Tipping Point (Project Renova Book 1)

by Terry Tyler

  At nine a.m. on Sunday, 28th July, the sun was already warming the pavements in Brockley, South London, where the queue waited patiently outside their allocated vaccination unit. Standing halfway down the line was Nick Greenaway, a thirty-year-old junior agricultural research scientist.

  His white t-shirt and lycra cycling shorts showed off his gym-toned body, and he pretended not to notice the admiring glances of young women in the queue as he checked into Private Life on his phone.

  Nick was eager to get his injection and go, because he had a busy day ahead. Had to get to the gym before it filled up with fight-the-flab weekenders who sweated over the machines once a week (like that would do any good!), then he planned to cycle over to Kew and pick up some flowers, chocolates and wine to take round to his sister's—every year he was tempted to buy her a month's gym membership for her birthday instead. After that he'd promised to meet Greg and Aaron for a couple of pints before heading home to change, then drive to his girlfriend's in Blackheath, for a barbecue. Busy, busy, busy. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, and tapped out a post on Private Life, complete with map showing his location: Waiting in line for the shot! Yep, that's me done - phew! (smiley face with sweaty forehead).

  His mind was already racing on to the packed day ahead as he signed the consent form and rolled up his sleeve. Jogging down the steps of the unit called Location 257, he smiled up at the sun and winked at one of the girls in the queue who'd tried to catch his eye. She was cute; should he get her number, for the pending list? Today was a good day! He took a quick selfie of his smiling face and newly green-banded wrist, and slotted it into place on his Private Life profile.

  Nick Greenaway would not start to feel ill until the next morning, though the substance flowing through his veins from the vial from box NOV34 was at its most contagious in that first twenty-four hours of infection. At the gym he enjoyed a full upper body workout, and whooped when he exceeded his personal best on the running machine, oblivious to the pathogens being released as he puffed and sweated into the air. On his left was a doctor who'd received the vaccination several days before; on his right, a hairdresser called Annika had not.

  The next day, Annika would board a plane for her annual holiday in the sun with her girlfriends, feeling a little ill but not considering, even for a moment, that a slight summer cold should stop her enjoying her two weeks in Turkey.

  The woman who served her Costa Coffee would feel a strange shudder of darkness as Annika put money into her hand, but choose to ignore it. She was to remember that sensation the following Thursday, as she gasped her final breath.

  Twenty-eight hours later, when Annika stepped onto the tarmac at Milas-Bodrum airport, twenty-seven people would be infected on that plane alone.

  Back at the gym that Sunday, Nick sat in the steam room after his workout, to relax his muscles and empty his pores of a week's impurities. He removed the towel from his neck and placed it on the bench before closing his eyes and leaning his head back. Next to him, an acquaintance called Wayne picked it up to wipe the sweat from his own brow, before realising he'd taken the wrong one.

  "Sorry, mate, I just used your towel by mistake," said Wayne.

  "No worries," said Nick, even though it irritated the hell out of him; Nick was fanatical about personal hygiene.

  During the next twenty-four hours, the two men would be responsible for the exponential growth of the virus in South London.

  When Wayne left the gym he lit a cigarette and threw it on the pavement half-smoked, where it was swooped up by a vagrant once called Reverend William Sallis (he had long forgotten about the 'Reverend' bit), who didn't care that the end was coated with another man's saliva. Later, Sallis would drink from a bottle of White Lightning cider and pass it around his friends. Later still, during a visit to hospital after a drunken collision with a passing car, molecules of mucus from his sneeze would land on his doctor, an hour before she clocked off for two hours of passion with her married lover.

  One lady jammed up against the married lover in the underground rush hour crush the next morning delivered the first recorded case of Bat Fever to North Yorkshire, while a young man called Akio Ishikawa took two presents back to his family in Kyoto; the other was a working model of the London Eye.

  As for Nick Greenaway, he coughed while the assistant in the flower shop wrapped the very tasteful bunch of irises for his sister, lifting his hand to his mouth a moment too late and signing the death warrant for the poor florist (whose vaccination date was the very next day).

