by Peter Hall
The group was quiet for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.
Sharon broke the silence. “What about you, Cal? What’ve you been up to since the Dying?”
“The Dying?”
“Yeah, that’s what most people in London are calling the Yellow Death.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard it called The Dying. In fact, I’m not even sure why it’s called the Yellow Death.”
“Well, I know that,” George said, clearly pleased to impart his superior knowledge. “When it first appeared, they tried pumping the victims with loads of antibiotics. Mostly, it just kept them alive for a few days. Long enough for liver failure, so their skin and eyes turned yellow. Of course, when things got terrible, people died too quick for that to happen, but by then the name had stuck. The media love a catchy name.”
Cal was hardly listening. He already knew why the plague was nicknamed the Yellow Death and had played dumb to deflect the question about himself.
Sharon was not to be put off so easily. “Well, whatever you want to call it, you still haven’t said what you’ve been doing for the past six months.”
“Oh right, yeah. Nothing much, really. Same as most people. Travelling around, scavenging. Seeing what develops. I’m looking for a good place to start a settlement.”
Cal kept the knowledge of his weapon and food caches a secret. The mini-bus crew were no threat—they were friendly and harmless—but he would not want them spreading knowledge about invaluable hidden stockpiles all over Devon.
“What did you do before the Dying?” Sharon said.
Cal swallowed. “I was in the Army. An officer in the infantry. When the plague hit, I was on leave. Pretty lucky in a way―I could have been stranded in some God forsaken hell hole.”
“Really!” Mia said. “That’s amazing. What was it like in the army? Did you see any action?”
It was the start of a barrage of questions. They wanted to know all about his army life and combat experience. He answered with as little detail as possible. Most of what he said was either exaggeration or complete fabrication. As the questioning continued, Cal felt his chest tighten and his mouth became dry. During the interrogation, Sharon stared at him silently, like a predator observing its prey.
“Did you work out a lot before the Dying, Cal?” she said. “You’ve got a well toned body.”
Cal felt himself flushing. “Er, well… I guess that just comes from being a soldier. And I go running most days.”
“Well, whatever you do, it looks good on you. It’s nice that you still bother to shave, too. It’s rare to see a man without a beard these days and, let’s be honest, they don’t suit everyone.”
George scowled and rubbed his own beard.
“Er… thanks,” Cal said. “Of course, they didn’t allow beards in the army, so shaving is just part of my routine.”
Answering questions about his invented past was bad, but worse was being flirted at by an attractive woman. Cal coughed to clear his throat and began rubbing his thumb and forefinger together nervously.
“What are your plans, James?” Cal said, hoping to move the subject of conversation away from himself.
“Oh, I’ll be looking for a home somewhere. Preferably an established settlement.”
“Interesting. I don’t mean to be rude, but won’t that be difficult—what with your disability?”
George and Mia exchanged glances, but James did not appear to take offence. “Don’t you worry about me, Cal,” he said. “I’m a dentist. I could be the only surviving dentist in the country. Wait until somebody gets toothache and then see whether they regard me as a liability.”
Cal thought about it for a moment. “Will you be able to work without your drills and other stuff?”
James beamed. “Hopefully, I’ll find a settlement in a central location and set up a practice. There’s a lot of equipment on the bus, and I’m sure I can get whatever else I need from abandoned dental surgeries in Devon. There’s no reason why anyone would have looted a dental surgery. Over the last six months, while I’ve been on my own, I’ve researched traditional dental methods. I even have an old drill worked by pumping a foot pedal. So, I reckon I’ll make a good living from dentistry. There were dentists a hundred years ago, you know.”
“I suppose so,” Cal said. “Well, I wish you luck with that. It’ll be interesting to see how you get on. No doubt I’ll have need of your services sometime.”
Let’s hope that’s not anytime soon. I don’t fancy having my teeth drilled with an instrument powered by a foot pedal and a man with one good leg.
The meal within the standing stones gradually wound up. George and Mia would have chatted all afternoon, but Cal wanted to move on. He liked the group, but this was the most socialising he had experienced for months, and it was causing agitation. He desperately needed solitude.
Cal advised George to be more cautious when approaching strangers and gave him a box of shotgun cartridges.
As they were re-packing their vehicles, Cal noticed Sharon pull a mirror out of her bag and check her face, then plump up her hair, frowning as she did so. She saw him watching and smiled.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it? What I’d give for a decent hairdresser and I hate these fucking brown roots growing out.”
“Oh, I think it looks fine… great, it does, really.”
“You’re very sweet, Cal.”
Cal picked up his map and began checking the rest of the route. The sound of a rifle cocking startled him. He turned and swung the shotgun off his shoulder, ready to defend himself. Sharon was at the back of the vehicle, casually holding his assault rifle. She had removed the magazine filled with live rounds.
“Careful!” he said. “That’s a dangerous weapon.”
