icarus falling

The Greek Myth of Daedalus and Icarus is one of the best known. The following is my re-write of the story: a sci-fi/Gothic take on the myth. It’s set in a future about fifty years from now, with Earth perilously close to climate collapse.

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Icarus Falling

The first time I saw Russ, his face was an agonised roar, and the full rage of the sea was reflected in his eyes.

I knew him before I met him. He was a household name, especially in Lower Polton, the quiet coastal town where his family had lived for generations.

I had been sent to Lower Polton by my boss, Trevor, to investigate a possible story for the weekend tablet supplement. A seaside village under threat from worldwide aggressive storms and rising sea-levels, and a family with piles of money: old money, dirty money.

Diggory Bircott, the seventy-four year old man I was headed to interview, was not hard to track down on the web. He had gone into business with MinosCorp, a well-known global engineering powerhouse, at age 21. Together they’d built power stations the world over. Then things got shady – it seemed he turned on his business partners and turned instead to conserving the Earth rather than helping to destroy it (a little too late, I privately thought). Five years ago he’d recruited his renowned playboy son, Russell Bircott, and they’d returned to Lower Polton to the ancestral pile to put Diggory’s eco-friendly plans to action. Things had quietened down after that. It was actually only in the past few weeks that stories of discontent had began to trickle up out of the sleepy rural spot, and come to our attention at the news headquarters.

* * *

 The wind was snarling as I stomped down an unexceptional country lane, the gravel beneath my boots speckled occasionally with determined weeds. I wiped drizzle from my glasses and glowered at the billowing grey clouds. This was supposed to be summer.

Just when I thought my right heel might give way completely, the lane opened up to a sweeping field, dropping to the swirling, foaming sea beyond. Immediately the wind, unobstructed, hit me like a hammer. The old gravel track rolled to a hulking, imposing house, three stories high, lashed by the gusts. I sniffed. Very Gothic indeed.

I hobbled onwards, collar turned up against the gale, bag clutched to my side. As I drew nearer it was clear that the old pile was deserted. It stood barefaced on one side to the sea, clinging onto the cliff-face by sheer determination alone. I began to make a call to Trevor to confirm my location, and was halfway down the contacts list in my EyePhone in my specs before I turned the display off with a couple of blinks. No point disturbing him when I hadn’t even got a story yet.

I squelched across the unused car park and leant against an ancient mossy gate, peering over at the churning sea below. And that’s when I saw him.

He was standing at the end of a small path, back to me, hair twisted in the wind. Right at the edge of the cliff, dressed in nothing but a white t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms. One hand was clutching what looked like a remote control.

I hesitated for a second, before natural curiosity claimed me, and I pushed the rusted bolt to open the gate. The screech of metal cut across the moaning wind, and the man jerked around. I recognised him immediately, even with the windswept hair: the deep-set cheekbones and small, fierce eyes had jumped from my tablet earlier. The millionaire’s son, Russell Bircott.

He gave a start when he saw me, motionless, halfway through the gate.

“Hello!” I shouted, above the gale. The wind grabbed my voice and threw it back to shore.

He just stared.

“I’m Eloise Thea! Just wanted a chat with Mr Bircott!”

His eyebrows rose. “I am Mr Bircott,” he said, and the wind carried his voice perfectly, without the inelegant hollering.

“Can we go inside and talk?” I yelled.

“Journalist, are you?” he growled. “You’re a bit late. The family dramatics are over.”

My nose wrinkled involuntarily. Surely in the realm of dramatic situations, this one would rank pretty highly.

“I’d just like a chat, is all,” I persisted.

“I have nothing to say.” Russell Bircott snapped.

“Okay, then,” I said, and shuffled backwards, closing the gate behind me. I walked determinedly towards the house. I’d reached the shelter of the front porch when he caught up with me, panting angrily.

“You’re trespassing!” He was shouting now, towering over me, dripping rainwater.  “There’s no way you’re setting foot in my house.”

I shrugged. “Calm down. I just wanted to be out of the rain for a minute.”

I perched on the damp wall that surrounded the porch. There was a very long silence.

“Look,” Russell began, unexpectedly. He seemed resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t leave. “My father’s gone. Left yesterday. Said I’d gone too far.”

“Too far? You are somewhat at the end of the world here, I suppose,” I said jovially, and surreptitiously raised a hand to set my EyePhone to record video.

Russell was staring blankly out to sea. “I suppose you know that story already. Big money, big business, Father got cold feet, suddenly became an eco-warrior, headed back down here to hide out and make plans to save the world in his crusty laboratory.”

Who knew why he was suddenly opening up, but I wasn’t about to interrupt with stupid questions, so I just nodded along.

“I never would have agreed if I hadn’t just got sober. He caught me at a very impressionable moment.” Russell sounded extremely bitter. “He told me we had enough money, no need to keep exploiting the world’s resources. I wasn’t spending anything on booze so I figured, nothing to lose, right? Anyway, after a while he started to get obsessive, especially about climate disruption. It got boring.

“Then I got a call from MinosCorp, they wanted to open the old drilling station down here. I made the mistake of telling Father, who of course refused. Said that this is an ecological haven…” he looked around at the sodden landscape and laughed hollowly. “Some haven!”

He fell silent.

I cleared my throat. “It is rather damp, yes. So… did you begin construction again?”

“I was just about to start the programming when you squelched your way down here.” He looked me up and down with displeasure. “Hardly dressed for it.”

“I could say the same about you,” I said, irritated.

“I overslept.” He snapped. “I have a slight hangover.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Father’s gone upcountry.” Russell continued, unprompted. “Warned me not to push it too far. Said I always try and fly too close to the sun – not that there’s any sun to be seen, is there! It’s all irreversible now, anyway. We’ve screwed the Earth, so there’s no need to stop now, huh?”

There was clearly no point arguing with this sodden, sorry rich kid. My feet were beginning to go numb, and I could clearly visualise the little fireplace in my room back up at the village.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” I asked, rising from the wall. “See what’s happening with the project? Maybe even have a cup of tea this time?”

“Don’t push it.” Russell huffed. He stared at the distant waves again. “I might give you a proper interview, if you arrange it this time, like a civilised person.”

I laughed, privately thinking that with his background, it was rather rich of him to preach about civility. Stealthily, I turned off the recording.

I wobbled back down the path again, buffeted by the wind which smacked me as soon as I left the porch. I glanced back and Russ was stood, silent and still, gazing at the rocking horizon.

“Call Trevor,” I said to my EyePhone display, and the device beeped into life.

* * *

I never got a second interview.

It was all over the news when I awoke. Russ, alone, had started the drilling again down at the manor house, as he’d intended. No one seemed to know what had happened, something to do with the construction work beneath the foundations of the house, and the old coastline had its revenge after years of man-made erosion, both on the land and from the climate-forced rising seas… There had been some sort of explosion, and the cliff, already brittle, had been cracked open to the elements, and the house had crumbled, torn from the land to crash to the waves below.

It took Russell Bircott down with it.

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The End

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