The Poison People

by Alex Makepeace

  I woke up crying, realised I had been for some time, that the pillow was damp with my tears. I turned over. Magda was fast asleep, the sheet slung over her naked body, a bare thigh, a bare breast exposed to the moonlight. I was still surprised at the tenderness with which she had made love, the gentleness. Almost a virgin, it felt. A long time, she had said.

  Her scars seemed like a tattoo, a Maori tattoo in their curls and swirls across her body, describing the shape of her abdomen, sweeping across her breasts, bisecting a nipple, resting upon her shoulder like a hand still pressed.

  “What happened?” I said, suspended above her.

  “Love me,” she said. “Just for this moment.”

  But my tears were not for Magda. They were for the Swami. A nightmare vision of him in his fake throne, high on nitrous oxide. Descending into increasing doubt, despair. Depression, would Kobro have said?

  Turn up the gas. Blow all the clouds away.

  And there were you, Ma.

  And so was I.

  Not a glint nor a bean, but a bouncing baby boy.

  I couldn’t help myself. I was hanging around, waiting for something to happen. Hoping nothing would happen. Surviving.

  That’s what we do.

  Magda and Akka seemed happy enough, content to scrape by on the allowance they received from Kobro to buy their cheap vegetables from the grocers along Green Lanes, make the most of what little we had. Akka spent most of her time in the garden, come rain or shine, while Magda liked to curl up with a weighty Victorian tome, the shopping channel blathering away in the background.

  I sometimes wondered if our relationship, if that’s what you could call it, was just Magda’s way of keeping me occupied—I could imagine her thinking, he’s young, full of cum, so best keep him busy. But then I remembered our times together, and how she transformed herself from a feisty, grown woman to someone so innocent, so delicate, and I decided I was being unfair.

  I never mentioned her scars again. I just sensed I shouldn’t go there, though I couldn’t help being curious about her origins.

  “Are you Russian then? You spoke Russian with Vlad.”

  “Darling, every commie of a certain age was fluent in Russian. It came with the territory, so to speak.” She poked me in the ribs. “Just like all you English speak American.”

  “So, where then?”

  “You are very perseverant, aren’t you. Is that a word?”

  “What?”

  “Perseverant.”

  “I . . . don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I think it’s because you are still a student in your heart. You are all geared up for your studies. What was it you studied again?”

  “Magda, please. Stop changing the subject.”

  “What subject?”

  “About where you’re from.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to know where I’m from.”

  “Now why wouldn’t I want to know?”

  “Because maybe,” she began to stroke my neck, “maybe, I’m from Transylvania, maybe I’m a vampire!” She nuzzled herself against me, took my skin between her teeth.

  “Ow! That hurts!”

  She sat back, grinning. “Don’t you want to carry a mark of my affection?”

  “A love bite? I’m a bit old for that—and you too!”

  “Oh, you know we vampires are eternally young. Let me drink your blood and you can be too!” She took another lunge.

  So there was no getting any sense out of her. I asked Akka but she refused to say. Even Kobro was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “What’s the great mystery?” I asked.

  “No great mystery,” said Kobro. “Just an age-old tragedy maybe. Lay off her, kid; if she doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s her affair. Maybe she will in time. Maybe not. Let her have her fun, okay?”

  “I don’t see why she should have her fun with me,” I said.

  “You’re not telling me you get nothing out of it.” He gave me a wry look. “Lighten up, young man. Be a gentleman and count your lucky stars. And if you can’t do either, just don’t be a prick, okay?”

  I reached for my raincoat.

  “Where you going?”

  “The park,” I said. “Get some fresh air.”

  “Okay,” he said, “but keep a low profile, right?”

  I give him a sarcy thumbs up, said in a faux Yank accent, “Right.”

  But I didn’t go to the park. I walked midway along Green Lanes then ducked into a cyber café, took a booth towards the back.

  At first I just surfed the news sites, but I was biding my time, working up the courage. First off, I went back to Facebook. My page was back up and running. I was about to log in when I stopped myself.

