Tick tock, p.21
Tick Tock, page 21
In balance with this life, this death.
Christ, he hated First World War poetry. Read too much, taught too much. And yet here he was, reciting it. Incanting it, as if it was some kind of meditation or prayer. If that was all the wisdom he had, he should give up teaching now. Which, he realized with a numbing certainty, he was about to be obliged to do anyway.
The muscle pain Kit could deal with. The headache would ease. But the knowledge that he was desperately sick – he wasn’t sure what he could do about that. He wasn’t even sure where he should be. Or whose room he should sleep in. All that he knew for certain was that he was a burden. Worse, he was a source of infection. And, on top of everything, he had failed his dead wife. He had promised Jody he would protect Rose. Now that looked a shaky, unwise, unkeepable promise.
He submerged himself below the bubbles. His ears filled with water, the world disappeared. His school taught mindfulness, explained to the students the benefits of ‘living in the moment’. Well, here he was, and this was his moment. He hadn’t held his breath for years, but while his lungs allowed, he relished the power of the heat and the whisky. They worked well together. His muscles relaxed, his brain fogged. He heard a voice coming from somewhere in this envelope of deadened sound, but he had a few more seconds to himself. He counted them. He managed twelve.
When he resurfaced Lilly was sitting on the floor of the bathroom. She had refilled his glass. He wiped his face with his hands.
‘You absolutely shouldn’t be here,’ he said.
‘That’s probably right,’ she said. ‘But I’m here anyway.’
‘You can’t get this too, Lilly!’ Kit’s voice was desperate.
She clicked the door shut.
‘Kit, we’ve been together plenty of times in the last few weeks,’ she said. ‘We have slept together five times since Christmas. If I’m catching this thing, it’s likely I’ve caught it already.’
He reached for the flannel, wiped soap and sweat from his eyes. Sipped some of the whisky.
‘You were counting?’
‘No,’ said Lilly, ‘but I have counted. We need to decide what we do next. And we need to decide together. Rose was asking.’ She told him about Leon and Hugh Kerridge, her visit to Mark Goddard and what he had told her about Porton Down.
‘How many clickers?’ Kit said, staggered.
‘More than a hundred is what he said.’
Kit slid back under the water again. Held his breath. Fifteen this time. ‘Well, what I have to do is easy,’ he said on resurfacing, wiping his face with his hands again. ‘I’m going to the hospital. The nearest one. Whether they have drugs or not, whether they work or not, that’s where you need to be if you have bacterial meningitis. It’s really quite simple. And I’m no use to you anywhere else.’
‘But they’re saying they can’t …’ she started.
Kit sat up. ‘I’m going to bloody hospital, Lilly,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘What are they going to do, throw me out? “Oh, sorry, soon-to-be-deaf man with a deadly disease, you have to leave?” I mean, come on, Lilly. Christ’s sake.’
Kit realized the whisky was talking, but he meant it. He would sleep – on the floor presumably – then get himself to the local A&E.
‘I’ll hand over the vaccine box,’ he said, ‘and they’ll be so grateful someone will find one last bag of antibiotics.’ He was joking, but it wasn’t funny.
‘And Rose?’ said Lilly. ‘What does she do?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said. His head swam. His world had changed and he didn’t feel equipped to navigate it just yet. ‘Literally no idea, Lilly. She’s vaccinated. At least that’s something.’ He held out a hand. She reached and took it, kneeling by the bath. ‘And I never said thank you. We drove all this way and I never said thank you.’
He started to cry.
At a White House press conference, the chief medical adviser to the president was recommending a return to mask wearing ‘until we understand this new, frightening infection’.
South Wales Police were denying reports that as many as one in ten of their officers were reporting sick.
No buses were running in Birmingham, Brighton, Ipswich, Cardiff or Newcastle.
The day
6.25 a.m.
ROSE HAD ALL the information she needed. Now, she ran. She flew from the hotel, turned right, pounding the three blocks to the bus stop. A few heads turned as she passed. They saw a slight girl in jeans with a hoodie under a zipped parka. If they carried on watching, it was because of her speed. It was a sprint, for sure, but the sort of wild-eyed sprint you only hit when you are being chased. When you are in fear for your life.
Rose had woken at five. She had got up to use the bathroom and had been halfway across the room when she heard the first click. She froze, mid-stride. Waited. Breath held. She clicked again.
Rose started to shake.
‘Daddy?’
She used the bathroom, then called again. Panicked. Terrified.
‘Daddy!’
She found the adjoining door open, the room empty, a note on the floor. White hotel-headed paper, black biro. Her dad’s handwriting. She knelt to read it.
Lilly dropping me at the hospital. Back soon. x.
She held the note in her hand.
On the brink.
‘This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK.’ She whispered the words, over and over. Rapid fire, a torrent of syllables. She rocked as she spoke, eyes squeezed shut, tears escaping anyway. ‘This is not OK. This is not OK. This is not OK.’ Slower now, and quieter. Eventually, she was still. Eventually, she was silent.
Back from the brink. She moved briskly now.
