The Poison People

by Alex Makepeace

  His fist punched the air with the others.

  “UK IS US WHORE.”

  My gaze lasted a fraction of a second too long.

  He saw me. A moment’s pause as he tried to place me, then the silent mouthing of my name.

  “Vereesh.”

  I tried to twist away from him but the press was too strong, I was jammed in tight. I looked back.

  “Vereesh!” Ahmed’s face had drained grey. His eyes were full of urgency. I tried to duck down but resurfaced, afraid I would get sucked underfoot.

  “Vereesh!” He called in a pause between the ranting on the megaphone, the response of the crowd. People began to take notice.

  “Vereesh!”

  I kept wriggling, but it was like trying to escape a straitjacket.

  “Someone, stop him!” Ahmed shouted. I felt a hand grip my forearm.

  I looked at the man who’d got hold of me. Bearded, shaven-headed, confused. “Let me go,” I said.

  “We have to wait,” he said. Then, “Who are you?”

  They were like balloon pops. One, two, a burst of them.

  “Let me go,” I said to the man. He shook his head, looking over at Ahmed. I began to pull back his index finger. He gasped in pain, let go.

  “Vereesh!” Ahmed was close now, backed by another couple of lads. A woman in the crowd yelled, “You’re hurting me!” as he pushed past her.

  There were screams. But not from near, from further away.

  Ahmed reached across the crowd. I prepared myself, my hand shaping into a claw. I focussed on the bobbing of Ahmed’s Adam’s apple. Prepared to grasp his throat, cut off the blood, the wind, the life.

  Then suddenly, SPACE.

  Space around us, a swirl, a whirl . . .

  Screams, chaotic stumbling . . .

  SMOKE.

  People were holding their hands over their mouths, their streaming eyes. GAS. There was gas in the smoke. Gas fired at us.

  The spluttering, tumbling people.

  Ahmed, standing there, his eyes all screwed up. Still, he managed to scream, “Vereesh!”

  But I was already on the move, ducking down as further canisters clattered around us.

  Then, FTOP—something bounced past me at speed and a woman was down. Her friend began to scream. She held the woman’s limp body, her head hanging doll-like to the side, blood beginning to round the rim of her headscarf.

  FTOP, FTOP, another two went down. A young man, an old man. Someone was yelling STOP, STOP but everyone else was running.

  Balloons popped. A gas canister burst at my feet and I kicked it away.

  Chaos, I thought. Cover, cover for me, for me and my kind.

  They were banging their shields. I saw them now through the smoke, riot police advancing, batons drawn. Banging their shields.

  Then they weren’t.

  They just . . . weren’t.

  I threw myself face-down.

  The sky fell in.

  The ground still seemed uncertain, my ears sang, but I tried to stand up, already on the move, conscious it wasn’t over. My bug now, my germ doing most of the work as my human senses tried to unscramble, to process: the limbless torso, once a police officer, still a person, looking up at me, blinking with surprise.

  I looked across the blasted street littered with smouldering, burst bin bags. Then realised: that’s people.

  And you know, he was still there too. Ahmed, down on one knee. Trying to stand himself up, his face flecked with grit and glass, blood streaming from his ears. He finally managed it. Then the grief, the look of horror as he realised what had happened. He raised a hand to his mouth.

  I scooped up a shard of glass and thrust it into his chest.

  26

  The service station conveniences are empty. I roll up my sleeves and begin to scrub the blood away.

  Fortunately, no one at the scene of the bombing was paying much attention when I walked into the café, its glass front shattered, staff and customers messed up like me, making like zombies in the zing that occupied the aftermath.

  I ignored the carnage and headed for the loo, where I washed my hands and face and stripped off my blood-heavy hoodie. I dumped it in the corner. There would be no shortage of other fucked-up shit lying about.

  I got the hell out of there.

  This much I can say—I was there, right?—and sure, it was the germ’s doing, skewering Ahmed. I mean, never mind the deed itself, where did I find the strength? The accuracy? But still, it was a fucking shock.

