Water's Edge

Chapter III

Causeway

It felt like the wasps had followed me as long as they could as I exited Askrinstough, figuring out on the SatNav – all the satellite data out of date; England never renewed their contracts with the EU and their new satellite builds were tincans & tinfoil – how'd I'd even get to the address Mrs. Wharton had given me. Two men were on the roof of my building trying to remove the nest. Failing.

The Humber Bridge had collapsed when the floods had arrived in 20XX. It's thick fingers still reached out of the water, but as a monument to climate catastrophe. I found it beautiful, in a haunting kind of way. Seabirds had come to rest in it, along with Marsh Harriers, Avocet, Little Tern, Bittern—a Bar-tailed Godwit hid in the scrub as I approached the edge of the Humber, realised my error, and traipsed the remnant hamlets on this side of the river.

You could only get to the other side of the Humber now by two routes. At its most Westerly end, a new bridge had been constructed, but it would take hours to get all the way back around to Thorngumbald, where Edith had requested I meet her and her family. Instead, I had to take a tidal road, The Humber Causeway, from somewhere close to Goxhill to Thorngumbald itself. I remembered why I had heard of Barnaby Wharton now, utilising both Sunk Island (an apt name now) and other parts of the Humber for the construction of his dam, which would make this tidal road accessible all year round.

They'd have to wait then. The tide was in. At least I could get another half in me; the last half had barely lasted. Anxiety processes alcohol faster than I'd like.

They take apart their bodies like toys for the local boys

Because they're always there at the edge of the water

They come from the capital these city girls

Go way down where the stones meet the sea

The track finished, played out the windows. I leant on the bonnet, snacking on a cone of chips, watching as dredgers scared the Hen Harriers and Golden Plovers trying to make a living by the saltmarsh. I had oversalted the chips. I could see the dam reaching into the heavens as a curved bastion, grey-beige concrete screaming to the countryside to accept it as it was. English ingenuity will always surprise me, but so will how ugly brutalism is—

I threw the cone in the bin, as a man in a fluorescent jacket told me it was safe to cross. The Zodiac grumbled awake, and I could head into the town of Thorngumbald.

A while ago, this had been just a village: church fêtes, five-a-side, tinnies in the park. But after the Humberside villages and towns had been engulfed by the sea, Thorngumbald had been leased new life. And with a new life comes a new caretaker—Barnaby Wharton.

I considered if they had tried to find a name like Wharf to care for this part of the country. No longer were MPs obliged to be from their chosen constituency, instead housed twice or thrice to spread their influence across the land. Wharton had been sequestered to drowned land, damp marsh. He must be fuming.

I felt claustrophobic on this stretch of 'road', the waters lapping on either side, as if any moment I would be swallowed by those grey waters.

Kids were watching me arrive with wide-eyes. It was a nice car after all. I knew I'd have to keep an eye on it whilst here. I made sure the glove compartment was locked, and before I even had time to look around my surroundings, a black car pulled up in front of me to prevent my passage. I tall man stepped out, in a grey suit too tight over the shoulders, jaw like basalt. He came over and tapped on the window, "I'm here to take you to Mr. and Mrs. Wharton's." His accent could have been Polish.

"Sure."

I followed the car through damp streets, the sight of hundreds of cranes leaning up into the sky ominous, imposing, prophetic.

It's the will of love

It's the thrill of love

Ah but the chill of love

Is comin' down, people