A local radio station, a golden oldie slot, and they were playing his song in the empty pub. He sipped his lunchtime lager, waiting for the kick that would numb his sense of who he was. He wiped the froth of beer from his mouth and wished he could wipe away the froth of memory the tune stirred up. His reflection in the glass behind the bar showed a puffy, beery face, thinning brown hair, and eyes as lifeless as those of a corpse.
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Ann and Pat had been friends since childhood, often meeting for a meal and a few drinks. Such it was this evening at the local pub, catching up on the goings-on in their lives.
Suddenly a record came on. Looking at each other a smile led to giggles, singing along as they had in their younger days.
”What a blast from the past,” Ann laughed, reddening. She remembered those days. ”To think that was my first love, Jamie Adams.”
Pat roared with laughter: ”Lust more likely!!”
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I was in the school library one day, reading a dog-eared book on Isaac Newton when I happened to notice that a girl sitting at a nearby table had taken a shine to me. I could tell because I spotted her reflection by way of the window and couldn’t fail to note her dreamy eyes, chewed lip, and the bashfulness stamped across her face. No other way of looking at it, someone was infatuated with me.
That was odd, because A, this girl, (tall, ginger, with a bit of a chin) usually shot me a look of complete disdain whenever we encountered each other, which I suppose in retrospect was a defence mechanism.
And B, Jesus, why would anyone take a shine to me? The school had made it perfectly plain that I was at the bottom of the heap, shoved into a pigeonhole marked “Spaz” which the higher-ups gladly pissed into.
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“Hello Madge, I haven’t seen you round here for ages, popping back to see your folks are you?”
“Oh, hi Ange, something like that.”
“And how’s that gorgeous hubby of yours, keeping well is he? Still playing his guitar?”
“I presume so, I don’t really know, the fact of the matter is that we’ve split up.”
“Oo, sorry to hear that, trust me to put my foot in it. How you coping then, fancy a drink?”
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Scene 1.
The signs had been there for days. Steve, always a stickler for rules, had studied the conflicting government guidance and erred on the side of safety. Standing before the blinking red light, he was unrecognisable in a white Hazmat suit, respirator face-mask and blue protective gloves. Not that there was anyone else present to recognise him.
“Only one flash per second. Dear old boy, not much life left. ” He breathed out long and slow, turned away and brushing a hand to cheek, made for the door. Note to self… alcohol gel NOW and don’t touch your face!
Following the science of the most cautious of experts, – complete disrobing, bagging up the PPE for secure disposal, throwing contaminated clothes in for a 90 degree wash, swabbing down all surfaces, having a hot shower and full change of clothes, followed by a UV dose of garden sun – all this was now such a familiar routine.
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A small group gathered by the gate shaking their heads in subdued silence. Each wore dull colours and sensible shoes. Some clutched bunches of drooping spring flowers which mimicked their own demeanour. Occasionally little bursts of conversation gurgled to the surface. It wasn’t a day for the customary jovial exchanges.
It took me completely by surprise. If I’d known, I could have taken better care. Could have covered things up a bit.
I know. There was no real warning was there? Now I’ve lost everything. I’ll just have to start all over again. It’s just so sad and upsetting.
Well, we’ve all suffered the loss in different ways. For me, it was my special Marguerite.
There were early attempts to pick up the pieces and put forward a more positive view of events. After all, not everything was completely lost and there was time for most to begin again.
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Oswald, aged 120, a spry wrinkled gentleman with flowing grey locks and all his own teeth, sat in his armchair. His chair was strategically placed as near as possible to the reception desk next to the Nursing Home door, he was waiting for his next victim.
Most of the residents had warned their relatives about him, nearly always too late of course, as Ossie was always in his prime position keeping his ears alert for the ring of the doorbell, and keeping a vigilant watch through the bay window for any approaching prey.
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Death was being promoted. She had been second in command for eons and now it was her turn. She didn’t know how it happened, in that line of work who knew how anything happened. Anyway, she was going to give it her best shot, after all, she knew the ropes.
What nobody ever knew was that she still had a tiny spark of humanity left which she had hidden well for all of these centuries.
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Laying in my hospital bed surrounded by machines beeping and whirling. Family sitting anxiously nearby. Doctors and nurses silently hovering. I can’t believe the doctors are telling my family that now it’s in God’s hands; they can do no more. How silly is that?
I can hear everything, just can’t open my eyes. They are just too heavy. Going to be fine, just need to rest a little while longer.
Death does not frighten me, I just don’t feel it’s my time. This condition I have is no fun to live with. There have been many scares over the years but I have always pulled through. How can I leave my children and grandchildren? They need me.
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Trevor could always trump what you were saying.
‘Serious accident on the Mumbles Road,’ a fellow said. ‘They sent an ambulance.’
‘Two,’ said Trevor. ‘The second came straight after. Multiple injuries, see.’
‘There was a police car there as well,’ the fellow said.
‘And a helicopter,’ Trevor added. ‘Carnage, deaths, blood.’
Another time a woman said she’d seen a naval boat in the bay. The Royal Navy in Swansea Bay? What were they doing: shopping at Sainsburys in the Marina? Then Trevor announced:
‘Escorted by a submarine. Top secret, apparently. Came to the surface for a moment. Spotted it at once, I did.’
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Jim tuned the radio to the shipping forecast, taking him back to his navy days. Back when a soothing voice could help navigate stormy seas. No such guidance now. No telling whether Sue’s cancer was progressing at a rate of forty-five knots or greater. But it was comforting to know that Biscay was south-west six to gale eight as he made her tea.
