“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Ben said, pulling up his coat collar until it mostly obscured his mouth.
“There’s always a need to be sarcastic,” Daniel said with conviction. “But listen: regardless of how badly you need to pay your rent or your blow bill or whatever, don’t fucking tell anyone about that test.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Ben said, surprised. “If she’s removing it from the computer — I mean — I’ll report it when she asks me to—”
“Or when she drops dead,” Daniel said, grimly. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. “But not until then.”
He exhaled a thick plume of visible breath in the cold evening air, and they made it to the next turn-off in silence.
“She could at least have given us a lift back,” Daniel complained, eventually. “I don’t think I’ve got enough on my Oyster and I left my bike at work.”
Ben, who had been guiltily entertaining more or less the same thoughts, squinted at Daniel for a moment and said, “Don’t you live out here anyway? Burnt Oak or something?”
Daniel stopped again and made a deeply suspicious face which eventually blossomed into a sly smile. “Been Facebook-stalking me, Benjamin Eugene?”
Ben didn’t trouble to mention that this has been one of Tasneen’s attempts to distract herself from the horrors of daily life and that he’d only just remembered the whole annoying conversation now, he only made a so-so gesture with his hand and said, “If I could pronounce your middle name I’d return the favour. Are you sure you don’t want to borrow the coat?”
Ben arrived home to an empty flat and a loudly-insistent cat, which suggested Kingsley hadn’t been back at all: he fed Minnie, showered, and felt an email notification marked important vibrate against his leg the minute he put his jeans back on.
“This had better be genuinely important,” Ben told himself, unable to remember which specific threads he’d marked that way and which had ended up marked that way by going on for so long. He checked his phone, standing insensate in front of the fridge with the door open and the cat munching noisily behind him.
“Oh,” Ben said, closing the fridge door a minute later when it registered that he was only making himself cold and not actually making a decision about food.
The email was from Natalya, which at least cleared up the question of whether it was really important or not.
To: Khoo, Daniel; Ben M; Hepworth, David; Groat, Rhiannon
From: Yagoda, Natalya
Subj: small circle
Aside from the four of you I have shared the results with Bill (as previously discussed with him that he will do whatever I ask with regards to this) but with no one else. I wish this to remain this way for the time being. Be assured that when I am sure of what can be done all public notices shall go through Ben. I suspect in time this will be a valuable source of income.
Ben blinked at the email. He’d expected that she wouldn’t want anyone else to know she was effectively breaking a serious health code; he’d half-expected that if she confided in anyone else it would be Dr Bill — after all, he knew the blood work had been done and he’d want to know she’d succeeded in finding out one way or another — but the brisk, business-like approach to what was effectively a death sentence threw him off balance.
A second later he got an email from Daniel, reading only, mad Soviet bitch. You can stop worrying about her. She’d take a nuclear warhead to the face and come out of it without a complaint.
Ben thought about Natalya slowly composing herself in her car the day after she returned from kidnapping, and thought Daniel shouldn’t be so glib: clearly Natalya was anything but alright, and sooner or later someone was going to find out, and lock her up.
He unmuted the TV, and listened to forty-five minutes of a rerun of Fred Dibnah’s Age of Steam before he comprehended what he was watching. He returned to the kitchen, ignored the fridge, and checked the bread bin: empty.
Ben put on his boots and staggered down the stairs.
“Evenin’,” said Nas, not looking up from his phone.
“Alright,” Ben said, into the bread aisle.
He picked up one, hesitated, and picked up two.
“Peanut butter’s in tomorrow,” said Nas, from the till.
“S’alright,” said Ben, “I’ve got some left.”
Nas gave him a quid change.
“Ozil short-changed your mate yesterday,” Nas explained, as Ben stared at the pound coin in confusion.
Ben slumped back up the stairs, sat down on the futon with his boots still on, and proceeded to eat two bags of bread sandwiches filled with bread while the TV explained the history of chain-making.
