The Pestilence (15 page)

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 didn'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.

***

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 thoughts 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.

“Hey, I'm pretty cool,” he said sounding dull and uninteresting. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Syria and our convoy got hit by an RPG?”

Miranda ignored him. “Why didn't you come back earlier Dad? Why didn't you come back years ago?”

Bill gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “I guess,” he said, “I got caught up in the madness of my work. I don't know. Imagine you are doing your favourite stroke at a swimming competition.”

“One-hundred IM and it's a meet, not a competition.”

“Right, you're swimming the one-hundred IM at a meet. When you are racing you're in the zone, you are focused. You don't want to be anywhere else. All you want is to win.”

Miranda nodded, she knew the feeling.

“I guess, for me, work was like swimming race after race in a weird marathon of never-ending meets. I thought by reporting what was going on I was helping. Saying look at this, isn't it horrible, let's not do this again. I know it sounds sad, but I thought that the next story, the next assignment was the one that would make the world sit up and take notice.” Bill looked over at Miranda. “But now I realise the pointlessness of what I was doing. I haven't changed anything. All I ended up doing was losing sight of the things that were truly important.” Bill caught Miranda's eye. “First I lost your mother, then I lost you in the race.”

Miranda said nothing. She hugged her legs tighter to her chest and rested her cheek on her knees watching her father as he wove his way through the London traffic. He had taken one hand off the steering wheel and rested it on his thigh. He had a calming serenity about him, she saw nobility and felt an unexpected burst of pride at having him next to her. She reached across and put her hand over his. The tip of her middle finger touched the spot where Hazel had stabbed him six days ago. That small section was unmistakably warmer than the rest of his hand.

“So why now?”

Bill shrugged and shook his head. He was unable to fathom the depths of his own intentions. He looked out onto the traffic knowing that this short journey was almost at an end. He wished they could keep driving, continue up the A1 heading north on the longest road in Britain. Ideally he wished he could drive back in time, try again and get it right. Having Miranda close brought a sense of purpose and clarity to his life and he knew then that he wouldn't let her go again.

“Don't You Want Me” by the Human League sounded throughout the car. “What in the world is this?” said Miranda. Bill whistled along to the musical intro and pointed to his phone which was leaping out of the cup holder in the dashboard.

“Shall I answer?” said Miranda.

“Put it on speaker.”

“Bill, it's Mariam.” She was breathless; a stream of consciousness erupted down the phone line. “Have you seen the news? I can't believe it. Who would do this to us? It's no one's business but mine and Samuel's.”

“Mariam, just slow down, one thing at a time.” For the first time in decades; the news was the last thing on Bill's mind. He shot Miranda a “what news” look and she punched in the CNN website on her phone and held up the screen for Bill to see.

“Mariam, I'm just seeing it now. Yikes.”

“It's horrible. It really is.”

“Is that actually you on camera?”

“Yes.” The panicky edge that had initially gripped Mariam's voice had dissolved into one of resigned grief.

“Mariam, it's a one news cycle story, just ignore it. You can't–”

“I can't ignore it, the fucking footage is everywhere.” The panic was back. Bill cringed at Mariam's language. He looked over at Miranda, who pretended she hadn't heard. “I'm in the middle of the Healed camp in Haran. They adore Samuel here. It feels like everyone is staring at me. News is your business, Bill. Tell me what can I do about this?”

Bill took a moment before answering. “Mariam, let me be straight,” said Bill gently. “Once this stuff's out there, it's out there. Nothing you say will make it go away. You simply have to let it blow over. Doing anything else will just keep the story running.”

Mariam stayed silent, letting Bill's advice sink in.

“Let me see if I can call up a buddy at CNN and find out how it broke. Whoever put it up had obvious malicious intent, attacking Samuel through you.”

“Okay,” said Mariam quietly. “I will be at my mother's, you have the number. Where are you? The dial tone was different.”

“I am back in London with my daughter.”

“I didn't know you had one. Well, send her mine and Samuel's love. Speak soon.” With that Mariam clicked off the phone.

They continued to glide along the road.

“You know Samuel Srour?” said Miranda.

“Yep, I broke the story.”

“What's he like Dad?”

“What he can do, you know, his powers they are truly awe inspiring and I believe they could change the world. As a person, he is quiet, thoughtful and pretty normal. I like him a lot.” Bill smiled to himself. “So do you want me to drive you to swimming?”

Miranda paused for a second. “No thanks, Mum normally takes me. She likes a poolside gossip with the other swimming mums.”

Bill nodded, fair enough.

“Dad, can I ask you something else?”

Bill nodded again.

“Are you one of the Healed?”

“Yes,” he answered emphatically. “See, not so dull and uninteresting after all.”