“No shit,” she replied, and grinned. “It wouldn’t be much use if it wasn’t.”
Without hesitation, she slammed the magazine back into the gun, cocked it and tossed it to Cal, who caught it clumsily.
“Don’t worry, the safety’s on.”
Cal looked at the rifle. She was right. “Where’d you learn to handle one of these?”
“Back in London, my squad was well armed. You’d be surprised how much stuff we found in T.A. centres and police stations.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t. Why didn’t you take some weapons when you left your gang, or whatever it was called?”
“I would’ve liked to, but if I stole any guns, my crew would’ve never given up looking for me. Besides, why would I need a gun when George the hero is protecting me?”
Cal laughed. “Tell me, earlier on—when we first met—you jumped out of the bus. What was the idea? You could’ve got shot.”
“Naah! If you were unarmed, you were harmless. If you had guns, you could’ve already shot George and raked our bus with bullets. I wasn’t armed, and I didn’t look threatening.”
“I suppose not.”
“While I was stuck in that bus with George waving that stupid empty shotgun around, we were all in danger. He was making us look hostile. But as soon as I jumped out, the situation totally changed. Am I right?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Believe me, I’ve been in far riskier situations than that. To survive in London like it is now, you develop an instinct for when there’s real danger.”
Sharon looked into the rear of the Lexus.
“Wow, you’ve got some serious hardware. Grenades. Machine gun. Cool. Bet nobody messes with you.”
Cal cleared his throat and put down the rifles he was cradling. “Well, I mostly try to avoid people.”
“That must get rather lonely.”
Sharon moved in close. They were almost touching, and Cal felt his personal space invaded. She lowered her voice. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“It’s not safe travelling with George and the dragon over there. They’ve got no instinct for survival. If you weren’t such a nice guy, George could’ve got us all killed this afternoon. I
f I was with you, I’d feel a hell of a lot safer. Don’t be fooled by my looks. I’m tough as old leather and I know how to use guns. We’d be great together.”
Cal hesitated and his eyes flicked up and down Sharon’s body reflexively.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Sharon said. “I’m not asking you to marry me. This is purely business—mutual survival—at least for a start.”
If Cal had an hour to consider the proposal logically, he might have agreed. It made a lot of sense.
Yet, with Sharon almost pressing against him and her musky perfume wafting up his nose, adrenaline kicked in, causing his face to become flushed and his guts to tighten.
He had been alone for so long, it was difficult to imagine living with somebody. And in such primitive conditions. And a young woman.
A million questions crowded into his brain. What would be the sleeping and toilet and washing arrangements? How would they decide where to travel? How could he keep his real past secret? Would she go along with all his security measures? How would he respond if she wanted sex? How would he get privacy? What if they argued? How would they share future caches? What about those already completed? What if they met others on the road? Would she want to join with them? They might disagree over… over… almost anything! How? Why? What if? What if? What if? Argh!
Cal realised he had stopped breathing and inhaled deeply. “Er… Actually, no thanks. I really prefer to travel alone.”
“Just for a short time, please, until I meet somebody else?”
“NO!” He spoke with more force than intended The others looked in his direction.
He whispered. “Listen, Sharon. You’re a lovely girl and, yes, I’ve no doubt you’re able to take care of yourself but, please understand that I—I travel alone. I hope you can accept that. You know nothing about me and, believe me, it just wouldn’t work out. I’m sorry, but that’s it.” He summoned a tone of finality in the last words.
She moved back a little, clearly surprised. He doubted she was used to being refused.
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that, don’t you?”
“It’s not the first time that’s been said.”
“Okay. It’s your loss. You have a nice life. A nice, long, boring, lonely life. I think we’d have made a kick-ass team.”
She swivelled round and began to stride back to the mini-bus.
I don’t do teams.
Watching her walk away brought a moment of regret.
“Sharon?”
She stopped and turned.
“Just hang on a mo, will you?”
Cal rummaged in the back of his car and pulled out an assault rifle; boxes of ammo; magazines, and a cleaning kit.
“Here, take these.”
Sharon smiled and took them. “Thanks. George’ll be green with envy. Perhaps you’re not such a toss-pot after all.”
CHAPTER 3
Diagnosis
TIMELINE: 29 years before the Yellow Death
“Education commences at the mother's knee, and every word spoken within earshot of little children tends toward the formation of character.”
Hosea Ballou (1771–1852)
“I’m sure Dr Kendall won’t be much longer,” said the receptionist. She sat behind a curved desk, which was so high that only her eyes and the top of her head were visible to Sarah.
Sarah smiled and nodded in response. She resisted the impulse to nibble her top lip and instead rotated her wedding ring over and over. The small windowless waiting-room felt claustrophobic. She guessed they had converted it from a storage cupboard. A faint whiff of antiseptic hung in the air. Somebody had attempted to cheer up the room with pastel coloured walls and generic artwork, but to Sarah’s mind, they were not proper paintings. It was the sort of modern art that a monkey could have done with a paint roller.
