by Liam Brown
I closed my eyes. Held my breath. Waited for it to stop.
‘Thanks,’ he said as he finally released me. ‘Thanks for being so understanding. You know, on second thoughts it would be good to see you again sometime. I’m staying in a place not far from here. An old school. If you’re ever doing your neighbourhood watch thing again round here, you should drop in and say hello sometime.’
‘That sounds nice,’ I heard myself say. ‘I’ll do that.’
And then he was gone, the black cassock swishing around his ankles as he left the room. I heard the echo of his footsteps as he bounded up the stairs.
I looked around, blinking fast, my pulse racing as if waking from a nightmare. I felt dirty. Violated . Who did he think he was, risking my life like that? I could still feel my skin prickling from where he’d held me. I needed to get into a quarantine zone fast.
Once I was certain he wasn’t waiting for me, I took the stairs two at a time, my boots screeching as I crossed the church floor. Once I was back outside, I leant against the stone wall, catching my breath. My head was spinning and I felt nauseous. For a moment I thought I might actually throw up. Already, terrifying thoughts were hatching in my mind. My throat felt sore and ticklish. My nose blocked. Had Jazz infected me? I should have done more to fight him off. I should have screamed. Kicked. Thrashed. Instead I just stood there and let him kill me.
A minute or two passed before I felt strong enough to stand up again. There was no sign of Jazz in the graveyard, or on the road beyond. It didn’t matter. With the footage I had, the authorities would have no trouble tracing him. By this time tomorrow, he’d be safely locked away in some government institution. That was something at least.
I looked down at the camera.
My stomach lurched.
And it was only then that everything clicked into place. The hand on my shoulder. The weird apology. The hug.
Because in the space where the camera had been, there was now only an empty harness.
TWELVE
AMBER WAS BLUE . Her eyes were bulging in her head. Her hair drenched with sweat.
Amber was dying.
With a scream, I wrenched open the car door and dragged her onto the ground.
Somewhere behind me, Charlie was sobbing. Colin, meanwhile, was trying to stay calm. Rational. Offering advice. Giving instructions.
I ignored them both.
The only thing that mattered was Amber.
She couldn’t breathe. That was the problem. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs to keep living.
I loosened her collar and checked her airways, trying to see if there was something caught in her throat. It was hopeless, though. She was disappearing before me. Her breath coming in shallow rasps now. Her pulse a fading snare roll.
My poor sweet broken little hummingbird.
In an instant I was transported back to another time, twelve years earlier.
A time of breathing exercises and self-hypnosis and nitrous oxide.
A time of stirrups and callipers and all manner of nightmarish instruments of torture.
Of excitement and fear and screaming and panic.
Of blood and tears and shit and sweat and vomit and a pain so pure it was like a bolt of white light cleaving me in two.
And after that.
Once the midwife had finished with the measuring and the weighing and the counting.
Once she had ticked her boxes and filled her charts; the banal bureaucracy of birth.
Once she had gone, and it was just the three of us.
Two plus one.
Me, Colin and Amber.
My Amber.
Tiny. Hot. Pink.
Brand new.
A shock of black hair still stuck to her face.
Like a blind mouse, she’d nuzzled at me. Skin to skin. Her heart on mine.
Her first few minutes on Earth.
Even then, I remember willing myself to save those moments. Those precious seconds. To burn them onto the hard drive in my chest and set them to Read Only.
Stay with me, I’d whispered then. Stay with me and never leave.
‘Stay with me,’ I screamed as I rolled her onto her side and began thumping her back. ‘Stay with me, Amber. Please. Don’t do this. Breathe. Please, just breathe. Breathe—’
‘Stop!’
I turned to Colin, who had grabbed me by the wrist.
‘What are you doing?’ I struggled to get away from him. Slapped. Scratched. Shoved. ‘Get the fuck off me. I have to help her.’
‘Just stop for a second. I’ve seen this before. It’s a panic attack.’
I looked again at my gasping daughter. At the tears. The bubbles of snot. The terror in her eyes. Then I moved aside as Colin lifted her gently upright and helped her slow her breathing down.
‘In-through-your-nose-two-three-four… Out-through-your mouth-two-three-four…’
Until at last the colour returned to her cheeks.
