Tipping Point (Project Renova Book 1)

by Terry Tyler

  They always say that, don't they? I was damn sure the people of the Central African Republic were finding plenty to panic about.

  Or maybe they meant there was nothing for us to panic about, sitting here in the safe, cotton wool-wrapped West. Like when there's an air crash and they report that there are no British fatalities. Always makes me think, don't the others matter, then?

  Lottie came into the room when I was watching.

  "Oh, Mum, look at that poor little girl!" She sat down on the sofa beside me and we stared, horrified, as the camera moved from the sweetest child, with huge eyes, to her weeping mother. "It makes you want to chuck everything up and go out to help them, doesn't it?"

  "It does." The cover of one of Lottie's magazines on the coffee table caught my eye. It featured the latest sex scandal behind two reality TV stars. "The problem is that as soon as we turn the television off the impact fades," I said. "We go back to our cosy little lives and forget about it, 'cause it's all so far away."

  Lottie gave me a scathing look. "Bloody hell, Mum, you're getting to sound like Dex."

  "It's true, though. A lot of what he says is."

  But when Dex came back from his trip, he was sceptical about this new horror.

  "We don't think it's real," he said.

  "What?" I laughed. "Dex—come on, what are you on about? Don't you lot believe anything? Why wouldn't it be real? Why would anyone do something as sick as to make this up?"

  "Have you noticed that they don't name the province the disease is supposed to have been found in?"

  "Would we be any the wiser if they did?"

  He would elaborate no further. Then it disappeared from the news for a few days and, just as I'd predicted, we forgot about it.

  We were busy; Dex's college was packing up for summer, the weather was warm, Lottie finished school for the holidays and the beach beckoned. The Book Exchange was to exhibit a float in Shipden's annual carnival in the third week in August, and we were dressing up as characters from our favourite books. I'd decided on Morgan le Fay from Le Morte d'Arthur and was busy making my costume, a wonderful flimsy, floaty affair. Lottie wanted to be in it too, so she could dress up as a sexy vampire; she said she'd think about what book character she was supposed to be later.

  Then news of the virus popped up again.

  "Further outbreaks of Kerivoula Lanosa Fever have been reported in the Central African Republic."

  The tabloids were calling it 'Bat Fever', because it was thought to originate from and be spread by the lesser woolly bat, found only in Africa.

  The cause for concern, said the official statement from the Department of Health, was that the infection had been confirmed as airborne, although they were optimistic that the pathogen's ability to infect was greatly decreased after only minutes, and that certain atmospheric conditions, such as rain, would hamper its efficiency.

  Cold weather would also slow it down, but that wasn't much comfort to us, sitting there at the beginning of yet another warm, humid summer. Or indeed to those in the Central African Republic.

  Not only was the disease airborne, but it could also be contracted via all bodily fluids including sweat and mucus, which made it frighteningly contagious.

  Port authorities were on high alert for unauthorised vessels originating from Africa.

  "Long as we don't snog any African pirates we'll be okay, then, right?" said Lottie, cheerily, as we watched the latest news.

  Ping!

  Dex, currently out and about being furtive somewhere, had sent me a link re-blogged on the Unicorn site. It led to a vlog post: Bat Fever: are we being duped? The vlogger claimed that the film used on television to show suffering in the Central African Republic was actually taken during an outbreak of Ebola, three years before. A friend of his had been an aid worker, and he remembered it. Alas, the original film could not be found anywhere.

  So what did that prove? Nothing, if the original could not be found. It was just what some guy thought he remembered. I was just about to text my scepticism to Dex when he sent me another one.

  Don't show that piece to anyone. It's not safe.

  Um, why would I?

  I thought about it, though, and looked up 'Ebola 2021' on YouTube and elsewhere, but found nothing that resembled what we'd seen. Then I clicked on the vlog link to look at it again, just to make sure, but it came up '404 Page not found'.

  When Dex returned home later that night, he dropped his bag at the door and practically hurled himself at me, enveloping me in his arms without speaking.

  It was nice; I hadn't felt as if he needed me much, lately.

  "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said.

