One of them bent down.
“Now look,” this one said, and immediately Colin could tell it was a different voice than before, “Your aunt is infected. She’s not even conscious. I know this is difficult, but we’ve had to quarantine her. The house is a no-go area.”
Colin tried to process the information but failed. The drilling noise continued making it even more difficult to focus. His head was starting to throb. It felt warm and soft at one side. Colin reached into his hair, finding dampness. When he brought his hand back, it was bloodied.
The second suit called over yet another suit. This new suit attended to Colin’s head, dressing the wound.
The friendlier suit continued to talk to him, battling to be heard over the noise.
“Have you somewhere you can go?” he asked. “Friends, family...”
Colin looked back towards the house, his home for the last year. Aunt Bell was in there, and she wasn’t coming out. Ever. The full reality of that dawned on him.
“Look, for what it’s worth,” the kinder suit said, placing his arm onto Colin’s shoulder, “I’m sorry...”
The sounds died down, more suits leaving the house, industrial gear in their hands.
Colin noticed metal sheets where his Aunt’s hideously mauve curtains used to hang.
The gentle suit stood facing Colin, as if trying to hide what was going on in the house. With the sun behind him, Colin could see the man’s eyes through the visor. His face looked tired, sad. His apologies were heartfelt, and in the moment that meant something to Colin.
“What’s your name?” he heard himself say, because somehow that was important, somehow it was vital to know the name of the man who called time on his Aunt’s life and locked up his home.
“George,” the suit replied. “Sergeant George Kelly. I’m a police officer.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Colin sat in his car, staring out the window.
He was parked at the side of the Antrim Road, not knowing what the hell to do with himself.
He tried his phone again. It refused to work, so he slammed it into the seat beside him.
He began to cry.
His tears flowed unchecked, as if in allowing them, in welcoming them, Colin was honouring his Aunt Bell. She was a traditional, hard-working woman. A proper church burial would have meant the world to her. For those bastards to cage her up like that, without so much as a prayer...
Colin’s eye caught sight of the tin of soup, rolling on the floor under Vince’s passenger seat.
He thought of everything that had happened to him today: the Spar, the tattooed man with the revolver, the woman screaming then dying in the car as he watched, the yellow suits, Aunt Bell. The world was falling apart, yet no one wanted to admit it, no one wanted to shout out unless they were forced to, unless they were trapped and beat, dying or in desperate need of help. Society and every stitch that wove its fabric together were unravelling like a cheap sweater. And Colin could only watch, stand by helplessly, too sensitive to ignore it like all the others, yet too much of a fucking homo to do anything about it.
He thought of Vicky.
Until that point, Colin hadn’t known where he should go. He would have been happy just to start the engine, pull onto the road. Turn corners and find new roads. To motor on (as Aunt Bell used to say when each new day greeted her, along with her relentless pains: We’ll just have to motor on, won’t we?) until Vince ran out of juice. But now, he had a destination.
“Vicky!” he said, as if the word was magical. “Vicky, Vicky, Vicky.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vicky sat in her small bedsit on the Stranmillis Road, staring at the television. She was still in her bathrobe. She couldn’t remember getting up or if she’d taken a shower. The news report was a repeat, one she’d probably watched at least twice that day already.
Since closing up shop, she’d shut herself indoors. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Vicky had no one to go to. And that was a shame; the end of the world should be something a girl shares with someone special.
Her bedsit was a mess. Glasses and cups—some with half-drunk coffee, others with her tipple of choice, Merlot—lingered on the window sill.
Outside was quiet. She heard random screaming coming from another flat across the way, but little else.
Her phone was dead, yet the television still soldiered on.
Another safety announcement was running, several actors in a lift dealing with the outrageous attack of another’s sneeze. A pious voice narrated, instructing the masses to blow their noses and then dispose of the tissue in an ‘appropriately marked bin’. These ‘appropriately marked bins’ were all around the city, the voice said.
