by Terry Tyler
What to do? Surely there must be some milk somewhere in the town—oh yes, of course, the Seagull. Lawrie and Gemma always had loads, and UHT for emergencies. I hurried back down the road and round the corner, up Parkin Street.
Another shock.
Parkin Street was silent. The gift shops were all shut, and where were the queues outside Sarah Jane's fish and chip shop that started at ten-thirty every morning in the summer?
A hastily scrawled notice in the window said 'Pies and sausages only, while stocks last. No chips'.
Usually there were tables outside the Seagull, too, taking up the narrow pavement so people had to walk in the road to get past. Not today, though. The Tesco car park on the other side was more or less empty, and Lawrie was pulling down the metal shutters outside the café.
He smiled, raising his hand in a wave. "Shutting up shop, I'm afraid!"
I came to a halt beside him. "I can't get my head round this! It's only a few people with that bloody virus and it seems like the whole town's gone to pot."
He nodded. "Come in a minute, I'll make us a coffee."
"Have you got enough milk for a latte, or is it a cheek for me to even ask?"
"Sure, but what about the calories?"
I laughed; Lottie always had a latte, while I had an ordinary filter coffee with skimmed milk, and devoured hers with greedy eyes.
Dex loved lattes, too.
I sat at a table while Lawrie did the whooshy thing with the milk. Cinnamon sprinkles on top, too.
"Do you remember when they were called 'milky coffees', before everyone got pretentious about their beverages?" He looked up at me, smiling. "No, probably before your time." He seemed as jovial as ever, on the surface, but he looked tired, drawn. Lawrie was Dex's age but looked older; Dex always teased him about his grey hair, with no small degree of smugness.
"There you are," he said, pulling out the chair opposite me.
I put my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. "What's happening, Loz?" It wasn't a question, more an expression of bewilderment.
He sat back. "Well, I'll tell you what's happening here, which is all I'm bloody concerned with at the moment, to be honest. Over the weekend we've had the world, his wife and his ten kids in here wanting to buy up my entire stock. So, give or take what we've kept for ourselves—and it's hidden upstairs—I've sold it all. I don't reckon any businesses are going to be open this week. We're just going to have to ride it out."
I sipped at my coffee; it tasted wonderful. "But it's only a few cases, isn't it? No different from—oh, I dunno, bird flu or swine flu, or whatever last year's big scare was." I thought about Dex's warnings, and wondered if I was trying to convince myself or Lawrie. "Anyway, everyone's getting the vaccine."
"It's a lot more serious than swine flu, and there are more than a few cases, pet. Some of the old folk down in the fishermen's cottages are ill, and at the Sea View—"
"Yeah, I heard that. I went into Tesco’s. That was a bit of an eye opener."
He sat back, hands behind his head. "I reckon it's worse than they're saying. Caz in the Dolphin told me one of her barmaids is ill, as is Kenny in the Kings."
"Kenny? Oh, no." The landlord of our favourite pub. Our friend.
Lawrie nodded. "Caz says it's up at the caravan park, too."
I shuddered. "This is horrendous. You've had the shot, though?"
"Mm. They came round on Saturday night."
"That's a relief, then."
"Uh-huh."
But he didn't look relieved at all.
"Lawrie? What's up?"
He sniffed. "Gemma isn't feeling well. Started feeling bad yesterday afternoon. She's got all the symptoms; I looked them up." He shrugged his shoulders. "You know how you do, you try desperately to kid yourself that it might be something else, but no, it's a fever. High temperature, sickness, pains round here—" he reached round to touch his back "—which is where your kidneys are, just like it says on the website."
I reached over the table and put my hand over his. "But that doesn't make sense, if you had the shot—"
"Yes, but she might've already got it, mightn't she? We don't know the incubation period before the symptoms start. It's all just guesswork." He smiled. "I might already have it, too. I don't feel that hot, to be honest."
"She could just be tired, or have a cold, anything. So could you."
"Don't, please. We did all that best case scenario crap last night." He raised an eyebrow. "You might be taking a risk, even sitting here with me now."
