fuck’, ‘cunt’, ‘shithole’, and my personal favourite ‘fucking killer bitch’.

  The one thing that puzzled me even more than why Susan Palmers hadn’t shot me, was why she hadn’t come outside after she had got 6DM.

  She could have died in the fresh air, or even carried out one of the painful murder scenarios she had dreamt up for me.

  I nearly asked her once, but it was one of those very rare situations where I allowed my brain to catch up with my mouth and as I put my chalk to the blackboard I thought, ‘Hold on, is this a good idea?’

  I put the chalk firmly back on the grass.

  By day three I was feeling far less sorry for her and increasingly sorry for me. The last person left alive with me was so MEAN. It was very obvious now that she would never have been a fun life partner and would probably have killed me the first chance she got. But, although I knew I was better off with her dead, the prospect of being on my own again filled me with despair.