by Andrew Tudor
Copyright © 2019 Andrew Tudor
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador
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Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
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ISBN 978 1789019 452
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Freya
In the hope that the world in which she grows
up turns out better than the one portrayed here
Contents
Prologue
Part 1
INCUBATION
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part 2
ONSET
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Part 3
FEVER
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
The man in the white coat stood up and stretched. Bending over a microscope was particularly uncomfortable for someone so tall, and he felt the click of bones moving back into position as he lifted his arms and arched his back to ease the stiffness. The bench in front of him was busy with equipment: racks of glassware, a computer, implements of various kinds, a thermal cycler, as well as the microscope. His was but one bench in a large open-plan laboratory, presently filled with late summer light from windows that looked out onto the Wiltshire countryside. Or, at least, that part of it that could be seen beyond the high fencing that wound away in either direction. Other than him, the lab was empty. It was Friday and his co-workers had embarked on their weekends some time earlier. Pleading a pressing set of tests to finish he had remained behind, though truth be told he had no reason to get home early and there were things to do which were best done when he was alone.
Retrieving a sealed container from an iris-authenticated secure store, he carried it across the lab to a glovebox and placed it inside along with a needle syringe and a small blue-labelled bottle. Then, closing the cabinet, he eased his hands into its gloves and taking great care not to spill any of its contents, he opened the container. With the syringe he transferred a small quantity of clear liquid from container to bottle, resealing both when he had finished. Retrieving his kit from the glovebox, he dumped the syringe in the secure waste bag, returned the container to storage, and slipped the bottle into his pocket. The whole process had taken only a few minutes but, he thought with a private smile, its ramifications would rumble on for years.
His business complete, he hung the white coat on his peg, replaced it with a nondescript jacket, collected his briefcase and left the lab. There was a security barrier at the entrance foyer to the building, manned by a uniformed guard and equipped with surveillance cameras and X-ray screening.
“You’re the last out, Dr Livermore,” the guard said, running the briefcase through his equipment as Livermore emptied his pockets into a tray. “Still getting the hay fever then?” the guard added, seeing the small bottle among the other bits and pieces.
“Yes, it’s not good at the moment, but” – Livermore pointed at the bottle – “that stuff helps with the eyes. Just as well really, having to work with screens and a microscope.”
“That’s you through. Enjoy your weekend. Any special plans?”
“A few things that need doing, but not much. See you next week, Graham.”
With that, Livermore reclaimed his possessions and headed out to his car, one of only three remaining in the car park. Once it was disconnected from the charging post, he set the car’s auto-destination and was on his way home. A matter of twenty minutes or so to his house in the little village of Pitton.
At home he sat for a while absent-mindedly staring through the window at his small garden. What to do next? Perhaps he would walk up to the Silver Plough and eat there. It was still a little too early for the evening rush when the shuttles from Salisbury would deposit their weekend revellers, so he would be able to find a quiet corner. Yes, that was a good idea. He deserved not to labour in his own kitchen on this evening of all evenings. Besides, the few minutes’ walk to the pub would be a pleasant diversion in such splendid weather.
As he expected, the pub had only a scattered handful of customers.
“Evening, Charles,” the barman greeted him. “A half is it?”
“No, a pint tonight I think, and I’d like to order some food.”
“A special occasion?” asked the barman with a wry grin – Charles was not known for excessive or even moderate drinking.
“Not really. Just that kind of mood, I guess. I’ll have the rabbit casserole and a side salad.”
“Right you are. Shouldn’t be long while we’re still quiet.”
Charles found himself a table from where he could take in the whole pub and fell into a kind of reverie, looking at the other customers but without really seeing them. Odd to think that he would never come in here again after so many years, first with his father and then, after his parents died, on his own. It was a familiar place, pleasant enough in its own way even for somebody like Charles who wasn’t much inclined towards sociability. Decent food too, he reminded himself as he set about his meal.
By the time he had finished eating the shuttle buses were arriving and the noise level was becoming uncomfortable. Waving to the barman, he made his way out through the crowds, his now vacant table instantly occupied by a partying group who were commandeering chairs to put around it almost before he had got up to go. Definitely time for home, he thought, and to prepare for tomorrow.
