As the adrenaline is burned up within my body and leaves my system, I begin to shake with hunger. I need food soon.
So I tactfully retreat and make my way up to the surface in search of food.
Just as I emerge from the subterranean madness of the Jubilee Line, where slowly, very slowly, commuters are once again beginning to trust travelling on the Tube in the aftermath of the last lock-ins, my SP buzzes indicating a missed call.
I flick it open and check the call-history.
Sarah has called.
I try calling her back several times. It just goes to voicemail.
I text her, but she doesn’t reply.
My reaction to her call surprises me. Or maybe it doesn’t, really.
In spite of all my valiant endeavours to move on with my life, and to not think of her or Kenneth anymore, the mere mention of her name on the display on my phone has wiped all that effort away, and my love for her has immediately resurfaced.
Why has she called?
Has she changed her mind?
Is she going to let me see Kenneth?
I try her one more time, but then begin to worry that I’m overreacting. It might scare her away… she’s called me once, but I’ve called her back twenty times.
No, patience is a better policy.
Wait until she calls me back of her own accord.
Instead, I find a café with a window through which it is serving food to people in the street. There is a small queue of people, all wearing face masks, and lining up three metres apart. I join them, and wait my turn, my thoughts turning to the advertised take-away ‘pie, mash and mushy peas’.
I’m just about to be served when my phone rings again, and I whip it out and hit the green answer button without even looking at the screen.
“Sarah?” I ask, hopefully.
“James, yes, it’s me.” Her voice. Nervous. Trembling a little.
“It’s wonderful to hear from you, Sarah,” I say, waving at the man in the café window who is waiting for me to give him my order. I shake my head, and step out of the queue, all thoughts of food again momentarily overridden.
“James, it’s Kenneth…”
“What? What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
“He’s in hospital. He’s got The ’18. He’s going to be put in a coma and stuck on a ventilator. Like Brian.”
“What? Kenneth’s sick?”
“Yes. Very. James… if you want to see him, you should come now… as soon as you can. And I need you… James, they’re both sick. Both really sick. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do… can you come? Please?”
------------------
It takes me thirty minutes to get to the hospital address I’m given, blue-lighted across London in a police-car which I commandeer by stepping into the road, waving my Blue Pass at a passing police car and demanding that it takes me to the hospital immediately.
“Yes sir,” is the answer, and I’ve never been more grateful for the Blue Pass than now.
When I arrive at the Hospital, I attempt to follow the directions to the ward where Kenneth is, but I am almost immediately stopped outside the entrance and told I cannot go in.
I explain that my son is in the hospital, and his mother has just called me and told me to come immediately.
“What is your wife’s name?” I am asked by the hospital porter who is dressed in what appears to be a biological warfare suit.
“She’s not my wife… ” I start to explain, but don’t get beyond the fourth word.
“Then, you can’t come in. Only immediate relatives are allowed in, at their own risk, after taking a test.”
“But her husband is also ill in the hospital, and I am the father of his son,… his adopted son…”
“My apologies, but I must ask you to leave. For your own sake. Even if you are the father of the boy, you would be strongly advised not to enter the hospital. The risk of becoming infected once inside is significant.”
“Enough of this,” I say, pulling out my Blue Card, and pushing it in front of his face. “I am a Government Official, and I am directing you to give me immediate access, as required by the Emergency Powers Act.” I bluff. “My son is in there, possibly dying, and I have to see him immediately.”
The porter stares at the Blue Pass, and is visibly stumped, not knowing exactly what to do.
“Where is Ward 10?” I ask, stepping forwards.
“Eh, take the lift, second floor, but first report to the reception over there,” he says, pointing, “… and get a full set of PPE: gloves, mask, visor, apron.”
Without thanking him or risking any further engagement, I hurry over to the reception desk, give them a few details, take a rapid virus test, and then don all the personal protective equipment I have to put on before going further inside.
Around me, it’s a scene of chaos. Sick people are everywhere, coughing and spluttering, lying or sitting on the floor, propping themselves up against the walls, and lying on trolleys, most of them probably still waiting to be seen.
I take shorter shallower breaths as I head over to the lift and ride it up to the second floor, holding my breath as long as I can while I’m inside the lift but not quite making it all the way up to the top before I’m forced to gasp for air.
The moment the lift doors open, I’m assailed by a scene from a doomsday film: a long corridor full of people, some lying on the floor, others on trolleys, some are wearing masks attached to gas cylinders, others are just gasping for air, coughing and coughing. On either side of the corridor, there are numerous small rooms or wards, but most of them have curtains which are drawn shut and prevent me from seeing in.
Nurses, doctors and porters move up and down the corridor, hurrying frenziedly from one dying patient to another.
Through a momentary gap in those hurrying about, at the other end of the corridor, I spot Sarah.