Miranda smiled. “I never said you were.”

***

Timeline: The Pestilence minus 10 days. Information source: Healed camp proposal: Distribution of surplus assets.

Proposer:
Dalia Srour

Seconder:
Rami Hussein

Proposal:
Due to the goodwill of the public and our fellow Healed the camp in Haran has a surplus of resources. We have far more than is required to complete the building of the farm and to support the camp-site. This proposal (“Proposal”) seeks to authorise the use of the extra money, materials and skills on other projects proposed and run by the Healed.

Each new project would need to be proposed and submitted for approval at the Haran camp. Successful projects will be allocated the required finances, material and skills. Thereafter these individual projects should be self-sustaining with management structures mirroring the direct participation model used by the Haran camp.

Supporting Comments, Author Rami Hussein
: It is important to use what we are achieving here, our unique way of working and living together to help others. Here in Haran, we have more than we need to fulfil the tasks we have set ourselves. We should be channelling the outpouring of goodwill that Samuel is generating to help others in need. Anywhere a Healed stands up to support his or her community we should be there standing shoulder to shoulder to ensure the Healed have the resources to make the changes that are necessary.

It is also equally important that we build on the principles of mass participation that we have established at the Haran camp and that is why we have included in the Proposal the requirement for new projects to mirror the structure we have here. It is crucial that all key decisions are taken through simple majority voting, there is full participation in decision making and a rotating team leadership to ensure no council or project leader emerges to override the group decision-making process.

What we have here is a good thing. The Proposal seeks to replicate this where it is needed in other places, in other projects and camps. No longer are we powerless, no longer do we look to distant others for leadership. As individuals we all decide, as a collective we walk our individual paths together.

Comments Against the Proposal
: None submitted.

Voting Results:

Approve: 97%

Reject: 0%

Amend: 3%

Conclusion:
Proposal approved

***

Timeline: The Pestilence minus 9 days. Information source: Text messages between Victor Pierre Chaput and Stefano Grigori.

Victor Pierre Chaput: How did this footage leak? I thought you deleted all copies.

Stefano Grigori: I did. Impossible that the leak came from Decapolis.

Victor Pierre Chaput: This is disappointing.

Stefano Grigori: We are investigating the source of the leak.

Victor Pierre Chaput: Fine, but keep up your vigilance and concentrate on keeping our miraculous friend safe.

***

VICTOR didn't know how it first got into his psyche, but he couldn't get the words of the song out of his head. It was stuck on a continuous loop. He found himself initially humming the tune at breakfast and by lunch it had turned into a full-blown orchestral movement.

The CEO's office was, of course, completely sound proofed and contained a mechanism whereby the glass walls would turn opaque at the touch of a button. Victor and the CEO were alone in song and Victor was in full voice:

“With Friar Tuck and Little John they had a roguish look,

They did the deed the others wouldn't dare.

He captured all the money that the evil sheriff took,

And rescued many a lady fair.”

He was almost done with this one. He was a social media tycoon so obviously new money, completely unrefined and slovenly. Victor stood behind the man one hand clamped down on his forehead the other grabbing his dirty ponytail. To Victor's relief he recalled that Celine had packed his hand sanitiser in his briefcase.

Since Victor had rescued the near disaster of the meeting with Connor Bradley, he had completely given up on the hard way. Why intentionally make life more difficult for yourself, he thought. The easy way lacked the intellectual challenge but damn it was simple. Victor absolutely belted out the song's chorus:

“Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen,

Robin Hood, Robin Hood with his band of men… “

For the next few lines Victor closed his eyes and sang in a glorious baritone:

“Feared by the bad,

Loved by the good,

Robin Hood,

Robin Hood,

Robin Hood.”

The song was done. Victor was done. He performed an impromptu little jig and opened his eyes. To his horror he saw the CEO's personal assistant standing timorously in the doorway. She made hesitant eye contact with him and half turned to leave. Victor had no idea what she had seen or heard, but he was quick to speak.

“Come, quick, I think he is having some sort of fit, quickly, quickly.” He beckoned her into the office. She naturally hesitated. Her mind hadn't quite processed what her eyes and ears had witnessed. Victor laced his voice with urgency. “Quickly, he needs you. Come on.” Victor stepped away from the man giving the assistant a clear run to her boss. The CEO slumped forward and his assistant rushed past Victor to tend him. The office door automatically and silently closed behind her.

The CEO would be out for a few more minutes but the woman tried desperately to rouse him. Victor slipped behind her and grabbed the woman's hair, forcing her head back and pulling her down to the ground. She had time to scream and flail before Victor clamped his free hand down onto her forehead. Victor concentrated and the woman felt a small electrical discharge similar to a static shock emanating from Victor's fingers. The song once again started up in Victor's head.