  I pulled my head away and studied him. He looked as though he had all the cares of the world on his shoulders. "Sorry about what? Nothing's your fault."

  "Just that I haven't been around much. And because I'm not always as attentive as I should be."

  "Don't be daft." I kissed him. "That thing you sent me—what did you mean by 'it's not safe'?"

  "Oh, I don't think it's inadvisable to be passing this sort of thing via the internet, that's all." He yawned. "I shouldn't have sent it to you, it was stupid of me."

  "Dex." I decided to tread carefully. "It's only what that guy thought he remembered, there was no proof, and why would anyone know or care what you're sending to me?"

  He plonked himself down on the sofa and pushed back his thick, dark hair. He needed a shave, and his shirt was creased, and my stomach flipped over with love for him. I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair; the temples were going grey. It suited him.

  "Jeff says it's probable that all our online activity is being monitored. No, don't look at me like that, sweetheart, there's more going on behind the scenes than you'd believe. Anyway, a countrywide vaccination programme is on the cards."

  "Well, that's good, isn't it?" He didn't smile, though and a feeling of dread came over me. "Look, you've got to tell me what you know."

  "I can't." He gave me a sort of half smile. "But you'll know about the vaccination programme soon enough, anyway. Lists are being drawn up to give it to everyone in the UK. D'you get how serious this is? The whole country."

  "Okay. So why isn't that a good thing? Is it just us? What about the countries nearer to Africa?"

  He stood up, walked over to the window and lifted the curtains. "I don't know about anywhere else." Pause. Deep sigh. "Gia says the directive comes from the US."

  I knew he wanted to tell me more, whatever he and the rest of Unicorn had agreed. "Okay," I said, as gently as I could. "So what else?"

  He let the curtain drop, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turned around, looking down at the floor. Then he jerked his head up, and his blue eyes stared into mine like lasers. "We think the virus is man-made, but we need more confirmation before we can act. If I tell you what we're on to, can you give me an absolute, hundred per cent guarantee, that you won't breathe a word of it to either of your parents, or Lottie, or Lawrie, Claire, or anyone else, whatever it is?"

  "Well, yes, of course, if you ask me not to." Ah. I spoke too soon. I had to be honest with him. We were always honest with each other. "But—well, I can't lie to Mum. And it would depend what it was, I mean, if it was something I thought they really, really ought to know—"

  "Exactly." He joined me on the settee again and took my hand. "Which is why I can't say anything else. We don't want Chinese whispers going round that might jeopardise our plans when we take action. And I don't want to put you, or Lottie, or your mum and dad, or anyone else in danger."

  I dropped his hand. "In danger? Dex, what the fuck are you on about?" He said nothing. "And what do you mean about it being man-made? Why would they do that? Tell me! You're scaring me!"

  "You should be scared," he said, "but you shouldn't be worried, if that makes any sense." He ran his hands through his hair. "What I mean is that I'm not going to insult you by pretending everything's okay, because it's not, but I promise I will keep you s
afe. I promise. But please, don't ask me anything else just yet. Please. I know it's a huge thing to ask, but—"

  He got up as if his body was made of lead and walked out of the room, leaving me sitting there, stunned. I heard him trudge up the stairs; when I went up ten minutes later he was lying on the bed, fully clothed and fast asleep.

  Anyway, he was right. Two days later, announcements were made on the news, the morning talk shows, and all across the internet, about a programme of inoculation against the mysterious 'Bat Fever', to be administered from three thousand mobile units set up all over the country. The entire population of the UK would receive an invitation email or letter advising them of their vaccination time and date.

  On no account should anyone attend hospitals asking to be given it early, or arrive at the units before their given time.

  Other countries were making similar arrangements.

  A few days later, film appeared on the news of the Prime Minister, his family and cabinet, nipping into a mobile unit to get the jab, and emerging with relieved smiles.

  "As if the PM and his entourage would have to wait in line with the rest of us," Dex said. "They must think we're stupid. Oh, wait—they do!"

  Next came footage of concerned but reassured citizens standing in queues outside the units, which ran appointments from six in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week.