  So hard, so fast, so deadly. My human senses scrambled, my bug stuck.

  Rammed home the shard.

  No wonder they wanted to get their hands on us.

  I lean over the basin in the service station loos, survey the bearded boy in the mirror. Remember the surprise on Ahmed’s face as I stood back.

  MURDERER. I’m looking at a murderer.

  Because bug or no, it’s all me. The human in me may not have wanted him dead, but kill him I did, with these hands, witnessed through these eyes. Lashed out, intent on eliminating the threat.

  “Someone, stop him!” He was out to get me. Why? What did he know? What did he suspect?

  But my germ wasn’t interested in those kinds of questions, the questions that humans ask. Perhaps if the explosion hadn’t messed me up I might have been able to restrain the urge, take the time at least to get away . . .

  Your look of surprise.

  Your burning hot blood as it pumped between my fingers.

  THE GLORY.

  An animal, a beast I am.

  I retreat to the toilet cubicle, sit, quietly sobbing.

  Stranded here in the middle of England, some kind of hybrid psycho freak. Friendless, hunted, haunted by the innocent people who have died because of me.

  Yet I can’t even turn myself in, top myself—my germ would soon put paid to that. It’s in my DNA, you see, it is my DNA.

  Then what can I do?

  You can try, Vereesh. You can try to be human.

  I catch a succession of busses to Leicester, my journey punctuated by long walks through identical suburbs. It makes me realise, for all its awesome size, how varied London is. In London, I realise, the buildings and the shops have still retained some individuality. Out in England true homogeneity rules. It is here one can be genuinely anonymous, lose oneself among the Nexts and the Tescos, the drugstores and Sportsworlds; the endless new developments with their mean, sightless windows, SUVs, CCTV.

  Silence. Beneath the churn of the bus engine, the rumble of an aeroplane, there’s a kind of silence beyond everything. Like death waiting, calmly biding its time.

  The churn stops. The bus driver says over the PA, “Sorry folks, got to terminate here.”

  I get off behind three old ladies. We’ve been stuck in the traffic for the past thirty minutes. I walk along the pavement. Up ahead blue police lights are flashing. At first I think it must be some kind of accident, but as I near I realise they’ve sealed off both lanes. A crowd has collected at the tape. A man is saying, “But I’ve got to get to my mum, she lives in Hilldown.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re not letting anyone through. Everyone is being asked to stay indoors. Have you tried phoning her?”

  “Yes, but there’s no answer.”

  “Well, maybe she’s with a friend.”

  “She’s ninety-three.”

  I hear it, the muffled bang. I look around, but no one else seems to have noticed. There again. I look around. Nothing. Then someone says, “Look.”

  A plume of black smoke is beginning to rise above the grey rooftops.

  “What’s going on?” someone says.

  “It’s on the radio,” says someone else. “Trouble.”

  I turn to one of the old ladies who was on the bus. “I need to get to Glenfield,” I say.

  “Glenfield?” she says. “Well, lovie, you’re in luck.” She points the way we’ve just come. “It’s up there,” she says.

  It’s one of those square, baked bri
ck houses. Funny. I had always imagined Jane growing up in some super-cool Notting Hill mansion, not the Midlands, not a suburban shoebox.

  It wasn’t hard to find—once I had checked out her Facebook site I just looked up her folk’s address, and there it was. Not Notting Hill, not Ladbroke Grove, Hoxton, Islington, or Chelsea, but Leicester.

  And here it is, a kid’s bike lying on the strip of grass outside. A Ford Focus in the driveway. I press myself up against the conifers in front of the house opposite, look this way and that.

  The street’s quiet as hell, just a couple of parked cars. No anonymous vans about to burst forth with storm troops. No snipers on the rooftops. Not even a twitching curtain.

  Fuck it. The longer I hesitate, the greater danger. So I’m marching across the road, I’m walking down the garden path.

  I’m ringing the bell.

