The Zeno Effect

by Andrew Tudor

  “My fellow citizens. Over the past several months we have all suffered greatly. Your government has sought to alleviate that suffering wherever it has been able to do so, but the scale of the epidemic has been such as to limit what could be done. Our Health Services have performed magnificently in the face of these challenges. Inevitably, however, they have been unable to deal with every case and all of us – I emphasise the ‘all’ – have lost loved ones, friends and neighbours to the disease. You have faced these travails with the fortitude that we have come to expect from the English when confronted with hardship, and on behalf of the government I would like to thank you for that. But there have been elements among you who have taken advantage of the situation to pursue their own antisocial agendas. This cannot be allowed. It undermines our ability to function as a democracy and to ensure that we continue to provide you with the basic needs of water, food, and energy. Accordingly, after consultation with my senior colleagues and with the Privy Council, his Majesty the King has authorised the declaration of a State of Emergency.

  “This will have three immediate consequences for you. First, you will experience a much greater presence of armed soldiers and police on our streets. They will be empowered to deal firmly with any antisocial behaviour, including, where necessary, by use of weapons. Second, a strict curfew will be imposed from 8pm until 7am on a daily basis. Certain workers will be free of these limits so that they can fulfil essential functions. They will be informed at their places of work within the next twenty-four hours and issued with the appropriate authorisation documents. After that period of grace, anyone breaching the terms of the curfew, other than those designated as essential workers, will be dealt with summarily. Third, rationing of food and other resources will be extended. This is necessary to ensure that we continue to maintain acceptable living standards across the entire population. Anyone seeking to undermine or evade the rationing regulations will be detained. It is of course to be regretted that this has become necessary but I am sure you will agree that it is for the general good. Thank you.”

  Julie, watching the broadcast while curled up in an armchair in Albert and Rosa’s living room, turned off the audio leaving only a succession of silent talking heads. She had no wish to hear the speculation dominating the news sites after the PM’s broadcast, although it was diverting to idly watch their increasingly frantic dumbshow. Julie needed the distraction. She was not at all certain about the implications of the State of Emergency for her. She didn’t doubt that her erstwhile employers had received advance warning of the announcement and that her loss of protection was a consequence of them feeling it necessary to strike a deal with the government in the light of what was about to happen. This was not a cheerful thought. Now she felt even more exposed than when she had first fled to Brixton. Part of the State of Emergency would surely involve what the government liked to call the ‘pacification of illegal enclaves’ and those in London would be high on the list, Brixton all the more so in that it was known to shelter a number of leading anti-Zeno activists.

  She was turning all this over in her mind, wondering where she might find a safe hiding place, when she heard someone running in the yard and the sound of the back door opening. Then a voice calling out.

  “Julie, Julie, where are you?”

  It was her hosts’ twelve-year-old son, Marcus.

  “I’m in here, the living room.”

  “Good. There you are. Mum sent me. There are soldiers, lots of them, at the north end of the Enclave. It looks like they’re going to try to take us over. She says you should be ready to run. They’ll know whose house this is.”

  “But where’s your mum and dad? What are they going to do?”

  “They’re with a big crowd up near the Town Hall. They’re going to try to stop the soldiers coming down the hill.” Marcus looked disappointed. “They wouldn’t let me stay. All the kids are to shelter in the school.”

  “Quite right too,” Julie said. “You’ll be a lot safer there than out on the street. I’ll walk you to the school then go up and join them at the Town Hall.”

  Marcus grinned. “Mum said you’d say that. But you’re not to join them, she said. You’d be too obvious if they’re looking for you. She said to go south.”

  Julie saw the sense in that. She would stick out like a sore thumb in the sea of largely black faces. She’d be an obvious target even if they weren’t specifically looking for her.

  “OK. I guess she’s right. You get off to the school and I’ll figure out what to do. Tell your mum and dad thank you. I’ll try to keep in touch.”

