Harry Edwards. Survivor.
That’s me.
Always have been, always will be.
There’s no fucking way a stupid volcano is going to stop me now.
The whole world might have heard the news and panicked, but the minute I found out, I started thinking, as I always do in a crisis.. While everyone else was running scared, I started planning ways to escape. Even though I had a hunch this was a hoax, I wasn’t taking any chances. Watching the pundits on the telly with their charts and CGI images declaring the end to be nigh, I couldn’t help remembering how the same serious people told us Trump would never win and Brexit would never happen. Tonight, when that volcano doesn’t collapse, I’m convinced they’ll all look very stupid. But it’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it? So, I weighed up the options and came up with the perfect answer. The road was the obvious choice, but also the stupid one. With so many holidaymakers trying to get along the same narrow route, I knew it would get clogged in no time. And the railway wouldn’t be much better. I knew this was a situation that required an intelligent solution and I found one. I bought myself a boat. I discovered a bloke online who has a holiday cottage in Penzance and a motor cruiser in the harbour. Now Shelley and I are heading into town while all the sheeple are travelling in the opposite direction. I felt smug at first, seeing them all going nowhere fast, knowing we had our way out, but I should have factored all the idiots going into Penzance to try the train. We’ve been stuck in traffic for an hour now, a delay we could do without. I’m trying not to let it bother me. We’re still moving faster than the cars going in the opposite direction, and once we’re on the water there’ll be no stopping us. But I could do without the sun pounding through the front windows; even with the side ones down, the Maserati is hot and sticky. The only thing I have against this car is the lack of air conditioning.
‘Are you sure it’s going to be OK?’ Shelley says for the third time as we crawl past the supermarket by the roundabout.
‘Of course it is. I said I’d sort it and I’ve sorted it. And you know the best part, babe?’
‘What?’
‘We’ve got ourselves a brand-new boat. When all the fuss has died down we can moor it down somewhere on the south coast and spend weekends out on the water. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Shelley’s voice doesn’t have quite as much enthusiasm as it should have, doesn’t have quite as much faith in me as I’d like. She used to always trust my judgement, but lately she’s been questioning my decisions a lot more. Perhaps it’s inevitable, now we’re living together. But I could do without it right now. Right now it would be nice if she showed a little faith. After all, I’m doing this as much for her as for me.
The road towards the harbour is even more jam-packed than the A30, cars are stuck in both directions, horns beeping, drivers shouting. I look at my watch. Two thirty. I said to the bloke in London we’d be here by two. I text him to say we’re nearly there. The cars ahead are maybe going nowhere, but it’s not far.
‘Come on, we’re walking.’ I pull up in a lay-by.
‘I’ve got my heels on.’
‘It’s less than a mile. Grab your bags.’ I take out my suitcase from the boot and pull up the handle. Shelley has brought two huge holdalls which she places on each shoulder, like ballast balloons. She follows obediently as I make for the harbour. The journey is more complicated than I had anticipated. The road is crowded with people waiting for the train or trying to get to the harbour and it is a struggle to make our way through. Cars beep incessantly and, as we approach the car park, we can see a closely packed throng reaching all the way to the quayside and along to the main docks. The crowd is thinner on our side of the road, but it’s still an effort to push our way against the tide of people heading for the station. The mood is unpleasant; there are shouts and scuffles and across the way I can see a couple of big blokes sizing up for a fight. I want to get to the boat as soon as possible, but every few minutes I’m stopped by Shelley wailing for me to slow down, pleading for help with her bags
‘I did suggest one bag only,’ I say when she catches up.
‘I need them both.’
I want to suggest that she dumps one but she has a face that suggests tears are imminent and an argument will only slow us down. There’s nothing for it but to take one of hers and keep moving forward. It is hard work, harder as we arrive at the quay, where we are pressed in on every side, with some people heading in the direction of the station, others towards the harbour in the hope that the one ferry will return and rescue them. I push a path through the wall of bodies, conscious that all it would take would be for one trip and we’d be trampled on. At last we make it through to the quayside where I sit down in the wall to catch my breath. Shelley throws her bag down with relief, and then gazes past me towards the quayside. ‘Is there enough water?’
I turn round. The tide is going out. Already the mooring chains are half exposed to show their green seaweed and barnacle coverings. The waves lap against an edge of dirty brown sand which is filled with small wading birds searching for food. It should be just about deep enough to depart but then I realize something else. There isn’t a single yacht or speedboat left. Not one. All that remains are a few battered rowing boats that wouldn’t make it further than the harbour wall. Where is my boat? Where is my fucking boat? Even though the evidence is in front of me, I still can’t accept it. I walk over to mooring nineteen where Bob the fisherman was supposed to meet me. There is nobody there, and the mooring chain leads nowhere.
‘Was it definitely here?’ says Shelley. ‘Not round the corner?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Shells. This is where they keep the private boats. The docks are for commercial vessels’
‘Perhaps he moved it.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’ A seagull flies overhead, depositing it’s droppings on my shoulder as it passes. Shelley laughs.
‘It’s not funny!’ I’m furious, but she cannot stop giggling, until I shout at her, ‘Shut the fuck up, will you?’
‘It was just the timing.’ She gets a tissue out of her bag and removes the worst of the gloopy mess off my T-shirt. It leaves behind a white smeary stain. I ring the owner, no answer. I send him a text. No answer. Then another, which finally gets a response. Sorry – boat’s been sold. Bob waited till two thirty but had to leave; he sold it to someone else. Hope you can find another.
What about my refund, arsehole? I text back, but he doesn’t reply. Fucker probably thinks I’m done for, and he might as well pocket my £500. He doesn’t know what’s coming for him. When I get back to London, as I definitely will, I’ll take him to the cleaners. No one gets the better of Harry Edwards, no one.
‘What are we going to do?’ Oh, Shelley. Why are you so young? You’re beautiful and sweet but not much good in a crisis. ‘Give me a moment to think.’ I look around the harbour. There are thousands of people between here and the station, still thinking they might get a space on a train, or a ferry. I can’t see it myself, there are too many of us. There is no point hanging about here.
‘What are we going to do?’ wails Shelley again.
‘Ssh, I’m thinking.’
I check the news. The roads are as clogged as I thought they would be. There’s also no point attempting to travel north. Clearly not worth taking a risk on the internet again, but surely not every boat will have gone? Surely, in some little cove somewhere, someone keeps a boat for their occasional trips to