The Pestilence

by Faisal Ansari

  “Hi, Miranda. Can I walk you home?”

  Miranda gave an uninterested shrug, nothing more than a microscopic dip of her shoulders. “Free country,” she muttered under her breath. She waved her friends away and they walked together for a few moments cloaked in a horrible clinging silence.

  “Does Mum know you are here?”

  “I called her. She said it was cool for me to see you.”

  “No one says cool anymore. It’s totally sad.”

  Bill said nothing.

  “So what do you want? Why are you here?”

  What did he want? Why was he here? What had compelled him to drop everything? Bill didn’t know exactly. He had no words.

  “To see you. I guess.”

  “Well, here I am. You’ve seen me.” Miranda’s eyes flashed defiance and a long held anger rose in her voice. “Now you can crawl back to whatever war you came from.”

  Miranda increased speed and cut through a small alley onto a canal tow-path. Bill followed. The canals were the ancient arteries that fed the industrial revolution in Great Britain. Now, this one stood stagnant and alone, littered with shopping trolleys, sofas and old bicycle frames.

  Bill quickened his pace catching up with his daughter. “Miranda, wait.” He risked reaching out and touching her for the first time. He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. Miranda spun brushing off his hand. She glowered at him, the hair on her fringe hanging over her eyes and he saw that they were his eyes too. “I know I’ve been a shit dad, a really poor excuse for a father. I let you down badly. I’m disgusted with myself for being like that but I am here to tell you that I want to change. I’m ready, finally, to step up. I’m sorry for being shit and I want to try and start again with you.”

  Miranda shook her head and looked out over the canal. “It’s too late, you don’t even know me.”

  “You’re right, I don’t know you. What I see is a girl who looks a little like me but who is so much more. I’m begging her to let me spend the time and do whatever it takes to get to know her.”

  They walked the tow-path again. “Me and Mum we have done just fine on our own. What’s the point of having a dad you only see on TV?”

  “It’s no point at all having a dad like that. I’m coming back to live in London so I can be close to you again. Just let me try. Give me one chance. I know I don’t deserve it but please.”

  Miranda walked on silently. Bill gave her some space and time to think. For all its failings and glorious state of disrepair, the canal was still a rare haven of tranquillity in the heart of the city.

  “I don’t know.”

  Bill interrupted with a hasty edge of desperation in his voice. “We can take things really slowly and see how they go. I‘m cool, no pressure.”

  Miranda continued walking.

  “Perhaps tomorrow you would let me walk you home from school again?”

  Miranda stopped and shook her head. Bill knew he had overreached. He ground his teeth to suppress the urge to berate himself. He had pushed too far, way too fast.

  “I like walking home with my girlfriends. We have a laugh. I don’t see some of them until the end of the day. Besides, it’s a bit lame having your dad waiting for you after school. I’m not ten.”

  Bill’s heart sank. He stared down at his feet in misery for what seemed like a millennium. Miranda let him suffer.

  “But perhaps you could run me to the library after school. I go there to study and normally take the bus.”

  His joy overflowing, Bill had to restrain himself from jumping into the fusty water of the canal. “Sure, sure, no problem.” His mind raced. He just needed to work out how to get hold of a car by tomorrow.

  ***

  VICTOR stared out from the podium. Behind him blazed the angular, dark and brooding artwork for the Alara Magazine Man of the Year awards. Ahead of him, sat in expectation, were the great and the good of New York City.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to be given the opportunity to address you all today and before we talk about serious matters I would like to thank the judging committee from Alara Magazine for awarding me the accolade of Man of the Year. The committee had the wisdom to discern that firstly, I am a man, congratulations on that astute observation and secondly, somehow, that this year I have been the best of the 3.5 billion men that inhabit this planet. For the committee are wise indeed to discern that my brilliance outshines all others.”

  Victor heard a snatch of embarrassed laughter emanating from the audience. They didn’t know what to make of him. He didn’t care.