  As the deadly micro-organisms in his body multiplied, Nick became a one-man fever dispenser. At lunch time, he passed the virus first to the barman, then to a couple of people he squeezed past as he juggled three pints back to his table, then to his friend Greg (Aaron happened to be naturally immune, though he would die a violent death the following year in a fight over three litres of bottled water), and, later, he and his girlfriend had sex for the last time in either of their lives.

  Of the seventy million people in the UK in 2024, the majority were yet to be vaccinated against Bat Fever. Across the world, many heads of state, members of parliament and congress, a small number of local and national government officials, royal families, heads of global corporations, some members of certain aristocracies and the military had received their shot before vaccination programmes commenced, as had a select minority of scientists, doctors and technicians from selected industries. Some, like Aaron, would be immune.

  But not very many.

  Chapter Six

  Tipping Point

  Shipden, Norfolk

  That first weekend, I asked Lottie to stay at home, or at least go no further than the beach.

  "Cool, whatever, but why?" she said. "We're not going to catch it, are we?"

  I couldn't explain that I was just being selfish, wanting her with me because Dex wasn't there, and my parents were hundreds of miles away. She was happy to chat to her friends online instead, and we intended to go for a walk on the beach, but the presence of soldiers at the end of the road, advising us that we couldn't cross the town boundary on either beach or cliff, was a little off-putting. The weather was rubbish anyway, overcast and muggy. I didn't want to be too far away from what was going on; when we were in the house I kept the news channels on, all the time, and Lottie checked her phone every five minutes instead of the usual ten. Discussion about the virus was low key and optimistic, with more film showing smiling people being vaccinated. Then there were the jolly holidaymakers in tents in Shipden, behaving as though being held in quarantine due to an outbreak of a deadly disease was the most fun thing that had ever happened to them. I remembered Dex telling me that actors were used as on-the-spot witnesses after the murder of JFK, and after 9/11.

  The terms 'Blitz spirit' and 'pulling together' were used so often that Lottie suggested we devise a game of Bat Fever bingo to keep us amused.

  "Or a Bat Fever drinking game," she offered, hopefully.

  Friends rang and texted constantly; we were all in the same boat: knowing nothing. Some suspected that we weren't being given the full story, that the cases weren't isolated, but I grew tired of this conjecture very quickly, and I wasn't about to tell any of them what Dex was up to. I said he'd gone up to Northumberland to visit family, and had been unable to get back before the eight pm deadline.

  The vaccination units did their rounds, but progress was slow. They'd started at the other end of town; Beach Lane is on the northern outskirts, half a mile up the Cadeby Road. Not being registered as having received the vaccine, I worried what would happen when I refused it; not only did I not want to have it twice, but I hadn't forgotten what Dex said about not letting strangers inject mystery substances into my bloodstream. Even though I'd taken the piss when he said it.

  I phoned Mum and Dad; all was well there, at least.

  "We're having plenty of G and Ts," said Mum. "Your father reckons the alcohol will kill off any nasty stray bugs!"

  On Sunday, our fr
iend Lawrie phoned; he'd heard rumours of two more cases of the virus, but didn't know if they were true.

  "Maybe they were lying about the first three not having had contact with anyone else," I said.

  "Could be. Or perhaps its airborne transmission capabilities are greater than they thought, which is more worrying. The town's as quiet as the grave." His words chilled me. "This is bloody awful, isn't it?"

  Dex didn't phone. I tried his number on Sunday evening, and it was still switched off.

  I was torn between missing him so much it was like a physical pain, and wanting to yell and scream at him. I felt as though I'd gone back in time to before I met him, when I was alone with Lottie and scared about the future. Sure, Mum and Dad and my chums were not far away (my parents had moved to Suffolk by then), but at the beginning and end of every day I was still alone with a kid. It's hard without a partner, yet, for Lottie's sake, I'd been scared of introducing anyone into our lives in case they didn't work out. Dex might think this had made me strong and resilient, but that weekend I felt anything but.