"We had the vaccine last week."
"Good. Lottie and Dex alright?"
"Lottie, fine. Dex, I couldn't say. He's in Northumberland."
"Oh, right. Still trying to find out who shot JFK, then?" He frowned. "He should be here with you."
"Yep."
"I'm sorry. That must be hard."
I grimaced at him over the top of my mug. "Well, he's a law unto himself, isn't he? Trying to save the world. Never mind me."
He raised his eyebrows. "Oh dear."
"Ignore me. I'm being a cow. It's not his fault he can't get back."
We sat in companionable silence, deep in thought, drinking our coffee. Then Lawrie stood up. "I'd better get back up to Gem; I'll get you that milk. You can have two litres and some UHT, but keep it in your bag, I don't want you to get mugged for it. Don't look at me like that; I'm not kidding."
"Thank you. But only if you're sure you can spare it—"
He opened the fridge behind the counter and stopped, leaning his hands on a shelf, his head bent. "If Gemma's dying, I'm going to have more to worry about than drinking my coffee black."
"Oh, Lawrie—"
I moved across to him in an instant and put my arms around him, hugging him; he clung to me so tightly that I had trouble breathing, and I felt his body shake, heard him draw his breath in, as if he was trying not to cry. "I'm so sorry," I said, muffled against his chest.
"Yeah." He released me, holding me back by the arms. "Get yourself home, love. You make sure you and Lottie are okay."
"If there's anything I can do—"
"There isn't, really, is there?"
As I walked up the road I thought about how people always made that offer, meaning it, with all good intentions, but there never was anything, was there?
I passed the Crab and Lobster; people were sitting in the beer garden, drinking. It was only just noon. I was amazed, given what the girl in Tesco had told me. Perhaps they were leaving it to luck, or didn't understand how serious this was. Jenny from the deli waved to me; there were groups of holiday makers, too, and Clive and Des the painters who, this time last week, were up ladders in their white overalls, touching up shop fronts, giving another coat to the sea front cafés. Today, they sat in the middle of a large group of their drinking mates, downing pints.
"Beats going to work!" Claire Robertson's sister raised a glass to me, cheerily; on a normal Monday, Karen would have caught the train to Norwich, where she worked in a solicitor's office. "You joining us?"
I waved back, but shook my head; drinking my way through the disaster was the last thing I felt like doing. Didn't want company, either, except my family.
Lottie was sitting at the table on my laptop when I got home.
"It's weird, mum," she said. "Some of my friends are posting about the outbreak on MyLife, but the posts keep disappearing."
"Yeah?" I moved to the look at the screen.
"Did you get any milk? I need Karamel Krunchies!"
"Oh—yes, here. I wish you'd eat something a bit more nutritious for breakfast."
"I thought cereal was good for you."
"Not the sort you eat."
"Well, you buy it!"
"Only because you'd make my life hell if I didn't. So what posts are disappearing?"
"All sorts." She clicked from one friend's profile to another. "Shania said she'd heard about some people on the Cadeby Road campsite getting it, and as soon as I went to comment, it said 'th
is post has been removed'. Craig's posted about his mate at the Sea View who said it's Bat Fever City down there. He's posted it twice, but each time it's gone a minute later."
I frowned. "That is weird. Have a look on Twitter."
"Good thinking, Mama."
Lottie logged on, and put the hashtag #BatFever into the search.
I watched as she scrolled down the posts. We saw nothing but links to official reports, claiming that although a handful of outbreaks around the London area had been reported that morning, the cases were in isolation units, medical professionals had the situation under control, and most importantly, there was no cause for alarm.
There were no personal tweets. Not one single one from an individual. Apparently, only official profiles, like @NHSEngland, had anything to say about it. All good, all positive, all telling the public that the few isolated cases were being taken care of.
This wasn't just strange, it was spooky.
"Shall I have a look at YouTube?"
"Yeah, good idea."
