9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (6 page)

Downstairs, cup of tea and slice of toast in hand, he sat in front of the television
and watched the news on BBC 24. It contained the usual doom and gloom about wars and
murders and famines and recessions and job losses. Even the supposedly more light-hearted
items didn’t particularly lighten Tom’s heart: the odds on a white Christmas were
shortening; the race for the Christmas Number One was hotting up with the winner of
some reality show the favourite, despite the winner not even having been yet decided;
medical experts were confidently predicting a flu-free winter after an extensive programme
of inoculation against the most recent virulent strain.

That last item got him thinking about his mother again. He’d had a battle to persuade
her to get her flu jab; a battle that he’d won, eventually, but at some cost in irritation
and exasperation. He checked the time: it was after nine and he knew she would be
up.

Tom picked up his mobile and called her on her land line. She owned a mobile—he had
bought it for her two birthdays ago—but was obdurate in her refusal to learn how to
use it.

The line rang and rang. Frowning, he rang off.

He tried every half an hour or so throughout the morning, but did not get an answer
until early afternoon.

“Yes. Hello?”

“Mam! Where’ve you been? I was worried.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me—Tom.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Have you been out?”

“Yes. Went to the shops with Betty. We had lunch at Marks’. I’m tired now.”

“Look, Mam, About last night, what we talked about. . . .”

“Oh, yes?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking some more and maybe we should just leave it for now. Get
Christmas out of the way. Talk about it again next year. See how you feel then.”

“Whatever you say, Tom.”

Tom sighed. “Mam, I just want what’s best for you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, love. If you say so. I’m going to have a lie down now.”

“Okay. I’ll ring you in the week.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, Mam. Oh, and. . . .” But she had already gone.

* * * * *

Nobody spoke much during the meal, each too intent on replenishing their strength.
The Commune had been fleeting, but had consumed a vast amount of mental energy due
to the distances it had covered.

Everyone ate heartily, except for Simone Furlong. The Chosen picked at her food, staring
off into space for long moments at a time.

Away with the fairies again
Milandra thought, watching the girl.
She’ll never gain the necessary girth with the amount she eats.
Milandra mentally shrugged. Simone had plenty of time to fill out; Milandra had no
intention of relinquishing her position just yet.

Something else nagged at Milandra. As she and Grant filled the dishwasher, she mentioned
it to him.

“We’ve lost one.”

Grant blinked. “Dead?”

Milandra shook her head. “Closed his mind. Or her mind. I don’t know who it is yet.”

“Will we need to Commune again?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” She nodded towards the desk where her computer stood.
The pings as messages were received had all but ceased. “That should tell us who it
is.”

“I was afraid we’d lose more than one.”

“So was I. Still, I’d rather have not lost any.”

Grant’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Will we need to do something about him, or her?”

“That depends. On what he or she does. If they don’t try to interfere. . . .” Milandra
shrugged. “If they do, well, that’s an entirely different matter.”

* * * * *

On Saturday morning, Peter caught the train into Cardiff. The steady drizzle had not
deterred the Christmas shoppers. Throngs of people crowded St David’s Shopping Centre
and it was impossible to walk in a straight line down Queen Street due to the sheer
volume of foot traffic.

Peter visited his bank and transferred all the money sitting in his savings account
to his current account. Unlike most of his kind, he had never been interested in the
acquisition of riches. Nevertheless, by most standards he was an extremely wealthy
man.

He responded to the bank clerk’s enquiry with a shrug and a smile.

“May as well spend it. Can’t take it with you.” He refrained from adding that money
would soon be worthless. “Now, I also need some cash and a banker’s draft. . . .”

He left the bank with a thousand pounds in cash in his pocket and a banker’s draft
for one hundred thousand pounds in favour of a car dealer on the outskirts of the
city.

Peter did not often go shopping, but knew the layout of Cardiff well. He had lived
in the city for many years. It would have been partly his responsibility to deposit
the contents of the canister that lay under his bed around the capital’s streets,
concentrating on the north of the city, before heading up to Caerphilly and Pontypridd
and Merthyr Tydfil, then up through Mid Wales. Another person would deal with the
city centre before heading east towards Newport and on to Chepstow.