She showered, dressed, took all the biscuits from both rooms, put them in her bag. On her phone she opened her Discord server.
Anyone up? she wrote.
A flurry of replies. She pulled on socks and trainers.
So guess what, she wrote. I click. I am clicking. I am a clicker. So that’s that. She put both her sweatshirts on, then the parka. The chat filled fast.
Need help. Best hospital nearest to the Wilson Spa hotel in Salisbury? Not Salisbury Gen. No car. Just cash. She ran to the bathroom, tipping out the contents of the basket of toiletries. She took shower gel, shampoo, then noticed a small cardboard box. Inside, two pink wax earplugs. She stared at them, put them in her jeans pocket.
On her phone she saw she had been tagged @Rose. Get yourself to Southampton Gen. X7 bus from you. Pay on the bus. Just visited my mum in there. Not bad considering the heavy shit they’re dealing with. They have drugs that work. Go for it.
She hoisted her bag over her shoulders, took out the earplugs. Warmed them up. Shaped them in her fingers. She hooked strands of hair behind each ear, then pushed a ball of wax in as deep as it could go. Left, then right. She checked the mirror, turning one way, then the other. If the wax had been light brown they’d have disappeared completely. But they were pink. So instead, if you were looking hard, you’d see the plugs. Rose unhooked her hair, put her hood up. Now they disappeared. She found a glove in each of her coat’s front pockets. Pulled them on. One more check in the mirror and she was gone.
The crowd around the bus stop was too much. Twenty, maybe more. Wrapped up against the cold, hands deep in pockets but eyes everywhere. Full of suspicion. Wariness. A new, uncomfortable caution at play. Rose saw the numbers waiting, pulled up. Consulted her phone. There was no way of telling how many were for the Southampton bus and who might be going to other destinations. The sign said six different routes stopped here. Rose ran on. Pavements, roads, kerbside, dual carriageway. The sprint eased off, but even the slower clip had a manic feel. An irregular pace, eyes wide and everywhere. She ran half a mile before she saw a deserted stop. A large Dior advertising hoarding, a shelter and a red plastic bench sat between the road and a grass bank.
She eased her speed, glanced over her shoulder. A dozen cars, no buses. She stumbled to the bench, then slumped. She sat for ten seconds, breathing heavily, legs bouncing. Agitated. She put a finger in each ear, pushed. Just to be sure. She stood, walked around the shelter three times then slumped again. Tugged at her hoody. Checked the traffic.
A bus. An X7. For Southampton. She stood up, put out her gloved hand. For a moment it looked as though it wasn’t stopping, then it suddenly pulled over. The doors opened, the driver glanced up. Rose stepped inside, offered him a £10 note.
He frowned at her through the protective glass, held up his hand.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s not that simple.’ He waved it away. ‘Don’t need your money. 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.’ She coughed.
He frowned some more, deep grooves in his forehead. ‘Hood down,’ he repeated, his voice raised now. ‘And you can keep the money.’
Rose looked around. Graffitied seats, unwelcoming passengers. Nine standing. One old lady sitting. A man with a mask under his chin stepped forward.
‘Take off the hood or get the fuck off this bus.’
She took off the hood. Jaw set, eyes fierce.
The driver looked at Rose. He had a kind face, warm, smiling eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Rose.’
‘Rose, are you sick?’ She shook her head. A shout behind them.
‘Kill the engine.’
Rose put a hand on the driver’s protective glass for balance, then jerked her head between the shouters and the driver.
‘Yeah, kill the engine. And the heater. We need to hear her!’
The passengers edged closer. The driver reached for his microphone.
‘This is my bus.’ His voice blasted out of the bus’s speakers. Harsh, distorted.
Everyone jumped. Everyone understood.
‘I will decide who gets on and when the engine gets turned off. And the heater stays on. Please sit down.’
Most did, two remained standing. A bearded man and the man with the mask under his chin. The driver cut the mic.
‘Rose, Castle Lane is the hospital,’ he said. She looked at him beseechingly. He shook his head. ‘And if you’re sick like I think you’re sick,’ he said, ‘you need to get off the bus now.’
Rose closed her eyes, appearing suddenly unbalanced. She took a step back, then collapsed down the steps, slumping against the automatic doors. She stayed down. A Salvation Army woman ran forward, dropped to her knees. Her gloved hands reached forward and brushed Rose’s hair away from her ears. She leaned closer, performed the briefest inspection, then scrambled back to lean against the driver’s reinforced glass.
‘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 muffled only slightly by the fabric of the 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 released the back doors. He watched as she ran to the front, crouched ready to catch the girl if she rolled out, then raised her arm. ‘Ready!’
He hit the door release. It hissed and began to open, then, sensing an obstruction, shuddered closed again.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered the driver.
‘Try again,’ demanded the masked man, and the driver obliged.
Rose was obstructing the door and, until she 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?’
Mask man made a show of holding his breath, then swooped towards the stricken Rose. Squatting on his haunches, he reached into the stairwell and grabbed hold of the girl’s coat. With a noisy exhale he hauled her to her feet, Rose’s head rolling uncontrollably.
