Finale

Ignoring the surrounding chaos as best he can, Ashley goes through his standard routine: lift one foot at a time onto the garden wall, leg parallel to the ground, push down gently, rub the hamstrings, swivel carefully to stretch the groin; move to the garage door, lean forward into it, arms outstretched, stick a leg out behind, back foot planted firmly on the ground, feel the hamstring, flex it slightly, repeat for the other leg; use the door for balance, lift each leg in turn, hold it by the instep of the foot, push out and back to stretch the thigh muscles; at the garden wall again, place a foot on it, knee raised, rub the knee well, both sides, repeat for the other.

There’s really no reason to warm up now, of course, but it’s actually a part of the process he enjoys, a moment of mindfulness, feeling his body, every inch. He’d spend more time on it this evening, but time is something he – anyone, in fact – has very little of.

He's ready to go and opens the front door. Spike pokes his head out. Normally, the Border Collie would come bounding into the front garden, barking excitedly, jumping up at Ashley, tail wagging furiously. Today he creeps out, ears flattened, and moves to his owner, seeking the cover of his legs. He’s sensed that something’s very different, not right.

Ashley crouches and ruffles the fur around Spike’s neck, holds his face, brings his mouth close to his ear, whispers gently.

“It’s all right, Spike. Nothing to worry about. Let’s go for a run, eh?”

At his master’s calm tone and the word ‘run’, Spike’s mood changes; he pricks up his ears and starts wagging his tail in expectation of his favourite thing in life.

“That’s my boy,” Ashley says, patting him on the head.

He leaves the front door open to show anyone who might be looking for some final moments of peace that they’re welcome to enter.

The front gate emits a loud, familiar groan when he pulls it opens.

“Must fix that tomorrow!” he says, as he has done for months. He giggles at how ludicrous that is and wonders how he could laugh at anything in the circumstances.

“Gallows humour, Spike,” he says. Spike barks at the cue. “That’s right!” Ashley agrees, and giggles again.

He sets off, walking briskly at first, thrilling at the feel of his muscles working. He quickly slips into a pleasing, well-practised rhythm, with arms, legs, shoulders, hips, breathing, all coordinated. There’s a little twinge in his right ankle – he forgot to work them during the warm-up – but he’s not stopping now. Spike, trained not to wander in front, keeps to his side, looking up at Ashley every few strides, but he’s also interested and visibly fearful at what’s going on in the neighbourhood.

They move down the middle of the street; the pavement on both sides is bustling with families hurrying out of their houses and piling things into their cars. Many are shouting or crying, there are children screaming. Ashley stops and jerks his head to the right when Mr Cowan drops his television with a crash. Their eyes meet. Mr Cowan, his face a mask of confusion and despair, goes to say something and even opens his mouth, but his wife calls to him from the front door and he hurries back in.

In his address to the nation, the Prime Minister was quite clear about the futility of trying to escape. Ashley got the message; it seems that none of his neighbours did. None, that is, except the Taylors, two doors down from the Cowans; Ashley has always liked them. There they are in the front window, surveying the chaotic scenes in the street, but hugging. Moments of tenderness before the inevitable.

Ashley doesn’t have anyone to hug, except Spike, and he’d rather be on the move. He yaps, as if to confirm the fact.

“All right, boy.”

Two helicopters sweep overhead, somewhat redundantly, Ashley muses. They add to the din, which has become barely tolerable. He slips on the headphones that have been hanging around his neck and pulls his trusty old iPod out of a pocket. While he was warming up, he was thinking of what to play. Although he’s no connoisseur of classical music, he decided on something by Mozart: Eine kleine Nachtmusik. It’s a good length, happy, and although he isn’t sure he’ll get to hear all of it, it feels comforting somehow to be shepherded from this world by one of the great human beings.

As the first movement kicks off, so does he, with Spike at his side. He wants to get out of the town and into the countryside as quickly as possible so picks up his pace, his limbs pumping in time to Mozart’s sublime art. The scenes of panic and confusion continue – at one point he hears muffled gunshots – and at times he has to dodge to avoid people who have quite understandably forgotten their manners and step out in front of him. Those that have finished loading their cars drive past Ashley in the opposite direction. He could tell them it's useless, that they’ll soon hit jams, but there are too many of them and there's not not enough time.

Within a few minutes, the houses begin to thin and he passes over a rise. The Jurassic Coast stretches out below him, the red sun low beyond. He pushes harder. Spike, tongue lolling, begins to lag, but picks up with a little encouragement.

Nachtmusik’s third movement – the minuet – dances into Ashley’s ears, and as it does, he sees the first giant splashes in the ocean way off in the distance, and traces them back to the sky, where aeons-old missiles of rock are beginning to rain down, each larger than the one before. Cars stream past, on both sides of the road; no one is heading west but Ashley.

He lifts his headphones momentarily to catch the ambient soundscape – engines revving, car horns, shouts, gulls shrieking as they also flee – all laid onto a deep, sustained, ominous rumble: the sound of extinction.

The glorious sun begins to squeeze below the horizon, in no rush. But Ashley is and breaks into a controlled sprint, Mozart’s joyous Finale setting the pace.

“Come on Spike! Good boy!” Ashley gasps. Spike manages a weak grunt, concentrating more on keeping up.

And so the two head towards the coast, and the imminent end of this particular race.