The Day Before Tomorrow Read online

  The Tamar Black Saga - Book Four

  THE DAY BEFORE TOMORROW

  By Nicola Rhodes

  © copyright 2009 Nicola Rhodes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  In the same series

  Djinnx’d

  Reality Bites

  Tempus Fugitive

  The Day Before Tomorrow

  Faerie Tale

  Anything But Ordinary

  Rise of the Nephilim

  Pantheon

  Tomorrow is a fresh start, a new beginning.

  Tomorrow, I’ll make the change.

  Tomorrow, I’ll go on a diet.

  Tomorrow, I’ll find a new lover.

  Tomorrow, I’ll move to the South of France.

  Tomorrow, I’ll write my thesis.

  Tomorrow, I’ll find a new job.

  Tomorrow, I’ll find enlightenment.

  Tomorrow, things will be better.

  Tomorrow, all our dreams will come true.

  All the things we would do, if only we could get into Tomorrow.

  So, what will we do with today?

  And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.

  And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.

  And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.

  And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.

  And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.

  And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.

  And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.

  And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

  REV. VI. 1 – 8

  Who can comprehend the motives of Heaven?

  Lao Zi, Spring and Autumn Period.

  ~ Prologue ~

  Many hundreds of thousands of millions of billions of … Look – it was a long time ago, okay? When this lump of rock we call home was still a sphere of molten fire, and there was no sentient life in the galaxy, mainly because the parking here is so lousy.

  The gods were arguing. Well, all right, they were not gods, not as we understand the term; they were more like filing clerks. They kept the files of the universe in order, adding new and deleting or archiving old, as appropriate, keeping everything in its proper place, in this universe and others.

  ‘Sentient life?’ said one in a contemptuous tone. ‘There is no sentient life in this sector, Crispin, that’s why I took this job.’

  ‘Ah, but there will be Talbot,’ said Crispin. ‘All the data predicts it. It will evolve on that planet there.’ And he pointed to the fiery and rather small planet on the screen.

  There was laughter. ‘There?’ said Talbot. ‘Please? A greeble bug couldn’t survive on that!’

  ‘The planet …’

  ‘If you can call it that,’ he was interrupted.

  ‘The planet is cooling, and anyway, you can’t argue with the data – look.’ He changed the screen to a complicated table of numbers and letters. The others looked.

  ‘He’s right you know,’ said one eventually.

  ‘Damn,’ said the one named Talbot, ‘is it too late for me to ask for a transfer? Sentient life is such a lot of work. I didn’t sign up for this.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said another gloomily.

  ‘I take it we will have both real and unreal life?’ said a young one enthusiastically. There’s always one – the office junior, who is too clever for his own good, the whizz-kid.

  ‘Yes,’ said the second one, ‘very good, Matlus. First the real life, will appear, and then the unreal,’

  ‘Wicked!’ said Matlus.

  ‘Why is that?’ said the one who is a bit slow, and never went on the firm’s executive courses (there’s always one of these too).

  ‘Sentient life is imaginative Dolus,’ explained Matlus. ‘So it always creates unreal life, by its unreasoning belief in it, see?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Crispin? How soon can we expect this life?’ asked Matlus.

  Crispin referred to the data. ‘Couple of billion years, give or take. We should get busy.’

  ‘Get busy doing what?’ asked Talbot.

  ‘Sentient life needs certain things,’ explained Crispin. ‘Certain moral codes and emotional support, passions and purposes, things like hope, and love and even hate. Things like that.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dolus.

  Crispin lost his temper. ‘You should know all this stuff. I bet Matlus does. Get him to explain it to you.’

  ‘Teacher’s pet,’ muttered Dolus.

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ said Matlus, smugly.

  ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennt,’ said Crispin, as a fat housekeeper, waddled in.’

  ‘You wanted to see me sir?’

  ‘Yes, indeed Mrs. Bennt, we have a lot to do. Do you have the box?’

  ~ Chapter One ~

  Death stalked the dark streets, hungry and restless. This was because Mrs. Death had thrown him out again, after another row about whose turn it was to wash the dog, or was it take out the rubbish bags? Why had he ever got married?

  He headed for the pub.

  After several pints of old peculiar, he heard a strange tune playing in his ears. He reached inside his robes. Damn mobile phones.

  War was coming! – slowly. His horse was, after all, over 2000 years old.

  He was in a bad mood. Well he always was, what with being War and all. But today he was in a worse than usual mood, trudging along this dusty highway when he would far rather have been at home watching the football. Still, duty was duty, and he had had the call, so he had to go. He moseyed along muttering under his breath. ‘2000 years, they couldn’t have waited until the World Cup was over! Huh, s’not like I don’t have anything better to do.’ And so on.