YouTube was a different kettle of fish. Alongside the official films of the patient British public queueing for the vaccination that was just a precaution, based on the apparent lack of anything to worry about, were shaky videos taken on phones, of disruption at the units. Fights. In Elephant & Castle, South London, a group of young men pushed medical staff aside and stormed the place, running out with what looked like boxes of the vaccine. This was posted by @TruthGuy, who'd also filmed the empty shelves in his local supermarket. The removal of goods had clearly not been peaceful; stands and trolleys were knocked over, food spilt on floors.
"Fuck," said Lottie. "Whoops, sorry."
I raised my eyebrows, even though she had her back to me. "Find some more." I pointed to the right of the screen. "Have a look at those side links, there should be some related ones."
Lottie glanced back at me. "Gosh, Mummy, thanks for the lesson in how to use YouTube."
In Leeds, a vaccination unit had been overturned. People wore surgical masks and scarves over their faces, as if these might protect them from the virus.
"Fucking hell, Mum, look at these!"
"Charlotte, will you please curb your language?"
"Mu-um. Like, people are dying, and you're concerned about me using the F-bomb? Tell you what, I won't say 'fuck' if you don't call me Charlotte. Deal?"
I couldn't help smiling. "Watch it. Okay, deal." I pointed to a video entitled Bat Fever under control? Not! posted five minutes earlier. "Have a look at that one."
A young man began talking to his webcam.
'I live in an apartment block in Brockley, South London,' he said, 'and I've heard of three people ill with fever today. I work from home, but my neighbour says that when he went to work, two had phoned in sick. I'm one of the lucky ones, I've had the vaccination, but most people haven't. Don't believe the news; it's spreading. Yes, you should be panicking. Get to the hospital and demand the vaccine, it's your right not to be lied to—'
The video stopped, the buffering wheel going round and round.
"Click off it and click back onto it," I suggested.
Lottie did so, but we saw nothing but a blank screen with the words, 'This content has been removed as it violates YouTube user rules'.
I plonked myself down on the arm of the settee. "Dex told me about this," I said, slowly. "Certain words flag up, so they can remove stuff they don't want us to see."
"Flag up where, and who's 'they'?" But Lottie didn't sound that interested. She carried on scrolling up and down the YouTube video suggestions.
I thought about Dex, missing him. "Have a look at the Unicorn site."
"Okay." Lottie typed into Google, and scrolled down. There was nothing. No mention of it, no links.
"Try BorderReiver. All one word, capital R for 'reiver'. E before i. Unicorn Wordpress Blog. Anything."
Nothing. There was nothing, anywhere.
"What's that vegan woman called? Naomi. Veritas something; I can't remember."
"There's nothing there, Mum."
I rang Dex's number. Nothing.
I tried Mum's phone. She didn't answer.
"Put 'Portugal' and 'Bat Fever' into the search."
"Says there aren't any cases in Portugal."
"Oh God, I hope not."
Sick fear washed over me, but I couldn't let it show. I looked at Lottie's shiny, dark head, her smooth face concentrating on the screen, and saw my little girl, the two–year-old, frowning as she tried to balance her bricks. The four-year-old crying when she buried her shoes on the beach and thought I'd be cross because she couldn't remember where (we never did find them). I had to protect her—although, thank goodness, Lottie's not the sort of girl who needs Mummy to reassure her that everything's going to be alright. Hasn't been since she was about eight. She's stronger than me, in many ways. Doesn't worry. Goodness knows where she inherited that quality (from her father, maybe, who led a fairly random sort of life), but I'm so glad she has it.
"Look." Lottie sat back, and pointed at the screen.
On Twitter, someone had posted an article entitled Is this virus made by human hand?
"Open it before it disappears!" Lottie shrieked, and we both laughed.
This blogger had no new evidence to bring to the table, but reckoned Muslims and those of African descent were being targeted by the government; he was just ranting. I had no interest in those with nothing to back it up.
"Is it okay if I go out?" Lottie said. "Never mind the bloody bats, I'm getting cabin fever sitting in here all the time."
I smiled. "You don't get 'cabin fever' from spending a couple of days at home with your mother, with online access to the outside world. What you mean is, you're bored and want to go and see your friends."
