The Poison People

by Alex Makepeace

  What was I actually doing? What was going on behind all this? My blank expression, my open legs? I was allowing myself to be fucked to death, I now realise. That was what I wanted.

  For whatever reason, I had betrayed my little sister and didn’t even have the wherewithal to finish myself off. I was evil, human trash. Whoring was the perfect profession for me. Come on, boys—take me over and over, as she was taken. Put me in her place. No degradation was too much, nothing too low. Keep me in cigarettes, booze, drugs, I was happy. When I wasn’t being used I would seek the quickest route out of consciousness.

  We eventually moved en masse to a country house just outside town. The puffed-up pride with which Dragan showed me around—those were real tears in his eyes! He didn’t fuck me himself anymore, of course—I think I scared him a little—but I was still his number one, had started him off on the road to becoming a man of substance, and he held a certain sentimental attachment towards me. He once solemnly took my hands and asked, “What did they do to you, my beauty? Tell me the bastards that did it, I’ll cut off their faces!” And I graced him with a few rare words—“I did it to myself”—and snatched the wrap of cocaine.

  But all good things come to an end. There was an outbreak of HIV among a group of Danish troops which they tracked back to the brothel. I mean, nobody gave a shit about condoms except some of the soldiers—your Brits and Americans mostly. The rest, they didn’t seem to care, and as for the girls, well, a lot were from the country and didn’t know anything. Me, I did, but I was the last person to give a damn.

  Anyway, there’s a police raid, we’re locked up, blood samples are taken. Turns out the source is one of the youngest ones, a teenager just starting out, so to speak, who had turned to whoring to help support the family. Her parents didn’t even know.

  I was okay. But something about the blood test had made me start to feel, and act, twitchy. Made me restless. I was having a shower, peeling off the little plaster they leave on your arm, when I decided, just like that—it was time to go. I would head to London, do my Bosnian act again, maybe.

  We’d all relocated back to the original flat by now. Dragan had been pretty badly beaten by the police. Not that they actually gave a shit, but they were under instructions from the Interior Ministry. It reflected poorly or something. Anyway, he was still in hospital and I was there alone. There was a knock at the door. Who do you think it was?

  “Who?”

  “Kobro! Turns out it wasn’t just HIV that had been passed on to the troops. Testing a wider sample, they had found a similar, though largely different number, were infected with Hepatitis C. Checking the samples again, of course, I had cropped up. I still remember him saying, “C’mon, we’re getting out of here.” Just like someone in the movies. “You haven’t got time for your things.”

  “You know, like he didn’t have to explain anything—he just talked to me as if I knew the implications of all this shit, and intuitively I did. I followed him, my hair still wet, along the corridor and down the stairwell. We were leaving from the back as they arrived at the front.”

  “Who’s this Kobro?” asks Ma.

  “He’s with the WHO,” I say. “Except he’s on our side.”

  “Why’s that?” asks Ma.

  Magda shrugs. “You know, I’m not sure it has a lot to do with right or wrong, good or bad. I think it’s more to do with his arrogance, maybe his selfishness—I think he wants us all for himself.”

  “He doesn’t sound very . . . nice.”

  “Oh, he’s an arsehole,” I say.

  Magda laughs. “But maybe a useful arsehole? Anyway, come on. I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

  “My what?”

  “Your secret, baby. Where you’re from. Your Ma here isn’t your mama, is she? What’s that all about?”

  I look at Ma. “I’ve never told anyone,” I say.

  “You always were a good boy, Vereesh,” says Ma. “I’m sorry about everything that happened. Being hard on you sometimes.”

  “You’re alright.”

  “It all sounds rather . . . academic now,” says Ma, “compared to what’s going on. Has Vereesh told you about the Swami?”

  “A little,” says Magda.

  “Well, it’s your decision, Vereesh,” says Ma. “You’re grown-up enough to make the decision for yourself now.”

  “I . . . ” It feels weird saying it out loud. “You see, the Swami was my father,” I say. “I . . . I don’t know who my mother is.” I look at Ma. “I mean, I’ve always thought of Ma as my mum.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand.