  Each person was issued with a green wristband to show they'd been vaccinated. On Coffee Time, presenter Gavin enjoyed an informal chat with a couple of 'health care professionals' about these bands, along with the customary quips and banter.

  Dex shook his head in disgust. "The way they're talking about it, anyone would think they were red noses for Comic Relief."

  The green wristbands would, Gavin said, promote an atmosphere of confidence and wellbeing within communities.

  "I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get mine," he said, lifting one up. "I mean, okay, this is serious, but they're pretty stylish too, aren't they?"

  "Jesus fucking Christ." Dex screwed up a tissue and threw it at the screen.

  To demonstrate how great life would be once you'd got your band, we were shown an official NHS video of two clean-cut guys in a pub laughing over a beer. Office workers chatting merrily by the water cooler. Cosy mums sharing coffee while kids played in the background. All happily and safely green-wristbanded.

  "Yeah, and what's going to happen to the people who are last in the queue?" Dex said. "I'll tell you what. They'll be shunned and made to feel unclean. Leprosy, twenty-first century style. Which brings me on to my next question: who gets the vaccine first? Well, I think we know who it won't be."

  Sometimes I felt like telling him to put a sock in it. Sometimes, I just wanted to watch the telly.

  I said, "Dex, if you're not going to let me in on this awful truth that Unicorn is about to unleash on the world, stop making doom-laden comments." Yes, I felt resentful. I couldn't help it.

  "We've already talked about that, I've explained—"

  I put my hand up to shut him up.

  The Prime Minister applauded the NHS and private sector health organisations for working together to facilitate the challenging vaccine operation. Films showing much green-wristbanded hand shaking were everywhere.

  The bands contained a metal security thread and serial number to make counterfeiting impossible, we were told.

  Aside from those who worked in the NHS, hospitals, schools and public services, the vaccinations weren't mandatory. But they were free. So much of our health care had to be paid for out of the family budget these days; who would turn down a free vaccine against a deadly disease?

  I thought about the homeless, to be seen on the streets of every town since the benefits 'restructure'. How would they receive a vaccination date with no permanent address? Yes, there was email, but there wasn't much in the way of free Wi-Fi in shop doorways. Maybe when they went to pick up their Community Credit (commonly known as The Pittance by those who received it, and some who administered it, too), they could log on at the Jobcentre. Or perhaps no one cared.

  Claire Robertson told me that Bat Fever was permanently trending on Private Life, with the words Keep The UK Safe! surrounded by the green wristband down the sidebars of every page.

  "Well, I would, if only they'd hurry up and send me my date!" she said, one perfect, sunny morning as we drank our coffee on the cliff top. The breeze was light, fresh and warm, rippling up the skirt of my dress so I had to hold it down, and the sea looked like dark blue satin. Beautiful. I saw boats far out on the water, the usual few dog walkers, and holiday kids who couldn't wait to get down to the sea. I could have been in paradise.

  Claire was more interested in that little screen of hers than the glory of the day. She thrust it under my nose. "I want one of these!"

  I pulled myself away from real life, and adjusted my eyes. Once vaccinated, she showed me, site users were adding the I'm safe: are you? badge to their profile headers. A trend had begun: people were changing their profile pictures to selfies holding up their green wristband, to prove they'd been 'done'.

  "Or you can have the fun badges," she said, scrolling down to show me a cartoon bat with the slogan I'm the boss of HIM! "Tony wants that one, but I think it's bad taste, don't you? When you think of those poor kids in Africa, I mean."

  Sometimes, I wanted to tell her stuff Dex said. Nice, ordinary Claire with her neat, swingy, corn-coloured bob, kind green eyes and sweet little children, so trusting and suggestible. Alas, I knew that if I did start with the Dex-talk, she'd just say, "Really? Now that's weird!" in that pleasant way she did about anything that was outside her chosen sphere of comprehension, and go back to scrolling through that wretched site. Like many, she was glued to it.

  I knew only two people who'd received their appointment date. Order was said to be random, but theories were everywhere. Was it more important to vaccinate some members of the population than others?