Despite a late night peppered with puking and too many requests from too many drunken idiots at the Princess, Ben was up early enough the next day that he was convinced he’d made it to his class before Sherazi.
He raced up the acoustically nightmarish stairs, dodged a collection of bored electronics installation students who’d apparently had their class cancelled, and had hit the next, non-echoing stairs when he came face-to-face with his tutor, balancing a laptop, travel mug, and an expression of serene indifference like a skilled juggler.
“Ff—,” said Ben, stopping so abruptly that his bag strap threatened to decapitate him.
“Ah, Ben,” Sherazi said, reaching for the classroom door — it was too far away for anyone besides Mr Sodding Tickle to reach, but the move made him twitch. “I got your email. Sorry I didn’t answer, but I definitely read it.”
Ben froze, torn between possible responses and generalised dread.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” chanted Jack, slipping between them like a greased rocket, and barrelling down the hall to the classroom. The tension was such that Ben was impressed he hadn’t been turned to stone by his passage between their locked gazes.
“Right,” said Ben, with a grimace that was supposed to be a reassuring smile rather than a rictus of terror.
She gave him a pleasant smile that liquefied his bowels more effectively than his entire stash of laxatives ever could.
“How is your career in trespass and criminal deceit going?” Sherazi added, as Ben tried to edge towards the classroom on the absurd assumption that she’d stop asking him difficult questions if he only made it through the door before her.
“I,” said Ben, trying to work out what the right answer was. “I decided not to go after all,” he said, at last. “Had to consider my legal position. And my backlog of assignments. Priorities.”
“Good idea,” said Sherazi, wrinkling her nose. “Very cautious. No impulsive stupid risks here at all.” She moved slightly closer to the door herself, and with hooded eyes watched him shrink back.
She yanked the classroom door open and held it for him, gesturing with her coffee cup for Ben to pass and stop blocking the corridor.
Ben slipped under her arm and held his breath, and his Macbook, and his bladder control, as he did.
She gave him a worryingly friendly smile as he popped up on the other side of her bicep, and said in a low voice, “You’re a fucking awful liar.”
He heard nothing from anyone for two days. Ben, spurred on by the knowledge that he was definitely behind in Kyle’s class, Hoovered the entire flat; when he was finished he coaxed Minnie down from the top of the highest book shelf with a bag of popcorn chicken, and went for a walk through Hackney Marsh that nearly ended in a lost shoe.
The next day he got a phone call.
“Ben!” said a long-forgotten voice with enthusiasm. “Ben, Ben. I’m in town.”
“I thought you were in Edinburgh?” Ben asked, once he’d got over the shock.
“Typically,” said Rachel, “but I’ve got three days in London because of this thing tomorrow, and yours is the only number I still have. Are you free?”
“Er,” said Ben, who knew very well that he was and also that he ought to be writing up his notes. “Yes. I know this place—”
“Is it vegan?”
; “No. I do know somewhere that is, though. I mean, I haven’t been there,” Ben corrected himself, “but I know people who have and they think it’s okay.”
“Ringing endorsement,” Rachel agreed. “Send me the map ref and I’ll see you there in…time. How long shall we say?”
He found her in time for lunch, waiting by the giant birdcage that King’s Cross station had mysteriously installed in their massive, pointless courtyard. Rachel threw up her arms on seeing him and called:
“LOOK I’M A BIRD.”
“You look well,” said Ben, reaching down to hug her.
She looked underweight again, but not anaemic this time. She’d dyed her hair cherry-red, and her roots were about two inches out. There was a new lip ring, and she’d changed her glasses from the old leopard-print cats-eyes to the frameless circles; she was drowning in a faux-fur coat that had a green ink stain on one arm.
Ben thought there probably wasn’t a single person in any of his social circles who’d have a kind thing to say about her appearance, but he also supposed they could probably fuck off and leave Rachel alone.
“You’re a liar,” Rachel said, when he’d let her go. “I look like a fat lump. And they want another eight pounds on me by the next check-up.”