  After Marcus’s departure Julie stuffed as many of her possessions as she could into her backpack. It wouldn’t take everything, but she knew that hauling the wheeled suitcase would both slow her down and draw unwanted attention. With a final regretful look around, and contrary to Rosa’s instructions, she set off up Brixton Hill. Just a quick check on the situation, she told herself; I am a journalist after all. As she walked, however, she began to feel a little more doubtful. Almost all the people on the street were going in the opposite direction, most of them in great haste. After five minutes or so of struggling against the flow she almost collided with a couple pushing a child in a baby buggy.

  “Julie,” the woman said, “where do you think you’re going?”

  It was someone she had met through Rosa, part of a mutual support group for young mothers.

  “You mustn’t go up there,” the woman continued, pointing back the way they had come. “It’s really bad. There are an awful lot of soldiers and they look as if they’re up for it. They’ll be coming down the Hill soon. You don’t want to be in their way when they do.”

  The couple hurried on while Julie stood contemplating her next move. Then, as if to reinforce the warning, there came the dull thud of a distant explosion followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea, Julie thought, journalistic curiosity notwithstanding, and admitting to herself that she was frightened she turned around and joined the growing stream of people fleeing south. But where was she to go? There were lodging houses and hotels scattered across south London where she could probably find refuge, but they were required to do a central check on the identity of new arrivals and that would make her immediately traceable by the authorities.

  It was only as she neared Streatham Hill that it dawned on her that she was within easy reach of Irene Johnson’s house. Of course. She could seek shelter there. Surely Irene would help. They had been on good terms last time they met. Turning off the Streatham High Road, Julie made her way through the maze of streets between there and Tooting Common until finally arriving at Irene’s door. To her disappointment there were no signs of life and she rang the doorbell in vain. Not really expecting it to be open, she tried the door but it was locked. Maybe she could find somewhere to hide in the back garden in the hope that Irene would return soon? There was a gate and a path along the side of the building and, to her relief, the gate was on a simple latch. This led her into a small garden area, neatly laid out with lawn and shrubs but lacking any shelter in which she could escape the late afternoon chill. There was a garage but it was firmly locked, so with no real hope of success she tried the back door. To her surprise it opened and in seconds she found herself in the relative safety of Irene’s kitchen.

  Seated at the kitchen table Julie rested her head in her hands and breathed a long sigh of relief. At least she was no longer out on the streets where the soldiers were confronting the people of Brixton. Beginning to feel calmer, she concentrated on listening for the sounds of vehicles and gunfire. Were they getting any closer? Although she was no longer inside the boundaries of the Brixton Enclave it was always possible that the military would pursue people into adjacent areas. She could just about catch some street noise at the limit of her hearing even though the windows were closed, but then, as she concentrated all the more, she became aware of a different sound. A ki
nd of soft wheezing which came and went, like an intermittent draught blowing through a crack in the door. Yet she had shut the door firmly behind her and the kitchen windows were all closed. Still nervous from the day’s events, she walked cautiously into the hallway listening as she went. The sound was coming from upstairs. She wasn’t alone. There was somebody – something – up there. Grabbing an umbrella which was propped up in a corner of the hall, she inched her way up the stairs holding the improbable weapon out in front of her. At the end of the first floor landing a door stood slightly ajar and as she approached it she realised that this was the source of the sound.

  She nudged the door open and peered in. There, in bed, was Irene, her face an unhealthy blue-grey pallor with dark marks on her cheeks, clearly struggling for every breath. Julie rushed to her side.

  “Professor Johnson. Irene. Can you hear me?”

  There was no response other than the continued erratic wheezing.

  She laid her palm on Irene’s forehead. It was hot. Grey though she looked, she was evidently running a fever. It had to be the flu and perhaps worse, Julie thought. She pressed her ear against Irene’s chest and could just about hear a faint bubbling sound. Julie knew that the flu could easily lead to pneumonia which, among the very old and the very young, was as often a cause of death as the flu itself. Irene obviously needed treatment but what could Julie do? She could hardly go out in search of help in the present circumstances.