  “I stand in illustrious company, for previous years’ winners include a politician who routinely rapes chambermaids and a man who designs trousers.”

  The initial laughter died quickly. Victor imagined the frosty glare from the chairman of the organising committee boring into his back. He didn’t care.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let us put preposterous and meaningless awards to one side, I came here today because it was my best opportunity to talk directly to you, the good people of New York City about my foundation. History tells us repeatedly that each time in our human civilisation where there has been a chasm in financial equality those in society without wealth eventually rise up and kill those with the money and power. The disadvantaged take by force what they can’t otherwise earn. In medieval times, the people in feudal societies knew their place. If you were born a peasant then you would stay a peasant. If you were born a king, most likely you would die a king. There was little social and economic mobility, but even in those tightly controlled societies you had instances of peasants attempting to depose kings. I am from France and we know all about that little problem.

  “In our democratic society, we are constantly encouraged to achieve more, to want more. We are compelled to chase our dreams but when, as so often happens, we are unable to even begin the chase or we watch our dreams turn to dust the bitterness is profound. That bitterness and sense of injustice can’t be contained by feudal power or class structures. Inequality, the financial gap between the 1 per cent, you, and the 99 per cent, everyone else, will bring this great society to its knees. The 99 per cent will overrun and take what we have. The path we are on as a society, as a global nation is one of ruin. We have all heard these warnings before, governments pay due lipservice to the problem, but what has been done? Nothing. So I am standing up and acting for change. I want you good people to stand with me.

  “The Chaput Foundation allows people a second chance to remake their lives and it lifts people out of debt poverty. The money to do that comes from good people like you, the 1 per cent. We all have money that we could never spend in a thousand lifetimes. This period we are living through is the pinnacle of human existence; unless we recognise that our achievements have been made standing on the shoulders of millions of our fellow citizens then we, ladies and gentlemen, are doomed to a rapid terminal decline.

  “I have been in town a few days and have personally canvased many CEOs of your great institutions for support. Many of you have seen the press release from my good friend Connor Bradley at Avistra. Other CEOs have followed Connor’s brave and visionary lead and have personally pledged to support the foundation. The public companies that they run are taking resolutions to their shareholders to allocate a proportion of their sales to the Chaput Foundation. We are talking about donations of tens of billions of dollars. I am grateful for the support, but I need more as the challenge we face is immense. I will try and meet privately with many of the people here in this room to argue my case for change, so please, I beg of you, give me just a little of your time. You are saving our way of life and you are ultimately securing your future and those of your children.

  Thank you for your time. Thanks again to Alara Magazine for pronouncing me Man of the Year and giving me this award. I know just where I am going to put it.”

  The audience greeted the end of his speech with bemused silence and a smattering of polite applause. They didn’t care for his speech and Victor d
idn’t care for them. He would see them one by one. Then they would care.

  ***

  DALIA glared at the computer screen in frustration. “Mariam, I haven’t used this computer before. I’m trying to open the Internet but I can’t get it to work.” She jabbed at the screen with such force that the PC monitor wobbled almost tipping backwards.

  Mariam laughed. “Deedee, this is not a touch screen; you have to use the mouse and click on this icon.”

  Dalia navigated via the mouse and the keyboard to the Haran camp website.

  “Look Mariam, we are putting up requests for the items we need for the building. People look at the website and if they have the materials they donate them to us. Here on this page we have people who are offering their labour and their skills to build the camp and our farm. It’s a good website, the boy with the three new fingers helped to make it.” Dalia clicked through to a separate page and what she saw on the page made her sit back in her seat. “Oh my, this is the financial donations page. This can’t be right, Mariam, am I reading this correctly? My eyes are old.”

  Mariam leaned forward. “Yes Deedee, it’s a big number.”

  “Five times what we need to rebuild the farm. We must tell people to stop giving. We must tell them right away. You know, it’s the same with the material and skills. We have more than we need for the farm and the camp.”

