by Peter Hall
Kendall smiled in that condescending, all-knowing, superior way doctors must spend months practising to get just right. “Oh, I think you have met people with autism, but you just aren’t aware of it. They rarely wear a label.”
Sarah remained silent, so Kendall cleared his throat and referred to his notes again. “Yes, well, I still have to review the test results thoroughly, but I believe John is on the Autistic Spectrum.”
Sarah could not help smiling as she drove home from Dr Kendall’s office. The sky was crowded with fluffy white cumulus clouds, matching her mood. She had known something was not quite right with John. Nobody believed her—not her sister, nor John’s doctor and, most galling of all, not even Charles. They told her she was being overly concerned, that John was just a quiet lad. “Stop fussing, he’ll grow out of it.”
Now she felt vindicated. She had recorded her meeting with Doctor Kendall on her phone to be sure she forgot nothing. Already she had listened to the recording, yet could not resist pressing the ‘Play’ button again…
“Yes, well, as I said, I still have to review the test results thoroughly, but I believe John is on the Autistic Spectrum.”
“He’s autistic?”
“Er, well technically, yes, but I wouldn’t use that terminology.”
“Then what would you use?”
Sarah could hear Kendall shuffling through his notes on the recording. She realised with hindsight that she had been somewhat aggressive.
New style
“In my view, John has what we call a higher functioning form of autism. It used to be categorised as a distinct condition known as Asperger’s Syndrome, but, these days, we regard it as part of the Autistic Spectrum. We try to avoid the term Asperger’s—Dr Hans Asperger was a Nazi, you see.”
“Oh, right. So what are the symptoms? What can we do about it?”
“Well, Sarah. I’m sure you’ve noticed the signs yourself, which is why you’ve brought John here. The key indicators are; impairment in social interaction; restricted and repetitive behaviour patterns; clumsiness and obsessive tendencies. Also, there are characteristics which are less obvious. Sometimes, unfortunately, there’s a lack of empathy. John may find it difficult imagining what it’s like for others, so might say something crass or hurtful without meaning to.”
“Oh dear! That sounds bad.”
“Well, having autism manifest in this form isn’t so bad, and certainly not in John’s case. John is highly intelligent and that can be a significant compensation. There are other things you should know about the condition to understand it fully.”
“Go on, please.”
“This is a very individual condition. It’s different for every sufferer. There’s an old saying amongst psychologists: Once you’ve met one person with Asperger’s, you’ve met one person with Asperger’s.”
He chuckled at his own joke. Sarah remained silent.
“Yes, well. Although this form of autism presents difficulties, it often comes with positive personality traits.”
“Oh, good.”
“Individuals with this presentation of autism are typically trustworthy, reliable and conscientious. They can show great physical and mental endurance when following subjects they are interested in. Curiously, they do not tend to be followers—they form their own opinions and do their own thing. They prefer to work on their own and find teamwork particularly challenging.”
Sarah pressed the ‘Pause’ button.
Kendall’s description of the symptoms did indeed fit John well. She had noticed how he often acted alone, even when he was in a group of children. But another idea occurred to her. It sounded like Kendall was describing her husband, Charles. It had never struck her before and it seemed outrageous, since he was a colonel in the Army and managed hundreds of soldiers.
Yet, in his way, Charles was a loner and hated social functions and idle chit-chat. He was indeed clumsy—once he literally shot himself in the foot. Now she thought about it, John was a more extreme version of his father.
She pressed ‘Play’ again:
“This form of autism is not all bad. It’s accepted that some of our greatest scientists had the condition—Isaac Newton and Einstein, to name but two. Working in isolation for years with a passion in a single narrow subject is typical of a person with autism. In fact, some people argue that rather than thinking of it as a disadvantage or disability, we should treat it merely as a difference.”
“That’s all well and good, but in our society, being different is a disadvantage.”
“Yes, well, quite. Let me be clear from the start, there’s no cure for it. No pills, or surgical procedures that will take it away. It’s a condition for life—part of John’s personality.”
“There must be things we can do. Treatments? Therapies?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. At three years old, John’s very young and his brain is quite adaptable. You’ve done well to get this far so early. There’s a great opportunity to influence John’s behaviour, before it becomes set.”
“Good. Go on.”
“Well, there are three options. You can wait for aid from the State, which might eventually lead to some sort of classroom help for John at his school. Alternatively, you could send John to a private specialist school, but they are few and far between, and heavily oversubscribed. Thus, my preferred solution is intensive interventions.”
“Okay.”
“I can provide a plan that includes physical exercises to improve coordination, applied behaviour analysis, structured teaching, speech and language therapy and social skills therapy. Personal tutors would do this at home, with occasional visits here for monitoring and specialist work.” He leaned forward. “However, the burden of the task would fall on you and your husband. For John to reach his full potential, requires several hours of one-to-one activity every day and it will be quite intense. Bringing up any child is hard work. An intelligent child with autism even more so. Are you up for the challenge?”
Sarah pressed the ‘Stop’ button.