  Man. Think about it.

  I clicked through to Jane’s.

  JANE.

  There you were—that cool, slightly surly selfie that made it look like you’d got rather more cleavage than in real life.

  Jane, 18. Interests: Piano, singing, Manga, literature. Music: Evanescense, Fearless Vampire Killers, Don Broco, Cheap Meat. Movies: Hunger Games, Donnie Darko, Amelie, Edward Scissorhands, Whale Rider, Volver, Spirited Away, March of the Penguins. Television: Vampire Diaries, Angel, Charmed, Stargate. Books: The Lovely Bones, Little Women, The Bell Jar, Anna Karenina, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Heroes: Sylvia Plath. Tolstoy. James Franco. Jonnie Depp.

  I pressed send message, but was told I had to sign in. Instead I went to the landing page and pressed, JOIN FACEBOOK NOW!

  I was walking back along Green Lanes, head down, hood up, thinking on what I’d just done when I bumped into Akka.

  “Hey,” I said, thinking she was doing some shopping. “Need a hand?”

  But one look at her face told me something was wrong. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s up?”

  She pushed the shoulder bag into my hands. “Take it,” she said. “It’s got your clothes, some money too. Everything. Now go, run, Vereesh.”

  “What? What’s happening?”

  “You’ve got to go,” she said, giving me another shove.

  “Look,” I said, “I didn’t mean to do anything. I was just bored. They couldn’t trace a thing. I promise.”

  She looked at me blankly. “Vereesh,” she whispered, “you must go. Now. Or they’ll get you. Quick!” she shouted.

  She gave me another shove, then turned and walked rapidly away.

  I stood there holding the bag. A couple of passers-by were looking at me. I hesitated.

  I shouldered the bag.

  I made off.

  25

  CROW TOWN

  The man picked me up on the A1M just outside Hatfield. I’d only had to wait for about ten minutes. I thought it would take hours, was already trying to figure out if I could get away with hunkering down behind the Little Chef for the night, when the juggernaut pulled up.

  “Where you going?”

  “Leicester,” I said.

  “I can take you as far as Northampton, how’s that?”

  “Great.”

  Dean, he of the burning rubber body odour, wants to talk. So, talk, Dean.

  He hadn’t meant to get into this lark, it was the last thing he imagined he’d end up doing, but he’s had an HGV license since the forces and it’s always been something to fall back on, hasn’t it. And you’ve got your independence, don’t you, don’t have no one telling you what’s what. Before this it had been shop fitting, but he fell out with the gaffer—said enough of your lip, my lad, I’ll get in some of them Polish. They keep schtum, right? So fuck it, I give the geezer some lip, right? A fat fucking lip. Tosspot!

  Anyways, then I try my hand at a bit of painting n’ decorating. Always liked the DIY, I have. But it’s the fucking same there. All them Polish, Russians, whatever. But then I figure—well, I’ve got me license, haven’t I. And them, they’re just used to driving on the wrong side of the road, so there’s a natural advantage. That’s the thing these days—you’ve got to follow your natural advantage, o
r you won’t get nowhere. So, what’s yours, Paul?

  Mine?

  Natural advantage.

  I think about this.

  Keeping my nose clean, I say.

  Dean nods appreciatively. Very wise, he says. Very wise, Paul. If I could have done that I’d still be in a proper fucking job!

  After Akka made off, I didn’t hang around, I got the hell out of there, off the main drag, then ran down the alley that connected the rows of houses until I made it to the park. I didn’t dawdle—I stomped across the wide green space until I arrived at the Tube.

  Head down, hood up, I bought a one-day pass and jumped on a train bound for the centre.

  Swallow me, London, swallow me whole. I washed up at Piccadilly Circus and was out, into the crowd. One more fish among the shoal.

  “Go. Now,” she said. “Or they’ll get you. Quick!”