She is standing looking through one of the windows, encased in PPE, and her hands and masked face are pressed against the glass as she looks into the room beyond.
I hurry along the corridor to reach her, ignoring the voices of several nurses who speak to me as I move past them.
Placing a hand on her shoulder as I draw up beside her, I also look through the window.
There are four people in the room.
Two middle-aged women, a man, probably about my age, and a boy.
They are all asleep, or unconscious, and their faces are covered in gas masks.
Sarah turns to me and buries her head against my shoulder. I hold her for a second, looking past her at the boy in the bed. Sarah pushes back and nods towards the boy, and the man in the bed beside him.
“Kenneth. And Brian.”
“Both of them?” I ask.
“Yes, I told you. They’re both sick.”
I look briefly at Brian but focus on Kenneth.
“Is it… How serious is it…?” I stumble to find the words, my throat so tight I can hardly speak.
“James… the doctors think that… they’re very sick.” She starts to cry, and presses her face back into my chest again.
“And you?” I ask.
“I’m a little sick too. But the doctors aren’t worried about me. I was in another bed in the hospital overnight, but this morning they said I’d passed the worst and they were happy for me to come down here and watch over Kenneth until they discharge me.”
“How did they get ill?” I ask, staring at Kenneth, trying to imagine his face without the mask.
“Brian took him shopping to get some food. They queued for hours at the local supermarket. They were only inside the building for about twenty minutes - in, out, as fast as they could go - but they must have picked it up when they were inside somehow. The day after they got back, two days ago, they got sick. Kenneth got it first, then Brian, and Brian got very sick, very quickly.
I’m listening to her words, but I can’t take my eyes of my son.
The first time I have seen him.
He’s asleep.
&nb
sp; Lying in a hospital bed.
Dying.
His face is covered… I can’t see his face. I can’t see him.
I don’t look at Brian. Perhaps I should. But I don’t. I don’t know him. He’s a stranger to me. But Kenneth…
“Can we go inside?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“No...”
Sarah turns to the window and puts the palms of her hands against the glass at head height. It’s almost as if, by doing so, she can connect to her son… and Brian… her family… on the other side. Perhaps she can feel them breathing through the glass.
“I’m sorry, but you must leave this area immediately.” A deep female voice interrupts us, accompanied by a gentle hand upon my shoulder.
I spin round to find a nurse and two large security guards - both clad in protective biological suits - standing right behind me.
“I’m his father… I need to be here…” I protest.
“You must leave. Every second you stand here, you’re putting yourself in danger. Right now, this is one of the most dangerous places to be on the planet.” The nurse informs me. “And the public are not permitted to be here.”
One of the security guards steps forward and reaches for my elbow.
“I’m not the public! I’m a Blue Pass Holder. I’m authorized to be anywhere I want.”
“Like fuck you are!” the nurse replies angrily. “I don’t give a shit about what you think that Bluey entitles you to. Right now on this ward, I decide who lives and who dies. You can stick that pass up your anus, you pompous bastard. You’re leaving. Now!”
Her words shock me, both in their severity and their delivery, and for a moment I’m left speechless.
I see the nurse gesture to the guards with her thumb, and I just have time to look at Sarah, and then glance back over at Kenneth through the glass before I feel myself partially lifted from the ground and dragged backwards along the corridor towards the lift.
I don’t resist.
I let myself be pulled away from my dying son, my eyes fixed on him until I can no longer see him through the glass partitions.
As I’m jostled backwards along the crowded corridor, I partially turn towards the lift, and bang into a trolley that’s blocking my way.
I look down and am about to apologise to the person lying on it, when I realise that its occupant, a middle-aged lady, is no longer with us. Her eyes are glazed over, her arms and hands hanging lifelessly over the sides of the trolley.
Looking back up along the corridor towards Kenneth, the last I see of Sarah is her sliding down the wall, and collapsing on the ground in tears, her head burying itself in her knees and arms.
Chapter Fifty Seven
Never so alone
The two burly NHS bodyguards expel me unceremoniously out the front of the hospital, propelling me free from their grip and out towards the car park in front of the main entrance.
“Go home, shower, rinse your throat and teeth with mouthwash, and pray you haven’t caught the virus. If you haven’t, it’ll be a miracle. If you have, we’ll probably see you again in a few days. The ’18 kills anyone, including Blue Pass holders.” The nurse shouts after me, then closes the door behind her once the others are inside.
I’m left alone, standing outside the entrance.
Actually, that’s not true.
I’m not alone.
There is a long line of ambulances on the road, each waiting to disgorge someone with The ’18 into the hospital… just as soon as someone already inside dies, and a hospital bed is freed up.
I stand there for a while, my mind trying to process a hundred different emotions and attempting to figure out what I should do next.
Kenneth is inside the building in front of me.
He’s gravely sick. I can’t just leave him…!
