by Tim Lebbon
“But I like Mr Jude!” A tear had spilled down his dad’s cheek, that was terrible, that was a leak in the dam holding back chaos and true terror, because while his dad was here—firm and strong and unflinching—there was always someone to protect him.
His father knelt in front of him “Listen, Jackie. Mr Jude and his family have a…a disease. If we’re still here when they arrive they may try to hurt us, or we may catch the disease. I don’t know which, if either. So we have to go?“
“Why don’t we just not let them in? We can give them tablets and water through the window, and …” He trailed off, feeling cold and unreal.
“Because they’re not the only ones who have the disease. Lots of other people will have it too, by now. We may have to wait a long time for help.”
Jack turned and glanced up the hill at the three people coming down. They didn’t look ill. They looked odd, it was true, they looked different. But not ill. They were moving too quickly for that.
“Okay.” Jack nodded wisely, and he wondered who else had been infected. He guessed it may be something to do with what had been on the telly yesterday, the thing his mum and dad had been all quiet and tense and pale about. An explosion, he remembered, an accident, in a place so far away he didn’t even recognise the name. “Mandy said we should go to Tewton, she said it was safe there.”
“We will,” his father nodded, but Jack knew it was not because Mandy had said so. His parents rarely listened to her any more.
“That big bonfire’s still burning,” Jack said, looking out across the valley for the first time. A plume of smoke hung in the sky like a frozen tornado, spreading out at the top and dispersing in high air currents. And then he saw it was not a bonfire, not really. It was the white farm on the opposite hillside; the whole white farm, burning. He’d never met the people who lived there but he had often seen the farmer in his fields, chugging silently across the landscape in his tractor.
Jack knew where the word bonfire came from, and he could not help wondering whether today this was literally that.
His dad said nothing but looked down at Jack, seeing that he knew what it really was, already reaching out to pick up his son and carry him to their car.
“Dad, I’m scared!”
“I’ve got you, Jackie. Come on Janey. Grab the keys, the shotgun cartridges are on the worktop.”
“Dad, what’s happening?”
“It’s okay.”
“Dad …”
As they reached the car they could hear the Jude family swishing their feet through the sheen of bluebells covering the hillside. There were no voices, there was no talking or laughing. No inane bandito impressions this morning from Mr Jude.
His parents locked the car doors from the inside and faced forward.
Jack took a final look back at their cottage. The car left the gravelled driveway, and just before the hedge cut off the house from view, he saw Mr Jude walk around the corner. From this distance, it looked like he was in black and white.
Jack kept staring from the back window so he did not have to look at his parents. Their silence scared him, and his mum’s hair was all messed up.
Trees passed overhead, hedges flashed by on both sides, and seeing where they had been instead of where they were going presented so much more for his consideration.
Like the fox, standing next to a tree where the woods edged down to the road. Its coat was muddied, its eyes stared straight ahead. It did not turn to watch them pass. Jack thought it may be his fox—the creature he had listened to each night for what seemed like ages—and as he mourned its voice he heard its cry, faint and weak, like a baby being dragged from its mother’s breast and slaughtered.
They had left the back door open. His mum had dashed inside to grab the shotgun cartridges, his dad already had the car keys in his pocket, they’d left the back door open and he was sure—he was certain—that his mum had put some toast under the grille before they ran away. Maybe Mr Jude was eating it now, Jack thought, but at the same time he realised that this was most unlikely. Mr Jude was sick, and from what Jack had seen of him as he peered around the corner of their cottage, toast was the last thing on his mind.
Living, perhaps, was the first thing. Surviving. Pulling through.
Jack wondered whether the rest of Mr Jude’s family looked as bad.
The sense of invasion, of having his own space trespassed upon, was immense. They had left the back door open, and anyone or anything could wander into their house and root through their belongings. Not only the books and cupboards and food and fridge and dirty washing, but the private stuff. Jack had a lot of private stuff in his room, like letters from Mandy which he kept under a loose corner of carpet, his diary shoved into the tear in his mattress along with the page of a magazine he had found in the woods, a weathered flash of pink displaying what a woman really had between her legs.
