A Lovely Way to Burn (22 page)

She was back in suburbia. The houses scrolling past were neat-edged, the pavements beyond them punctuated by overflowing dustbins and piled with rubbish. The car’s windows were closed, but the smell of something rotten slipped inside, the scent of a fruit-market gutter at the end of a long hot day.

Shops had been looted, the radio announcer said in a distant voice, as if making clear that it was nothing to do with him; cars and buildings set on fire, people driven from their homes. Police resources had been stretched, he warned, but with the help of the Army, the authorities were re-establishing order.

The streets beyond the car windows were empty, the only movement the wind ruffling the trees and trembling the tops of privet hedges in need of a trim.

‘Re-establishing order,’ Stevie repeated under her breath. The impact of the policeman’s baton had shaken the whole car. Even if she managed to discover who had murdered Simon, Stevie wasn’t sure what she would do with the information. Save it, she supposed. Collect the evidence and store it until things returned to normal.

‘At least it was the police and not the Army,’ she said out loud to comfort herself.

Her words might have conjured the soldiers. Stevie turned the corner and saw four of them, standing in front of a barrier blocking the road. She considered turning back, but they were cradling machine guns and though Stevie couldn’t quite believe they would shoot her, she slowed the Mini to a halt and rolled down the window, hoping the shattered glass would hold.

Twenty-Eight

The soldier who approached was young and dressed in desert fatigues.

‘There’s a curfew.’

He was Scottish, with an accent that made her think of slums and razor gangs; his eyes were framed by wire-rimmed glasses, his chin speckled with acne. The combination made him look like an intelligent schoolboy who had been pressed into service.

‘I’m sorry.’ Stevie glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 6.30 a.m. ‘Doesn’t it end when the sun comes up?’

‘You’re thinking about vampires.’ The soldier’s expression was serious. ‘They knock off at sun-up. The curfew ends at 7 a.m.’

‘I’m heading home.’ In the past few days, lying had become second nature. ‘I spent the night at a friend’s.’

Someone said something into the soldier’s headpiece and he looked away, towards the lightening dawn, as if the instructions were coming from above. The tinny voice stopped and the soldier bent towards her window, still keeping his distance.

‘Is it more than three miles away?’

‘No.’

It was another lie, as smooth and automatic as the previous one.

‘Okay, turn off the engine and step out of the car.’

The gun was still resting in the soldier’s arms. It was turned away from Stevie, towards the empty street, but now that she could see it up close, it was all too easy to imagine him putting his finger on the trigger and aiming it towards her.

‘Why?’

‘I need to check your boot.’

‘What for?’

‘Okay?’ one of the soldiers by the barrier shouted and the boy by the car called back, ‘Aye fine, just the usual twenty bloody questions.’ He squatted down on his haunches and looked at her. ‘You can get into big trouble for breaking the curfew. Did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘You should do, it’s all over the news. Now stop making me look like a plonker and get out of the car.’

Stevie turned off the ignition. Her hands were still trembling, but she didn’t shift from the driver’s seat.

‘I’m not moving until you tell me why I should.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ the soldier said. ‘Do you see what I’m wearing?’

‘Yes.’

He tapped the barrel of his machine gun.

‘And do you know what this is?’

‘Of course.’ Stevie kept eye contact with the soldier. There were lines and shadows on his skin at odds with his youth. ‘I’m not trying to be awkward. I just feel safer inside the car.’

Some of the defensiveness went from the soldier’s face and for a second he looked frail. It was like glimpsing the interior of a house from the window of a train. A sudden intimate view, gone before you had time to register the details. He glanced at the barrier where his comrades were waiting and when he turned his attention back to Stevie, his toughness was restored.

‘No one’s going to hurt you. I just need to make sure you’ve not been looting, and then you can go on your way.’

‘You promise?’

The soldier drew a finger diagonally, one way and then another, across his chest.

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He made a face and looked upwards to where high command or God was watching. ‘I take that second part back.’

Stevie opened the door and stepped on to the road. The sky was flushed rosy pink, and there was a scent of bonfires in the air, as if summer had vanished and autumn arrived early.

The soldier asked, ‘What happened to your window?’

‘Someone threw something at it.’

He nodded, as if it was only to be expected, and walked round to the back of the car. Stevie followed him and opened the boot. There was nothing inside except for a half-empty bottle of screen wash, a travelling rug and a bundle of newspapers destined for recycling. She shoved the lot into a corner and rolled back the bottom of the boot to reveal the spare tyre and jack stored beneath.

‘Can I go now?’

The soldier’s radio was squawking again. He held up a hand, palm outwards, commanding silence.

‘Roger that.’ It was as if the radio controlled the official part of him. It died and the soldier muttered, ‘Fuck,’ beneath his breath. He looked at her. ‘Pull over to the side of the road and wait in your vehicle.’ He must have seen the rebellion in her face because he said, ‘This road has to be kept clear for priority traffic.’ He raised a hand to the men at the barrier and shouted, ‘They’re on their way.’ One of them waved to show that they had heard, and the three soldiers set about shifting the hurdle that formed their barricade.

Stevie got into the car. The soldier slapped her roof with the flat of his hand and pointed to where he wanted her to park.

She said, ‘How long will I have to wait?’

‘You’re asking the wrong man. This was meant to go through hours ago. It’ll take as long as it takes.’

‘Can’t I go back the way I came?’

‘You’re not much of a listener, are you? If I were you I’d sit back and get a bit of shut-eye.’

‘I’d rather sleep in my own bed.’