‘Hey!’ The driver jumped from his seat. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Open the door!’ yelled mask man. ‘She’s not blocking it now. Do it.’ The driver hesitated.
‘We do this gently,’ he said. ‘Hand her to the Sally Army lady, OK?’
Mask man nodded. The driver opened the doors. Mask man held the girl by both lapels, 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.
Rose’s fall was broken by the officer’s body. The officer’s fall was broken by the pavement, but she still came to first. Wincing in pain, she pushed herself up with bruised and bloodied elbows. She saw Rose lying across her, then fainted.
7.30 a.m.
The paramedic, gloved and masked, seemed as concerned for the Salvation Army woman, who had said her name was Dawn, as he was for Rose. He crouched in front of them, balancing every pitch of the speeding ambulance, riding the road on the balls of his feet. His eyes flitted between them. White, late twenties, a head of wild black curls.
‘Tell me again what happened back there,’ he said. An Australian accent. A breezy style.
‘If it’s concussion you’re worried about, I think I’m fine,’ said Dawn. Her face sported new dressings over her nose and left cheek. The man’s smile was visible behind the mask.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe you are. But you lost consciousness back there, Dawn. And that’s a nasty crack to your head you’ve had. On top of the bruising to your back and ribs. So I need to know what happened.’ He sat back on a wall-fastened pull-down chair, waiting. The blue-filtered skylight gave his face an unhealthy hue. The ambulance’s drawers and monitors rattled as they tore along the dual carriageway.
Rose and Dawn, awkwardly balanced on the bed, exchanged glances.
‘I was doing my job,’ said Dawn. ‘That’s it, really.’
‘Your job often involve getting thrown off buses?’ he asked.
‘Not normally.’ A small smile lit up her face. ‘But it’s God’s work, so I go where he wants me to go.’
The paramedic nodded, looked at Rose. Her cheeks and nose were grazed, a deep bruise forming above her left eye. ‘And are you clicking, Rose? Is that why you’re wearing earplugs?’ She looked startled, reached for the woman’s hand. ‘You’re not the first,’ he added.
She nodded.
‘I noticed them when I was dressing your cuts,’ he said. ‘Would you mind taking them out?’
Rose shook her head.
He nodded again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘How old are you, Rose?’
‘Fourteen,’ she said.
‘So can we call someone? Let them know what’s happened? Your mum or dad, maybe?’
Rose said nothing. Dawn prompted her, leaning closer.
‘You need to say, darling,’ she said. ‘He needs to know something.’
Rose swallowed. ‘My dad’s clicking. Gone to hospital in Salisbury.’
‘Just your dad?’
‘He’s with his girlfriend.’
‘Understood,’ he said. His eyes narrowed. ‘Have I seen you before, Rose? You look familiar.’
Rose shook her head. He shrugged.
The ambulance slowed. A short blast of the siren, then it sped up again. Inside, the sound was deafening. Dawn flinched. Rose blinked. The medic resumed the questions. ‘Do they know you were on the Southampton bus?’ Rose shook her head. ‘OK. Maybe send a text or something, just to let your dad know you’re all right.’
Rose nodded. Retrieved her phone. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Same hospital as your dad,’ said the medic.
Rose looked horrified, tried to stand. He eased her back down.
‘But that’s no good!’ she said, her voice piercing in the enclosed cabin. ‘They’re out of drugs! It said so on the news. That’s why I was heading to Southampton.’
The medic shook his head. ‘Look, we go to the nearest hospital unless we’re told otherwise. Their drug supply will be the same as Southampton. Don’t worry. We’ve taken quite a few clickers like you there. They know what they’re doing.’
Rose stared at the medic. Shifted her position on the bed. Her bruised eyes sparked to life. She had thought of something. He was intrigued.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What did I say?’
She hooked hair behind both ears. ‘I’ll take out the earplugs if you answer a question,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Sure. If I can answer, I will.’
Using thumb and forefinger, Rose eased out each earplug. She held them both in the palm of her hand.
‘So what’s the question?’ he said, amused.
‘Have you ever been called to Porton Down?’
Whatever the medic was expecting, it clearly hadn’t been that. He sat back in his seat, eyebrows raised. ‘Have I what?’
‘Have you ever been called to Porton Down?’ she repeated. ‘For clickers.’ The paramedic looked between Rose and Dawn, as if deciding something.
‘OK, well, I said I’d answer if I could. And it turns out I can’t, because I’ve been told not to.’ He found a clipboard and started writing on a printed form.
Dawn leaned forward, closer to the medic. ‘Why would that be? Who would tell you that?’
He shook his head, said nothing.
‘You can say it’s not true,’ said Rose.
The medic carried on writing, said nothing.
‘So I reckon it is true. And that you’ve been there …’ Rose shrugged. ‘Maybe twenty-five times.’
The medic didn’t look up, but he had stopped writing. ‘Less than that,’ he said, his voice almost lost in the rumble and rattle of the journey.
They sat in silence.
Click.
The medic and the Salvationist looked at Rose. She put her earplugs back in.