But that sense of loss was tempered by a thought Jack was suddenly proud of, an idea that burst through the fears and the doubts and the awful possibilities this strange morning presented: that he actually had his whole life with him now. They may have left their home open to whatever chose to abuse it, but home was really with his family, wherever they may be. He was with them now.
All except Mandy.
He named his fears:
Loss, his parents disappearing into memory. Loneliness, the threat of being unloved and unloving. Death…that great black death…stealing away the ones he loved.
Stealing him away.
For once, the naming did not comfort him as much as usual. If anything it made him muse upon things more, and Mandy was on his mind and why she had run away, and what had happened to start all the bad stuff between the people he loved the most.
Jack had come home from school early that day, driven by the headteacher because he was feeling sick. He was only eight years old. The teacher really should have seen him into the house, but instead she dropped him at the gate and drove on.
As he entered the front door he was not purposely quiet, but he made sure he did not make any unnecessary noise, either. He liked to frighten Mandy—jump out on her, or creep up from behind and smack her bum—because he loved the startled look on her face when he did so. And to be truthful, he loved the playful fight they would always have afterwards even more.
He slipped off his shoes in the hallway, glanced in the fridge to see if there were any goodies, ate half a jam tart…and then he heard the sound from the living room.
His father had only ever smacked him three times, the last time more than a year before. What Jack remembered more than the pain was the loud noise as his dad’s hand connected with him. It was a sound that signified a brief failure in their relationship; it meant an early trip to bed, no supper, and a dreadful look on his mother’s face which he hated even more, a sort of dried up mix of shame and guilt.
Jack despised that sound. He heard it now, not only once, not even three times. Again, and again, and again—smacking. And even worse than that, the little cries that came between each smack. And it was Mandy, he knew that, it was Mandy being hit over and over.
Their mum and dad were in work. So who was hitting Mandy?
Jack rushed to the living room door and flung it open.
His sister was kneeling on the floor in front of the settee. She had no clothes on and her face was pressed into the cushions, and the man from the bakery was kneeling behind her, grasping her bum, and he looked like he was hurting, too. Jack saw the man’s willy—at least he thought that’s what it was, except this was as big as one of the French bread sticks he sold—sliding in and out of his sister, and it was all wet and shiny like she was bleeding, but it wasn’t red.
“Mandy?” Jack said, and in that word was everything: Mandy what are you doing? Is he hurting you? What should I do? “Mandy?”
Mandy turned and stared at him red-faced, and then her mouth fell open and she shouted: “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Jack turned and ran along the h
allway, forgetting his shoes, feet slapping on quarry tiles. He sprinted across the lawn, stumbling a couple of times. And then he heard Mandy call after him. He did not turn around. He did not want to see her standing at the door with the baker bouncing at her from behind. And he didn’t want her to swear at him again, when he had only come home because he felt sick.
All he wished for was to un-see what he had seen.
Jack spent that night lost in the woods. He could never remember any of it, and when he was found and taken home the next day he started to whoop, coughing up clots of mucus and struggling to breathe. He was ill for two weeks, and Mandy sat with him for a couple of hours every evening to read him the fantastic tales of Narnia, or sometimes just to talk. She would always kiss him goodnight and tell him she was sorry, and Jack would tell her it was okay, he sometimes said fuck too, but only when he was on his own.
It seemed that as Jack got better, so everything else in their family got worse.
It was a little over two miles to the nearest village, Tall Stennington. Jack once asked his father why they lived where they did, why didn’t they live in a village or a town where there were other people, and shops, and gas in pipes under the ground instead of oil in a big green tank. His dad’s reply had confused him at the time, and it still did to an extent.
You’ve got to go a long way nowadays before you can’t hear anything of Man.