‘Wouldn’t we all?’ The soldier grinned. ‘Do you know where I’m meant to be right now?’ He didn’t wait for her to reply. ‘Up in Glasgow with my wife and three-year-old. The wife’s mother’s sick and she insists on looking after her. I’ve told her to keep the boy well away, but it’s a small flat and my wife’s never been a great one for following orders, unlike me.’ He looked at her. ‘The lads over there are the same. Straight back from a three-month tour, no decompression time, all leave cancelled. We’re nice guys. Peace lovers, but it’s not a good idea to go around breaking curfews and arguing with squaddies. If my commanding officer tells me to shoot someone, I shoot them and they stay shot, understand?’

Stevie nodded.

‘Don’t look so worried.’ He gave her a smile that made him look like a child soldier, young, but already marked by symptoms of an old age he would never reach. ‘I doubt it’ll come to that.’

Stevie manoeuvred the car into place, checked the petrol gauge and then turned off the engine. The tank was half full, but supplies might be getting low and she should think about refuelling if she was to stay mobile. She made sure the door was locked and then stretched back in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes.

Mobile.

Stevie opened her eyes and rummaged in her bag for her phone. Iqbal’s number was logged under missed calls. She stared out at the soldiers. They were still standing beside the open barrier gazing straight ahead, unsmiling, as if each one was encased in his own distinct world. Stevie wondered what ‘priority traffic’ they were waiting for.

She pressed call-back and lifted the phone to her ear. Iqbal answered on the third ring.

‘Are you okay?’

He sounded anxious and Stevie felt a jolt of regret. It had been a mistake to sleep with him.

‘Yes, fine.’

‘The government’s declared a curfew.’

‘I know.’ She heard the remoteness in her voice and tried to inject some warmth into it. ‘Is the Internet still working?’

‘Yes,’ Iqbal said. ‘It’s weird. It seems like half the city has lost power and the other half’s going on as if nothing unusual is happening.’

‘That’s a good sign, surely.’

‘Maybe, but if everyone stayed at home there’d be less chance of the virus spreading.’

Stevie wondered if it was a comment on her early-morning defection from the warmth of his bed.

‘People need to come out some time, if only to get food.’

There was silence on the line. Stevie imagined Iqbal sitting at his desk in the not-quite-sterile apartment he had stocked for a siege.

He said, ‘People need to avoid contact with each other to give scientists enough time to come up with an antidote or a vaccine, before the virus spreads too far.’

She remembered what Dr Chu had said about doctors’ failure to cure the common cold.

‘That could take years.’

‘So what would you suggest?’

‘I don’t know. We carry on and hope for the best?’

Iqbal’s laugh sounded as if it belonged to an older man.

‘This is war, Stevie. The virus is the enemy. We have to wipe it out before it annihilates us.’

One of the soldiers at the barrier had taken out a packet of cigarettes. He offered them to his comrades, but the Scot said something to him and he shoved the pack back in the pocket of his uniform jacket, without lighting up.

‘What would your solution be?’ Stevie asked. ‘Paint crosses on victims’ doors, or lock them up in concentration camps?’

‘Phrases like concentration camp are over-emotive. Infected people should volunteer for isolation. Anything else is selfish.’

Stevie saw Simon’s face again, the way his mouth had hung open, gums receding to reveal the length of his teeth, the unnatural smile grinning at her from the rumpled bed, familiar and strange.

Perhaps Iqbal also remembered Simon’s death, because his voice softened.

‘At least that way they wouldn’t take anyone with them.’

Over by the barrier, the Scottish soldier was saying something into his radio. Stevie rolled the car window down a crack. She smelt the autumn scent of smoking wood and, beneath it, something sweet and familiar that made her think of compost and rotting leaves. The trees shifted in the wind and whatever the soldier was relaying was lost in the sound of their gusting branches. She slid the window back in place and asked Iqbal, ‘Do you think that’s why they’ve imposed a curfew? To avoid the sweats from spreading?’

‘I think the curfew’s about public order. The government don’t have the balls or the manpower to order people to stay in their houses indefinitely. Right now they seem more concerned with protecting property than lives.’ Stevie wondered how Iqbal, who had isolated himself in his home, knew more about the situation than she did. ‘I’ve got some good news for you.’ His voice was eager again. ‘I managed to hack into Dr Sharkey’s emails.’

The sound of a diesel engine and heavy wheels rumbled into the early-morning stillness. Stevie looked up and saw an army lorry driving through the open checkpoint. The lorry was olive green, unmarked and without windows. One of the waiting soldiers removed his cap and lowered his head as it passed. The others followed suit.

Stevie wondered if Iqbal had read any of the messages she had sent to Simon, but kept the thought to herself and asked, ‘Is there anything that stands out?’

‘It’s mainly medical stuff, way above my head, but Dr Sharkey kept an online scheduler that sent daily reminders of appointments to his inbox. I hacked into it too and cross-referenced his appointments with his emails, to see what he was up to before he died.’

The ease with which Iqbal had managed to shatter the illusion of privacy appalled her, but Stevie asked, ‘What did you find?’

‘Dates with you were awarded an emoticon, a smiley face.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Three days before his Web presence ceased, Dr Sharkey was meant to meet a journalist, Geoffrey Frei.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘No?’ Iqbal sounded surprised. ‘He’s an investigative journalist who writes popular science pieces on medical corruption. His last book concentrated on the drug industry. It was a bestseller. I read it.’ Stevie heard the sound of paper being shuffled. ‘I compared some dates and discovered that Geoffrey Frei was in the news a lot the week Dr Sharkey died.’

Stevie could still see the lorry in her rear-view mirror, travelling at the slow pace of a funeral cortège. The Scots soldier left his companions by the barrier and walked towards her car.

‘Iqbal, I’m sorry, but I’m about to be moved on,’ she said. The soldier pointed towards the road and mouthed something that might have been
straight home
. Stevie gave him a nod and gunned the engine into life. ‘I’m going to have to phone you back.’