Before This Is Over

by Amanda Hickie

She took the steps in one jump, afraid of the darkness nipping at her heels. Nothing behind her but the oppressively silent shadows of her neighbors’ houses as she put the key in the lock.

  The gloves from her hands fell to the mat, joining the growing pile of discarded contamination from the outside world. She shut the door on it all.

  There he was, lit by the TV just as she pictured. He shifted over to give her room on the sofa. She didn’t say anything. He didn’t look up from the news. The images were sickeningly familiar. People with face masks walking past bodies in the street.

  “Manchester?”

  “Somewhere in America.”

  “I didn’t realize it had got that bad there.”

  “It took hold quicker, I guess. They don’t get to cut themselves off from the rest of the world.”

  Piles of corpses being burned by figures in hazmat suits. One of the spacemen tossing a body on the pyre. The discarded shell of a life. That “infection risk” had been going about her business only days before, having breakfast, worrying about paying the rent, complaining it was too hot to sleep. The effort we expend on the minutiae of life when we don’t know it’s too late to matter.

  The scale precluded comprehension. One person had a story. Gather them in hundreds, thousands, and they became a bonfire to prevent contamination.

  Another city, another pile of bodies. Children, old people, driven into the streets by necessity. The well carrying the sick, looking for medical help that in some countries wasn’t there even under normal circumstances. But she had to witness this. It was the penance she did for being safe, for now, with Sean and her children. It was the payment for still being alive.

  The same newsreader. The dark circles under her eyes, grown too deep to be hidden by her makeup, were highlighted by the mask she hadn’t been wearing a moment ago. On the other side of the desk sat a similarly masked man.

  “…while it appears that the cumulative fatalities this weekend may approach a thousand, I think that needs to be taken in a context where…”

  “Aaaaaagggh.” Sean was on his feet. The remote made a pinging noise as it hit the screen. “Tell the dead about context, you fucking liar. Tell them how to put a thousand in two days into perspective.” He grabbed a handful of Lego bricks and hurled each one, machine-gun rapid, at the man on the screen.

  “Sean.” She tried to pull him down to the couch.

  “Tell my sister that. Tell her to take a historical view. Half the people she works with are dead. But put it in perspective and it’s not as bad as the Black Plague or the Second World War.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Sean collapsed back onto the couch. “She emailed today. She’s all right, she’s surviving.” Hannah curled into him, wanting to make it better.

  Now the television framed a photo of the two boys who were in isolation. ORPHANS DIE. She waited for the emotion to hit her, the grief, the fear. Nothing came. She didn’t know these boys any more than she knew the remains being thrown on the fire. They lived in the same town, spoke the same language, wore the same kinds of clothes, played the same computer games as her kids. That didn’t make them any more real than the thousands. The thousands were not less loved by their families, the friends of each of the thousands felt their grief just as deeply. She couldn’t stay on the couch, not without seeing for herself that her boys were safe.

  There’s a poo.”

  No, no, it was too early. If she didn’t move, she wasn’t awake.

  “It’s floating.”

  All she had to do was out-sleep Sean.

  “It’s really big.”

  Not my turn, not my turn.

  “In the toilet.”

  “Flush it, Mouse, just flush.” She lost—she’d given herself away.

  “It won’t work.”

  “Jiggle the button.” Sean still hadn’t moved.

  “I did. I jiggled. It won’t flush.”

  She fell out of bed and followed Oscar to the bathroom. There it was, floating. She pumped the handle a few times and listened for the cistern to kick in. Nothing. The sink tap spluttered and spewed a teaspoon of rusty water, no help there. Sooner or later the sensitive eyes of teenagers would be up, so, to protect them, she respectfully concealed the offending sight with a few squares of toilet paper.

  Sean peered around the door as she was contemplating her handiwork. “This could be a problem. No water in the kitchen.”

  The Internet was full of people tweeting about lack of water—it looked like the whole city. The water website had no specific information, only an emergency number, and Sean waited on the line for half an hour before he reluctantly hung up. “The water will come back or it won’t. Knowing when won’t change anything.”