“Well,” said Ben, leading the way to the place he’d had recommended to him, “let’s put a bit of effort in towards that here, shall we?”
“I’ll match you,” she promised, “but you have to eat something that isn’t bread, gluten’s fucking me up right now.”
Ben made a mock-horrified face. “I’ll have you know,” he said, “I’ve moved onto a whole three types of food now.”
Settled in at a table, discreetly stared-at by a lot of middle-aged travellers down from somewhere more conservative, Ben asked about the mysterious “thing” Rachel was down for, in the expectation of hospitals, and received a long lecture about system architecture and how much she hated networking.
“How do you feel about aubergines?” Rachel added.
“How do you feel about them?”
“Like I’d rather eat mummified flesh,” Rachel agreed, shuffling through the menu with fingers like bird claws. “Except that’s not on the menu. Edamame beans? Oh, wait.” Her bird-finger hovered over another item. “Vegan haggis! That’s mostly cereal. That’s practically bread.”
Ben made a face.
“It’s bla-and,” said Rachel encouragingly.
“Hey, hey, I eat curry goat now.”
“Oh, right,” Rachel slapped her own forehead, attracting more stares. “Your flatmate. You didn’t move in with Maggie?”
Ben took a breath. It had been that long since he last really spoke to her, then. And changing your status on Facebook with a few accompanying self-pitying status tended to go past people who were occupied with having lives. He had a brief, guilty start as he wondered how many things he’d missed himself.
“We split up,” he said, seeing a whole steeplechase of uncomfortable hurdles open up before him in the conversation. “Luke?”
“Still seein’ him,” said Rachel promptly. “Admittedly not often because he’s doing a thing up along, but we’re going to feed the lemurs when I get back, and he’s getting his boobs off in March.”
“Oh good,” said Ben, who’d forgotten everything about Luke barring his name, “that’s great!”
Rachel, who seemed to be conducting the same exhaustive search for things she actually remembered from their last conversation, tapped her finger a few times on the vegan haggis listing and said suddenly, “Oh, that was it — did you manage to make contact with your sister?”
Ben bit the inside of his mouth, and winced. “Yeah, yeah, I got hold of her,” he said, at last. “Stella — Stella was still working at the same place, they’re still like—” he held up his forefinger and middle, half-entwined.
“Bu-ut?”
“No,” he said, eventually, examining the ceiling as he felt the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “No, it was good. We got about three months of catch-ups, and then…” he looked down at the menu for a moment.
“She buggered back off to Thailand or Liberia or wherever she was off to last time you tried to find her?” Rachel suggested, sympathetically. “I think I’m going to do it, I’m going to have this…vaggis.”
“Not exactly,” said Ben, exhaling. “I mean, yeah, I’ll try this. Oat ball. Thing. I mean, she’s…” he exhaled very hard and with a great deal of effort, his blood singing in his ears, said, “she’s in an isolation ward now,” as quietly as he could.
“For—?” asked Rachel, who, Ben realised, had the same ‘mental health only’ view of hospitals that he’d had until recently.
“KBV,” said Ben, into his shirt collar.
“Oh,” said Rachel. “I see.”
She reached out and patted him on the arm with what felt like a small bundle of bones.
“They’re working on stuff,” Rachel said, still patting him.
Ben shook his head, caught in the middle of a wince that wouldn’t let him go. “Ah, no,” he said, after a moment of bony pats finally wound down. “No, the problem with that is I know it’s no good. I’m doing this, this thing, this project—”
“Project?”
“I went to college—”
“Oh yeah, I remember,” Rachel said, withdrawing her hand. “Sorry, it’s been a busy couple of years, really.”
Ben nodded. While he was nodding to himself the waiter came around, and Rachel declared that there were just too many delicious-looking things and that she needed more time to make up her mind. The waiter went away again.
