by Andrew Tudor
2
Although it was dusk there was no sign of light or life in the house. Hart was gliding from the shadow of one tree to the next, working his way around the garden fence while studying the building. Nothing moved. All was quiet apart from a blackbird offering up its final song of the day. Still Hart waited, watching patiently as the darkness deepened and silence enveloped him. Then, at last, he slipped through the rear garden gate and made his way up the path to the back door. Its flimsy lock did not delay him for long, giving access to a large kitchen. Now safely indoors, he switched on his head torch and set out to explore.
The downstairs rooms were exceptionally tidy, lived in yet not lived-in, as if someone had just completed the housework and had been called away. Slowly, stepping softly in case of creaking treads, he made his way up the stairs. Opening off a central landing there were four bedrooms, a bathroom, and a toilet. The door was closed on the third bedroom so he edged it open as quietly as he could. Immediately he was met by the smell of decay, foul enough to require him to control an impulse to retch. Holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth he peered into the room. Lying on the bed, their hands intertwined, were two inert figures who on closer inspection revealed themselves to be the corpses of a man and a woman in the early stages of decomposition. On the bedside table lay a hypodermic and a small bottle.
Hart backed out, relieved to close the bedroom door on the sights and smells within. He stood for a minute at the top of the stairs recovering his composure then made his way back down to the kitchen. Systematically working his way through the storage cupboards he found a variety of dried and canned foods which he assembled on the work surface. If I’m careful there’s enough here for several days, he thought. His food supplies had all but run out so discovering this source of both sustenance and shelter was more than welcome. He had been moving around on foot for the past couple of weeks, erratically working his way south, here and there breaking into deserted houses in search of food, though not always with this much success.
His journey had begun near Nottingham where his wife was staying with her sister. After the Northwood business he had been uncertain what to do, finally deciding to seek out Jill although not sure quite what he expected from her or, indeed, from himself. His car had carried him almost to Leicester before its charge had run out, leaving him no choice but to abandon it and cover the rest of the way on foot. He found this solitary wandering peculiarly satisfying and took his time working his way towards his destination via back roads and open countryside. On arrival he had received what might best be described as a qualified welcome. Jill was pleased to know that he was alive but the chasm that had opened between them after Rosemary’s death was still there, a haunting from the past that neither of them could overcome.
He had stayed for several weeks, finally managing to tell her about his part in Curbishley’s terrible fate. She showed little emotion at his revelation, murmuring only that Curbishley and people like him had brought it on themselves. Whether or not she approved of his actions was unclear. He suspected that she did not since, although she blamed the scientists and government for the death of her daughter and for the terrible plight now faced by so many innocent people, unlike Hart himself she was not by nature given to the corrupting pleasures of revenge. She was, he told himself, a fundamentally generous spirit, quite in contrast to his more calculating egotism. Perhaps it really was the case that opposites attract, or so he had often thought since he could find no other explanation for their relationship lasting as long as it had. But now that it was clearly over, and although neither Jill nor her sister made him feel especially unwelcome, he knew that it was time to move on. The truth was that stranded there in the Midlands he felt useless. He needed to be much closer to the centre of things, to be in a position to have some influence over events, however limited that might be.
His final departure was precipitated by a story picked up on one of the surviving underground newsfeeds, a report that the ERA and their now widely recognised leader, Jerry Rowlands, had established what was to all intents and purposes a large, semi-militarised commune on the 600-acre site of the former Whipsnade Zoo. This became the ultimate objective of his southward journey and was why he was now somewhere in the county of Bedfordshire, although he was not quite sure of his precise location. That was not navigational incompetence on his part. He had been content to drift cross-country just as long as he was heading broadly in the right direction. Now though, he thought, given this opportunity to stock up on food, perhaps it was time to make a final push towards his destination.
While considering this possibility he occupied himself in searching the remainder of the ground floor. From the neatly organised contents of a roll-top desk he learned the identities of the two bodies upstairs. They had both been doctors, recently retired, with a son, also a doctor, who had emigrated to Australia. He had emailed his parents regularly, messages which, touchingly, they had printed out and preserved in a binder. The last one was dated several weeks earlier and reported his increasingly desperate attempts to combat a serious flu epidemic in his practice in Melbourne. After that there were no more messages, perhaps from a failure of internet services or, more likely Hart surmised, because the son himself had succumbed to the virus. Yet more lives destroyed by state-sponsored hubris.
Depressed at this thought, and even more so at his previous complicity with the state in its steady promotion of incremental tyranny, Hart poured himself a large whisky from a bottle that he found in a kitchen cupboard. The same source yielded a box of candles, three of which, when distributed across a coffee table in the lounge, gave a more pleasant light than his head torch. He sank back into an armchair trying not to think about the bodies in the room above his head, and nursed the whisky while contemplating his next move. Jerry Rowlands’ commune – if that was what it really was – would provide more permanent shelter and, he hoped, a context within which he could feel that he still had some purpose in life.