He wondered whether the towns north of Cardiff would escape the worst of what was
to come because of his lack of participation, but doubted it. Many of the people shopping
and working here today would be returning to the northern valley towns that evening,
some of them carrying the infection with them. The evening would bring another contingent
of folk from those towns, coming into the city by bus and train for a night out. They
would awake the following morning with more than hangovers.

In fact, it was likely that many people in those towns were already infected. If the
other person had acted immediately on receiving Milandra’s message, the city centre
would have been contaminated by the previous evening and the Friday night revellers
would have taken home more than they’d bargained for.

Peter also wondered about the other person, probably now on his or her way east, perhaps
even now wandering around Newport city centre. Touching things.

He felt a crazy urge to run through the streets, shouting at people not to touch anything,
to get out, grab their loved ones and disappear into the remotest parts of the planet
they could find. But he didn’t. Even if the most likely outcome wasn’t that he would
be locked up as a madman, it was already too late.

Instead, he made for a camping and outdoor equipment shop. His purchases included
waterproof clothing, a large rucksack that would hold the contents of a sizeable suitcase,
a smaller knapsack, a pair of sturdy hiking boots, a camping stove, waterproof matches,
a wind-up torch and a compass. He stood for some minutes, staring at an olive-green
dome tent, debating whether to buy it. He decided not to on the basis that he should
never be short of places in which to shelter and rest, and if he ever did need to
disappear into some wilderness, acquiring a tent at that point should not be too difficult.

When he left the shop, he was too heavily laden to buy anything else in the city centre,
though he had many more purchases in mind. They would have to wait until next week,
by which time he would have a vehicle.

That
couldn’t wait. He found a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the Land Rover
dealer on Penarth Road. He asked the driver to wait with the meter running and left
his camping purchases on the back seat of the taxi.

He entered the showroom and glanced at the gleaming new vehicles. One caught his attention
immediately, bronzed and glinting under the showroom lights. He walked over to it
and around it, examining and admiring the sleek yet functional bodywork, waiting for
the inevitable approach from a salesman. That was heralded by a polite clearing of
a throat. Peter turned and faced the young man. The salesman glanced down at Peter’s
shabby jeans and scuffed shoes, then back up, no doubt mentally noting the worn overcoat
and general unkempt appearance. Peter had never taken much notice of what he looked
like. He wore clothes in which he felt comfortable and tended to wear the same things
until they fell apart.

The young man cleared his throat again. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “I’d like to buy one of these.” He inclined his head towards the
vehicle.

“But, sir,” spluttered the young man. “It’s the latest Range Rover. These
start
at seventy-one thousand pounds.”

“That’s for the three-litre version, I believe,” said Peter. “I want a four-point-four-litre,
please. Diesel. Eight-gear. Four-wheel drive, naturally. V8, yes?”

“Yes, but . . . Sir, may I ask how you intend financing the purchase?”

“You may,” said Peter. He didn’t normally take pleasure in other people’s discomfort,
but he found he was enjoying watching the young man squirm inside his Italian suit.

“Um, so how. . . . ?”

“Banker’s draft,” said Peter and turned back to the vehicle. “This is a four-point-four-litre,
yes? Is it sold?”

“No, but—”

“I would like it fully road-tested, please,” said Peter. “If they’re not already,
I want all-terrain tyres fitted. If it doesn’t come equipped with a spare tyre—not
those nonsense temporary things—then I want one fitted. I want it delivered to my
home address—I’ll write it down for you—on Tuesday. Full tank of diesel, please.”

“Sir, I’ll have to check with my manager. Um, he’s in the office. I’ll go and get
him . . . um.”

Peter nodded and flapped his hand at the young man as though shooing a bothersome
fly. The young man scooted away.

Peter tried the door handle of the vehicle and was pleased to find it unlocked. He
got into the passenger seat, hearing the unworn leather crackle satisfyingly beneath
his weight, and breathed in the heady aroma of luxurious newness. He was still sitting
there when the young salesman returned with an older version of himself. The older
man cleared his throat.

“Good morning, sir. I understand that you are interested in purchasing this vehicle?”

Peter got out of the car. “That’s right,” he said.