  “I haven’t run the laundry tap, but at most there’ll be a cup of rusty water in the pipes. Even if you boiled it, I wouldn’t drink it. There’s bottled water in the pantry—that should get us through a couple of days, but not if we flush the toilet with it.” The downloaded list had mentioned water, although not for flushing, but that was surely for cyclones and earthquakes, not anything that happened here. It was no excuse. She should have followed the list.

  “If the water doesn’t come back by tomorrow, we might have to drink our own urine.”

  “That won’t be popular.”

  “It would solve the flushing problem.” Sean smiled like an idea had gone off in his head. “What about the rainwater tank?” He looked pleased with himself. “You haven’t been using it to water the garden or anything useful, have you?”

  Sean filled the kettle from the tank, to prove he could, scooped out the coffee grounds carefully, leveling off the top with a knife. He sniffed at the dregs in the milk carton. There was just enough that they could pretend they were drinking macchiatos.

  Sean made a salad for lunch. The last few cherry tomatoes, a couple of papery spring onions, a handful of olives, half a small tin of salmon, and some leftover pasta. He stared at the tomatoes.

  “Do they need to be washed? Is it worth the water or does wiping them with a damp cloth get them clean?”

  He served out onto six plates, five for them and a paper one for Gwen. For six days they had taken her lunch and dinner, knocking on her door and leaving the cling-wrapped meal on the step. What a bad neighbor Hannah was, a bad human being, making Gwen live all alone. But she was alone before the lock-in too, so if Hannah was failing her, she’d been doing it for a long time.

  In the living room, Zac, Daniel, and Oscar were playing cards. They sprawled out on the floor, Zac leaning against the sofa leg. Oscar sat upright, cross-legged, examining each card in his hand. The pack was sitting in the middle, the top card faceup. Each boy had a messy pile next to him, the won tricks, Hannah guessed.

  “Come on, Oscar, put something down.” Daniel’s legs splayed out in front of him, his cards in a fan by his side. Oscar screwed up his face, his hand hovered over one card, then another.

  “Give him a chance,” said Zac. “He’s littler than us. Hey, Oz, take your time.” That was her Zac, the one who didn’t admit to enjoying his brother but at least tolerated and looked out for him.

  “Zac, I’ve got lunch for Gwen. Do you want to take it round?”

  Oscar played a card triumphantly. From the surprise on Daniel’s face, it was a good move.

  “It’s my turn and this is the last hand.”

  She was already holding the plate and the boys had been so well behaved, it wouldn’t hurt to take it herself.

  As she walked up the hallway, the diffuse sunlight through the security grille hit the glass in their front door, forming a golden geometric glow. She balanced the lunch in her left hand to grab the doorknob with her right, her eyes on the plate, trying not to let it tip. The light unfolding around the edges as it opened dazzled her for a moment, and she smiled, thinking how nice it was to really pay attention to the small things. She unlocked the grille. No pockets, nowhere to hold the keys but on the tip of her pinkie under the plate. The g
rille handle jerked away, pulling her with it. Her hand pivoted to keep the plate flat, and she landed heavily on her right foot, just on the edge of the step.

  By instinct, she grasped the handle harder as it juddered. A high-pitched voice, chattering in distress or anger, issued from the silhouette of a person. Hannah couldn’t integrate the unformed sensations. They moved around then snapped, without changing, into Gwen. On their doorstep. Tugging at the grille. Screaming at her.

  Hannah grabbed the handle tighter and tried to wrestle the grille back to the frame. Gwen’s practical clothes were clean and well presented. Her hair was in its usual gray bob. Hannah couldn’t reconcile the navy canvas lace-up shoes, their white rubber soles pristine as always, with the inexplicable rage in Gwen’s face.

  Gwen tugged hard at the grille. At the end of each tug, the steady pressure of Hannah’s weight brought the grille nearer to being closed. Hannah tried not to hear the stream of abuse and accusations, tried not to think that this was Gwen, her pleasant neighbor, Gwen, whose garbage bin she’d always put away as a neighborly gesture.