Her flat’s buzzer sounded.
Someone at the door.
It wasn’t the first time the buzzer had sounded. Vicky had learned to ignore these calls regardless of when they came, whether in the middle of the night or middle of the day. But this time the caller persisted, and something about the rhythm of the buzzer struck a chord with her. The timing seemed oddly familiar...
“Colin,” she muttered to herself. It was his ring.
She moved towards the buzzer. She pressed the answer button. “Hello?”
“Vicky!” came the voice, and it was Colin. “It’s me, let me up.”
She pressed the buzzer unlock immediately. She unlatched the door to her flat and entered the hallway.
She descended the hallway stairs meeting Colin as he entered the flat.
He was crying. There was a bandage on his head. “What is it?” she said. “Are you hurt?”
Colin wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.
“I’m alright,” he said. “Would murder a cup of tea, though...”
***
They sat on the edge of her Murphy bed, its wire frame and battered mattress pulled down from the back wall of the bedsit, near the built-in plywood cupboards. The sheets hadn’t been changed in weeks.
Colin’s eyes were surveying the flat as he sipped on his tea. Vicky realised it was the first time he’d visited. In fact, it was the first time anyone had visited.
“Been a mad week,” she said. “Haven’t been much in the mood for domestic Goddess duties, as you can see.”
Colin smiled, then placed his lips against the hot cup, flicking his fingers back and letting the tea move towards his mouth until he was sipping again.
Vicky hated to watch him drink. So robotic, so precise. So fucking camp.
She looked away.
“They—” he started, but his voice broke, his free hand clenching into a fist and pressing against his grimacing mouth. He steadied himself then looked back at her. “Aunt Bell,” he said. “She had the flu. They came and locked her in the house.”
Vicky searched his eyes for any hint of a lie or a sign that this was one of the elaborate jokes at her expense he was known for in work.
“They did what?!”
“They quarantined her,” he said, holding her gaze and talking in a low voice as if the room was bugged. “Came dressed in yellow protective suits and fucking quarantined her.”
It took Vicky a while to digest this, to understand what the word ‘quarantine’ could mean outside of some stupid sci-fi film. She’d known Aunt Bell. She’d chatted to Aunt Bell on the phone. Aunt Bell gave her tea, made small talk about the weather, the soaps, her bloody knee operation. Vicky had sent Aunt Bell a birthday card last year, and a Christmas card. Aunt Bell was real to her.
“Jesus Christ...”
Vicky stood up.
She felt trapped. She needed air.
She walked to the window and peered out.
The view was pitiful: a yard with overflowing bins. Cigarette butts littering the ground, leading to a pale, concrete wall with barbed wire running along its top.
“I haven’t been out since they closed the shop,” she said in a flat voice. “I was scared.”
She turned to face him.
“I’m sorry,�
�� Colin said. “I should have called. But everything was just so...” His voice trailed off.
“It’s alright,” she said. And she meant it. There was no sarcasm in her voice.
Colin looked up. There was a determined look in his face. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “The city, I mean. Let’s hit the road, head down the M1 as far as it’ll take us.”
Vicky looked at him with disbelief in her eyes.
“I mean it,” he stressed. “Vince is outside, full of juice. Running better than ever. We’ll leave this godforsaken city and wait until the whole thing blows over. I’ve friends in the country, just outside Portadown. We’ll check in with them. They’ll be only too glad of the company.”
“And how’s that going to help?” The question seemed contrary, but it wasn’t. Sure, she wanted nothing more than to be out of this flat, but she also needed to feel safe. Vicky wanted to believe that Colin and his half-baked plan with his half-baked car (Christ, that thing was almost antique!) was the escape hatch she had been waiting for. But, when it all boiled down, Colin just wasn’t a man who inspired confidence in her. God knows, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d let her down.
And then there was the gay thing. Colin wasn’t a real man, a man who would fight for her, shout and wave his fists at other men when her honour was threatened. Political correctness meant nothing to Vicky now; the truth of the matter, plain and simple, was that she didn’t feel safe with Colin.