“My assistant Justin here mentioned that you intend to pay by banker’s draft?”

“Correct.” Peter reached beneath his overcoat and dug his wallet from his jeans pocket.
He flipped it open and extracted the banker’s draft. He unfolded it. “This should
be more than adequate to cover the price and my few additional requirements. You may
keep any change.” He held the draft out to the man.

The manager took it and read it. His eyes widened. “Indeed, sir, this will be more
than adequate. Would you like to follow me to my office? Justin, two coffees, please.”

Peter smiled and followed.

Chapter Six

I
t starts with a tickle at the back of the throat. The tickle becomes an irritation
and the throat grows sore, like a scraped knee. It becomes painful to swallow; most
sufferers can only manage thin foods like soup and porridge.

The cough begins: a dry, rasping bark that irritates the throat further. The cough
becomes more phlegmy, more moist, as fluids start to build in the lungs.

Eyes stream and vision grows a little blurred. The nose begins to run, freely at first
but then slowing down like a brook in summer as the fluids thicken.

A slow, dull ache begins behind the eyes. Gradually, as insistent as spilled molasses,
it spreads through the skull until the whole head aches and takes an effort to hold
upright. Light is too bright. Crusty eyes want to close and remain closed.

Joints and muscles grow heavy. Leaden. Listlessness and lethargy steal in like squatters.
When it feels as though arms and legs have become too heavy to lift, most retire to
bed where they will, in the main, remain.

The cough grows more severe, more compelling, expelling thick gobbets of mucus during
violent bouts. The head aches so poundingly that it feels it must burst if only to
release the incessantly-building pressure. Curtains and blinds are drawn tightly shut;
gaps are filled with tape or bin bags or towels: anything that will block the last
of the light, that piercing, blinding, hating light.

Sleep is the only refuge, but not even that comes easily. Burning, icy, sweating,
shivering fevers take hold, causing delirium and fitful wakefulness. Stomachs cramp
as bodies muster their last defences and desperately try to eject invading organisms
through whatever channels seem expedient. By now, the hosts are too weak to get out
of bed for the toilet, and many slip into the last stages lying in their own shit
and piss and vomit.

When the wracking, hacking cough at last breaks, it is too little too late for any
relief to be enjoyed. For around now the brain barricades itself for a last stand
and the host withdraws quietly into a coma.

The last few hours are calm, peaceful, almost serene. The only sound now made by the
body is shallow, irregular breathing; the only movements are the soft rise and fall
of the chest, the occasional flutter of crusted eyelids and the odd involuntary spasm
caused perhaps by a deep dream of happier times.

Breathing becomes more ragged, wetter, as though air is being forced through a throatful
of water. When the water becomes too much, too dense, the breathing ceases.

An averagely fit, middle-aged person takes around six days from that first tickle
to be felt at the back of the throat to expel that last breath. The very young, elderly
and infirm may succumb within three days; the very fit within eight. But succumb nearly
everyone will, drowned in their own bodily fluids.

* * * * *

Milandra sat at her computer, reading the last of the responses she had received to
the e-mail she had sent over twenty-four hours ago. It had taken her most of the night
to plough through them all.

The Deputies had amused themselves reading books from Milandra’s vast collection or
watching DVDs or playing video games or monitoring the internet on tablets or iphones.
Although sorely depleted, their mental energy could easily cope without further depletion
with the mundanity of watching films or reading books.

They interrupted their activities frequently to snack. This was particularly true
for Milandra. Her psychic power had been boosted by the Deputies’, but she had nevertheless
taken the biggest hit. As she sat and read the last of the e-mails, she munched absentmindedly
from a jumbo bag of salted peanuts. She could feel her levels of psychic energy refilling
slowly, oh so slowly, but nevertheless steadily, like filling a swimming pool with
a garden hose. Sunlight would be the better cure, but she was confined to quarters
until this was over. It would take probably another twenty-four hours and a lot more
food before she would feel mentally strong enough to attempt another Commune; not
that she foresaw any reason to have to.

Occasionally, now that it was late morning, Milandra glanced out of her window at
Central Park. Another cold but dry day had brought out the usual crowds of tourists
and locals, taking in the wintry air, scarves and gloves and thick overcoats very
much the order of the day. At present, it looked like any other Saturday morning in
Central Park. Give it a few days and she doubted very much that the scene from her
window would present any appearances of normality.

