Without warning

Of his children, there was no sign, for which he was happy. Melanie, aged sixteen and the only positive reminder of his first marriage, had taken the loss of her world like a physical blow. She hadn’t wanted to come to Hawaii, and as soon as she realised that all of her friends back home were gone, she’d spiralled into a black whirlpool of survivor guilt, crying in her bedroom for two days. Roger, three years younger, from one marriage down the line, dealt with the shock by putting on a brittle and entirely counterfeit stoicism as his game face. Jed was worried about it cracking open at some point.

‘Have you seen Rog around?’ he asked Marilyn, interrupting the Chunnel bomber.

‘He’s with Debbie,’ she said, only half paying attention.

‘Debbie?’

‘A pretty little thing. Down on one of the lower floors. You know-with the girls’ choir from Iowa.’ As Marilyn spoke she seemed to emerge from a daze, sitting up and actually dragging her eyes off the screen. ‘You met her mom, the air force lady,’ she reminded him. ‘Remember? At breakfast the other day? When they ran out of muffins and toast.’

He remembered now. All of the choirgirls had at least one parent with them as a chaperone, and a few had come with all of their immediate family, dampening the shock a little. But Debbie’s mother, an air force reservist, had been called back to active duty two days ago, and had been forced to leave her daughter in the care of the tour leaders.

‘Oh yes, I remember her. And Debbie. She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?’

He was glad that Roger and Debbie had met. Because, like kids everywhere, they were totally self-obsessed, and given the current circumstances, that was a form of strength.

Marilyn stood up, brightening. ‘Yes, she’s lovely. And Jedi, the girls are doing a concert tonight, down in the restaurant. Do you think you could get back for that? It would be lovely, don’t you think, to do something nice? Everyone will be there, and the hotel manager will be hosting drinks afterwards. To keep up our morality. I could wear a new dress. If I went out to buy one.’

Another man might have wearied of such vacuous babble, but Culver smiled indulgently. The curfew had been lifted somewhat in the islands, allowing people to get out for strictly rationed supplies, but he had no idea whether Marilyn would be able to find a clothing boutique that was still open or accepting her credit cards. Doubtless, knowing her, she would have a wonderful adventure trying, however.

‘You knock yourself out, honey. And I will move heaven and earth to be at that concert.’

He kissed Marilyn on the top of her head and loitered briefly by the window, squinting into the morning glare in the hope of picking his kids out of the small, scattered crowds down on the beach. A large but orderly swell pushed regular sets of clean barrelling waves up onto the sand and he knew that they would be somewhere down there: his children, Debbie, a handful of choir-girls and at least one or two parental chaperones, all playing in the surf, trying to keep their minds away from dark places. They were doing well at it too, all things considered, and he sent a quick, silent prayer of thanks up to the Lord for that small mercy. Especially for his daughter, who had found in her new friends a salve for the loss of so many old ones.

On the television the blustering admiral was gone, replaced by a handsome but harried-looking middle-aged man in a white shirt and bright yellow tie. He stood on what looked like the trading floor of some bank or brokerage house and his thick East London accent was difficult to follow, but certain words tolled like funeral bells. ‘Meltdown… crisis.… credit shocks… market collapse…’ A ticker line of breaking news items scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Massed rocket attacks on Israel from southern Lebanon. ‘Pre-emptive’ Israeli air strikes on dozens of targets in Syria, Iran and even Egypt. Another American cruiser, the USS Hopper, swarmed by Hamas suicide bombers on jet skis. Food riots in Berlin. Street fighting between thousands of youths in Paris. More refugees pouring into Guantanamo Bay. A declaration of martial law in six Chinese provinces. A toxic supercell storm forming in the Bay of Biscay.

There was no question in Jed’s mind what everyone was doing down on the beach below him. They were trying to ignore the end of the world.

‘Bye-bye, honey,’ he said to Marilyn as he picked up his briefcase and kissed her again, on the forehead this time.

‘Okay. I’ll see you later, darlin’,’ she replied, surprising him with a fierce hug that almost pulled the 205-pound lawyer off his feet. When they separated, her eyes were puffy and haunted. ‘Everything’s gonna be cool, ain’t it, Jedi Master?’

It was one of those questions he wasn’t meant to answer truthfully.

‘Sure, honey. Everything’s gonna be cool.’