‘Is Amber okay now?’ Charlie asked, his eyes wide with worry.
‘She’s fine.’ I reached for her hand. ‘Aren’t you, sweetie? You’re all better now.’
Amber gave a small shrug. She looked tiny. Frightened.
‘You know we love you, right? Me and Daddy. We love you more than anything in the world.’
She turned to me then. Her voice cold. Her eyes hard. ‘If you love me so much, then why don’t you tell us the truth? You think we’re stupid because we’re children. But we’re not. We have eyes and ears. We know what’s going on. Acting like everything’s fun and exciting, when really, you’ve dragged us out here to die. That’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to get sick and die like everyone else.’
‘Stop it, Amber.’ Colin’s voice was firm enough to silence her. ‘Nobody’s going to get sick. Okay? Now I need you to be a big girl and stop talking like that. You’re scaring your brother.’
Amber nodded, not saying another word. She wiped her face. Took a deep breath.
Still, I didn’t think she really believed him.
I don’t think any of us did.
IN THE END we decided to stay in the cottage. Not that we had a choice. Once Amber had fully recovered, I took the kids for a walk along the clifftops, ostensibly to gather firewood, while Colin stayed behind and dug a shallow grave in the back garden to bury the bodies.
I returned after an hour or so to find Colin’s face streaked with dirt, a hollow look in his eyes. I touched his shoulder but he shook me off, reaching for Charlie instead, hoisting him up and squeezing him so tightly that he let out a little squeal. Colin didn’t let go, though. No. He buried his face in Charlie’s hair and breathed him in. He smothered him with kisses. His cheeks, his chin, his neck. Everywhere. Even once he’d eventually released him, he still wouldn’t meet my gaze.
‘Colin—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry. I know that must have been awful for you. But did you at least… you know?’
He looked at me, confused. ‘Did I what?’
‘You know? Cover your face. Or wear gloves. Or…’
I didn’t finish my thought. Instead, both of us turned our attention to Charlie, a muddy handprint still visible on the back of his T-shirt.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Colin said quietly.
‘I just mean… something killed those people, Colin. And if it was something infectious then—’
‘I said it’s fine,’ he snapped. ‘Everything’s fine. Now I don’t want either of us to mention any of this ever again. Okay?’
I started to say something else, but the look in Colin’s eye was enough to make me bite my tongue. ‘You’re right. I’m sure it will be fine.’
All the same, the first thing I did once we got inside was to strip off Charlie’s clothes and hose him down in the shower.
After that, the four of us got to work cleaning the cottage. We tore all the sheets and blankets from the beds and brought them out into the garden. Next, we dragged o
ut the clothes from the wardrobes. The rugs and the curtains. The books from the shelves. We piled it all together with the wood we’d collected on our walk and then Colin doused the lot with a can of petrol he’d found in the shed. Charlie thought it was the greatest thing ever. He whooped and screamed as they ran in circles around the bonfire while Amber watched on apprehensively, noxious black smoke billowing towards the sky.
Back inside the cottage, we scrubbed the floors and walls with bleach. We bagged up any open food and threw it away. Everything else, the plates, cups and cutlery, we scoured with soap and boiling water. Of course, back then we didn’t know what it was we were cleaning. What we were trying to kill. As far as we were concerned, every single thing in the house was a potential threat. It never occurred to us that it might be us that was the biggest threat of all.
By the time we’d finished, it was almost dark again and the kids were complaining of tummy aches.
‘Can’t we just call a takeaway?’ Charlie whined. ‘A pizza? Fish and chips? Chinese?’
‘What we’ve got is way better than a takeaway,’ Colin said, leading him by the hand towards the car. ‘We’re going to have an indoor picnic. Here, why don’t you help me get the things in while Mummy and Amber put the kettle on.’
Soon after arriving, Colin had discovered the solar panels on the roof at the back, which explained why the cottage had power when most places we’d passed were still without. There was also a small diesel generator in one of the outhouses, which the owners presumably kept as a backup for the winter months. It was a relief to see the red battery sign on the car’s dashboard finally restored to a full, green bar. That was, until we realised we didn’t have anywhere else to drive to. This was it. At least for now, this was our new home.