  So I went. Alone again like the first time in Camden, waiting for the dark to curl around me. But now I understood, even as I dashed down the passage, marched across the park, the kind of transformation that was taking place. I felt almost invigorated by the savage drug, the sharpened animal senses I now understood served one purpose—to keep me alive.

  And new too was my sense of self. I was no longer driven simply by instinct, my bug taking the wheel while I floundered helpless in the back seat. My thing was one with my mind, both of us were in this together.

  And both of us would get out of it together too.

  “Or they’ll get you. Quick!”

  They. The police, the authorities. The Scientists. Slice me up, suck my marrow, throw me into a boiler suit and send me to a country without a name. As it’s always been, as it always will be.

  “It was our dirty secret.”

  They were playing for high stakes—Man and God—so what was a little collateral damage?

  I had to look out for myself.

  A bean, a bug, a bouncing baby boy. At least that’s how I dreamed it, how I’d built it up from what Ma had told me. But who can really remember their first few years?

  Come on now—try. Well, of course I remember the man himself, the long, streaky beard, his smell—of flowers mostly, but sometimes sweet and sour like he hadn’t washed. I remember holding my nose once, saying pooh bear, and he thought this was hilarious—the unmediated honesty of children, all that crap. He playfully scolded his entourage for not saying, though in truth they were pretty ripe themselves, so may not have noticed. Or maybe they didn’t say anything out of pity. He was pretty close to the end by then.

  That was Hyderabad. The homeless would sleep on the streets. It didn’t seem such a bad life—it was rarely below thirty even in the evenings and they would line up under arches or along the pavement or collect around one of the bonfires. The smog hung low, as thick as cotton wool. I remember Ma and me once got lost coming home and had to plot our course back from bonfire to bonfire.

  “Just like foggy London Town,” she said. “Foggy London Town with Jack the Ripper lurking in the shadows!”

  She tickled me and I squealed, hanging close to her.

  “Not Jack!” I said, scared as hell.

  “No, my little toad.” She smoothed my hair. “Not Jack.”

  There was no fog though, in London Town.

  Plenty of homeless, mind, if not necessarily where you’d expect them. I chose to rest my weary head in a twenty-four-hour internet farm, where I’d already spied one geezer dozing in a booth.

  I dialled up a couple of hours, took my ticket and logged on.

  I checked the news, the usual pages I’d become accustomed to monitoring—American missiles had hit some labs across the Caliphate they said were making bio-weapons; the Caliphate claimed it was just Aspirin—before going to Facebook.

  First off, I logged on to the new page I’d made. Paul. Simple. No photo. A few innocuous words. Likes—the sun, the moon, the stars. Dislikes—politicians, boy bands, war, X Factor.

  I went to Jane’s page, noticed my old site still there among her friends. But I didn’t even click on to it.

  Don’t even leave a trace, Vereesh, not even an impression.

  I did read the public comments on Jane’s site though.

  Thinking of you Sweet Jane, with you every minute just remember that alright. Kas and Jamie.

  Just heard. So SORRY. You know where I am. Any time, any place! Sarah.

  Get well soon Jane. Bronwyn.

  And then I read the latest bulletin from her mum.

  Jane is beginning to get a little better. She has now returned from hospital and is convalescing at home. As you can imagine this has been a terrible shock for her and all the family and we are very grateful for all the support we have received. Jane would particularly like to thank all her friends who have been there for her and would like to ask for their patience as she regains her confidence. It has been a very scary and trying time for her and it may take some time for things to get back to normal. But get back to normal she is determined they will and she hopes to be able to join you all in Rascals for a get-together soon.

  I clicked back to my new, anonymous page. Stared at Paul’s Friendless, blank space. I thought of Akka, Vladimir. The long, lonely lives they led. The way their germ drove them to seek isolated anonymity, it seemed.

  Not mine, not me. I logged in.

  Dean drops me at a service station outside Leicester.

  He seems put out when, instead of a hearty handshake, I offer an airy wave and push the door handle down with my elbow.