Milandra sighed and looked back at the computer screen. The list of e-mail addresses
to the left of the screen that had been shrinking as replies were received had now
been reduced to one.

A voice spoke from immediately behind her.

“Is that the one we’ve lost?” It was Grant.

Milandra nodded. “That’s the one.”

Grant bent forward to peer over her shoulder. “[email protected],” he read. “Who
is it?”

“Peter Ronstadt. He’s in Wales in the U.K. I last saw him, oh . . . eighty, ninety
years ago? It was some time before World War II anyhow. He came to see me in Florida
when his ship was in port. He was in the merchant navy.”

“And did he show any signs. . . . ?”

Milandra thought hard. The current dilapidated state of her mental powers did not
adversely affect her memories; it was just that she had so many of the darned things.
Had he given any clues, any insight that he would one day break away?

“I don’t think so. Though . . . hmm. . . .”

Milandra’s brow furrowed as a memory tried to break through. She could see Ronstadt
sitting in front of her on the veranda of the villa, iced drink in hand, and something
had bothered her. Something about him that seemed obtuse, clouded, as though he was
concealing something. Yes, she had. . . .

“I probed,” she said. “Just a little. But I met resistance. Peter looked flustered,
but the resistance receded and there was nothing there of concern. Nothing at all.
Except. . . .”

She thought hard again, trying to snag that wisp of memory. Grant knew better than
to interrupt.

“That’s it,” she said. “There
was
something there, something that he whisked away as soon as he felt me probe. But
not before I’d caught a glimmer. It was something to do with a woman.”

“A
human
woman?” asked Grant.

“Yes. I am very much afraid that it was.”

“What shall we do?”

Milandra shook her head. “This changes nothing. If he was involved with a human, she’ll
be long dead. No. We’ll leave Peter alone. So long as he doesn’t try to interfere.”

* * * * *

“So how was your day?” Tom asked after he had taken Lisa’s coat and thrust a glass
of wine into her hand. She sipped it gratefully.

“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “Well, the world and his wife were in Cardiff today.
You’d swear shopping is about to be banned or something. And it rained the whole time
I was there. Think I’ve caught a chill. My throat’s really sore.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tom. “Come on through to the living room and relax. There’s chicken
and jacket potatoes in the oven. They’ll be ready in about an hour.”

“Mmm. Smells good.”

Lisa went first, Tom following close behind. He watched her backside move beneath
the tight skirt and couldn’t help wondering whether the sheer, dark nylon that covered
her firm calves belonged to tights or stockings. He swallowed hard.

They sat together on the settee and chatted about work and Christmas and family. Lisa
also lived in the village, with her parents and younger sister, about five minutes’
walk from Tom’s house.

Over dinner, they opened another bottle of wine. Tom noticed that Lisa occasionally
grimaced as she swallowed a mouthful of chicken.

“Is your throat getting worse?” he asked.

Lisa sighed. “Is it that noticeable?” She put down her knife and fork, and raised
one hand to her neck, rubbing it. “Feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper and
then had vinegar poured down it.” She glanced down at her half-empty plate. “Tom,
this is really delicious, but . . . I feel awful. Do you mind?”

“No, Lisa, that’s fine. Leave it. I’ll warm it up tomorrow for my lunch.”

“Oh, you’re a gent,” she said, reaching across and grasping his hand. “You’d best
keep your distance this evening. Don’t want you coming down with it, too, do we?”

Tom gripped her hand tightly. “Think I’ll take my chances,” he said.

Lisa smiled and gave a low chuckle.

It turned out that she was wearing stockings.

Later, as she was leaving, Lisa reached up and clenched her hands behind Tom’s neck.
She kissed him.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she murmured.

“Are you sure you won’t stay?”

She nodded. “You know what it’s like when you’re feeling under the weather. Just want
to sleep in your own bed. Although my throat feels a little less sore now. Probably
all the wine.” She giggled, but pulled away from Tom as the laughter broke into a
brief coughing fit.

“At least let me walk you home,” said Tom.