THAT FIRST NIGHT we turned what meagre supplies we’d brought with us into a feast. We cooked packet noodles on the stove. We scrambled eggs. We made pasta. We drank lemonade. Sitting and eating together around the table of a stranger’s house, the air crackled with a manic tension. Colin told jokes. Charlie talked in silly voices and sang made-up songs. Even Amber seemed to lighten up a little. It was like some weird holiday after all.
Having declared the bedroom we’d discovered the bodies in ‘out of bounds’, we tucked both children up for the night in their sleeping bags. We’d decided to put them at the back of the cottage, in what had evidently been the little boy’s room. Colin and I would make do with the floor and the couch.
Once the kids were in bed, we opened a bottle of wine and brought it out to the garden, taking a seat on the patio. Though I’d quit smoking more than a decade before, the urge for a cigarette was almost unbearable. Instead I drank too quickly, finishing my glass and filling it again, until my head began to spin.
‘Hey. Are you okay?’ Colin asked.
‘We shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Done what?’
‘The food. Charlie didn’t even eat half of his. It just got thrown away. We’ve only got limited supplies. It’s not like we can just pop to the supermarket when we run out. We need to ration. It was reckless. It was stupid. And then there’s everything else. My brother. My parents. I can’t get hold of anyone. I just can’t help thinking…’
Colin pulled me to him. ‘Well stop thinking then. You’ll drive yourself crazy. Until we hear otherwise, all we can do is hope for the best. And as for the food? Yes, it was stupid. But it’s been a long day. A horrible day. We needed to do something to make it better. Otherwise what’s the point? Tomorrow we can work out what we’ve got and make a plan. But tonight, I think we should just… We just need to take a breath.’
I nodded. Swallowed another mouthful of wine. It was a clear night. Away from the city, there seemed to be a million more stars than usual. The sky more white than black.
‘Do you think it’s the end of the world?’ I asked.
Colin didn’t answer for a while. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. For some people, I guess. But then again hasn’t it always been the way? The world ending for some while it’s just getting started for others?’
I felt his hands on me then. Massaging my shoulders. Working out the tension and the knots. ‘All I know is that as long as we stick together, everything will be okay. We’re stronger than you think. You mark my words. The apocalypse is no match for us.’
His hands slid slowly down my back, then up to my breasts, his lips finding the nook of my neck.
And then we were on each other, the wine forgotten, my top coming over my head, the buttons snapped from his shirt.
The chairs toppled backwards as we fell onto the lawn, grunting and moaning and crying out until the stars and the house and everything else disappeared. Pushing and thrusting and pressing ourselves into one another.
Hungry. Desperate.
As if our lives depended on it.
THIRTEEN
THERE’S SOMETHING TO be said for unfertilised children. There’s no drama. No answering back. No tears. No tantrums. Nothing. Just the idea of a child. A blank void to fill with the idealised fantasy of what your offspring might be like. A sweet, cherubic, imaginary bundle of joy. And in my experience, it’s far easier to be in love with a fantasy than with the bloated, surly reality of the thing you face on your computer screen at the end of each day.
Especially when the thing you’re facing is Charlie.
I realise how that sounds. I’m not saying I don’t love Charlie. It’s just that I don’t like him very much. Not that I’d ever admit this aloud. People would think I’m a monster. But that’s unfair. After all, children are just adults who haven’t grown up yet. Sure, most babies are cute and smell good. But some of those babies are also miniature bailiffs or bank managers in waiting. Or worse. Murderers. Molesters. To imply we have a biological obligation to like a future sex offender or serial killer just because we accidentally fucked them into existence is just plain crazy.
That’s not to imply I think Charlie is capable of murder. At least I don’t think he is. All the same, as I stared back at his smirking face this evening, his prematurely thin hair greased to his scalp, his skin the colour and texture of rice pudding, I could hardly mask my repulsion.
As usual, the screen was split into four. One of the quadrants – Amber’s – was blank. Colin sat in the other, an inscrutable expression on his face. I wondered if he was secretly wrestling with the same doubts as me. Wondering if our son is not in fact some sort of terrible aberration. A curse that we have inflicted on the world.