  I’m out, shouldering the door closed, as he looks down through the window in puzzlement. Better to be puzzled, Dean, than dead. I was at pains to touch as little as possible in the cab, to leave no trace, and honestly, Dean, you really should have let me keep the window wound down. It’s carried on the air, you see, and there you were, cooped up in the cab with me. I kept my breathing low, measured. I said as little as I could get away with. I did my best, all things considered.

  All things considered. Vereesh, the moralist, keeping his germanic tendencies under control, like their national namesake, inclined to break through borders and destroy everything in their path. But also, like modern Germany, my bug appears to have learned that this kind of behaviour only leads to its ultimate destruction. Apparently smallpox was “wiped out” by 1980. Yet here it is, here I am, still soldiering on, a comparative beacon of love, democracy and understanding.

  Just don’t get in my way.

  I woke in the London internet café around six o’clock, stretched across the keyboard. When I went to the toilet to freshen up I had to laugh—my cheek looked like a chequer board. I bought a coffee at the bar and sat by the window while the world began going to work.

  I pondered Jane’s reply.

  JANE WROTE

  so you’re ok. i’m plsd for u.

  YOU WROTE

  Hi Jane. It’s Matt, Vereesh. Sorry about the fake name, it’s complicated. Anyway, I wondered how you were? I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch before, I lost my mobile with your number. Then the whole thing happened and they wouldn’t let me contact anyone. But thankfully I’m ok. I hope everything is alright? Vereesh.

  so you’re ok. i’m plsd for u.

  Not even upper case. She’s either angry, or she doesn’t care.

  At least it didn’t look like I’d raised any suspicions, which was my fear as soon as I had pressed send. It was a stupid thing to do. Contact, any contact. But on this occasion the person in me seemed to have bettered the bug. A kind of sleight of hand: right up to the last moment I had no intention of sending the message, was just toying with the notion—how cool it would be!—when, click. It had gone.

  I hadn’t meant to hitchhike though, to catch a lift with Dean. It was still early—I was heading off across central London towards the bus station—when I got caught up in the crowd.

  It was like the demo I went on before, only smaller. There were the same anti-war banners, beardies, crusties, commies, veils. But there were fewer of your everyday fol
k—your mums and dads and kids with painted faces and balloons—and this demo seemed louder, angrier, more intense.

  I tried to get around it, took a side street, but there was a line of cops in riot gear looking edgy. I fell back and found myself among the crowd.

  I cut across the ranks but now there were police on either side. I drifted back into the centre.

  I didn’t want any trouble with the police.

  “NO MORE OIL WAR, UK IS US WHORE.”

  I didn’t like this though. The crowd had begun to flow faster. The chants were becoming more anguished. The faces of the police reflected back the tension: the grim lock of their jaws, the hardness in their eyes. I sensed—yes, I could feel my germ awakening—I sensed something bad was about to go down here, something dark. There was a viscous, tar-black texture to the air, clouding the space between us, being drawn down with every breath. In a flash I realised—this was evil, what evil was. Not the people or the politics but the substance itself, manifested by the situation.

  And I could see it, or at least my bug could: evil was in the air and bad things were going to happen. We were bunching up—we were being funnelled into a small square.

  Bodies began to press around me. I tried to keep myself contained, tried to avoid any contact with the crowd, but it was impossible.

  A man had risen above the crowd, presumably standing on some kind of improvised platform. He raised a megaphone.

  “Brothers,” he said. “Sisters. Friends. The police are blocking our way. They will not let us pass!”

  “NO!” yelled the crowd.

  “They say we must disperse. Shall we?”

  “NO.”

  I looked around, desperate to extricate myself, but bodies were piling in behind me. There was no way out.

  “NO MORE OIL WAR, UK IS US WHORE.”

  Then I saw him, as I turned full circle.

  Ahmed.

  He was one of the hundreds, the thousands, turned towards the speaker, drinking in his anger.