Three Day Week

The digital counter in the bottom right corner of the TV flicked from three to two minutes.

'We're not going to find out who won the challenge,' said Fiona. 'They promised it'd be done by ten thirty. And look, two minutes. It's the public vote tomorrow.'

'The Dutch are OK. Probably don't even care about us any more.' Jon turned, smiled, stood and walked across the room.

'You're not going out?' asked Fiona tersely.

'No work tomorrow. Friday. No work Monday, no work Friday.' He had already put on the first shoe.

Fiona tried to concentrate on the reality show that was being broadcast from Holland, but which now showed one minute on the clock, as if trying to squeeze the last ounce of daylight from the evening. 'There's no pubs open after ten thirty. The Snow Goose shut at ten last night. That's the last one. Where will you go?'

'I fancy a wander,' he replied, non-committal.

'A wander?'

'Yes, I just want some air. The air is still the same as it ever was. Perhaps darker, but chemically the same.'

'Well, if you have to go, then please take care,' she said, unsure, as the TV screen buzzed and turned black. 'Oh no!' she exclaimed as immediately the lights turned off and the room snapped to pitch black. 'It's like ripping the last ten pages out of a novel'.

'I think you've said that before. Anyway it's only reality TV. Doesn't really matter.' Jon reached behind him, opened the box, struck a match and lit the candle on the sideboard, then another on the small lamp table. He shook the box of matches to indicate that it was nearly full.

Fiona saw that he now had both shoes on. 'It's dark out there. I wish you didn't need to go out. I mean it's not like there's anything you have to do. Nothing's open.'

Was she suspicious? He kissed her, then fumbled down the hall to the door. Outside the streets were dark, the trees only just visible against the sky. Cars were banned after sunset, the street lights were no longer turned on, and the entire town was without electricity after ten thirty. Jon's father had told him about the three day week in the seventies; then it had been an attempt to conserve home-produced coal. Now, the country had insufficient money to import gas, oil or coal. No more credit. It was a new three day week, but this time there was no optimism about what might come after.

He felt in his pocket for the penknife he carried on these late night walks. The moon was but a thin sliver in the dark sky, periodically obscured by autumn clouds. Here and there, weak candles thrust moving shadows on living room walls and windows, the only sign of life within. Few ventured outside the safety of their homes after dark. It was like a wartime curfew, and Jon felt sometimes that the air raid siren might go off at any moment and he would have to run for cover under a bush in one of the terraced front gardens. He picked up his collar against the few spits of rain in the air.

Jon reached the precinct. In the middle of the square a group of young boys and girls mingled with their bicycles, two or three battery driven front lights flickering like a fire. They looked about fifteen, and were crowded round a phone, the aggressive music playing faintly; there was no chance to recharge the phone before dawn, and in any case there was no longer any signal broadcast. This was a precious moment for them and he knew they would not see him. He turned a corner and felt along the wall, the grey door invisible against the dark concrete. He knocked, and the door opened, only a torchlit face visible in the darkness. The eyes and mouth nodded, and then it was dark again. He shuffled his feet to find the raised lintel, then made his way down the hard cold stairs, tapping his heels on the face of each step to ensure he did not fall. There was a strong smell of damp that picked at his nostrils. Pushing at just the right moment on the heavy door, he entered into a large subterranean room lit by a handful of candles.

He knew where they would be sat, and he made his way directly to their table by the wall at the end of the makeshift bar. He shook their hands - the three friends with whom he used to regularly drink in the Snow Goose - and he sat down. He picked up the glass and sipped his beer, still effervescent from being recently poured. He stared at the candle in the centre of the table and blew out his breath a little harder, making the flame wobble and the wax spill over the edge and run down the other side onto the wooden table. The three faces shimmered. He took another sip. Nobody spoke. Behind them the jukebox stood silent.