  Famine was widespread – he took up two sofas now, and was getting bigger. The boss was going to be furious. Not that he was not doing his job, taking food out of the mouths of mortals the world over, but he was not supposed to be eating it all himself.

  And now that the call had come in, how was he ever going to get on his horse? There was nothing else for it; he would just have to lose some weight. It was not as if he did not have a working knowledge of the concept, he was the one who had invented dieting, after all. But the irony, the cruel irony of it – Famine – on a diet.

  Pestilence took the stage; the crowd roared. This was the life, sex drugs and rock and roll. That was the way to spread disease these days, and he loved it. He loved it so much that he had formed his own band, the better to facilitate his work. Then he had got sucked in, the bright lights, the adulation, the girls. But soon it would all be over, he had had the call, he was a little sad about that, but at least he would go out with a bang. But first – one last show. He strummed his guitar, grippe
d his mike and roared over the screaming crowd ‘Hello Bug Tussle!’

  ~Chapter Two ~

  The phone was ringing. Denny gave it a black look and turned to Tamar. ‘It’s for you,’ he asserted sourly.

  Tamar sighed. He was probably right, but she felt that she should at least make a token protest. ‘How do you know?’ she said.

  ‘Call me psychic,’ he quipped. ‘I just got this funny feeling in my balls,’ he continued, ‘like they were being squeezed in a vice, and I thought, who wants to do that to me? And the answer just came to me in a flash. It’s …’

  ‘Okay, okay, very funny,’ snapped Tamar, cutting him off. ‘You can shut up now.’ She glared at him. ‘I’ll answer it, shall I?’ She picked up the phone, which, in violation of all natural probability, seemed to be ringing more insistently the longer it was ignored.

  ‘Hello’

  ‘Oh, hi Mum.’ She gave the triumphant Denny an acerbic look, and he retired to the living room and switched on the TV quietly, though, so that he could still hear the conversation, or at least one half of it.

  ‘Yes Mum, everything’s fine …’

  ‘Well, I’ve been a bit busy…’

  ‘No, of course we aren’t fighting …’

  ‘He’s at work, I …’

  ‘Because I fell in love with…’

  ‘Well I think it’s a good reason – Mum, look if you’re just going to … (sigh) okay, okay. How’s Dad?’

  ‘No, I’m not pregnant yet. I’ve only been married for…’

  ‘No, he’s not; he’s fine, more than fine actually. Do you want the lurid details?’

  ‘That ought to shut her up,’ thought Denny. But of course, it did not.

  ‘No he is not infertile; I’m still on the pill, if you must know.’

  ‘Because I’m not ready for a baby yet. I have a career to think about, I’m trying for my Law degree. I don’t have time for…’

  ‘No, it is not because I think Denny would make a bad father. Why can’t you just… Mum? Mum?’

  She glanced up to see that Denny had put his finger on the cradle, cutting off the call. He gently took the receiver out of her hand and replaced it. She stifled her recriminations when she saw his face; it was as white as a sheet.

  ‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely, and led her into the living room.

  Tamar switched off the television; she and Denny looked at each other in despair. He took her hand and squeezed it with a wan smile.

  ‘So, that’s it,’ she said. ‘We’re at war. I can’t believe it’

  Denny did not say: ‘It’ll be all right.’ Because it clearly would not. He did not tell her not to worry, because she would anyway, and rightly so. All he said was: ‘I’ll be drafted, I suppose.’

  ‘Will you?’ she asked ‘I thought World War Three would be a nuclear war.’

  ‘No, not if they can help it,’ said Denny. ‘Weren’t you listening? Besides, they wouldn’t be so stupid – would they?’ he sounded a little uncertain. ‘No, they wouldn’t! – Surely? They’d be just as afraid as anyone.’

  ‘Huh, if by “they”, you mean the world leaders,’ she said. ‘Why should they worry? They’ve all got cosy little shelters to run to. They’ll be all right.’

  This was inarguable.

  Denny sighed. The Prime Minister, when making the announcement – in suitably sombre tones – had, by dint of cunning words and phrases, seemed to explain the situation quite clearly. But when Denny went over it in his head, he realised that he could make neither head nor tail of it really. He suspected that the PM could not either. It was perfectly clear from the announcement that the world was at war again, but everything else was vastly more confused.

  Tamar looked out of the flat window down at the dirty streets. They seemed so peaceful; it was hard to believe what she had just heard. Everything looked just the same. She had expected to see people running about in panic, army recruiters stalking up the street to take the young men away – to take Denny away. She felt her throat constrict. No, not Denny, it just was not possible. They had only been married a year, although they had known each other since school, and had been sweethearts since the age of nineteen. She was not ready to lose him so soon. And Denny was not exactly the military type. It occurred to her – although she pushed the thought away – that he might die. What would she do without him?

  Everybody who knew them had been surprised at their romance. She so beautiful and he so – well … not.