  “Anyway, it was a year or so after he had left the US that we were able to join him in India. We were only there a few years before he died—poisoned, he said.

  “Ma feared my life could be at risk too. So we went to ground, moved from place to place . . . ”

  “I panicked,” says Ma. “Anything seemed possible.”

  “Until we ended up in Hebdon.”

  “But you didn’t tell anyone all this time?” says Magda. “About who your dad was?”

  I shake my head.

  I’m slipping off to sleep when Magda gets in beside me. I smile drowsily.

  “You’re not . . . repelled by me now, baby?” she asks.

  “No.” I turn towards her. We wrap our arms around each other.

  “It feels so good to be with you,” she says. “So good to have you back.” I feel her face wet against my chest. “Would you be angry, baby, if I told you I had feelings for you?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “I mean, it’s not like there’s much choice . . . Ow! That hurt!”

  32

  The TV is becoming erratic. There must be a hundred channels but blue Service Will Be Resumed Shortly screens are becoming common, punctuating wall-to-wall cartoons and music videos. There don’t even seem to be many adverts these days, even on Sky, which is strangely unsettling. The news studios too seem more thrown together, the scenery unstable, as if the journalists have moved from their headquarters. The news itself is sombre and seems stilted by the new ‘reporting restrictions’ the journalists keep talking about. Online seems to mirror this – the pages of the official sites never seem to update, carrying stories days old, and even the coverage on alt-sites seems muted, as if they’re afraid the authorities are about to kick down the door, or they’ve already kicked it down and are standing behind them pointing guns at the back of their necks.

  There is still trouble in the Midlands and northern towns, while bombings in the capital have forced the authorities to enact emergency legislation restricting movement to all but essential business. Although the smallpox outbreak has apparently been brought under control in England, it still appears to be raging in the US, and American aircraft continue to target chemical and biological labs throughout the Middle East. Al Jazeera cuts to wailing Arabs picking through the rubble.

  I switch the TV off. Get up and go to the window.

  I think on you, Swami, Father, as I last saw you. Lying on your back, wheezing, gibbering, wild-eyed. None of the serenity with which you had imagined you would meet your maker.

  For heaven’s sake, Father, why did you forsake me? Why did you bring me into the world? What did I do, what did you do, to bear responsibility for this kind of misery? You just wanted to help people. I . . . I wasn’t even old enough to know what I wanted to do. Certainly not any of this.

  I listen for your answer, I strain for it. But, as ever, I hear nothing.

  Even out here, in the wilds, you can see the changes. Because of the intermittent power cuts, wood smoke is beginning to snake out of chimneys. There are fewer yachts than before, but more and more cars are accumulating alongside the moorings and staying put. The aeroplanes that usually criss-cross the sky only appear to be heading in one direction now: away from our troubled isle.

  I hobble beside Magda across the windy headland, the spit stretching out below us. I think how beautiful Magda is in the dusk light. It’s hard to
think she’s been through so much. It’s hard to think any of us have.

  “You shouldn’t be so tough on yourself, baby,” she says out of the blue. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for your fate, can you?”

  “I . . . I try to think,” I say, “if there’s anything I could have done. To save them—all of them—Danny, Ahmed, Roy . . . ”

  “Roy?”

  “One of the policemen I stabbed. It was horrible.”

  “You didn’t, baby. It was your bug.”

  “It was me. The bug is part of me.”

  Magda shrugs. “But what can you do? What can any of us do?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe we should just run off this cliff.”

  Magda laughs. She lets go of my hand, steps back. “Go on then—show me.”