Back in the house, he dragged a cardboard box from the depths of the under-stairs cupboard and carefully arranged its contents on the dining table: a pair of rubber gloves, a mask and protective goggles, a syringe, and three anonymous-looking 100ml spray bottles. From a drawer he took a dozen or so small blue-labelled eye-drop containers identical to the one already in his pocket, and these too were placed in an orderly group on the table top. Then, wearing gloves, mask and goggles, for each of the eye-drop containers he reversed the procedure that he had followed in the lab earlier that evening u
ntil the spray bottles were partly filled. Not too full, he told himself; best that they look ordinary and well used.
What a mixed blessing it had been to be brought up to be so meticulous, he reflected, as he returned the now empty eye-drop containers to the drawer and the other bits and pieces to the cupboard, leaving only the three spray bottles neatly lined up on the table. He sat looking at them for some time, fascinated by the ordinariness of their appearance and the extraordinariness of their contents, then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he crossed the room to switch on the television.
The main evening news had just begun, a familiar recitation of the troubles of the world which could serve only to stiffen his resolve. Or so he hoped. The presenter, blandly charming as always, was in the midst of explaining the latest diplomatic tensions between the determinedly independent Scotland and the surviving UK, a relationship fed half by mutual recrimination and half by the geographical and economic necessity of co-operation between two governments of such dramatically different political persuasions. Charles paid scant attention to the details; as far as he was concerned they would soon be of no significance.
When the bulletin turned to international matters, however, he focused on the screen almost voraciously. “Water levels are rising faster than expected,” announced a reporter, behind whom the ocean was lapping against beachfront bars and cafés which had clearly once hosted the holidaymakers who could be seen beyond them on higher ground. “Representatives of the Confederation of Low-lying Communities are appealing to the United Nations to provide further practical and economic support.” A graphic showing the rate of reduction of Antarctic ice was matched by another showing the flooding of islands across the world. “Even on the major continental landmasses settlements are now at risk,” the reporter added, leading into a montage of shots of coastal cities in a number of countries where rising levels were all too apparent.
Its allocated five minutes complete, the televised disasters of climate change gave way to the even more visually dramatic disasters of warfare, terrorism, poverty and social disorder. “Going to hell in a handcart,” Charles muttered, a phrase of which his father had been unduly fond and which Charles had come to appreciate more and more. “Enough,” he said out loud, as much to the larger world as to the television, and switching it off he took a final look at the three bottles in their neat row on the table. They were ready. He was ready. Tomorrow was the day.
He was up early the next morning, determined to catch the first shuttle bus into Salisbury. He could have driven – his government authority to use a personal car extended to that – but it would have been unusual and he did not want to attract attention. Packing the three bottles into a small backpack, he added a thin fleece, a bottle of water, a couple of granola bars, his work-issue CommsTab, and a travellers’ medical kit. From the bookcase he selected a single volume from a row of uniformly bound old-looking books. He checked around the living room and kitchen. All was as it should be, neat and tidy, windows shut, power sockets switched off. Locking the front door behind him, he set off up the hill to the shuttle stop without a backward look, waved his card at the ticket machine, and took one of the single seats near the front of the vehicle. There was plenty of room. The shopping rush would not come until later.
Arriving in town, he had only half an hour to fill before catching the early tourist shuttle to Stonehenge. This one was busy. Stonehenge attracted large numbers of visitors at the weekends, especially in weather like this, and Charles was surrounded by excited children in company with their already frazzled parents, as well as guided tour groups of various nationalities. Good, he thought, these people will be heading off in every direction after their day out.
At the newly expanded Visitor Centre, Charles joined the queue for admission to what was now a considerable complex of outlets and attractions. He recalled his parents bringing him here when the whole thing was much smaller, though even then you could no longer actually enter the ring of stones and his father always took great pride in reminding everyone that as a child he had wandered at will among the megaliths. But Charles was not greatly interested in Stonehenge itself today, nor in thinking too much about his father, so after a desultory stroll around the perimeter for the sake of appearances he headed for the café and the shops. It was there, among people, that he really needed to be.
First the café. Buying an espresso and a muffin, he carried them over to a table with a bench seat against the wall from whence he could survey the entire area. Crowds were building up, and although patrolling security guards were occasionally visible they stayed out of the café itself. Charles’s backpack lay on the bench beside him, from which he extracted his CommsTab and, switching to a newsfeed, began to read. Or, at least, to look as if he was reading. As he did so he reached into the bag and removed one of the spray bottles along with his fleece, laying the bottle on the seat between his thigh and the pack then concealing it with the fleece.
