Tick tock, p.1
Tick Tock, page 1
Simon Mayo
* * *
TICK TOCK
Contents
Four days earlier
Three days earlier
Twenty months earlier: MCS Big Hall
Seventeen months earlier
Two days earlier
The day before
The day
Two months later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Simon Mayo MBE is a writer and broadcaster. His previous books include the Sunday Times bestseller Knife Edge, Mad Blood Stirring, Blame and the Itch trilogy, filmed for TV by the ABC. He hosts Drivetime on Greatest Hits Radio and the film-review podcast Kermode and Mayo’s Take with Professor Mark Kermode.
Also by Simon Mayo
Mad Blood Stirring
Knife Edge
Fiction for Younger Readers
Blame
Itchcraft
Itch Rocks
Itch
In memoriam
Alan Mayo, 1925–1926
‘Our wee man’
Mary Bird, 1929–2021
‘It’s another page-turner, Mary!’
‘God omnipotent
is mustering in his clouds on our behalf
Armies of pestilence, and they shall strike.’
Richard II, Act 3, Scene 3
The spore was shaped like a ball, dull grey and seventeen microns in length. That is to say, seventeen thousandths of a millimetre. It spun as it drifted. The spore cloud of which it was a part was buffeted by eddies of breath, draughts from the open window and the heat of nearby human bodies. The cloud floated past two mouths, then spun faster as breath was exhaled, blowing the spores away. Then a third mouth opened, breathing in sharply. A sudden intake, and the air was sucked inside at a speed of two metres per second. The spore was pulled in through the mouth, through the fibrous muscle of the pharynx and past the open epiglottis. In the larynx it was bounced further by the tens of thousands of identical spores in the cloud, all of which had made the same short journey. The ball spun faster.
At the end of the inhale, the spore was pulled down the trachea, a straight drop to the bottom of the windpipe. As it fell, the cloud rotated anticlockwise and the spore funnelled through the tubular branches of the left lung. It slowed as the tubes constricted then stuck on the wall of one of the smallest. There, it waited for germination.
Programmed.
Coded.
Under orders.
In twelve weeks, its hard keratin shell will break and its bacteria will be released. They in turn will release auto-inducers – tiny molecules that signal to each other. Once they message that they have the numbers, the bacteria will attack.
Until then, the spore cloud’s cargo of lethal toxin will have to wait.
The driver of the Freightliner X7 bus flicked his tired eyes to the mirror. At 6.37 a.m., it should have been busy. Three quarters full at least. Commuters and returning, sleeping nightshift workers in the main. But he had nine passengers – only nine – and every one of them was silent.
The ID swinging from his neck showed a man happier and heavier than the image in the mirror. He drove slowly, with just one eye on the road. His passengers were nervous; he was nervous. He wouldn’t have shown up for work at all if his girlfriend hadn’t called him a pussy.
Another glance in the mirror.
Bolt upright, the nine were watching each other, their eyes darting from passenger to passenger. Nervous, watchful, listening. Above all, listening. When the bus was moving and its 600 h.p. diesel engine was clattering noisily, deafeningly, the relaxation was visible: an exhaled breath, a drop of the shoulders. But whenever it slowed down, or spent any time at traffic lights, the delay was greeted with wider eyes and tighter lips. No one was wearing headphones.
Two white men sat at the back, the only passengers sitting close enough for a conversation, but they too had fallen silent. There was colour in their cheeks from the cold outside but otherwise their faces were pale, strained. In front of them, a grey-haired black woman, her handbag clutched to her chest like a shield, stared resolutely ahead. Only her slightly cocked head revealed her alertness, her awareness of possible danger. A muffled and swathed schoolgirl sat three seats in front of her, hands gripped around a book she manifestly wasn’t reading. A young black Salvation Army officer stood in the aisle, trying and failing to smile, her gloved hand holding tightly on to the back of a seat. The other four passengers wore white face masks that covered their mouth and nose; one stood by the driver, and the other three sat alone, as far apart as the bus allowed. On one of the misted-up windows, a previous passenger had written ‘Silence’, the letters now running with condensation.