  Then she remembered. As part of her deal with them, her former protectors had supplied her with an extensive anti-flu kit which included a package of drugs, both antibiotics and newly developed antivirals, as well as some basic training in their use. That kit was in her backpack downstairs, although most of the drugs were capsules and the unconscious Irene was in no state to swallow anything. But, Julie recalled, there was a broad-spectrum antibiotic that was delivered by injection. Maybe that would help to alleviate some of the respiratory symptoms and restore Irene to consciousness.

  After retrieving her bag and consulting the instructions in her medical kit, Julie succeeded in rolling Irene onto her side so that she could be injected in the buttock. She half expected her patient to shriek as she plunged what seemed like a frighteningly long needle into soft tissue, but Irene showed no sign that she had felt anything at all. Leaning her up against her pillows once more, Julie fetched a bowl of cold water and dampened a cloth which she held to Irene’s temples. She wasn’t at all sure that this would be of any benefit but could think of nothing else to do. And so she sat as it grew darker, periodically refreshing the cloth and talking softly to Irene in the hope that somehow she would be aware that she was not alone.

  Julie was uncertain how long she continued in this way, or what time it was when she realised that rather than fall asleep in the chair she might just as well lie down on the bed. It was hard to judge, but she thought that Irene’s breathing was a little less laboured than it had been when she arrived. She lay down, and although she expected sleep to be elusive given the stress of the day’s events and Irene’s continual wheezing, exhaustion overcame her quite quickly.

  She was awakened by a voice, Irene’s voice, murmuring “Sarah, Sarah.” It was still dark so she leaned across the bed and turned on a bedside lamp.

  “Irene,” she said softly. “It’s me, Julie.”

  Irene, still short of breath, turned her head with some difficulty and peered in Julie’s direction.

  “Julie? Where’s Sarah? I thought Sarah was here.”

  “No, there’s only me.” Julie had no idea who Sarah was but didn’t think now was the time to ask. “You’ve been very ill,” she continued. “When I got here you were unconscious. But now you’re awake you must drink something. You’re dehydrated. Wait a minute and I’ll get you some water.”

  Julie persuaded her patient to sip rather than gulp the water while she explained the circumstances that had brought her to Irene’s bedside. She wasn’t certain that Irene was taking in the full detail of the story, but her eyes remained open and she was sufficiently attentive to ask about the various pills that Julie prevailed upon her to swallow. In the end she slumped back onto her pillow, only her hand gripping Julie’s showing that she was aware of her surroundings. It was still dark outside, so conscious that both of them were in desperate need of rest Julie turned out the light and lay down once more. She listened to Irene’s breathing – it was definitely not as much of a struggle as before – and bit by bit it slowed down, its now regular rhythm lulling Julie into a kind of hypnotic trance until, at last, the two exhausted women fell asleep, hand in hand.

  Ali, who believed that she was finally close to persuading Sarah, was yet again rehearsing the benefits of the Scotland move when Douglas burst in.

  “Have you seen the broadcast?”

  “What broadcast?” Ali replied. “We haven’t had any Comms turned on. We’ve been sitting here talking.”

  “The English government has declared a State of Emergency and there’ll be a curfew from tomorrow.” Douglas, normally calm to the point of seeming disinterest, was clearly worried. “Alison, you and me have to get out while we can. We need to travel tonight so that we can get back over the border before the curfew comes into effect tomorrow. Sarah, you and Hugh have to decide whether you’re coming with us. Declaring a State of Emergency means that they believe things have reached a point of no return, that the situation is going to get a whole lot worse. It’s now or never, I’m afraid. After today I don’t think I can get you to Scotland.”

  Sarah looked at Ali, then at Douglas, then back to Ali.