“Thing is,” said Ben, at last, as something expanded uncomfortably inside his chest, “I’ve got to do this thing. Project. On KBV. So, I have to. Have to look into what they’re doing, how far they’ve got.”
Rachel nodded, watching him intently. “And it’s not good?”
Ben tried out a number of facial expressions but couldn’t make any of them stick. “Not for her,” he said, as two facial expressions collided in his face. “There isn’t time.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Rachel, with a hiss. She patted his arm again. “That’s shit.”
“It would have been good,” said Ben, reflectively, “if I’d got the chance to know her at all, again, before all of this happened.”
“That’s fucked up,” Rachel agreed.
Ben exhaled slowly. “Right,” he said. “Are you going to eat this haggis?”
“Yup.”
“The whole one?” he said. “Should I do one as well?”
“Yup,” said Rachel firmly. “I’m going to do it.”
“All of it?”
Rachel punched the air, and several people stared at her again. “The whole haggis,” she announced. “I’m doing it.”
Ben was so preoccupied by his thoughts on the way back from meeting with his friend and former fellow-patient that he didn’t stop to check his phone once the whole way. He almost walked past his flat.
“Arse,” he said, and went up the stairs in a similar state of abstraction.
It was too early for Kingsley to be home, so Ben declared the flat a no-shirt-no-jeans zone and dithered in the doorway to the bathroom before nearly tripping over Minnie on his way out.
At last he checked his emails.
To: Ben M
From: Khoo, Daniel
Subj: FWD: EMINENT VIROLOGIST COMMITS SUICIDE
“Jesus fuck no,” Ben barked, dropping the phone. He backed away from it as if it might bite him, and in a fit of absurd energy scooped up the cat and held her rather closer to his chest that she strictly wanted to be held.
Mowmow, Minnie complained, shoving her paw into his filrum. Mowl.
“No,” said Ben, clutching the unfortunate Minnie closer to his chest. He retreated into the bathroom, and sat on the closed toilet seat, trying to keep track of in and out breaths while they threatened to pile up on top of each other and lurch out of control.
Neeeowmrrp, Minni
e offered, giving up her attempts at escape as soon as he released her, and instead trying to knead his bare thighs into an acceptable pillow.
Ben gulped at air, which appeared to have gone missing from the bathroom in a terrible oversight of planning and in contravention of physics: Minnie put her tail in his face.
“Ah, haha,” said Ben, holding the end of her tail and batting it against his nose and lips.
Wa, said Minnie, trying to swish her tail free of him.
“My fault,” Ben said, staring at his hands, which didn’t appear to belong to him anymore. “I should have.”
Minnie climbed down off his lap, and bit his toe.
“I should,” Ben said, kicking her away from his sock. “I,” he got up and regarded himself in the mirror, trying to work out if someone who looked that spooked should do anything or if he should in fact remain in the bathroom for the rest of his natural life. “I should do something,” he told the cat, who had forgiven him and was now trying to rack up a number of figure-of-eights around his ankles.
He wandered out of the bathroom in a daze. His ears hurt, his chest hurt, and the walls seemed to be closing in. There was a duvet in the living-room, he recalled. His duvet. He could get under the duvet, and then anything that happened outside of the duvet wasn’t…wasn’t real.
“Should apologise,” Ben suggested to himself, stepping carefully over Minnie while his stomach did a loop-the-loop and his trachea narrowed down to a hair’s breadth. He made it to his futon, stepping over Minnie a few more times as she ran back and forth in front of him, and at last pulled the duvet up over his head.
After an indescribably long period of time he reached out from under it and began searching blindly for his phone.
He pulled the phone under the duvet.
He put the base of his thumb in his mouth and bit it hard enough to leave deep purple dents.
He turned on the screen.
He bit a slightly different part of his thumb.
He opened the email.
Research Virologist and teacher at Wisconsin-Madison University is found hanged in his home. Simon H. Crawford, 67, was last seen by friends and family three days ago.
The Next Big One Page 17