Exactly what that purpose might be was as yet unclear to him, but he was sure that he would not find it in his present solitary, peripatetic existence. Inspired by this renewed sense of commitment, he extracted a map and a small GPS unit from his bag. It was a more laborious mode of navigation than his CommsTab would provide but he needed to preserve the tablet’s power until he could ensure a reliable source for recharging. As he had expected there was no electricity supply reaching the house. A few minutes’ work gave him his present location which, he was pleased to discover from the map, was at most only a couple of days’ walk from Whipsnade. He would rest here the next day, then push on to the ERA’s stronghold. That decision taken, and unwilling to spend the night upstairs in company with the dead, he arranged his sleeping bag on the settee, blew out the candles, and settled down.
The following day passed quickly enough. Avoiding the bedroom with the corpses, Hart examined the entire house in search of anything that might prove useful. His most significant discovery was a cache of medical equipment and drugs, the latter of which he carefully sorted, retaining those that could be useful as trade goods as well as any medication that he might need to call upon personally. By now medical supplies must be running low, he reasoned, and even everyday drugs like standard analgesics could come to play a role in bartering. He also found a considerable sum in cash. Worth much less now, of course, given the ballooning inflation rate and the use of local currencies in some areas of the country, but still welcome. After being on the road for so long he would like to have taken a shower, or, better still, a bath, but he couldn’t face immersing himself in cold water. A superficial wash would have to do. It was not as if he was likely to find himself in polite company any time soon. As evening and darkness approached he heated some soup on his camping stove and followed it with a can of baked beans. Then, intending to be up at first light, he retired to the settee and his sleeping bag.
He was on his way early next morning, heading broadly south-east towards
Whipsnade but zigzagging across the countryside to avoid major settlements. He was in no hurry and it was fully two days before he arrived at the gates of the former zoo. Just outside the main entrance, where once there had stood a large red Whipsnade Zoo sign mounted on a plinth, there was now an even larger black-and-red Z with a white X superimposed upon it. Rowlands was ever the man for a symbolic gesture, Hart reflected, and with this one he had excelled himself, invoking both Curbishley’s much publicised fate and a generalised desire to negate Zeno.
Hart approached the entrance cautiously. The former turnstiles and ticket booths had been replaced by a single closed access point with two guards posted outside and a CCTV camera above. As he neared them they levelled weapons in his direction.
“Just stop there,” one of them called. “What do you want?”
Hart stopped as instructed and raised both hands, palms facing the guards. “I’m a friend of Jerry Rowlands,” he said. “Please let him know that I’m here. My name is Jonathan Hart.”
One of the guards nodded to the other who disappeared into a small booth by the door.
“You can lower your arms. But stay where you are,” said the first guard, keeping his weapon directed at Hart. “Watch the birdie,” he added, glancing up towards the camera.
After several minutes the other guard emerged. “We’re to let him in. There’s someone inside who’ll escort him to the Chief.”
Hart smiled to himself as he was admitted. Jerry’s become a Chief now, he thought. There’s yet another departure from anarchist principles. A woman waiting for him inside the entrance introduced herself as Jerry’s PA and walked Hart to a house set on its own in a pleasantly wooded area. Standing at the door was Rowlands himself, beaming a welcome.
“Well, well. Jonny Hart shows up again just like the proverbial bad penny,” he called out as Hart approached. “What have you brought for me this time?”
“Just myself I’m afraid,” Hart replied, as Rowlands dismissed the woman with a “Thank you, Sylvia” and guided Hart into a comfortably equipped office-cum-lounge.
“Have a seat, Jonny,” he said, gesturing towards an armchair. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Tea would be good if you have it. It’s been a long walk.”
Rowlands busied himself making tea while talking to Hart over his shoulder. “Where have you come from?” he asked.
“Initially from Nottingham. I’d been up there to see my wife who’s staying with her sister. But it’s been a circuitous route since then.”
“Here you are,” Rowlands said, handing him a cup. “There’s sugar and milk – the milk’s from our dairy cattle. Make the most of the sugar though. I don’t think it’s going to last much longer.” He sat down opposite Hart. “So, if you haven’t got another gift for me what is it that brings you here?”
“I thought I might be useful to you in this enterprise.” Hart gestured to take in the room and the Whipsnade parkland visible through the window. “I saw online that you had got a community going and thought I might have helpful skills.”
Rowlands laughed. “You’re looking for a job? No longer Director of DSD then? Curbishley told me all about you before he came to that sticky end. He wasn’t very complimentary.”
“I can imagine,” said Hart, pulling a face. “No, I knew better than to try returning to the DSD after giving him to you. I’d burned my boats. But I’ve got a lot of information in here.” He tapped his forehead. “I know how the security services work and a great deal about the army people who are running the South-East. You’re bound to have confrontations with them sooner or later. After all, it can’t be far from here to their northern boundary. I could do a job on your security.”
Rowlands nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. You know they’ve started calling their controlled area the Homeland. It covers London, Kent and Surrey, plus a few odd fingers stretching out into the countryside. They claim to be governing it in the name of the King, for Christ’s sake. They get the poor bugger to do broadcasts from the palace to encourage his starving subjects.”