The school had been in touch. This in itself was not unusual. Hardly a month goes by without us receiving a report about Charlie’s poor attendance or attitude. This time, though, it was not simply a case of addressing bad grades. This time it was the head teacher herself who had contacted us. We listened patiently as she explained that the school website had been hacked. That someone had bypassed their security system, disrupting the learning of forty thousand students. And, while there was no hard evidence yet, they had reason to believe that the person responsible for this mess was none other than our darling son.
At first, Colin made a valiant attempt at defending Charlie. On hearing the school had no proof, he muttered darkly about ‘defamation of character’ and ‘reputational damage’. Fighting talk indeed. Once the head revealed the nature of the hack, though, Colin quickly changed his tone.
Apparently, instead of being greeted by the school home page, visitors to the website were redirected to a new page that had been created. A page that contained a single piece of text. A poem, which the head teacher had ambiguously described as ‘erotic in nature’. A poem that was signed, and allegedly authored, by none other than our own daughter, Amber.
While Colin immediately went into damage control, describing the various traumas Charlie had experienced over the last five years, my thoughts immediately went to Amber. I had no doubt whatsoever that Charlie was responsible. He had already admitted breaking into his sister’s computer. This, though, was something else. It went far beyond petty squ
abbles between siblings. This was all-out assault.
Though I have never dabbled in poetry, erotic or otherwise, I did keep a diary as a teenager. I recall scribbling feverish proclamations of lust in the dead of night, only to wake in the morning and tear the pages out, shredding then burning the evidence, so terrified was I that someone would stumble across it. I can’t imagine what I would have done if any of that material had ever been made public.
The head teacher explained that, whilst the website had been fixed within an hour of the attack, screenshots of the poem had already been taken and circulated by hundreds, if not thousands of students. Indeed, it was already so prevalent that later, once Colin had finished grovelling to the teacher not to take any further legal action, I quickly searched for Amber’s name online. Within thirty seconds I had located a copy of the untitled poem:
I see your mouth,
red and warm as sunrise.
First at my ear, then at my throat,
as the fox takes the bird.
Then lower.
To the twin constellations of my chest.
Licking, sucking, biting.
Teasing
Down, down, down.
Dancing
Your restless tongue
carving me in two,
loosening my secrets,
like a sliver of butter warmed gently in a pan.
I melt with it.
It was signed underneath with her full name, with a link to her various social media accounts, just in case there was any doubt as to her identity.
Amber May Allen .
Reading my daughter’s words, I felt myself redden. It was too intimate. Too real . As horrific as it was that Charlie would seek to humiliate her in this way, I was also concerned that the poem was something other than just a hormonal fantasy. Was this about the boy she’d mentioned? Jamal. Was it possible she’d crept out again? Or that she’d actually succeeded in meeting him? That they’d been… intimate?
I shook my head, dismissing the thought. Amber might have been lonely and frustrated, but she wasn’t an idiot. Creeping around the streets in a mask and suit was one thing, but to actually touch someone? No. She’s not that stupid.
At least, I don’t think she is. I tried to talk to her after we’d finally finished with the school. She didn’t respond to my messages and refused my calls. The only way I know she’s here at all is the rhythmic slap of her feet on the treadmill that echoes around the apartment. It’s been running for seven or eight hours now. Much longer than usual. Earlier, Colin had been down to the drop-off point to collect the latest supplies. When I popped to the quarantine tent to collect my share, I noticed Amber’s rations were still stacked in the far corner. I pictured her, sad and hungry in her room. She’s already thin. Unlike Charlie, there’s not a pound of excess weight on her, the years of obsessive exercise having chiselled her body into something hard and taut. I’d worried before that she wasn’t eating properly. Now I’m scared she might waste away altogether. It’s awful. And the worst thing is, I can’t go to her. I can’t hold her hand and dry her tears. I can’t tell her that it’s all right. That it will all seem better in a day or two. That these things always do, especially once the next adolescent scandal comes along. No. She just has to tough it out by herself. I can picture her in her room now. Not eating. Not sleeping. Drenched in sweat as she hurls herself relentlessly forwards towards an imaginary vanishing point. The place where it all disappears for good.