  On Monday morning I was woken by the sun shining through the gap in the curtains, boosting my mood. Scrabbling for the remote controls (on Dex's empty side of the bed), I switched on the news.

  "Two more cases of Kerivoula Lanosa Fever have been reported in the Norfolk town of Shipden, currently on military lockdown. It is suspected that, in both instances, the disease was contracted after contact with the three ‘Patients Zero’; however, a spokesperson from the Infectious Diseases Department assures us of his confidence that these are isolated cases, and all residents of the town are advised that there is no cause for alarm."

  I watched film of people in those big white papery suits going into a house in The Gangway, the cobbled road down to the sea where the first cases had been discovered, and made a loud 'ha!' noise at the screen. Wasn't there supposed to be no cause for alarm when the first three people got it? How many cases did there have to be before they stopped being called 'isolated'? So who were these people? I didn't know anyone who lived in The Gangway; it was mostly short term rental and student houses down there, and holiday cottages.

  I needed to talk to Dex so badly. I tapped onto his number with no great hope that he'd answer.

  The sound of his voice after the fourth ring gave me such a shock that my stomach lurched.

  "Dex!" I cried out—but it was just a voicemail message.

  This phone is no longer in use, but I will get in touch when I am able to do so. V, please be patient. And take care.

  Be patient? Take care? I played it four times. Partly just to hear his voice, but also to see if I could hear something else in the message, some background noise to tell me where he was. In Jeff's bunker? At this wretched 'safe house'? With Gia, maybe? How was I supposed to know? What was I supposed to do?

  I fell back onto the pillows and shut my eyes. Breathe deeply. Be calm. The message was a good sign, wasn't it? He wanted to put my mind at rest, even though he wouldn't say where he was because of the NSA or MI5 or FBI or B&Q, or whichever bunch of initials he thought was after him this week.

  The sound of his voice really got to me, though, and I was just about to curl up and weep again when that resilience I didn't know I had, kicked in, and I gave myself a mental slap round the face. Dex was safe, so was I, and I had a daughter to look after. Enough. Enough whining and being generally pathetic. I was scared, but I could do this. I sat up and looked at my phone again. A few texts from friends, one from Mum. Good. Another from Martine, my boss at the Book Exchange, confirming that it would be closed all week but I was not to worry; I would still get paid.

  Not to worry. No cause for alarm.

  I thought she was daft to shut it. If there was one thing people were going to need in quarantine week, it was reading material.

  Wash, dress. Downstairs, coffee, telly on. News. YouTube. Holidaymakers in Shipden were posting video diaries, saying that they'd had their vaccinations, and getting an extended holiday wasn't so bad; at least it wasn't raining!

  They all seemed too upbeat.

  "Yay! Another week in sunny Shipden!" cried an impossibly cheerful family, lifting mugs of something steaming, outside their tent.

  I couldn't place the background as anywhere I knew in Shipden. Still, it could have just been the angle.

  The town of Shipden was pulling together, the national news told me.

  Upstairs, Lottie was still asleep.

  Milk. We needed milk, and fresh fruit and veg.

  I scribbled a quick note: Gone into town. Back soon. Leave me a note if you go out. Mum x

  At the end of the road were the soldiers, different ones this time.

  "Where are you off to, Ma'am?"

  I lifted my green-wristbanded arm in a wave, shouted, "I've had the vaccine!", and carried on walking. Nuts to them. They weren't going to keep me prisoner.

  I saw Tracy looking out of her window, eating toast. Linda from number four was in her garden; she shrank back when she saw me.

  "I've had the vaccine," I said, again, showing my band, and she relaxed. Was this the way it was going to be from now on? Leprosy, twenty-first century style. Damn it, why did Dex have to keep being right?

  "Bastards wouldn't let me go to Cadeby to get my hair done," she told me. "Look at my roots! I'm going to have to get a hat for this wedding now, but where can you get a decent hat in Shipden?"