  I stand there as the wind blasts. “You can, you know,” I call out as I step closer to the edge. “I admit, it’s not easy. If you mean to do it, if you consciously set about it—then you’re fucked. But I’ve noticed . . .” I’m near the edge now, a sandy dip between the long grass and below me a long drop into the shallow water, “like when I managed to mail Jane, or when it killed Ahmed, both of us can get away with it when the other isn’t quite expecting it.” I look down at the long drop. “For example, I’m not intending to do anything, just tease you a bit, but all I would have to do . . . ”

  “VEREESH!” Your look of horror, Magda, your outstretched arms. I let you grab me, let you clutch me tight, your fingers digging into me as we rock by the side of the drop. No, you repeat, no. Your belly sobs reverberate through me.

  I won’t let you go.

  We’re walking back to the cottage when there’s a flash against the grey sky. We turn to face it as the sound hits us, a tremendous BOOM followed by a prolonged rumble.

  It’s like the sun is rising afresh along the horizon. It shines bright like day before eventually falling back into a dark sunset orange.

  “That’s London,” I say.

  We cling on to each other, cling on to life.

  Ma is waiting at the front door when we get back. “I was worried,” she says. “There was this bang, then the electricity went.”

  “It was . . . some kind of explosion,” I say. “Looked like London, maybe. Though it could be the power plant.” I look at Magda. “Maybe that’s it?”

  “Maybe,” says Magda. She looks at her watch. Lets out a laugh like a cough.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s stopped,” she says.

  We have lit the fire. I am outside, chopping some wood, when a car pulls up. I pick up the hatchet by the pile.

  I realise now the windscreen of the car has gone, fragments of the shattered glass still clinging to the sides. Behind the wheel is a haggard-looking Kobro. He pushes open the door, swings his legs out. Straightens up. Without even looking at me, he says, “Not planning to whack me with that, are you, light bringer? We haven’t gone cannibal yet, have we?”

  I drop the hatchet. “Sorry,” I say. Kobro leans over the open car door. I notice the glass has gone from this side too. “What happened?” I ask.

  “What,” he says, sounding hoarse, “you mean you have to ask? Have you seen the state of my car? I was doing ninety when it hit, damn near killed me. Did for quite a few, I can tell you. Fucking nightmare. Shit all over the highway. Had to drive across a fucking field to get out of there. What do you say? Five? Ten megaton? Ground burst, I would guess. I saw one old man walking down the road in some kind of garbage sack suit, but the radiation should be pretty local, I would say. Still though, fuck, eh?”

  “So,” says Magda, “you made it after all.”

  “You didn’t think I would let a lousy atom bomb get in the way of me and ma cherie, did you?”

  “We picked something up on the radio,” Magda says to me. “They say it’s happened in Washington too.”

  “God.” Kobro lets out a hyena-laugh. You’re in shock, I think.

  “Vereesh,” says Ma, who is moving quickly towards us from the kitchen. “Run.”

  “What?”

  “Run, Vereesh!” I notice she is carrying a carving knife, “CROW TOWN!”

  I look at the others, notice Kobro is rifling around in his car for something.

  “No, Ma,” I say. “He’s fine. He’s with us . . . ”

  One shot, another. Ma is stumbling, tumbling at my feet. The knife sparks across the path.

  Kobro points the gun at me. He shakes his head. “You won’t,” he says. “You won’t try anything, not if you think you’ve still got a chance. That much we know.”

  33

  SPIT

  You once told me to be careful what I wanted, Magda. A happy ending, you said, but for who, exactly?

  Now I know: despite all my ducking and diving, my wracked conscience and good intentions, the sheer post-modernism of the twenty-first century, the conventions of the genre indomitably assert themselves. I feel their icy fingers reach out from the pages of fiction, apply themselves to our worldly narrative like some universal law.

  The beastie always gets it in the end.

  Pitched off a high building, woken to a stake in the heart. Burned, blasted or jettisoned into outer space. Stranded upon an ice floe or tied up in knots.

  Tethered in a cellar, under the ground.

  I strain again at the wires but they just tighten with every attempt, begin to slice into my skin.

  Blood, my valuable blood, slides between my wrists, hangs on to the tips of my fingers before splashing onto the stone floor. Fucking hopeless. I sink down the pillar and sit flat on the cold slabs. Look at Ma lying there.