The bus slowed as it approached a stop. Nine heads whipped left to see who was waiting.There’s someone else?
It was a middle-aged man, fifties, salt-and-pepper beard, rough working jacket, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. An icy blast blew in and the driver punched the doors closed behind him. The man was waved through without paying and immediately sized up his fellow travellers. He pulled the scarf away from his face.
‘I’m fine. No need to worry on my score,’ he called. Londoner. A ragged voice. A smoker, probably. His cheery tone aroused nothing but suspicion in the nine. Shrugging, he sat down next to one of the passengers wearing a paper mask. His new neighbour flinched, then, recovering, slowly bent his head closer. After a few seconds, he nodded and gave a thumbs-up sign.
The bearded man harrumphed. ‘Like I said,’ he said, and pulled his scarf back over his mouth.
There was a stretch of dual carriageway ahead, a clear road for maybe half a mile – the only time a bus driver was ever likely to hit 30 mph. The winter light was the usual combination of weak sun and bright neon. The driver thought it made everyone look sick. Maybe everyone was sick. If there was no one at the Radcliffe Road stop, he knew he could maintain his speed all the way. Pick up some of his lost time.
The bus shelter looked empty, and he began to move into the middle lane, but at the last minute a gloved hand shot out from behind a full-screen advert. For a fraction of a second, he considered driving on – that hand was late – but then his instinct kicked in and, with the smallest of sighs, he indicated, then slowed. The owner of the gloved hand stayed partially hidden behind the eight-foot-high perfume ad, then the driver made out a dark-coloured parka and a cream hoodie pulled low. Stooped, head down, light brown skin.
In the mirror, the response was immediate. All ten passengers were straining to see who number eleven might be. One of the men in the back row was half standing, peering through the fogged-up window. He wiped away the condensation and pressed his face to the glass, straining for a view.
‘Hood’s up!’ he shouted. ‘The bastard’s got his hood up!’ One of the men in a mask pulled the fabric away from his mouth.
‘He takes it down, driver!’ he yelled. ‘Make sure he takes it down!’
There was an unmistakable edge to the man’s voice. The driver got the message. His new passenger would have to take the hood down or there were ten other passengers who would do it for him. Or her. He still couldn’t tell.
The bus came to a halt and the doors were opened. Ten strained faces in the mirror; one nervous girl on the steps. Hands deep in her pockets, she stabbed a glance into the bus, then moved towards the driver. Most of her hair was pushed under the hood, but a few loose, dark strands fell in front of her hooded eyes. She cleared her throat. Offered a £10 note. The driver held up his hand.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s not that simple.’ He waved it away. ‘Don’t need your money,’ he said through the protective glass. ‘But I do need you to remove the hood.’ She screwed her face tighter, shook her head then reoffered the banknote.
‘Please. To Castle Lane.’ There was a rattle in her voice, a phlegmy-bubbling in her words, but that wasn’t what had made him shudder.
She was too loud. Her voice was much too loud, and everyone had heard.
‘Hood down,’ he said, his voice raised now. ‘And you can keep the money.’ The driver didn’t need to check the mirror; he knew he had an audience. The girl scanned the passengers’ faces. Ten, all turned to her, all bar an old lady now standing. A man with a paper mask around his neck stepped forward.
‘Take off the hood or get the fuck off this bus.’
She took off the hood. Black curls fell to just above her shoulders. The driver caught a glimpse of small ears, no headphones.
‘Now kill the engine!’ A voice from the back. The driver looked at the girl. Fourteen, maybe, but only just. She hadn’t moved from the top step. Whether she was frozen with fear, indecision, sickness or all three, he couldn’t tell, but he knew she was in trouble.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Rose.’
Still too loud. He was grateful for the partition between them.
‘Rose, are you sick?’