  “Well, that’s it then,” she said with a shrug. “Better start packing.” She turned to Douglas. “How much can we take?” she asked.

  “There’s quite a lot of storage space in the lorry. If you can pack stuff into bin bags, boxes, anything really, then we can put it into crates in the lorry that are already labelled as recycling waste. Loading it in will be the problem, especially since we’ll need to set off tonight. When’s Hugh back?”

  “Today’s one of the days that Charlotte’s voluntary education group is running so he’s picking her up from there at three. They’ll be back by half past.”

  “We’d best get started then,” said Ali, beaming with pleasure at Sarah’s decision. Then, turning to Douglas, “When will you bring the lorry round?”

  “It’ll have to wait until after dark,” Douglas replied. “We don’t want to attract more attention than necessary. If you’re definitely sure, Sarah, I’ll go and sort it all out now.”

  Sarah nodded. “I’m sure. Between Hugh, my mum and Ali I was pretty convinced anyway, but the State of Emergency finally settles it.”

  “Right. You folk get started and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  The next few hours involved frantic sorting and packing, various disagreements about what should and should not be taken, and, in Charlotte’s case, much anxiety about the safety of her ever-growing list of favourite toys. Hugh stripped down the dining room laboratory, carefully packing the bits and pieces of equipment into boxes.

  “No point leaving this lot behind,” he told Ali. “It’s really good kit and we can always make use of it on top of what Michael’s got for us in Edinburgh.”

  When Douglas returned he surveyed the chaotic scene with the look of a man faced with impossible choices.

  “I’m not sure we have enough crates to hide all this,” he said. “You can take some small essentials with you in the concealed compartment, but nothing big. We’ll see what works. The other thing to think about is money. Can you make transfers to Ali and me? That way we can get the money to Scotland before anybody has any idea that you’ve skipped out.”

  Hugh looked up from sifting paperwork into piles. “I’ve already partly dealt with that,” he said. “I’ve always had a savings account at home and I’ve been moving money into it ever since the Zeno crisis began. But yes, Sarah has Eng
lish savings and we do have some other bits and pieces. I’ll see what I can do about transfers.”

  “Leave it until the last minute,” Douglas advised. “Then there’ll be little chance of anybody picking up on it until it’s too late and we’re safe.”

  The last minute in question proved to be around 7pm when the familiar MacDougall & Son lorry arrived and backed into their drive. In a flurry of activity the packing was transferred to the empty crates which, once full, were shielded by another layer containing genuine recycling.

  “If we do get stopped,” Jimmy, their driver, explained, “they can check these crates all they like. Though I’ve never had anyone actually do it.”

  “Even so,” Douglas said, “best to be safe. The State of Emergency may make a difference. And there have been reports of hijackings on some of the isolated sections of the northern roads. Local gangs taking control.”

  “Can’t we avoid those areas?” Sarah asked.

  Douglas shook his head. “Only up to a point. We have to keep away from the big urban concentrations like Newcastle anyway so we need to be on lonelier roads. We’ll go from here up towards Darlington and then across onto the A68 route into Scotland. But we might have to take to the backroads in Northumberland. If the military are being moved around I’m a bit wary of going near the Otterburn camps. We’ll see how it’s looking. But let’s get going now.”

  Sarah and Hugh took a final look around.

  “Just as well it’s rented,” Hugh said. “I wouldn’t want to be leaving my own house empty when things get worse. It’s owned by a guy in London. He can worry about it.”

  Charlotte, Hugh and Sarah climbed into the concealed compartment and made themselves as comfortable as they could on cushions and bedding, while Ali remained in the cab on the middle seat which masked the entrance to their hidden space. They left the access panel open to allow at least some communication among them, although as time went by Charlotte fell asleep and the adults lapsed into silence. There was very little traffic or anything else to attract attention out in the darkness, so, lulled by the rhythm of movement, Ali found herself dozing off.