“That’s a lot of people,” Hart said, pausing to calculate. “Even allowing for flu deaths they must have at least ten million mouths to feed. Sounds like a potentially unstable situation.”
“I’ve only got a few hundred here,” Rowlands observed ruefully, “and they’re hard enough to keep fed and happy. Still, at least they’re committed to the project.”
“So what exactly is the project?” enquired Hart.
“Initially it was just to create a defendable community and to ensure lines of supply. But now…” Rowlands paused, looking thoughtful.
“Now…?” Hart encouraged him.
“Well, there are differing views. You have to understand that we’re only self-sustaining up to a point so we depend on maintaining good relations with the people living around us. So far that’s worked out OK. So far. But in the longer run we’re going to be threatened on two sides. To the east there’s an evangelical preacher who is gaining massive support across Essex. They’re calling themselves the Peculiar People, though they don’t have much in common with the original nineteenth-century sect. The old Peculiar People were pacifists but this lot are aggressive and see it as their god-given destiny to convert all us sinners by force of arms. And to the south, of course, we have the Homeland. So far they’ve left us alone – they’ve got their work cut out simply maintaining what they have – but they still claim to be England’s legitimate rulers so they may yet get to be expansionist.”
Hart frowned. “And they both have access to seaborne trade and resources, while you’re landlocked. You could easily be starved out in the end.”
“Yeah,” Rowlands replied. “So now I’ve got militants who think that we should take the fight to the enemy. That we should be actively recruiting discontented people. In effect, forming an army of our own. One group want to focus on the Homeland, fight a guerrilla war on its edges, a war of attrition. Another lot, who are even less realistic, think that we just have to get out there and the people will spontaneously rise up and join us in revolution. So far neither group have got much in the way of wider support among the Whipsnade folk, but as things get worse, who knows?”
Hart smiled. “Strikes me that you do need someone with my intelligence experience just to keep tabs on your own people let alone to track what’s going on beyond your boundaries.”
“You may be right. And I could certainly do with a person who is independent of those cliques and who can keep a calm head.” Rowlands smiled wryly. “Bit like old times in Oxford.”
“Though rather more at stake now,” Hart said, returning the smile. “So, I can stay?”
“Yes, why not? I’d quite enjoy having an intelligence agent working for rather than against me. It would make a change. We’ll find you some living space and see how it goes.”
And then, with what was to Hart an all too familiar mischievous grin, Rowlands held out his arms and announced: “Welcome to the revolution!”
St Peter’s Square was packed to overflowing. The new Pope, Gregory XVII, stood at his apartment window and offered up a prayer which echoed from the speakers surrounding the throng. His predecessor had died from the flu, as had many in the Holy City, and his election had been rather hastily pursued in an attempt to shore up the commitment of an increasingly sceptical worldwide congregation. When he reached the point in his prayer where he sought deliverance for the faithful from the terrible pestilence now afflicting the world, there came a loud explosion from somewhere in among the colonnades and a large banner was unfurled along that edge of the crowd. It had a simple message, offered in both Italian and English: ‘God is Dead’. Those of the faithful near enough to do so turned on the demonstrators, tearing down their banner and trampling it and them into the cobbles. But even as they did so, fireworks exploded all around the colonnades while banners were undraped offering up that same message in
most of the world’s main languages. Pope Gregory quickly retreated into his apartment as behind him the square erupted into ungodly chaos.
3
In Scotland that winter was widely agreed to be a harsh one. This was not because of particularly inclement weather, although there was significantly more snow than there had been in recent years. It reflected, rather, the death of so many from a rampant epidemic of the flu. With the arrival of the first stirrings of spring the rate of infection eased, but by then recorded deaths for the winter months had passed the 400,000 mark. Nor were these deaths confined to the most vulnerable. The virus was indiscriminate in taking the old, the young, and those whose general health and fitness might hitherto have been thought to make them least likely to succumb. As well as leaving survivors mourning the loss of friends and family, this surge in wholesale mortality had a devastating psychological impact. However inadvisably, many had comforted themselves with the thought that the flu predominantly took the weakest. Now they had to face the fact that Zeno was capricious and that all were insecure in its path.
Of course, this had already become clear in many other parts of the world, not least to Scotland’s immediate south, but thus far the Scots themselves had proved uncharacteristically positive in the face of the crisis. Ali had often wondered about that. The stereotypical Scot was not perceived as a congenital optimist; indeed, the adjective ‘dour’ had historically been all too common in application to her co-nationals. But finally achieving independence from the Auld Enemy, as her football-supporting father liked to describe the English, seemed to have brought about something of a cultural change. The perhaps illusory sense of now having control of their own fate had created a mood of optimism altogether unjustified in such a globalised world, a belief that things could and would be made much better. Increasingly Ali had come to think that this faith was misplaced, especially since serious levels of deprivation were still to be found all over the country. In the estates that surrounded her city, for example, in the likes of Craigmillar, Niddrie or Wester Hailles, there was as much poverty as there ever had been.