  The noises of the busy camp leaked into the IT room. The room was set up like a classroom with fifteen donated computers lined up in three rows of five. The only difference to a usual school room was that the roof and walls were made of canvas.

  “All the Healed I’ve met feel the same way,” said Mariam. “They want to help. They will feel insulted if you try and give their gifts back. Do something else with the resources, help others.”

  Dalia thought for a moment. “We should perhaps send the excess to other projects. Let me raise it at the meeting tonight.” Dalia span in her chair to face Mariam. “So tell me, darling, how is your mother? Did you give her my apologies for not being able to visit?”

  “She is well and I did.”

  “Good, I am going to try and get over to see her tomorrow.”

  Mariam owed much to Dalia. When she was fourteen, the war had taken Mariam’s father and when school had started up the following term Mariam failed to attend. Haran was not big enough to have its own school so the children travelled seven miles on the solitary dirt road to the nearest town. The journey had been Mariam’s exclusive, almost sacred, time with her father, rattling along in his battered red Skoda talking, singing and laughing. Mariam was a brilliantly gifted student, the brightest in her year, but after her father was gone she couldn’t bear the thought of making that journey without him.

  Mariam had missed almost a month of school before Dalia paid a visit to Mariam’s mother in the village. Khalid had just graduated and Dalia persuaded Mariam’s mother that in these times of war it was too dangerous for children to travel the solitary dirt road alone. It was decided that Samuel would scooter Mariam to and from school. Unknown to Mariam, Samuel was loathed to share the freedom that the scooter gave him. He spent the weekend sulking around the farm but Monday came and Dalia stood firm insisting that he fetch Mariam.

  The ride to Mariam’s place took six minutes. As Samuel idled outside he could see the scorch marks from the explosion that took her father still clearly burned into the family home. When Mariam emerged, he saw not the confident girl he had known from school, but a wary young woman burdened by sorrow.

  “How is your work?” asked Dalia above the hum of the Healed camp. “Did you get everything done?”

  “No. I have so much to do and what’s happening with Samuel has side-tracked me. I’m very behind. If I lock myself away and don’t eat or sleep, I may be able to produce a draft paper before the deadline.”

  “So why aren’t you working now?” Dalia said with a hint of mischief in her voice.

  “I needed a break and came for a walk. I also wanted to ask if you had heard from Samuel. I haven’t spoken to him since we left.”

  Dalia shook her head. “No, nothing. You know what he’s like at keeping in touch. He’s worse now without his cell phone. These days if I want to see him I just log onto CNN.” Dalia turned round and carefully entered the web address. “You know, you can find everything on the Internet.”

  Mariam nodded. Samuel was still front page. He was healing in what looked like a football stadium. The Healed volunteers were triaging the sick at the turnstiles and directing them according to the seriousness of the case either to the stands or onto the pitch to Samuel. The Decapolis presence was visible with airport-style metal detectors screening all who entered.

  “Deedee, it’s frustrating not speaking.”

  “He has his hands full, darling,” Dalia said sympathetically. They both watched as Samuel healed a man who was wheeled to him on a hospital gurney. The man pulled the drip out of his arm and then leapt semi naked from his bed.

  “I got a call this morning from the Vatican. They called from a withheld number so I answered thinking it was Samuel. I was on the toilet.”

  “Do you speak to Samuel from the toilet often?” Dalia turned to face Mariam once more.

  “Not usually. No. These are strange times.”

  “What did the priest want?”

  “He was a cardinal. I hope I wasn’t too echoey.” Mariam’s voice trailed off as she drifted out of the conversation. She glanced out of the tent contemplating the return walk to her mother’s house. With her paper pressing she was becoming anxious about the length of time her break was taking then an obtuse thought struck her.

  “Deedee, I always wanted to know, Samuel is such a strange name for a Palestinian boy. Why?”