Was she up for the challenge? If Kendall had known her, he would not have needed to ask. It just encouraged her further. Truth be told, she felt life lacked any proper direction or purpose. Now she had something to get her teeth into. Within the week, she intended to be an expert about autism and Asperger’s Syndrome.
There was just one hurdle to jump. Kendall’s plans called for personal tutors, specialist equipment, bespoke education programs, and regular psychological assessments. That would be costly, and she was not entirely in control of the purse strings. She would have to secure the funding for John’s future.
“Charles… Charles. Can you hear me?” Sarah could see her husband’s face on her laptop screen. His mouth was moving, yet there was no sound. She checked the volume control, but everything was fine with her device. She looked at Charles on the screen and shrugged to show him that something was wrong. He seemed to be in a tent. Only his head and shoulders were visible, with a bland canvas backdrop behind him which moved as if being blown by the wind. He wore desert combat fatigues and sported a golden suntan.
“—rah. Hello Sarah. Yes. Good. I can hear you now. Much better. So how are you? You look great.”
“I’m fine Charles, so is John. How are you?”
“Good, very good. Lost a few pounds. One of the lads here has been getting me out running. I’m really enjoying it, can’t think why I stopped. Are you running these days?”
The sound was a couple of seconds ahead of the video, so his lips were not moving in sync with his speech. Sarah hated these video calls. It was impossible to have a proper conversation.
“Not so much. I try to go out once or twice a week with Cath. It’s difficult to find time with John around. Where are you, Charles?”
His expression changed when her question arrived a few seconds later. He paused, which always meant he was about to lie.
“I’m in Afghanistan and it’s hot as hell—in more ways than one. How is John doing?”
“John’s doing fine, Charles. Listen, I took him to a psychologist yesterday, like we agreed.”
In fact, it was not something they had agreed. Sarah had pushed for it, with Charles conceding to keep the peace.
“John saw a Doctor Kendall who is an expert child psychologist. The doctor gave him a thorough assessment. It took several hours.”
“Sounds expensive.”
Sarah bridled. Was that his only reaction? The cost. Never mind, now was not the time to argue.
She held up the written report to the camera. “There’s a hundred-and-twenty-page document on the results of the tests. Shall I email you a copy?”
“Can you just give me the short version? I’m a little pressed for time.”
“Okay. Basically, John has Asperger’s Syndrome—although we’re not supposed to call it that anymore. Do you know what that is?”
“Of course I’m aware of it. Let me just…”
Sarah watched him typing and staring at his screen, no doubt looking the term up on Wikipedia. How typical. Charles would rather read about it than have her talk to him.
“Are you sure?” Charles said, still typing.
“Doctor Kendall’s sure. If you read the report, the signs are all there.”
“Ah, here we are, Asperger’s… yes, just a moment… interesting. I suppose it fits what you’ve been saying. I’d love to read the report, darling, but we’re up to our eyeballs over here.”
Not too busy to go running with his mates, though.
“The thing is, Charles, that to a large extent, it’s fixable. With interventions, therapies, personal tutors and the like, the effects can be mitigated. There’s no reason John can’t be very successful. But the therapy’s not cheap. John needs a lot of expert help and equipment to reach his full potential.”
“Oh, I see.”
Sarah noticed something distracted him out of her view. His mind had already moved onto another subject. He smiled at whatever he was looking at. “Listen, I’m happy to leave that side of it up to you, Sarah. I’m sure you know best. Looks like you were right about John. Jolly well done. Good girl.”
Good girl. Ugh!
A young woman in uniform appeared and whispered into Charles’s ear.
Charles nodded in response to her. “Sorry, Sarah, I must go now. Are we straight?”
“Yes, Charles. Will you be back for John’s birthday?”
He looked startled. Surely he remembered John’s birthday was coming up?
“Well, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. It’s a bit out of my hands. Anyway, got to go. Love you. Bye.”
Sarah went to say goodbye, but the connection was already cut.
That was easier than expected. He sounded perky. I wonder if that woman has anything to do with his mood. Best not to think about it. I’ve got carte blanche to get John the help he needs, and that was the point of the call. Now it’s full steam ahead. Time for a coffee and another reading of Kendall’s report.
CHAPTER 4
Cal & The Raiders
TIMELINE: 6 months following the Yellow Death
The human failing I would most like to correct is aggression. It may have had survival advantage in caveman days, to get more food, territory or a partner with whom to reproduce, but now it threatens to destroy us all.
Professor Stephen Hawking (1942–2018)
Cal was driving along the A303 again, this time heading West, away from Salisbury Plain and back to familiar Devon. The setting sun shone directly in front, causing him to squint. He drove towards ribbons of deep orange stretching from one horizon to the other, but had no appreciation of the beauty of the sunset. His chief concern was to find a suitable campsite before darkness fell.
The journey to Salisbury Plain had exceeded his best expectations. He had stumbled upon Bulford Camp, which used to be the home of both mechanised and infantry battalions. The armoury was an Aladdin’s Cave, containing weapons he had been hunting for months. Of course, the goodies were secured in reinforced concrete bunkers, but the judicious application of a military JCB had punched a large hole in the wall.