Earlier, she had left her three-year-old son, John, with Doctor Kendall for a psychological assessment and was now awaiting the results.
In the corner, a small radio was broadcasting a phone-in show. The public were giving their sage advice on how the Government should resolve the latest Afghanistan dilemma. It was a passionate discourse, with one caller asking why her husband’s death was worth propping up a corrupt regime on the other side of the world.
The radio programme made Sarah think of her own husband—Charles—a colonel in the army, although he could never tell her exactly what he did. She believed he was currently in Afghanistan, or one of the neighbouring countries—but she could never be sure. Not that it mattered exactly where he was. What counted was his absence at yet another critical moment for John. She understood her husband’s work was important to national security and the war against terrorism—anyhow, that’s what he kept telling her. Still, it would be nice if he could be here for once.
Thinking about him made her more uneasy, and she realised she was biting her lip after all. She snatched a mirror out of her handbag and studied her face. It was an attractive visage that stared back at her—thin, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose she thought gave her an aristocratic appearance. She always tried to make the best of what nature had given her. Even though Charles was never around to appreciate her, she enjoyed the admiring glances in her direction from the soldiers on the army base where she worked part time. They were too disciplined to comment, but she sensed it—their eyes said it all.
To pass the time, she picked up one of the dog-eared magazines from the low table and flicked through the pages without registering their contents. Anxiety gnawed inside her guts. She feared the doctor would find nothing amiss with her son and declare John was perfectly normal. That could not be right. John was so solitary and uncommunicative—much of the time he seemed to be on another planet. He loved playing with Lego and was making models intended for ten-year-olds, yet he was incapable of catching a ball. There was something odd about John and surely somebody else could see that?
Eventually, Dr Kendall put his head around the waiting-room door and gave one of his best welcoming smiles.
“Mrs Callaghan-Bryant, you can come in now. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
The doctor lead Sarah down a cramped corridor into his office, where the bright sunlight made her squint. Kendall noticed her discomfort and angled the blinds to reduce the glare. “Sorry about that. How did you get on in town?”
“Oh, fine,” she said. “I did some window shopping while you were assessing John. I got him a new book. Where is he, by the way?”
“He’s in the next room playing. I wanted to speak to you alone before bringing him in.”
The doctor swivelled his computer screen so Sarah could see it. “Look, there he is.”
The bottom right corner showed a CCTV image of her three-year-old son sitting at a table and drawing. A bored looking nurse sat next to him, staring out of the window.
Dr Kendall sat down behind his desk, leaving Sarah to take the much smaller chair proffered on the other side. It was like any doctor’s room anywhere. The furniture comprised an imposing wooden desk with a computer, three chairs, and a bank of mis-matched filing cabinets. On the walls were the doctor’s certificates and more of the monkey paintings. A large scale-model of the human brain stood on the cabinets, looking far too realistic in Sarah’s opinion. The only evidence the office belonged to a child psychologist was the box of toys in the corner.
“Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?” Kendall said.
She would have loved a coffee, but was more eager to hear about the assessment. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
Just get on with it.
Doctor Kendall steepled his fingers, which Sarah recognised as a signal that he was about to speak with the utmost authority.
“As you know, I’ve spent the last couple of hours analysing John to assess his physical, mental, and social capabilities. The results of the tests require time to fully interpret what they might show. I’ll study them at length and in due course will write a detailed report for you.”
“Yes, but
surely you have an idea—”
“However, as I was about to say, I expect you’re eager to get some idea of the findings, so I’ll give you my initial impressions of John.”
At these prices, I should bloody well think so. Sarah smiled politely and slid forward in her chair, ready to absorb every word Dr Kendall spoke.
“Please understand you should not see these investigations as passing or failing. There’s no right or wrong. The tests measure certain characteristics and traits, each one is just a piece of the puzzle. Nevertheless, when taken as a whole and compared to population norms, they can show where a person may have difficulties, or issues.”
He paused and turned over a few pages in front of him, glancing briefly at them. Sarah nibbled at her top lip.
“John is highly intelligent, and he has an excellent memory. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
She nodded. “Yes, he learns rapidly.”
The doctor looked back at his notes. “Yes… yes,” he mumbled, flicking the pages back and forth. “John’s results do show up certain anomalies with his personality.”
Sarah exhaled. At last, her suspicions were confirmed.
“Mrs Callaghan-Bryant… May I just call you Sarah?” Dr Kendall said.
“Er, yes, yes, of course. I know my surname’s a bit of a monster.” A bit like my marriage.
“Great. Well, Sarah, how much do you know about the Autistic Spectrum Disorder, or ASD?”
Sarah had done her research. However, she wanted to hear it direct from the doctor. “I’ve heard of autism, of course. But I don’t know anyone who has it.”