She shook her head.
Another shout behind them. ‘Kill the engine.’
A different voice. ‘Yeah, kill the engine. And the heater. We need to hear her!’
The driver sensed the danger. He could see the passengers edging closer. He hit the mic.
‘This is my bus.’ His voice was amplified so loud his words were distorted and the passengers jumped. ‘I will decide who gets on and when the engine gets turned off.’ Looks of surprise in the mirror. ‘And the heater stays on. Please sit down.’
Most did, but two remained standing. The bearded man and one of the men wearing a mask. The driver cut the mic.
‘Rose, Castle Lane is the hospital.’ Rose stared at the floor. ‘And if you’re sick like I think you’re sick, you need to get off the bus now.’
The girl began to sway, and he knew he wouldn’t catch her in time. She closed her eyes, took a step back and collapsed, falling down the steps, slumping against the automatic doors. There were shouts of alarm from behind and before he could unlock the driver’s cabin, one of the passengers had blocked his way. The Salvation Army woman had fallen to her knees, her gloved hands reaching forward and brushing Rose’s hair away from her ears. She leaned closer, performed the briefest inspection, then scrambled back to lean against the reinforced glass of the driver’s cab.
‘Earplugs?’ he asked.
The Salvationist nodded.
‘Small and pink-skin-coloured,’ she said, her words clipped, her breathing rapid. ‘Pushed in deep.’ He nodded.
‘We need to get her off. Now.’
Three of the men rushed forward. ‘Just open the doors!’ yelled one, a stabbing finger pointing at the driver. ‘Get her off before she infects us all.’
The driver shook his head. ‘If I open the doors, she’ll fall into the gutter—’
‘Where she belongs,’ said the man, his words only slightly muffled by his mask. ‘Open the fucking doors.’
The Salvationist leaned towards the driver. ‘Let me out by the back doors,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay with her.’ He mouthed a quick ‘thank you’ and opened them. He watched as she ran to the front, crouched down ready to catch the girl, then raised her arm. ‘Ready!’
He hit the door release. There was a hiss and the door began to open, but then, sensing an obstruction, shuddered closed again.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered the driver.
‘Try again,’ demanded the masked man, and the driver obliged, although he knew it was pointless. Until Rose moved, or was moved, the door would stay shut.
‘OK,’ said the masked man. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Ready?’ His words were aimed at the driver, who shrugged.
‘For what?’
The man made a show of holding his breath, then swooped towards the stricken girl. Squatting on his haunches, he reached into the stairwell and grabbed hold of her coat. With a noisy exhalation he hauled her to her feet. Rose’s head rolled.
‘Hey!’ The driver jumped from his seat. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Open the door! She’s not blocking it now. Do it.’
The driver hesitated. He needed the girl off his bus, but not like this.
‘We do this gently,’ he said. ‘Hand her to the Sally Army lady, OK?’ The man nodded and the driver opened the doors. The man held the girl by the lapels of her coat, adjusted his grip, altered his stance, then threw her from the bus. She landed on top of the Salvation Army officer and they both hit the ground, hard.
‘Drive on,’ he said.
Four days earlier
7.50 a.m.
‘YOU DON’T GET the next bus.’
‘I know.’
‘Or Tube.’
‘I know that too.’
‘And you don’t leave for five minutes.’
‘Rose, I know. We agreed the rules. They were my idea.’
‘But you never keep to them, Dad, do you?’
The irate fourteen-year-old girl with light brown skin, grey sweatshirt and black skirt was pointing. A series of finger-stabbing motions punctuated her shouting.
‘The rules never apply to you when you don’t want them to, do they?’ she said.
The irate thirty-nine-year-old man with darker brown skin, jacket and tie held up his hands. A surrender. His next words were spoken softly.
‘Rose, the principal has called me into her office. What was I supposed to say? “Sorry, I can’t come in just yet because my daughter has this rule—”’
‘We have this rule.’