No one was yet seated at the tables adjacent to his, so after a careful look around he drew the spray bottle from its hiding place and, holding it beneath the level of the table, fired three or four sprays in a semicircle. Not ideal, he thought, but he could hardly spray its contents high in the air without attracting unwanted attention. It would still do the job. Now for the rest of the building. He planned out a route. Inevitably the Visitor Centre was constructed to maximise income, so the shuttles deposited customers at one end of a long building through which they passed on the way to the stone circle itself. The café was next to that exit, partly because of the view it afforded across to the main attraction, but also to lure in visitors whether they were going out or coming back. Running from the café to the shuttle exit was a corridor of sales outlets of various kinds – everything from souvenir bric-a-brac to expensive scale models of Stonehenge – and at the far end were the toilets. Charles mused on the commercial opportunism involved in that placing of facilities. To visit the toilets from the café required you to twice run the gauntlet of the tourist shops. Well, he would stroll along that route browsing the goods as anybody might be expected to do, spraying from beneath the fleece whenever it was safe.
Finally he arrived at the toilets. He had only a little liquid left in the first bottle, so in the hope that he could finish it off more discreetly he headed into the gents. Doors stood ajar on the row of cubicles and there was no one in the open spaces in front of the washbasins and urinals. Charles caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked very ordinary, he thought, perhaps a little sad and dowdy, but nothing for anyone to notice. Still eyeing his reflection, he lifted the bottle and swept the spray around above his head. As he did so, one of the half-open doors swung fully open and a young boy emerged, perhaps ten years old. The boy stopped, surprised at the odd sight which greeted him.
He eyed the bottle in Charles’s hand: “What’s that?”
“Just some stuff to stop the smells.”
“Oh.” The boy did not look entirely convinced. “I can’t smell it,” he added, elaborately sniffing the air.
“It doesn’t work like that – it’s a special kind of air freshener.”
“Oh, right. Cool.” And, clearly not entirely sure that he should be having this conversation, he ran past Charles and out of the door.
Once more Charles turned to the mirror, to his now even more unprepossessing reflection. The boy was so young and so full of curiosity, as he himself had once been. And what was that boy’s future now? For the first time today Charles felt a stab of doubt, a tiny fissure in his unwavering sense of purpose. Who was he to take on the problems of the world? What gave him the right to alter for ever the future of that young boy, in all probability to cut off his life before he had any chance even to experience it? Charles had answers to these questions, he knew he had, they had occupied his thoughts for years now. But confronted with the boy, with his vitality, the force and clarity of those answers was obscured in a swirl of ambiguity a
nd doubt.
Such thoughts were vertiginous and, close to collapse, Charles stumbled into the nearest cubicle. Seated on the edge of the toilet bowl he lowered his head into his hands and stared vacantly at the tiled floor between his feet. How had he got here? He had been so positive once, so optimistic. When researching his PhD he had believed in a future in which he would do good things, in which he would ‘make a contribution’ as the academic cliché had it. Well, he was certainly going to do that, but not quite in the way that he had envisaged all those years ago. It was the right thing to do, he reminded himself, whatever the cost, and slowly his determination returned, his scientific rationality – as he liked to think of it – quelling the flood of emotions that the encounter with the young boy had precipitated.
After a few more minutes of steady slow breathing he was able to get back to his feet. Discarding the now empty bottle in the nearest bin he walked out towards the Salisbury shuttles. One was full and about to leave, but a second stood empty not due to depart for another thirty minutes. Here was a chance both to recover from his crisis and to begin phase two of his plan. Retrieving another spray bottle from his bag and holding it at waist level, he climbed aboard the vehicle, flashed his card at the ticket machine, collected his receipt, and walked slowly down the bus spraying as he went. Settling in a seat about two-thirds of the way along, he closed his eyes and tried to relax.
After a while the bus began to fill up, and what was initially a murmur of conversation became a hubbub of different tongues. Charles opened his eyes and looked around, pleased to see how many nationalities were in evidence. Only five minutes until departure. Having got this far, all he wanted now was to get back into Salisbury to complete the third and final phase of his mission. He settled back into his seat and, just as he was about to close his eyes once more, he saw the boy from their earlier encounter. In company with two adults and another child – a sister perhaps – he was coming down the bus in search of seats. Charles saw his look of recognition as he drew nearer, saw him tug at his mother’s arm and say something to her, saw her quizzical glance as they passed. Charles froze, his earlier panic returning. He couldn’t stay here, he thought, he couldn’t bear it. Clutching his possessions to his chest and only just resisting the temptation to run, he made for the exit. The shuttle supervisor was standing by the door ready to set the vehicle in motion. Charles pushed past him, muttering as he went.