Jack thought of that now as they twisted and turned through lanes that still had grass clumps along their spines. There was no radio, his mum had said, and he wondered exactly what they would hear outside were they to stop the car now. He would talk if they did, sing, shout, just to make sure there was a sound other than the silence of last night.
The deathly silence.
“Whose watch was that in the garden, Dad?”
“I expect it belonged to one of the robbers.”
Jack thought about this for a while, staring from his window at the hedges rolling by. He glanced up at the trees forming a green tunnel over the road, and he knew they were only minutes from the village. “So, what was the other stuff lying around it? The dried stuff, like meat you’ve left in the fridge too long?”
His dad was driving so he had an excuse, but his mum didn’t turn around either. It was she who spoke, however.
“There’s been some stuff on the news—”
“Janey!” his dad cut in. “Don’t be so bloody stupid!”
“Gray, if it’s really happening he has to know…he will know. We’ll see them, lots of them, and—”
“All the trees are pale,” Jack said, the watch and dried meat suddenly forgotten. He was looking from the back window at the avenue of trees they had just passed, and he had figured what had been nagging him about the hedges and the fields since they’d left the cottage: their colour; or rather, their lack of it. The springtime flush of growth had been flowering across the valley for the last several weeks, great explosions of rich greens, electric blues and splashes of colours which, as his dad was fond of saying, would put a Monet to shame. Jack didn’t know what a Monet was, but he was sure there was no chance in a billion it could ever match the slow-burning firework display nature put on at the beginning of every year. Spring was his favourite season, followed by autumn. They were both times of change, beautiful in their own way, and Jack loved to watch stuff happen.
Now, something had happened. It was as though autumn had crept up without anyone or anything noticing, casting its pastel influence secretly across the landscape.
“See?” he said. “Mum? You see?”
His mum turned in her seat and stared past Jack. She was trying to hide the fact she had been crying; she looked embarrassed and uncertain.
“Maybe they’re dusty,” she said.
He knew she was lying; she didn’t really think that at all. “So what was on the news?” he asked.
“We’re at the village.” His dad slowed the car at the hump-back bridge, which marked the outskirts of Tall Stennington.
Jack leaned on the backs of his parents’ seats and strained forward to see through the windscreen. The place looked as it always had: the church dominated with a recently sand-blasted tower; stone cottages stood huddled beneath centuries-old trees; a few birds flitted here and there. A fat old Alsation trundled along the street and raised its leg in front of the Dog and Whistle, but it seemed unable to piss.
The grocer’s was closed. It opened at six every morning, without fail, even Sundays. In fact, Jack could hardly recall ever seeing it closed, as if old Mrs Haswell had nothing else to do but stock shelves, serve locals and natter away about the terrible cost of running a village business.
“The shop’s shut,” he said.
His dad nodded. “And there’s no one about.”
“Yes there is,” his mum burst out. “Look, over there, isn’t that Gerald?”
“Gerald the Geriatric!” Jack giggled, because that’s what they called him at school. He’d usually be told off for that, he knew, on any normal day. After the first couple of seconds he no longer found it all that funny himself. There was something wrong with Gerald the Geriatric.
He leaned against a wall, dragging his left shoulder along the stonework with jerky, infrequent movements of his legs. He was too far away to see his expression in full, but his jowls and the saggy bags beneath his eyes seemed that much larger and darker this morning. He also seemed to have mislaid his trademark walking stick. There were legends that he had once beaten a rat to death with that stick in the kitchen of the Dog and Whistle, and the fact that he had not frequented that pub’ for a decade seemed to hint at its truth. Jack used to imagine him striking out at the darting rodent with the knotted length of oak, spittle flying from his mouth, false teeth chattering with each impact. Now, the image seemed grotesque rather than comical.
His mother reached for the door handle.
“Wait, Mum!” Jack said.
“But he’s hurt!”
“Jack’s right. Wait.” His dad rested his hand on the stock of the shotgun wedged down beneath their seats.
Gerald paused and stood shakily away from the wall, turning his head to stare at them. He raised his hands, his mouth falling open into a toothless grin or grimace. Jack could not even begin to tell which.