  I see a wobbly shape through the frosted glass. The door opens. I know immediately it’s Jane’s mum. She gives me a quizzical look. I clear my throat.

  “Hi,” I say. “Is . . . Jane in?”

  The woman’s face twitches, a kind of involuntary hurt, pain almost.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “She’s not seeing anyone.”

  “Can you tell her it’s a . . . friend. From uni?”

  “I can ask,” she says, “but I don’t think it will make any difference. You do know she’s been ill, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know. But if you could tell her it’s . . . Vereesh. Matt.”

  “Vereesh Matt? Alright.” She closes the door.

  As I wait there I begin to get edgy. There’s really no reason—the woman clearly wasn’t primed, it doesn’t look like any kind of trap. But the Scientists—what was it Magda said? They’re just waiting for me to panic, to break cover. And isn’t that what I’ve done? But there can’t be that many of them. They can’t be in a hundred places at the same time, can they? And the authorities? Where are they? How much do they know? How much do they care? Bio terror nightmare and all that. Do they really believe it? Or are they just using it?

  I look up and down the street again. It’s as sedate as before. And my bug . . . my bug is quiet. It senses not a jot. Or maybe it figures this is just human business.

  The door opens. The woman looks more relaxed, kind of curious.

  “Come in, Vereesh Matt.”

  “Vereesh is fine.”

  “Vereesh. Jane is just getting changed. She’ll give us a call when she’s ready. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  We go through to the kitchen. Spotless, a place for everything and everything in its place. Christ, it brings back memories—that ever-jarring contrast with the commune. None of the chaos of home, the jumble, the dirt, the mess. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  “So you know what happened to her, Vereesh?” she says as she makes the tea.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “It was touch and go a couple of times.” Her voice grows husky. “We thought we might lose her. Sorry,” she says, blinks away a tear.

  “That’s alright,” I say.

  “Were you affected?”

  “No. I mean, I was checked out. But thankfully . . . ”

  “You were lucky. Very lucky. Your mother must be so relieved.”

  I smile awkwardly. “I guess.”

  “So were you on the course with Jane?”

  “No,” I say. “Same halls.”

  “Oh, so you were very close then, to that boy.”

  “Daniel? Yes.”

  “It’s terrible,” she says. “Letting these people in without the proper checks. All these foreigners. Nobody cares . . . I’m sorry.” She clears her throat. “It’s all just been a terrible shock.”

  “That’s alright.”

  “She’s been badly . . . affected, you know,” she says. “You must try not to look surprised . . . It affected her face quite badly. The doctors have said that some kind of skin graft might be possible, but only later on. In the meantime, she has to put up with it. She’s been very brave but . . . well, everything is about looks these days, isn’t it . . . ”

  “Okay.” Jane’s voice shouting down the stairs. A door closes.

  “Okay,” says her mum.

  I nod and go up.

  I’m outside her bedroom door. Christ, the air is thick with chemicals—some kind of pine freshener and beneath that a layer of perfume, Jane’s perfume. It makes me feel quite nauseous and suddenly I’m scared—not bug fear, all my own. Vereesh meeting Jane. The girl he nearly killed. The girl . . . he loves?

  I knock. There’s a pause, then a tentative, “Come in.”

  I open the door. I’d kind of expected a darkened sick room, but it’s not—it’s bright and airy, if chemically. The walls are a tasteful cream and a natural cotton duvet lies on the made bed with a couple of furry animals propped up against the pillow. Apart from an abstract art poster, there’s none of the rock stuff or pin-ups I had expected. Just loads of books and DVDs stuffed into some Ikea shelving by the side of the bed. And there, sitting in an easy chair by the window is a woman.

  “Shocked?” she asks.

  “I . . . ”

  “Sorry,” she says. “You can sit on the bed.”

  “Thanks,” I say, still stunned by her appearance.

  “Mum told you, I guess,” she says. I nod.