  Out on the main road there was little traffic. I walked for five or ten minutes before I saw anyone; a few families emerged from the campsite, dressed in shorts, t-shirts and hoodies. They all looked pretty fed up, actually; the Glastonbury Festival spirit of YouTube was nowhere to be seen.

  Down on the edge of our little town centre, the petrol station was shut. The shop was in darkness, and there was a sign up saying 'Sorry No Petrol'. Already? Perhaps everyone had been filling up cars and spare cans in panic.

  I walked on.

  The amusement arcade was as empty as on a winter's day. The bookshop was shut, as was Green's Seafood, the hatch that opened out onto the street to sell fresh shellfish still closed.

  Weren't the crab boats allowed to go out?

  Everywhere was so damn quiet.

  I turned the corner and wandered up to the small Tesco outlet.

  When I pushed open the door I was in for the biggest shock yet.

  The shelves were all but empty, with just a sparse selection of tins, packets, bottles and household goods remaining. A few customers picked them over, a shop assistant mopped up a smashed bottle of tomato ketchup.

  She looked up. "It's all gone, sorry," she said, with a half-smile.

  I looked around. "What happened?"

  She stopped what she was doing and leant on the mop. "Panic buying. Well, nothing's coming in, is it? We usually get a delivery every day, but we haven't had one since Friday. They've still got stuff in the corner shops, but they've jacked their prices up sky high. Caused a few loud words, that has!"

  "Bloody hell. I just wanted milk, and some vegetables."

  "You could try the greengrocers, I saw some bits in there on my way to work this morning; think they're getting it off the Northstrand Road allotments. As for milk," she shook her head, lips set in a line, "not a chance. That went first." She swished the mop back and forth; all she was doing was spreading the watery red mess around. "I'm off home when I've done this. Nothing to stay open for. I said to my manager, I'm not staying in here to catch the lurgy off someone! This waitress I know from the Sea View came in earlier and said a couple of people in the hotel have come down with it. I said, you can keep your distance from me, then!"

  I indicated my wristband and she gave me a thumbs up, moved closer, and looked from side to side, as if someone might overhear. "She reckons one of them's dying."

  "Christ, really?" I caught myself looking around in the same way, as if I might see Bat Fever victims emerge, sweating and raving, from the Home Bakery aisle. "I can't believe this is happening."

  "No, nor me
. I called my mum, she says the vaccination units are down Bowden Road, and we're two along in Mount Street, so I'm off!"

  "I got mine a couple of weeks ago, thank God."

  She looked at my arm, suspiciously. "You want to keep the band on show, you know. That waitress from the Sea View, she went into the Dolphin for a drink on Saturday night, and these two guys in there got heavy with her and made her leave, 'cause she hadn't got a band. Said they didn't want her leaving her germs all over the show. She said the barmaid was wearing one of them surgical masks, and latex gloves like you use to put your fake tan on." Her eyes opened wide. "Well, you must have friends in high places, that's all I can say; I don't know anyone who'd even had their date, 'fore all this."

  She seemed a bit sniffy about it.

  At the back of the shop, the lights went off.

  "Looks like that's that, then." The girl unbuttoned her overall, and let the mop fall. The tomato ketchup mess remained on the floor as she hurried off. I had a vision of it remaining there until the end of days, solidifying on the floor while dust gathered on the empty shelves around it. I looked around into the dark, silent depths of the store.

  "Good luck!" the girl called out, as the door into the back of the shop screeched open, then banged shut.

  More lights went off, and the few customers ran out with baskets full of goods, past the one open checkout. The girl sitting at the till shouted, "Oi!", but when they ignored her she just locked up her till, pocketed a few bars of chocolate, and left.

  The church bell rang as I walked out. Eleven-thirty. One ring to announce the half hour, the same as always, but this morning it sounded like a portent of doom. Bring out your dead. I looked up and down the road, too warm in the denim jacket I wore over my loose flowery top and leggings. The sky had clouded over, and the air grew heavy, as it had been all weekend. I felt my hair losing its carefully straightened sheen, and I reached into my bag for a bulldog clip and twisted it up on the back of my head.