  Dalia reclined back in her chair and smiled a knowing sort of smile. “I haven’t always been a farmer you know. I have travelled, I have studied abroad. Samuel was the name of my first great love, an American I met when I was eighteen. When Samuel’s father left me pregnant with two older boys and a farm to run, naming Samuel after the American was my way of taking control.” Dalia’s gaze fixed onto the middle distance. “He was such a lovely man, tall and fair. A soldier and a fantastic kisser.”

  Mariam blushed and involuntarily her gaze flicked from Dalia to rest on the computer screen behind her. The colour immediately fell away from her face and she felt as if someone was slowly, excruciatingly unravelling the threads of her life. The more she watched the screen, the more darkness seeped into her vision. Dalia rose quickly from her chair and caught Mariam as she swooned forward. With some difficulty she managed to manoeuvre Mariam into her chair. Mariam sat blank and staring, composing herself, anger rising from within.

  Dalia was once again facing the computer monitor. CNN was running on a continuous loop the CCTV footage from the convenience store. Mariam wearing a white doctor’s coat was talking to a man with close-cropped hair. Mariam reached across and squeezed his arm. The man moved forward clumsily to hug her. Mariam stood limply in his embrace, her hands by her side. They separated and spoke for a moment then Mariam reached up and kissed him quickly on the lips. The rolling headlines beneath the footage read: Samuel Srour’s girlfriend in shock affair with a married colleague.

  ***

  Chapter 12

  Bill fiddled with the car radio. He had tried a number of frequencies all in vain as the radio answered him in nothing but static; probably a broken aerial. Bill relaxed into his seat closing his eyes. He had nothing to read, nothing to listen to and just didn’t feel like picking up his phone to while away the minutes. Instead, he wanted to use the time for a little rest and reflection. Bill concentrated, trying to still his wandering mind. He focused on his breath and his breath alone. Despite the absent radio, Bill was quite pleased with his hire car. He was used to bouncing through war zones and had driven nothing but Jeeps and four-by-fours for years now. He caught himself roaming and rather than trying to calm a cluttered mind he pushed instead for the awareness of the tho
ughts he was having. This was his first electric. The car glided along the road accompanied only by a low whine of the drivetrain and a soft rumble from the tyres. For a small car it packed quite a punch. He recalled reading how an electric car has full torque over the entire RPM range. Bill had no idea what that meant except that this thing was lightning speeding away from traffic lights. Bill concluded that there were a lot of things in life that he had no idea about.

  Bill awoke with a snort as Miranda slipped into the passenger seat beside him.

  “Dad, I could hear you snoring as I was walking up to the car.”

  Bill surreptitiously wiped the saliva from his chin.

  “You looked about a thousand years old.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping I was reflecting.” Bill blinked the last of the reflection from his eyes and fired up the electric motor. “Finish your studies?” he yawned.

  “Yep.”

  “Finish talking to the boy I saw waiting out front for you?”

  Colour flushed through Miranda’s cheeks. “Dad, he is just a friend, he is a little rubbish at maths. I help him out.”

  “Hmm, okay, so where to?”

  “Home, Parker. I have swimming later.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Bill doffed his imaginary chauffeur’s cap.

  Miranda toiled with the radio despite Bill’s explanation of the broken aerial situation.

  “I didn’t know you swam.”

  Miranda gave up on the radio, drew her knees to her chin and rested her bare feet on the dash, her shoes long since discarded in the car’s foot well. “There is a lot you don’t know about me, Dad.” Her words weren’t delivered with any intended malice; Miranda was simply stating the brutal honest truth. Bill glanced across at her. She had big feet. Swimmer’s feet. She must have got them from her mother.

  “Well, there is a lot you don’t know about me, young lady.”

  “In my experience, Dads as a species tend to be dull and uninteresting.” Another keen fact drawn from Miranda’s extensive repository.