  “I . . . ” Her upbeat note drops a little. She holds out both arms and the black material hangs down like a bat’s wings. The niqab covers her from head to foot, with just a slit for her eyes. “You know, it’s so mad. I used to be scared by the local women who dressed like this, then when . . . when it happened, one of my old friends from school, a Muslim girl, came around. She wasn’t like this, but when I explained, she said she had a cousin who did and maybe she could lend me something. At first I was like fuck off but this girl came around and actually, you know, she was alright, and she was about my size . . . ”

  “I . . . ” I don’t know what to say.

  “I’ve . . . actually been out in it. With Shazia and her friends. They’ve taken me shopping and everything, and though you do get some looks, in a weird way it’s kind of better than . . . than it might have been. I mean, I don’t think I’m ready to . . . ” she lowers her head, “you know, go out, like I used to, with my friends. I mean, my old, English friends.”

  “Is it . . . I mean, was it . . . very bad?”

  “Yes,” she says. She hangs her head. I think she may have begun to cry behind the veil. I reach out to touch her, then stop. My hand kind of hangs between us.

  “It’s not so bad, when I’m with women, I mean. These Muslim women. But even then—you know, some of them are quite beautiful behind their veils. That’s what their husbands see, behind closed doors. But I’m . . . well, I’m . . . ugly, deformed.”

  “Jane.” I do touch her this time, but she flinches. I pull back. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “The doctors say that in time the effect will dampen down. That’s the language they use—“dampen down”. I might as well be dead. Sometimes I wish I was.”

  “Come on now . . . ”

  “It’s alright for you—you’ve got your whole life ahead.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say.

  “What? You checked out, didn’t you? You said you were okay.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I did. I mean, I am.”

  “Daniel died,” she says. “How did you get away with it?”

  I shrug.

  “You were his friend. You went out with him. If anything, it should have been you. Why did it have to be me?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I’m a bad person.”

  “You’re not.”

  “May as well be.”

  “In time. I’m sure in time it will get better. There’s drugs . . . ”

  “Whatever.”

  We sit in silence. Jane, I wish I could say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ruining your life, I’m sorry for fucking things up.


  At least . . . at least I know now. That’s something, isn’t it? That I won’t knowingly do it again? That I would turn myself in, top myself if I was allowed to—correction, if I would allow myself to—but instead I’ll do my best to keep my nose clean, get away from all this, everything, so no one has to suffer again, like you.

  But what good is that to you?

  “Did your mum send you then?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your mum.”

  “No . . . ”

  “You have got in touch with her, haven’t you? She was really worried.”

  “How did you meet my . . . mum?”

  “Oh, before . . . you know . . . before I got sick. There was all this chaos and everything. Of course, you had just fucking disappeared, then the whole place got sealed off. We were all whisked away, ended up at some hospital. I think they were supposed to be quarantining us or something. Sure enough, we all got put in separate rooms, but it was all a bit shit, you know, and actually you could walk just down the corridor and go outside for a smoke. Wasn’t exactly the fucking X Files!

  “Anyway, that’s where I met your mum. She seemed pretty cool. I mean, not like mine.”

  “What was she doing there? What did she say?”

  “What? You mean she didn’t tell you?”

  “No . . . I mean, we didn’t talk about it. She was just pleased to see me, I guess.”

  “Oh, she was pretty freaked out, obviously. I mean, there were lots of parents about by that time, chasing after their kids. She said she had asked but been told you weren’t there, but she was hanging on anyway, in case they had made a mistake or you had been taken there. Whatever.

  “It’s funny. She was going on about how you could never trust the authorities—like it was all some big conspiracy. But then I suppose it is, these days, isn’t it?” Jane lets out a long sigh. “Did you make it then?”

  “Make it?”

  “To Crow Town.”

  “Crow Town?”

  “Yeah, like your mum told me. If I was to see you. Where she would be.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah. In the end.”

  “I thought you came from Sunderland.”

  “Well,” I say, “yeah. It’s a small place, on the outskirts.”