  Gwen yanked, the grille banged, hitting the frame and jumping away again. Hannah considered shouting, but Sean was out the back and she didn’t want the kids to come running. She didn’t want them to see this, to be part of this.

  She couldn’t let go of the grille until it was locked, and the paper plate was beginning to sag. There was no way to get the keys into the lock without letting go of the handle. If she dropped the plate, the cling wrap wouldn’t hold. One whole meal gone. How dare Gwen, after all they had done for her?

  She gave the handle an almighty shake and sent Gwen flying back. Hannah was shocked that someone could treat an old woman like that. She had an impulse to look around for the culprit. Surely it couldn’t be her.

  Gwen spun around and grabbed at the veranda wall to stop herself from falling. She was on one knee.

  Hannah considered only for a split second letting go of the handle. She swung her body around in hope of finding help in the seconds before Gwen stood up, a solution, some form of twister that would let her hold the handle and the plate, and move the keys. But the only thing she saw was Zac, halfway down the hall, quiet and still.

  “Take the plate!” she screamed at him. He darted forward, eyes down, and took it with both hands. She twisted back, still holding the handle fast. The key turned with a metallic snap just as Gwen got to her feet.

  Hannah pushed down on the lever, hard, and when the lock held, she forced herself to let go. She took a step back, a meter’s distance between her and the grille. Her hand was cramped, her knees were weak. She put her hand to her face to stop it from shaking. Her face was cold and clammy. She turned her back on Gwen and there was Zac, still standing there, still quiet, still looking down, still holding the bowed plate. “Take it to the kitchen.” He took a step backwards. “Everything’s fine.” She forced herself to speak slowly and calmly. “Thanks, you were a great help. Everything’s fine now.” Zac took off.

  Gwen pressed against the grille. Her palms had bloody grazes from the fall. “I know what’s happening. I know.”

  Hannah took a breath before speaking, and struggled to keep her voice down. “Do you? I have no idea.”

  “They’ve turned off my water. They’ve turned off my water and you’re happy to let them.”

  “Everybody’s water’s off. It’ll be on again by dinner, like the power.”

  “I went over and talked to Roger Henderson. His water is off too. It’s not an accident. They’ll help people like you. But you won’t help me or Roger Henderson because it doesn’t suit you. Easier to shut yourself in with your water and food and shut us out.”

  “You have to go two days, two days, without seeing anyone. How hard is that? How can you not do that? Who else have you talked to? And who else has Mr. Henderson talked to? And who have those people talked to? My kids’ lives are more important than a chat with Mr. Henderson.” She couldn’t stop. “And what difference does it make which side of the wall you’re on? We’re full up—we’re not a bloody hotel. We’ve given you food, we’ll give you water. Stay inside your bloody house if you want to live.”

  Gwen shook a finger at her. “And who’ll look after Roger Henderson? There won’t be enough to go around, not enough medicine, not enough food, so let’s get rid of the old people, let’s turn off their water. You know and you don’t care what the government’s doing. More for you.”

  Hannah gently closed the door on Gwen so she didn’t have to see the hatred directed at her. It shut with a soft click. She felt herself being submerged by exhaustion. Her legs and arms felt heavy and spent. Gwen’s shape was still behind the glass, still yelling at the door.

  The extra meal sat on the counter, covered with a tea towel, accusing Hannah of heartlessness.

  “I’ll take it around later. I can jump the fence and put it at her back door.” Sean kept his voice low even though the boys were sitting at the table with them.

  Daniel whispered to Zac, who batted him away with a black look and snarled. “Nothing, just nothing, okay?”

  Oscar looked up from his fork. “Everyone is grumpy today. Zac’s grumpy and Gwen was really grumpy. I heard her yelling.”

  “Gwen’s a bit scared and sometimes scared people get angry.” Sean spoke soothingly and Oscar seemed satisfied.

  She had tried to do everything right, to do right by everyone. She’d relaid her plans when Daniel joined them and again when Gwen needed help. Bloody Gwen. Without Hannah, she wouldn’t have food at all.