“Don’t be daft. It’s only round the corner. Besides, I’ve lived in Penmawr all my
life. I know everyone. If someone tries to attack me, I’ll scream and people will
come running. Anyway, who’s going to attack me in this village? It’s too dull.”

Tom placed a kiss on the mole on her cheek; her Monroe mole he called it. “Okay, Miss
Stubborn. But text me when you’re home.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Hey, less of that! I’m nowhere near old enough to be your father.”

“True. Three years older is about perfect. When we’re old and doddery, you’ll be the
first to go and I can live like a queen off your pension.”

“Killing me off already? And who said we’re going to be together when we’re old and
doddery?”

Lisa raised her eyebrows and smiled. She leaned forward and kissed him again.

Tom watched her walk away, her breath pluming in the cold night air. Before she was
out of sight, she turned and waved. Then she was gone.

* * * * *

Canberra is relatively small by the capital city standards of London or Paris or Mexico
City and Bishop had it covered without incident by Sunday lunchtime. Civil servants
and politicians arriving for work on Monday, only days before the Christmas recess,
would be spreading more than seasonal joy when they returned home to their families
for the holidays.

On his way out of the city, he called at the airport for good measure and transferred
Moondust to handles of trolleys and keypads of ticket machines.

Then he drove in a gentle south-easterly direction back to the coast. Allowing for
stops to distribute Moondust at settlements along the way and to refuel both himself
and the Mazda, Bishop reckoned to be in Melbourne by Tuesday.

As he drove towards the ocean, the afternoon sun on his face, the wind whipping his
tawny hair, Bishop whooped. He turned the radio up and bellowed along to some rock
tunes, keeping time with his hand on the steering wheel, occasionally sprinkling specks
of Moondust from his fingers as he drove through some one-horse burg not worthy of
a stop. A little more than one third of the contents of the canister remained. Plenty
to finish off Melbourne. Bishop suspected that by the time he arrived at the city,
the disease would have beaten him there.

He lifted his chin to the sky and let out another long
Whooop!

After decades of inaction, of boredom, of being burdened by a pressing sense of impotence,
Bishop was once more a man driven by purpose. Life was once again good.

* * * * *

If asked, Diane Heidler wouldn’t be able to say with any confidence what type of car
she had rented in L.A. International Airport. She’d wave a hand vaguely and reply,
“Oh, it’s a Mercedes or a BMW or something like that. . . .”

In truth, she had chosen it for its colour: a rich, metallic red like deep-vein blood.
And it looked comfortable. She told the clerk she needed it for a week or two and
paid two weeks’ rental in cash. She said she’d drop it back to the airport and didn’t
blush in the slightest at the lie.

Diane left the airport, knuckles white on the steering wheel as she negotiated the
evening traffic. She drove in a wide loop back to Downtown and, by the time she was
close to her former apartment, she had relaxed somewhat as she grew accustomed to
the car. Nevertheless, she drove hesitantly, like a lost tourist, and was honked at
more than once by impatient drivers.

She drove around until she found a parking space at the side of the road large enough
that she didn’t have to reverse into it, got out with her knapsack and spent a little
time walking and touching things. She passed her apartment building and considered
for a moment going in, but almost immediately dismissed the notion. She settled for
grabbing the worn chrome door handle with powder-dusted fingers.

The sky was beginning to darken as she returned to the car, the other people on the
sidewalks were becoming more sinister-looking, at least to her eyes, and she was glad
to regain the plush interior and lock the doors. She was aware of one or two young
men eyeing her car and she could feel their calculating regard as she drove thankfully
away.

Diane turned south and made for Long Beach, stopping only briefly once or twice along
the way, not venturing more than ten yards from the car, just far enough to run her
fingers along a bench or wall or railing.

She did the same at Long Beach, not straying out of easy reach of the car that now
looked the colour of ripe cherries in the halogen wash of the streetlights and like
the stain of dried blood in unlit areas.

Leaving Long Beach, she followed the coast for miles, stopping briefly at the various
beaches that she passed—Huntingdon, Newport, Laguna—and marinas and viewing points,
never staying long enough to draw attention to herself, though most places were virtually
deserted on this December night that had grown chilly with the promise of another
shower.