“He’s in pain!” Jack’s mum said, and this time she actually clicked the handle and pushed her shoulder to the door, letting in cool morning air.
“Janey, remember what they said—”
“What’s that?” Jack said quietly. It was the sound a big spider’s legs made on his posters in the middle of the night. The fear was the same, too—unseen things.
His mum had heard it as well, and she snicked the door shut.
There was something under the car. Jack felt the subtle tickle of soft impacts beneath him, insistent scrapings and pickings, reminiscent of the window fumblers of last night.
“Maybe it’s a dog,” his mum said.
His dad slammed the car into reverse and burnt rubber. The skid was tremendous, the stench and reverberation overpowering. As soon as the tyres caught Jack knew that they were out of control. The car leapt back, throwing Jack forward so that he banged his head on his mother’s headrest. As he looked up he saw what had been beneath the car…Mrs Haswell, still flipping and rolling where the chassis had scraped her along the road, her hair wild, her skirts torn to reveal pasty, pitted thighs…
His father swore as the brakes failed and the car dipped sickeningly into the ditch. Jack fell back, cracking his head on the rear window and tasting the sudden salty tang of blood as he bit his tongue. His mum screeched, his dad shouted and cursed again, the engine rose and sang and screamed until, finally, it cut out.
The sudden silence was huge. The wrecked engine ticked and dripped, Jack groaned, and through the tilted windscreen he could see Mrs Haswell hauling herself to her feet.
Steadying her tattered limbs.
Setting out for their car with slow, broken steps.
“Okay, Jac
kie?” his mum said. She twisted in her seat and reached back, the look in her eyes betraying her thoughts: My son, my son!
Jack opened his mouth to speak but only blood came out. He shuddered a huge breath and realised he’d been winded, things had receded, and only the blood on his chin felt and smelled real.
“What’s wrong with her?” his dad said, holding the steering wheel and staring through the windscreen. “That’s Mrs Haswell. Under our car. Did I run her over? I didn’t hit her, did you see me hit her?”
“Gray, Jackie’s bleeding.”
Jack tried to talk again, to say he was all right, but everything went fluid. He felt queasy and sleepy, as if he’d woken up suddenly in the middle of the night.
“Gray!”
“Jack? You okay, son? Come on, out of the car. Janey, grab the binoculars. And the shells. Wait on your side, I’ll get Jack out.” He paused and looked along the road again. Mrs Haswell was sauntering between the fresh skidmarks, and now Gerald the Geriatric was moving their way as well. “Let’s hurry up.”
Jack took deep, heavy breaths, feeling blood bubble in his throat. The door beside him opened and his dad lifted him out, and as the sun touched his face he began to feel better. His mum wiped at his bloody chin with the sleeve of her jumper.
There was a sound now, a long, slow scraping, and Jack realised it was Mrs Haswell dragging her feet. She’d never done that before. She was eighty, but she’d always been active and forceful, like a wind-up toy that never ran out. She hurried through the village at lunchtime, darted around her shop as if she had wheels for feet…she had never, in all the times Jack had seen her or spoken to her, been slow.
Her arms were draped by her sides, not exactly swinging as she walked, but moving as if they were really no part of her at all. Her mouth hung open, but she did not drool.
“What’s wrong with her, dad?”
“She’s got the disease,” his dad said quickly, dismissively, and Jack felt a pang of annoyance.
“Dad,” he said, “I think I’m old enough for you to tell me the truth.” It was a childish thing to say, Jack understood that straight away at some deeper level; petulant and prideful, unmindful of the panic his parents so obviously felt. But Jack was nearly a teenager, and he felt he deserved some trust. “Anyway,” he said, “she looks like she’s dead.” He’d seen lots of films where people died, but hardly any of them looked like the old woman. She seemed lessened somehow, shrunken into herself, drained. She had lost what little colour she once possessed. In his mind’s eye, this was how a true, real-life dead person should look.