But Colin remained persistent. “Vicky,” he said, “When this thing hits, and I mean really hits” he stretched his hands wide apart, several bangles on his wrists jingling, “you don’t want to be in the city. In fact, the further you are from the city, the better.”
Vicky looked out the window. She could see rooftops stretching for miles. Very little greenery. The sun had dipped behind a cloud, dimming the light. A fly buzzed around the glass, trying to get out, struggling to find an opening.
“Listen to me,” Colin said. He was on his feet now. He grabbed her shoulders, looked her in the eye. “The air’s fresher in the country. Cleaner, less infected. Seriously, it’s the right thing to do. And if they do get their shit together and start treating this fucking virus properly, with drugs and stuff, well then... maybe we can come back.”
“Okay,” Vicky said.
But she didn’t move. She just stood there, like she was frozen to the spot.
“I-I just need to grab some things,” she said, finally.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was only when Vicky disappeared to the bathroom that Colin got a proper look around her flat. It was a hovel. Several prints hung on bleached walls. A dirty brown carpet spread across the floor, coarse and hard, like sun-baked sand. Dark rot pierced the white paint of her window frames.
This was the very last place you’d expect a girl like Vicky to live, a girl whose idea of dressing down was Armani socks under Calvin Klein jeans, a girl who had once described public transport as ‘undignified’.
Colin was reminded of those celebrity shows where ’80s has-beens would be sent to live in the jungle or on a farm. And here was middle-class, designer-boutique-manager Vicky roughing it every night in a bedsit.
But that wasn’t the only thing that struck Colin.
Vicky’s OCD with tidiness was legendary in the shop. Yet the flat was a mess. Black bin bags, stuffed with clothes, gathered in a corner near the sofa, awaiting the wash or skip. A dozen or so trashy magazines littered the sofa, as if she were sleeping under them.
Colin could maybe understand if Vicky had just moved in, but she’d been here about a year.
He walked through to the kitchen, finding a sink full of dishes. An empty carton of Cup-A-Soup lay dead on the worktop.
He opened the fridge. Grimaced at the smell of stale milk and God knows what breed of fruit festering—no, colonising—in the pull-out tray.
He closed the fridge quickly, reached to open the cupboard above. There was tea and coffee in abundance. The odd tin of fruit. More Cup-A-Soup. Nothing else.
What the hell does she eat?
“What are you looking for?”
Colin startled.
Vicky stood in the kitchen. Her hair was brushed. She was wearing jeans and a sweater.
“Er, nothing,” he said, heat rising to his face. “Just thinking about making some tea before we get moving. Fancy a cup?”
She looked suspiciously at him.
“Not really,” she said, still sizing him up over her glasses. “Let’s just go.”
Colin looked at the small bag in her hand.
“Is that all you’re taking?”
Vicky didn’t reply, as if bored of his questions already. She made for the door.
“Okay,” Colin muttered to himself, taking the hint, “Let’s go, then.”
He followed her out into the corridor of her apartment block.
She closed the door behind them, without locking it, and descended the stairs.
”Hey,” Colin shouted after her, “Aren’t you going to lock up?”
But Vicky just turned to look at him, her eyes once more peering over the glasses. It reminded him of libraries, of banks and official scary places, of every teacher he hadn’t liked very much.
“Are you coming or not?” she said, her voice irritable.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Before long, Vicky was sitting in Vince’s passenger seat.
The car always smelled the same, regardless of how many air-fresheners Colin hung from its mirror. A smell of age, experience. A smell that said, I’ve a few miles on the clock, you know. Been around a corner or two. It was comforting, and Vicky found herself relaxing back into the seat, despite herself.
Colin started up the engine, Vince roaring to life with an angry quality that surprised her.
“Jesus,” Vicky said. “The old boy’s got wind in his sails.”
Colin smiled proudly. “Told you.”