  Gwen was an adult. Even her children were adults. Zac and Oscar, not to mention Daniel, relied on Hannah, and she owed it to them not to risk their lives for someone who wouldn’t help herself by keeping indoors.

  They should have stayed out of it. There must be some government service to look after people like Gwen. Or Gwen’s kids, but apparently they cared less than a neighbor did.

  From time to time, Oscar raised his eyes to give her a sideways look before flicking a cherry tomato at Daniel, two fingers propped on the table like a mini soccer player. Daniel kicked it back at him and Oscar blocked it from rolling off the edge, dribbling it between his fingers.

  “Oscar, eat the tomato. It’s not a toy.”

  “I can’t, it’s slimy.”

  Sean jumped in. “It’s not slimy, those are fresh vegetables. Old fresh vegetables, but they’re perfectly good, see?” He put a forkful in his mouth.

  Oscar pushed the salad around his plate. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat, Mouse. You don’t want to waste away, do you?”

  “I want something else.”

  Daniel picked up the tomato and pushed it into his mouth. “See, I ate my salad, it’s good.” He looked to Hannah for approval. “We’re lucky—your mum and dad are really looking after us. Not every kid has someone to look after them.”

  She imagined Gwen cleaning up the blood on her palms. Washing them with Dettol and water, the blood still oozing from the skin, fumbling with a Band-Aid. And then, with dried blood on her hands, with gravel rash on her knees, sitting down to drink her solitary cup of tea. If she had any water. Gwen was by herself and no one was coming for her. Hannah, her last hope, had shut her out.

  Hannah rubbed her face, trying to pretend she wasn’t wiping away a tear of self-pity. Zac scowled at his empty plate. Oscar and Daniel were saving a new cherry tomato from leaving the playing field. Only Sean looked at her.

  As the boys left the table, Hannah mumbled quickly to Zac, “I’m sorry you saw that—it wasn’t appropriate.”

  Oscar looked over with round eyes. “What’s not appropriate? Did Zac do something wrong?”

  Sean put his arm around Zac’s shoulders. Hannah noticed they were nearly the same height. “Zac didn’t do anything wrong. Why don’t you guys go and watch TV? I want to talk to Zac for a minute.”

  “He did do something wrong.”

  Hannah had to push the words out of her throat. “Zac didn’t
do anything wrong. I did. Zac helped me, but he’s not the one who did the wrong thing.”

  She called Daniel back just as he was leaving the room with Oscar. “Daniel, your mum’s going to be fine, you know that? You’re here to be safe, but she’s getting better.”

  “I know.” He held himself stiffly and his reply was unconvincing. She thought how much it sucked to have to be grateful to the people who were keeping you away from your mother when you thought you would never see her again.

  She stood as close to the back door as she could, to put distance between herself and this conversation that had to be had, that she wanted to be no part of. Zac mirrored her by the hallway door, slightly stooped, like a sprinter ready to make his escape. Only Sean held his ground in the middle of the kitchen.

  “You’re pretty pissed off at Mum.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you are. And that’s okay.”

  Zac shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

  “What would you have done?” Sean glanced at Hannah as he asked the question. “Would you have let Gwen in?”

  Zac opened his mouth but said nothing. His eyes were shiny with incipient tears.

  “Would you?”

  “I don’t know. No.” Zac almost looked at her but stopped himself and looked squarely, defiantly, at Sean. “But she could have done it differently. She didn’t have to yell at her. Gwen fell over—she’s an old lady.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Hannah felt a deep mortification, deeper for Zac’s witnessing.

  Zac spoke to Sean as if she weren’t in the room. “You wouldn’t have done that. It’s not right.”

  “I don’t know what I would have done. I wasn’t the one at the door.”

  There was a tightness about Zac’s face. His cheeks were hollowing out as his child chubbiness was being reordered into lean young manhood. His lips were pressed firmly together, to stop him from betraying himself, but that only made the slight quiver of his chin more pronounced.

  Hannah took a step closer to him, but he still didn’t look at her. “That’s not all that’s bothering you. Do you think you should have done something?”