I step towards the doors of the hospital, considering trying to force my way back upstairs again. But as I step closer to the doors, I see that the nurse who evicted me is lurking in the shadows a few metres inside the building.
She is staring at me.
As I come towards the door, she glares at me and raises her finger, wagging it back and forward and warning me not to continue.
I shake my head and turn around, starting to walk briskly away from the hospital.
“Fuck…” I shout inside my head. “FUCK!”
------------------
I walk for hours, not going in any particular direction, just moving. Thinking. Hoping that some new and wonderful plan or course of action will suddenly materialise inside my tiny little brain. Something that will make all this better and get Kenneth out of the hospital, or at the very least, get me back in, beside him.
As I walk, I grasp the Blue Pass in my right hand.
I’m a Blue Pass Holder. Surely, this can’t be happening to me!
Surely, the virus can’t attack us?
We’re the elite!
The untouchables!
But as I walk, I begin to realise how stupid I am, or have been.
For months I have been living in a world that has been slowly going to shit, because of the pandemic which is sweeping the world, and yet, for some stupid reason, it’s almost as if I had begun to believe that it would never touch me.
That I was invincible.
That I couldn’t be affected by it!
Living in the billionaire’s penthouse apartment for so long has obviously messed with my brain.
I’ve become arrogant. An idiot. A playboy.
But suddenly, very abruptly, God has brought my world crashing down around me, and shown me exactly what I am.
Nothing special. A man, a hu-man, just like everyone else.
An idiot.
And just to rub the point home more clearly, God has taken my only son and infected him with the fucking virus!
My phone rings, and I extract it roughly from my pocket and stare at the name on the screen.
Professor Kasparek.
My finger hovers over the green image of the phone for a second, and I contemplate taking the call, but then I hit the red phone instead.
I can’t talk to the Professor yet.
Not yet.
Soon, yes, but not now.
Instead I call Caroline, intent on asking her to be honest with me, and to tell me truthfully if the government has any sort of miracle treatment against the virus which important people… like Blue Pass holders?... might be entitled to receive? Surely, important people or rich people, don’t actually die? And if a treatment exists, can I get access to it for Kenneth?
???????
Caroline doesn’t answer the phone.
I try calling her several times, but it’s always the same.
No answer.
I leave about twenty messages.
“Hi, It’s James… I need to talk with you urgently. Please call me.” / “Call me, please!” / “I need your help, urgently. Please call me…”/…./…./ “Caroline… I don’t know where the hell you are, but please call me!”/… “Caroline, bloody call me soon, okay?” Then, a final polite request…
“FUCK CAROLINE! – MY SON IS DYING! PLEASE CALL ME NOW!”
But she doesn’t call.
------------------
Eventually, the adrenaline in my system begins to run out, burned up by thousands of steps and a million heavy heartbeats.
I start to feel tired.
Very tired.
And very, very alone.
I hate this world.
I have no control over anything. No purpose. No reason to be here…
I feel like crying. Like shouting. Like hitting… myself?
Fuck!
Mercifully, my mind stops functioning. I stop thinking.
I become numb.
I just walk.
At some point - whether it’s soon afterwards, or even hours later, I don’t know - I find myself standing outside a tube station.
It’s open.
I’ve never been here before, and I don’t
recognise the name of the place, but I walk inside, wave my Blue Pass and take the escalator down towards … Hell?
I find a platform, and eventually a tube-train finds me, and I climb aboard.
I’m on autopilot now, heading back to the centre of London, towards Whitehall.
I need to sleep.
No… I need to drink.
To drink a lot!
Everything I have in the apartment.
And then sleep… for ever...
I look up as the train I’m on drifts into a new station from the tunnel we’ve just passed through. I don’t immediately recognise it, but looking up at the map above the door, I soon locate it, then quickly work out a route from where I am now, back to where I want to be… in my own private bar in my apartment.
According to the map, in three stations, I will need to change from the current line to the Jubilee Line, and from there I’ll ride it down to Charing Cross and walk from there to Whitehall.
As the train pulls away from the platform, I hang from the overhead grip by the door, just inside the entrance to the carriage, staring out through the glass windows onto the walls of the black tunnel beyond that soon engulfs us.
A few images of Kenneth pop into my head - him lying on the bed, his face hidden from me - but I close my eyes and force them to go away.
Then I open my eyes and stare back out into the blackness.
Then a platform arrives.
Two to go.
A new tunnel.
One to go.
A tunnel.
And I get out.
I have to walk through several other tunnels deep below London, as I cross to the Jubilee Line, but soon I am on another tube train.
Heading south.
The first part of the journey is a blur.
I think of nothing. And experience little.
The world around me is there, but I am as detached from it as I can force myself to be.
A few times I look up at the map above the door and check the name on the platform which appears outside the train doors as we emerge from each tunnel, and I then count down how many stations I still have to go till Charing Cross.
Am I Dead? Page 38