  She herself had been surprised, in a way, when this love had sprung up out of friendship and engulfed her. People had said that it would never last, that they were too different and that she was a vain and selfish bitch anyway, who would leave him for someone rich and handsome within six months. But she knew that she could not live without him and that he felt the same. They had been in love for seven years now, and Tamar knew that she would rather have him than all the money in the world. This was just as well, since he did not have any money. They would be together forever, she had once thought. Suddenly forever did not seem as certain as it once had.

  Denny sensed her thoughts and turned to her. ‘They won’t come round to the house,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a letter, probably.

  ‘Or a phone call,’ he added after a moment’s thought. ‘And even then, I’ll have to pass a physical test.’ He laughed. ‘And I mean, just look at me. They’re more likely to draft you.’ It was a hollow reassurance, and they both knew it. Denny might look unimpressive, but there was nothing actually wrong with him. Even his eyesight was perfect (although people who saw them together had their doubts about hers). She knew also, that he would not try to dodge. Denny hated fighting and the idea of war sickened him, but he was no coward.

  ‘They’ll make you cut your hair,’ she said, just for something to say. She pushed his long fair fringe out of his eyes.

  ‘Just as long as they don’t try to make me wash my socks.’

  ‘Ha, even I couldn’t manage that.’ It was the closest they could come to a normal conversation. They were trying desperately to act normally, as if this terrible thing were not hanging over their lives. It was a weak attempt at comfort.

  Tamar allowed herself to be comforted though. She crawled onto his lap, and he put his arms around her. They sat together like this for a long time, feeling helpless, as the shadows lengthened. Then, abruptly, startling them, the phone rang.

  ~ Chapter Three ~

  It was as Denny had predicted. Within six months of the announcement, the general forces of the army had been decimated, and the draft was in full swing. There was no sign of an all-out nuclear exchange being on the cards. Apparently, Denny’s surmise had been correct, and nobody was willing to go that far – ‘Yet,’ as Tamar said darkly. Denny had had his papers and he was going to China, having passed the physical with no problems. He faced his fate stoically, and Tamar felt that, for his sake, she could do no less.

  She was to remove to the countryside the day after he left. London was no longer safe. It was being bombed every night.

  She stood on the platform, tears in her eyes that she could no longer hold back, and a sense of unreality, that must have mirrored that of her forebears who had watched their own loved ones leaving to fight, and sometimes die, in the last war. It was this comparison, as much as anything that made it seem so unreal. She had, learned, as we all did, about WWII at school, and had since seen documentaries on the “Hitler” channel (officially known as the History channel) but nobody had ever thought it could happen again. At least, not in such a similar way. There were differences of course, but not significant ones. All the atomic paranoia of the fifties and sixties, the nuclear paranoia of the eighties, and now WWIII was here, and saw troops going off in trains to fight as infantry or in tanks or planes. Just like before. No wonder she could not quite believe it, it went against everything she had been taught to expect.

  The train pulled away, and Tamar was left on the platform feeling lost. The other women on the platform seemed to share her
feelings, some of them had children, who ran about unheeded while their mothers just stared at the disappearing train as if in a trance, unbelieving and frightened of a future that had never seemed so uncertain.

  Tamar went home slowly to pack her things; her own train would be early in the morning. Civilians were now only able to travel by rail between the hours of four and six a.m. This meant that it would take three days of travelling to get to her friend’s home in the country. Staying, no doubt, in “inns of dubious reputation” known to the rest of us as Bed and Breakfasts. Tamar sometimes had a curiously old fashioned way of expressing herself.

  Tamar had been popular at school – in that superficial way that attractive, well off people often are. But real friends, the kind that last, had been rare. However, she had stayed in touch with Ophelia Ostley, a dainty fluffy sort of person, who had less reason than most to be jealous of Tamar and who had married into the peerage and, therefore, now enjoyed a sense of superiority over her old friend (who had only married that strange Sanger boy) which completely mitigated any envy she might otherwise have felt, and which she enjoyed immensely. Therefore, they had continued to correspond, and Tamar and an uncomfortable Denny, had been invited to stay at the family pile every year, the better to facilitate the gloating aspect of their relationship.

  It was to the home of Ophelia – now Ophelia Ffawlkes Buffington Smythe – that Tamar now proposed to go.

  ‘Of course you must come, Darling.’ (Always said with a capital D nowadays – Ophelia had not been so aristocratic back at Hill Road Comprehensive) ‘Dear Tristan won’t mind a bit, I assure you.’

  Tamar knew this last bit, and she knew why. It had probably been his suggestion that she come in the first place.

  Dear Tristan was a tall, thin aristocratic type – good-looking, Tamar supposed, if you like that type of thing. He had limp, floppy hair and a limp, floppy personality. Tamar felt she had no reason to envy Ophelia.