He poured the water into the teapot. Their best china, because what had been the point of saving it? What occasion were they ever waiting for? He remembered buying this set on their honeymoon at the flea market in Paris. Sue’s eyes had lit up at the sight of the gold-rimmed birds perched among vibrant blossoms. He’d have paid any price for it, to make her happy. Still, it had pleased him to strike a bargain and demonstrate his bartering skills, not to mention his French. She’d stood on her tiptoes and kissed him full on the lips in front of everyone in the market, and he’d felt his cheeks flush with pride. He was the luckiest man alive.
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Cat was a clever cat.
She had escaped the traps that were put down on occasion to catch the feral cats that lived around the old factory.
It was really hard to do this though, the smell of the food in there was really enticing as the whole colony was starving. She had seen others go in and some came back but a lot didn’t.
Unfortunately, cat was very tired, she was still only young but felt very old. She had had so many litters of kittens, and was finding it harder and harder to feed them. She was so hungry herself and knew by their mewling that they were starving.
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Depending on who is asking, Dominic has two standard answers. Either:
I work as a customer service advisor
(He works on the shop floor at B and Q and sometimes shows people where items are to be found)
Or, he says:
I am an artist; a writer.
To some extent the selected response depends on where he is and what he is wearing. For example, he is far more likely to be a writer if wearing his battered Lenin cap and drinking in an unfamiliar pub.
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Racing through the undergrowth my heart pounding, slipping and sliding on the uneven ground. My brain racing. Which way to run? Sounds crashing behind me. Who are they, why are they chasing me?
Gut wrenching fear. Where am I? Animals and birds screeching in the trees, sending out alarm calls. A swelling of sounds. Humid air filling my lungs like treacle. I know I can’t carry on for much longer, but terror is pushing me forward.
The canopy starts to open up and a river bank appears. Without thought I dive straight in and start swimming. Reaching the middle of the river I see a log drifting towards me. Floating towards me as it nears, I can see two evil eyes focused on me. As it gets nearer it opens its huge mouth, fangs glint in the sunshine. It almost seems to smile at me.
I’m screaming out loud, then a hand touches me. Gently my mother’s voice is coaxing me to wake up. Trembling I fall into her arms crying, ‘It’s going to eat me.’ Smiling, she said, ‘Told you not to have cheese before bed, it gives you nightmares!!!!’
The Mass was interminable and the priest couldn’t even remember his name. The burial was worse, raining non-stop. And in the pub afterwards, distant relatives sat gawping at her. They were part of Robert’s extended brood from the countryside. Uncouthness clung to them like agricultural muck on your shoes.
They were the first to leave, most of them with barely a word of commiseration. A middle-aged cousin stopped by her table, as unsure of himself as a ewe before a sheepdog.
‘So like, y’ know… he’ll be missed. Good fellow he was… yeah.’
Missed? By whom? she’d wanted to say. But the ‘whom’ would probably have confused him.
‘Time to go home, Mum.’
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Those were my brother’s last words to me as our phone call ended. I was quite taken aback. Was this outbreak really going to be that serious? Those words haunted me for days.
His letter from his GP had stated to stay in for twelve weeks, shielding they called it. We would still be able to phone each other, or even use Skype or Zoom, but would that really be enough.
I had not even considered him in the past, when I jetted off around the world for months on end, so why did this feel different. As the daily death tolls rose, so did my worries.
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Sue was ostensibly wiping the dining table but in reality discreetly “monitoring” Ravi’s progress in preparing breakfast independently. One last sweep with antiseptic wipes and it would be done.
Final assignment topic Maximising Independence. “Evidence a challenging scenario, choose your own title ” her practice teacher had instructed.
Caring in the time of Coronavirus. Challenging enough? was her unvoiced riposte. That’s the title she thought. Ravi was the obvious star. 59 years old and before she had become his key-worker 6 months previously, he had never used a kettle or microwave in 40 years living at SeaView Court Supported Living. Now, look at him.
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Ellie reported for work in the intensive care ward of her hospital, a job she loved. One name popped up in the daily briefing. Bile rose in her throat, her hands were shaking. It took all her self-control to calm down.
Bed number 6 was her step-father, a man she loathed, suffering from a breathing problem, at present on high levels of oxygen. Memories raced through her mind of her beautiful confident mother reduced to a mouse-like creature. Years of put downs, how she would never amount to anything as she was too stupid.
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It was an extraordinary few weeks to have lived through. The causes have never been fully revealed, although many have subsequently attempted to attribute blame, and no end of conspiracy theories continue to circulate – as though lessons still have not been learned. All I can do is offer an account of the way it seemed to me.
It was in the middle of the Era of Unpleasantness, a time of destruction, disease and self-interest, which had befallen humankind. There were some attempts to mitigate the worst cruelties to people and the natural world but these were often crushed and were never likely to change completely the way things were.
My first inkling was when my books seemed to have turned into blank paper. How very strange, and particularly so when my computer files seemed to be doing the same thing. When I tried to call friends, the phone merely gave out mechanical beeps. Neighbours waved but couldn’t talk. It seemed as though words had gone missing, as though a modern-day Pied Piper had lured them into a mountain-side and trapped them there.
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It started with a sniffle, and a couple of hours later he noticed he had an earache. By noon his throat was dry; tap-water wouldn’t ease it. The following day all his muscles ached, and he was sure he had a temperature. He went to sleep in the afternoon, feeling like a truck had knocked him down. Next morning, he couldn’t get up. He just lay in bed hot and sticky, feeling like he was buried. The days passed and got worse. He ought to ring 111, but he had no credit on his pay-as-you-go phone.
As he lay there, his small, bare flat seemed to be shrinking. He’d lived in it ten years, and hadn’t gone out in over twelve months. He knew his mind was bust, and now his body was too. Nothing to be done, he told himself. You’ve been ignored since you came to this country. Still are, man.
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