  I stretch my legs out as far as they will go, but my feet can’t quite touch hers. I give it up. We’ve come a long way though, eh, Ma? Oklahoma, Mississippi, Hyderabad. Edgbaston, Hebdon-le-fucking-Hole. A long way to end up in a cellar stinking of mice and stale ale.

  I can hear them pacing about upstairs, making arrangements. It’ll not be long now, Ma, soon be on our way.

  I’m trying to be brave, keep my wits about me—I’m a dangerous beastie, after all, hear me roar—but instead I let out a sob, hang my head forward.

  “Closer . . . closer. That’s it. I can see you now.” I don’t want to be here but there’s nowhere to run. Ma has her hands firm on my shoulders.

  I’m scared.

  “Boy.” The Swami can barely speak. He’s not speaking. It’s a rasp. “Boy,” he says. I’m shoved a little further forward. He lifts a bony hand as if to touch me, but it drops again.

  I cock my head so it’s at the same angle as his on the pillow.

  A tear springs from his dull, distant eye. You’re disappearing, I think, down a great big hole. You’ll soon be out of sight.

  He tries to lift his hand again, but fails. I reach out, take it in mine. It’s funny how it’s kind of trembling. I wonder if he’s playing one of his tricks. I peer down the hole.

  But he’s gone.

  The trap door opens. Torchlight searches me out. Magda peers down.

  Confident I’m still secure, she comes down the steps, hatchet in hand. The light falls on Ma, her legs sticking out from an old duvet tossed over her face, then back to me.

  “I’m sorry,” Magda says. “I didn’t know that would happen.”

  I just look at her, full of loathing.

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” I look away. “You have to drink and eat, baby. Keep up your strength.”

  “What for?” I ask. “You know very well I’ll not let myself starve to death. Or die of thirst. My survival will always come first.”

  “So, why not have something?”

  I look away.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Yes,” I say. “I know. How much did they pay? To betray your own kind? To give me to them, like you gave up your little sister?”

  I look at her now. How I wish I could rip myself free. Rip her to shreds. She stares blankly back, shrugs.

  “It’s a kind of curse, isn’t it? This
sort of immortality of ours? Or slavery, maybe, to our bugs? I would have finished myself a long time ago, as you know. If I had had my way. But there are worse things, even, than guilt. Real, visceral things. Remember my scars?” She smiles. “Where do you think they came from?”

  “Hell?”

  “Yes, baby,” she sneers. “Yes, baby. Right on the button. Hell.” For the first time, I feel a deep, dark anger in her voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, you know what? I guess I lied to you a little bit when I told you my tale. Will you forgive me?”

  She begins to tap the side of the hatchet against her thigh. I tense. Think: careful, Vee, careful . . .

  “Kobro never came. There was no exit from the back of the apartment block. No escape in the nick of time. They came in the front. Blew open the door, lassoed me like some kind of wild beast. Twelve years, baby. Twelve years they had me, the Russians. In the West, Kobro was telling me, they’re more civilised. They have computers and drugs to test you. They’re pretty squeamish. Or maybe they just love their gadgets. The Russians,” she laughs, “are more . . . primitive. If they want to see how hard you’ll fight, they’ll just put you in a cage with a bear.”

  She turns her back on me, lays the hatchet and torch on the steps. She reaches into her pocket, lights a cigarette. She turns to face me.

  “So you’ll be okay, you see. It won’t be so bad for you.”

  “How did you get out?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not sure you get it, baby. I never did get out. The Russians just sold me on, to the highest bidder. Needed the money, I guess. Kobro’s idea was—you need one to catch one. All they had was Vlad who, as you could see, was on his last legs. Then, what do you know, it’s like your London busses—two come along at the same time. First he trips over Akka in Finland, or, rather, she trips over him, and then the alert goes up about you.”

  “So Akka wasn’t in on it?”

  “No. She was just an accident. Typical Kobro, he thought it would make it all the more plausible. And he was right until she, how do you say it? Twigged?”