He pulled onto the Stranmills Road, heading up towards Malone. From there it would be a quick journey to the turn-off for the M 1 motorway. But Colin didn’t go that way. Instead, he took the first left at the Stranmillis roundabout and headed towards the Ormeau Road.
“Where are you going?” Vicky asked.
“To get Sinead,” he said like she should have known. “What?” Vicky glared at him. “Colin, you didn’t mention anything about Sinead coming!”
“Look,” he said, raising one finger from the wheel and pointing at her, eyes still on the road, “Sinead’s one of us. She’s on her own. There’s no way I’m leaving her, and that’s that.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
Vicky should have known he would do this. Colin and Sinead were thick as thieves. Two peas in a fucking pod. Christ, Vicky even considered they might be sleeping together at one stage, right before Colin came out, surprising her and just about no one else.
Sinead lived in a shared house off the Ormeau Road, a spot known as the Holylands. The place was notorious, each street lined with tall robust houses, packed to the rafters with undergraduates, drug dealers and migrant workers. Rumour was that the area was a dumping ground for those intimidated out of other areas for bad behaviour. Either way, the Holylands was becoming less holy by the day, with increasing reports of burglaries, joyriding, rape and muggings. And that had been before the flu hit.
They moved up University Road before pulling onto Damascus Street. As Colin parked Vince by the pavement, Vicky noticed a crowd gathered just outside one of the houses.
“Jesus,” Colin said, pulling the handbrake then unclipping his seatbelt.
“What is it?”
“That’s Sinead’s house.”
Colin got out of the car, Vicky following closely behind. He prodded one of the bystanders, a lanky guy with floppy hair and a long, narrow face.
“What’s going on?” Colin asked.
“Dunno,” lanky guy mumbled.
His friend, of similar build and dress, spoke up: “It’s the flu. They’re sending
an ambulance out. Think it’s that house there.” A long finger peeked out of the cuff of his cardigan, pointing towards Sinead’s house.
Colin grabbed Vicky, said: “We’ve got to get her out of there.”
Vicky laughed. “What? Are you crazy?”
Colin left her, moved quickly through the crowd. Vicky followed, reaching for his arm. “Colin, what if it’s Sinead that’s sick?”
“We’re taking her with us,” he said.
“Like hell we are!” she protested.
But Colin was in the doorway now.
“Listen to me!” Vicky called, “COLIN!”
Still he ignored her. “Sinead!” he shouted.
A few people were on the stairs. He recognised them as her flatmates.
“Where’s Sinead?” he said to one, a small mousy looking girl with round glasses.
“Upstairs,” came the reply. “In her room.”
Colin turned to Vicky, pulled her aside. They stepped into the nearby kitchen, finding privacy.
“There’s going to be a crowd of men showing up, wearing yellow plastic suits,” he said to her, “Just keep them from following me, got it?”
Vicky grabbed him. “Colin, think about this. If she’s sick—”
“Just do it!” he said, pulling away.
Vicky watched Colin go, storming up the stairs towards Sinead’s bedroom. A dark and wrong part of her wondered if he’d be so quick to act if it was her up there.
She turned to look out the open door, hearing the sound of sirens.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The landing was what you’d expect in a gaff like this. Mildew climbed the walls. Dusty old carpet covered the floor. It was your typical house share in Belfast. Cheap but not very cheerful.
Colin tried each door, knocking with his fist, calling out Sinead’s name.
He heard the sound of strained coughing coming from the next floor.
He took the stairs, found a single door at the end of a short corridor. He knew this was Sinead’s room. Everything about it screamed her name.
A poster, featuring a white kitten with the word ‘Miaow!’ inscribed below, was tacked to the door. A small whiteboard and pen hung above the poster with the words ‘Stacey called at 8.30’ inscribed in pink, the date from two weeks ago. Even Sinead’s smell was here, a sickly sweet perfume that always reminded Colin of the confectionary counter at the Movie House.
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