‘“… because we have this rule that says I can’t leave until five minutes after she has slammed the door behind her?”’
The volume kicked up a notch. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what you should have said! You’re always saying you can’t pick and choose which rules you follow and which you don’t.’ She raised accusatory eyebrows.
Christ, she’s good at this, he thought. If he pursued the argument much longer, he would be late. It was time to go. He never won these spats anyway. He sighed, and retreated.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I do say that. I’ll try to stick to the rules in future.’
Rose glowered at her father, her large green eyes narrowing, then hoisted her school bag over her shoulder. Slammed the door. He let out another sigh.
‘Bye then,’ he said to the empty hall. ‘Hope you have a good day too.’ He stood for a few seconds, staring at the door. He could hear her jumping the steps down to the front door. He shrugged. ‘Could have been worse,’ he said.
The walk to the Tube took eleven minutes, the scrum to get on a train was usually five and the journey less than ten. Kit Chaplin would be late, but Rose had forced the argument, so there was no use fretting. Once she had gone, he speed-tidied the kitchen, re-checked his work bag, set the alarm. On his way to the station he listened to the news on his headphones, switching to music when he got there. His preferred pre-school playlist was jazz and soul, in the main, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Michael Kiwanuka, Benjamin Clementine. ‘Old grooves,’ his partner, Lilly, called it, so that was the name he’d given it. He liked the phrase; it made him an old groover. The playlist now had more than six hundred tracks, and counting. It would take him through the change at King’s Cross and up to his exit from Great Portland Street. But first, the platform squeeze. His least favourite five minutes of the day.
The platform was three deep, the next train a minute away. He stood as he always did, one pace to the left of the waste bin, his back to the oncoming train. When he heard it arriving he stepped forward, shoulder first, and when the doors slid open he wheeled and pushed – an old rugby manoeuvre. With his height and broad shoulders, it rarely failed. Short, quick steps, a low drive, and he was on.
Kit grabbed a strap, closed his eyes, tried to concentrate on the sweet sounds in his ears. But it was a battle. He could feel at least three bodies pressed against him. He felt breathing against his neck. A bag pushed into his ribs. A woman’s elbow glanced his ear. God, how he hated this. Even with noise-cancelling headphones the carriage sounded like an overflowing doctor’s waiting room. A trumpeting sneeze nearby made him shiver; he imagined countless particles of saliva and mucus drifting his way. The Covid memories were strong, but he, like most commuters, had no choice. The bus was no better. Everyone had gone back to everything they were doing before. He wished he could afford the stream of taxis Lilly used. Maybe one day. Kit covered his nose and mouth with his scarf and prayed for King’s Cross.
The walk to the connecting train at least had the benefit of a cold blast of winter air blowing through the walkways and escalators. It might be the usual soup of London street air, but to Kit it felt like litres of pure oxygen. At least, he assumed, it didn’t come pre-loaded with germs. The second train was more comfortable, less of a flu-incubator than the first. No one dug him in the ribs, no one coughed over his face. Two stops and he was done.
Kit ran up the steps, exited the station at speed.
This was always the cue for pocketing his headphones. Students could arrive at school with beats pulsing and leaking from their headphones, but, Kit thought, not staff. And certainly not the head of English.
Six minutes from Tube exit to staffroom, four at a jog. Kit wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck, hoisted his bag over his shoulder, shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. The Marylebone Road was as nightmarish as ever. Nose to tail, parallel lines of slow-moving rage and frustration. The most polluted road in London, and he still walked it every day. There was a detour, but he was late already. Thanks again, Rose. He pulled his scarf up again. A pointless gesture, he thought. What kind of particles would be filtered out by a wool and polyester scarf from Marks and Spencer? He caught his reflection in a shop window. His wife had always said his face was half elegant, half crazy. Today, that seemed particularly true. His shock of black hair corkscrewed straight up, his amber eyes fierce. He looked like he was about to rob a bank, not take a class on First World War poetry.