His SUV’s roof-rack and trailer strained from the weight, and the interior was packed to the roof lining. He drove slowly, since the vehicle sat low on its suspension. Even so, many more journeys would be required to strip the barracks of everything useful. This treasure trove might well bring an end to the need to stockpile weapons.
A cloud momentarily passed in front of the orange ball of the sun, casting a pall of darkness over the landscape and reminding him he needed to stop soon. Normally, he would camp near a river, well before dark, to give himself time to become familiar with the area, camouflage his vehicle, and plant booby traps. Unfortunately, lunch with the mini-bus group delayed his arrival at Bulford Camp, and it had taken much longer than expected to break into the armoury and load up the SUV. His back had started complaining and lifting the heavy crates on the roof-rack had been agony.
These delays meant he was behind schedule and might need to alter his routine. Tendrils of anxiety crept into his guts, so he made a conscious effort to begin deep breathing. Hell and damnation! He should have started back earlier, even if it meant leaving with his SUV only half-full. With the sun in his eyes and his attention directed towards finding a place to camp, he never noticed the pothole. The overloaded SUV jerked and the steering wheel wrenched out of his hand. He slammed his foot on the brake and, for the second time that day, boxes and equipment flew forwards, striking the dashboard.
“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!”
The SUV stopped rocking, and the engine cut out, leaving his heavy breathing as the only sound.
That was stupid. You weren’t paying attention to the road, you idiot. You might have taken out a wheel. Now get a grip and stop panicking. The world won’t end if you don’t get to set a few trip wires.
Cal laughed at the thought—the world won’t end—a bit late to be worrying about that.
A quick check on the tyres confirmed they were still intact. Feeling chastened and grateful no actual damage was done, he started off again, slower this time.
A few minutes later, he approached a stationary vehicle on the opposite carriageway. It was not uncommon to be stranded by running out of fuel, or mechanical breakdown—yet something spawned a sense of menace. He could not remember this vehicle from his earlier journey, and it sat at an odd angle. The light was fading, so he came quite close to it before recognition dawned and he jolted upright. The red mini-bus!
He braked hard and came to a halt about seventy metres from it. Grabbing his personal weapons, he jumped out of the SUV and took cover behind it. A Ford Transit van and Landrover Defender were parked in front of the mini-bus. Several figures were busy transferring goods from the bus. They noticed him and shouted to each other. Two positioned themselves behind the bus and aimed rifles in his direction, whilst the others continued loading their vehicles—with great urgency.
The roof-rack on the mini-bus was already empty, and the thieves now worked on the interior. Several boxes were strewn across the road. Cal moved around his vehicle to get a different viewing angle. None of the mini-bus quartet were within sight.
This was tricky. A Mexican standoff. Except that there were at least five of them. Since Cal could not see the mini-bus occupants, he dare not shoot at the raiders. Where the hell were Mia and the rest of them? Maybe they were held in one of the raiders’ vehicles? He had a rocket launcher, but even if he could get it from the car, he dare not risk using it.
It was impossible to leave the cover of the SUV to get any closer.
Absolute
fuck! This was so frustrating. Every last item was being stolen while he looked on, powerless to intervene.
Finally, they were almost finished and four of them climbed into their vehicles. One remained hiding behind the mini-bus with a rifle aimed in Cal’s direction. The raider fired a shot, which struck Cal’s SUV, forcing him to crouch lower. Then again and again. Cal heard the shattering of windows being shot out. Shards of glass fell on his neck. Cal poked his rifle around over the car’s bonnet and fired a quick burst in their general direction, keeping his aim high so as not to risk hitting one of his friends. At least now the raiders would know he was armed.
It made no difference. The raider continued to shoot into the car. A horrible thought occurred to Cal—what if one of those bullets hit the explosives he was carrying? Grenades, mortar shells and rockets were stacked up to the roof—if the shooter hit one of them, there would be a monumental pyrotechnic display. Suddenly, hiding behind the SUV did not seem such a good idea.
The shooting stopped, and he heard the revving of engines and screaming of tyres. Poking his head up, he watched the two vehicles speed into the distance. He moved around to the other side of his SUV. Two tyres, plus all the windows and headlights, were gone. He was going nowhere.
Then he noticed flames inside the bus, spreading rapidly. He sprinted over to it.
George’s body slumped over the steering wheel. They had shot the poor sod through the windscreen with a high-powered rifle while driving. Mia’s body sat next to him—also shot through the windscreen. Her precious bread-maker lay smashed on the side of the road. The flames were spreading to the entire vehicle, and Cal held his arm up to protect his face from the heat as he circled the bus. Acrid fumes caught in the back of his throat. James’ body lay on the floor, but there was no sign of Sharon. The bastards must have kidnapped her.
Cal stepped back, the heat of the fire becoming intolerable. There was nothing he could do as the vehicle became an inferno and he gagged when the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils.
