Product Recall
Outside there was an axe in a block of wood.
“You go,” she said.
He didn’t want to. It was warm in the old cottage, and it was promising on the tatty sofa, before the fire. A hand knitted blanket on their legs. A bottle of champagne chilling in the kitchen fridge.
“It’s too blowy outside,” he protested.
“Can you stop that fridge rattling?” she asked.
“It’s an old fridge. But it works.”
“Go.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“It’s just grey.”
The fire crackled.
“Why me?”
“You want me to trudge down the lane at this time of day?”
“Chivalry is dead,” he grinned.
“I don’t have my wellies on.”
He wriggled his toes.
“There’s still some light left,” she added.
There was light from the screen of her iPhone too.
“Put it down.”
She’d pursed her lips and continued scrolling.
“Put it away.”
“We can go together,” he suggested.
“You want me to trudge down the lane in the mud?”
“It was your idea.”
“Look. Just go and see if the lamppost has one of the signs? Then maybe you can give me a massage.”
“It’s just a social media prank.”
His hands moved about under the blanket. She shook her head.
“Notices appearing simultaneously on every lamppost in the United Kingdom at exactly the same time is not a prank.”
“It is weird.”
He moved a palm to climb over her thigh. She blocked it.
“Does it say who did it?” he asked.
Phone light on her face.
“No one knows. But they estimate there’s ten million lampposts in the UK.”
His hand retreated.
“What else do they say?”
“Every notice is the same,” she re-read the article.
“In accordance with the Consumer Product Safety Act, notice is hereby given that your country, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, is to be recalled, as a result of irredeemable manufacturing faults and risk to life…”
The notice stated the recall was to happen in stages. First Kent, then Dorset, then Belfast, then Suffolk, and so on. Orkney was last.
“It’s a good thing we’re on Orkney,” he grinned.
“Just go and check.”
“If the world is going to end, we should find out together.”
“Not the world,” she corrected him, “just the United Kingdom.”
“I’ll go. But I want a massage too.”
She shrugged.
“It can’t be the government,” he said. “They can’t organise bin collections.”
He wished they had rented a cottage without internet.
He pulled on his socks. He stared at the fire. The dancing flames. Outside there was an axe in a block.
“There’s hardly a tree on Orkney,” he said. “Where did they get the wood?”
She didn’t answer. She was scrolling.
He looked at her, frowning. She pulled up her jumper. Briefly.
“Go on then,” she said, with a grin.
He went to the door and opened it. Outside his boots were already mud caked.
“I’ll be back.”
“Hurry.”
He went. He could hear upbeat music from her phone. She giggled. He closed the door.
The lane wound ahead, and he trudged, unsure if he should step in their old footsteps or make new ones?
The lamppost was at the corner, where the lane joined the road. A battered white van drove past. A mass of seagulls circled overhead, screaming at each other. He could hear waves in the distance. Tomorrow they would go and tour a neolithic tomb. Then maybe a pub lunch. The world looked normal enough.
He considered going back and saying there was no notice. But he hadn’t been gone long enough. He took out his phone and turned to take a photo of the cottage. Squat. Smoke from its chimney. Orange glow in the window.
He reached the end of the lane. Gravel replaced mud. He crunched over it, and it stuck to his boots.
He examined the lamppost. It was old and brittle. The base was rotting. He looked for a long time. Then he turned back for home.
When he got there it was night.
From the doorway, she watched his return. Orange light at her back. Her arms crossed over her chest.
He was grinning. She was beautiful.
“What took you so long?”
He pointed to his boots.
“I’m now more mud than man.”
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“Was there a sign?”
“No.”
She didn’t believe him.
“Forget about it,” he urged her.
She didn’t want to.
“What about your massage?”
She shook her head.
“We need more wood.”
She pointed to the axe.
“Hurry,” she said, and closed the door.
He picked up the axe and thought about what to do next.
Later. With brittle wood burning fast in the hearth, she lay on the rug and he gave her a massage. Her phone buzzed with notifications.
She wriggled. He resumed massaging.
When he was finished, she was asleep. He put some more wood into the fire and crumbled up a piece of paper to burn. Then he took their phone charging cables and sat on the sofa, twisting the cables around and around. He tested charging his phone. It charged. He twisted the cables around and around until the charging didn’t work.
Notifications kept buzzing her phone. Whatsapp. Twitter. Instagram. Facebook. Tiktok. Pinterest. Gmail. Outlook. Google this and that. Duolingo. Weather. News alerts. Fitness tracker grumpy at lack of steps. Endless.
He crept to the router, unplugged it, took its power cable and twisted, and twisted until it too ceased to work.
Satisfied, he took the champagne from the fridge. The light did not come on when he opened the door. The fridge was dead. But the bottle was chilled still. Just.
He woke her up.
“What’s the matter?”
“Kent’s gone,” he said. And uncorked the champagne. “And the fridge is dead.”
She started up.
“It’s a joke!” He poured wine into two tumblers. “About Kent.”
“Was there a sign on the lamppost?”
“Let’s toast the end of the world.”
She didn’t believe him. “No,” she corrected him, “just the United Kingdom.”
She wanted the drink.
By the morning Dorset would be gone too. Then Belfast, Suffolk and so on. They would never know it, but they would be last, and they would be in a tomb, faces lit by the lights of their phones.