Lottie grinned. "Yeah. Shania's had her vac, so her mum says she can see her mates again now."
When she'd gone, the house felt empty and silent.
Around five o'clock I went to sit at the cliff top, enjoying the smell of the sea spray, the sound of the waves far below, and the breeze coming off the water. The beach was busier today, with groups of youngsters drinking, laughing, running into the sea. No families, though; people must be keeping their children inside.
On the way back, I saw Claire hurrying towards me.
"Amy Williams says Jack's ill, he's really bad!" she said. She was shaking. "Vicky, I'm so scared; I let Lucy and George go down there to see her kittens yesterday, they were making such a fuss about being kept in, you know, really playing up. I thought, well, it can't hurt, can it? They were being such a pain, and Tony was trying to work because he can't get into the flipping office, and I thought it was safe, they said on the news that it was just isolated cases."
And they always tell the truth on the news, don't they? "Do they feel ill?"
Her face crumpled up, and she brought her hand up to her mouth. "Lucy's got a temperature, and Tony keeps saying he's tired and he feels sick. Do you think they've got it?"
"I don't know, Claire, it could be anything—"
"I could kill Amy, she didn't think to mention that Jack'd been for a drink at the Sea View on Saturday night, I'd never have let the kids go if she had! People there have got it, haven't they? The vaccination units are up the Holt Road, I drove up to find them, and they said they won't be here until the end of the week—I begged them to give me ours but they wouldn't; God, how much of a jobsworth do you have to be to say no?" She put her hand to her forehead. "I tell you, I almost barged in and grabbed some! I told them about Lucy and Tony, so they probably think we've already got it, and it's too late. I don't know what to do!"
Her voice faltered and she began to weep; I put my arms around her, stroked her hair.
I remembered those two spare vials, upstairs, but, just as I was about to offer them, Claire drew away from me, took off her huge sunglasses, and I saw that her face was sweating. She looked terrified. In horror, I reached out and touched her forehead; it was red hot.
Why, oh why, ha
dn't I offered them before? Because I'd wanted to believe that it was just isolated cases, too, didn't believe that anyone I knew was really going to catch it—
"I know," she whispered, when she saw the look on my face. "I went down to the chemist, just to see if I could get anything for the symptoms, and the girl kept giving me weird looks and ran out the back, she wouldn't serve me. I shouldn't have come near you." Tears streamed down her face. "I'm sorry, Vicky, I shouldn't have, I'm sorry."
"It's okay, I've had my shot." I didn't know what else to say.
"Lucky you." She didn't sound bitter, just very sad. "Tony says it can't be right that no one recovers. And we're healthy, I always make sure we have our five a day, so I reckon we'll get better, don't you? I mean, it's only like the flu, isn't it?"
I nodded. I didn't know what to say. I don't think she wanted an answer; she squeezed my arm, then walked away, slowly, hugging herself.
Maybe she was right. Maybe some people would recover.
"Claire!" I ran after her. "Let me do something. Anything, I can bring medicine round, get food for you, anything you want me to do. Is George okay? I can take him—"
She put her hand up, and edged away from me. "He's been snuggling in with Lucy because she feels poorly, so he'll have it too, won't he? Karen's coming up to help. We'll be alright."
She ran into her house, slamming the door.
At the far end of the road, the car with the loudhailer was doing its rounds.
'The vaccination unit will be with you shortly. Please stay in your homes, and remain calm'.
At the beach end, the soldiers had their backs to us, looking out to sea.
Maybe the boozers on the beach had the right idea.
That was the last time I ever saw Claire. I knocked a couple of times, texted, but no one answered.
I found the two spare vaccines and put them through Tracy's front door, one for her and one for Jason, with a note. Two other people would live, because I hadn't given them to Claire.
Late on Tuesday afternoon I walked down into the town. A few shop windows had been smashed, soldiers and armed police walked the streets, small groups drank on the benches in the churchyard. I opened the big oak door; the vicar was leading people in prayer.