  There were claims of discrimination against the elderly, the unemployed, immigrants, the disabled, but I noticed a nasty trend amongst youngsters, when I looked at Lottie's MyLife page.

  'Well, my dad's a company director. They're going to do us before some scumbag family on benefits, aren't they?'

  'My mum says they've got to do proper English people first. I mean whites, not just people who've got a piece of paper saying they're British.'

  'Even more reason to avoid the skanks in shop doorways!'

  Down the borders of the news feed, users were encouraged to check which of their friends had added the badges, and give them a 'thumbs up'.

  We hadn't yet received our appointments.

  Dex said it didn't matter if we did or not, as we wouldn't be attending.

  I wasn't surprised, as he always became twitchy when doctors pushed the flu jabs at the beginning of autumn, but Lottie went into full sulk mode.

  "Kids on MyLife are calling people 'Bat Shit' if they haven't got their date! There's this Bat Shit Loser sticker, and they ask if you've got your date, on comments, and if you haven't, they put it on so everyone can see it." She stuck out her bottom lip. "I've pretended we're going on the first of September. If we haven't got our date by then, I'm going to Photoshop a wristband onto my picture!"

  Dex said. "Pretend and Photoshop all you like, as long as you never go for that vaccination."

  "Why not?" I asked as soon as she'd gone out, round to her friend Shania's house.

  He opened his arms, palms skyward. "Shouldn't that be 'why', rather than 'why not'? As in, why would you let a complete stranger inject a mystery substance into your bloodstream?"

  I laughed. "Oh come on! What d'you think they're secretly injecting us with? Dex, it's the NHS. Doctors, who take the Hippocratic Oath. They save lives. They wouldn't be allowed to do anything that wasn't in our best interests, would they?"

  "Oh, never mind." He was impatient with me, again. "But, anyway, look at this." He picked up the remote for the telly. A few taps, and up came Y
ouTube videos of queues outside the mobile vaccination units. "See? The lucky few who are getting the first vaccinations."

  "Yes. So what am I looking at?"

  Dex clicked on one, then another, then another. Derby, Dundee, Northampton, Swansea. "Look at it properly."

  "I am."

  "No, you're not. Analyse it. Where are the elderly? The Eastern Europeans? The Indian families with four grannies? The young single mums dragging three kids along?" He clicked on another, and another, pausing for me to look, each time. Epsom, Harrogate, Keswick. "Where are the chavs, bikers, skinheads, people with blue hair, New Agers and hardcore Offliners with dreadlocks and psychedelic trousers? Muslims, orthodox Jews?" Ipswich, Manchester, Bath. "Sixty-year-old beardy artists, musos and rock chicks, Emos and Goths? Where are the obese, the poor or long-term unemployed in scruffy clothes, the homeless, the walking sticks and wheelchairs?"

  "Oh. Ah." I looked more closely. "Bloody hell." He was right. The queues were made up of smart-casual young professionals, and respectable, well-dressed, healthy looking young families of various nationalities. A few men and women in early, affluent middle-age, in business suits or weekend clothes.

  "Okay," I said. "So it's not random. Go on, then, what does it say to you? You must have thought it through."

  Dex put his arm around my shoulder. "I have. I want you to, as well."

  I flicked back and forth, through the different locations. "So they're making sure that Mr and Mrs Respectable get their vaccinations first." I turned my head to look at him, and his face bore no expression. "Is that all?"

  "We don't have proof that it's anything more sinister. Not yet."

  He was doing it again. Telling me stuff while not telling me anything.

  I threatened to withdraw certain privileges if he didn't give me a bit more info, to which he replied, "You can't resist me."

  "Okay," he said, after we'd spent twenty minutes proving him right, "yes, we're ninety-nine per cent sure that the order of vaccination is not random."

  "But we haven't got our dates yet; how come? I pay my taxes and don't do anyone any harm. Lottie wants to be a famous ecologist, striding around in barren locations, helping third world countries! Well, this week, anyway." I laughed. "And you do positive good. Teaching English, I mean. Aren't you one of those middle-aged, middle class professionals we saw in the queues?"