The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  Priestley police station. 3:05 p.m.

  ‘The way things are going, Lara,’ Williams said mischievously as he looked at the trail of people queuing on the ramp, ‘they’ll be lining up on the pavement soon.’

  ‘There’s more and more people asking for toilets and drinks of water,’ Croft said. She blew her fringe with a gust of breath, and fanned her pink cheeks with a flapping hand. ‘John, we’re just not geared up for this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Williams replied. ‘In the absence of any leadership coming from inside, I’m going to nip round the corner and see if I can’t get the churchwarden to open up the community centre. Can you hold the fort for five minutes?’

  ‘Just don’t get chatting while you’re round there.’ She smiled. ‘In other words, hurry up.’

  Adams finished taking the details of a street robbery from a previously well-manicured woman. ‘Did you get a close look at him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He had bright ginger hair and thick lips. Reminded me of an orangutan. I only just had my nails done last night, now look.’ The false nail on her third finger was missing. ‘I mean, can you believe it?’

  ‘Well, there can’t be too many people matching that description. There’s a good chance we’ll catch him once we get back to normal. We’ll get back to you as soon as we hear anything,’ he said. ‘All right, who’s next?’

  Constable Fletcher let her out.

  ‘Don’t let anyone else in for a minute, Fletcher. We’ll clear the public already in here, and then have a break, all right?’ He shrugged apologetically at the remaining people at the counter. ‘Sorry, but if I’d wanted to work on a conveyor belt, I’d have got a job in a factory. I’ve never known it like this before.’

  Trent agreed. ‘I haven’t done this much writing since I was at school.’ Then he volunteered. ‘I’m busier than a one-armed man in a wallpaper-hanging contest.’

  ‘Hey. That’s my line,’ Adams said. ‘Wait here a minute; I’m going see the inspector. Before we get completely swamped.’

  Emerson’s door was closed. Adams frowned, then knocked before going in.

  ‘What is it, Adams?’

  ‘We could do with some help out there, sir.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? Wave a bloody magic wand and make it all go away?’

  ‘Face it, sir. Public dissent is growing. There could be hours more of this. You need to do something.’

  Emerson spun around on his chair to face the window. ‘Where’s Williams?’

  ‘He’s out there with Croft managing the crowd.’

  ‘Williams couldn’t manage a shit without someone to wipe his arse. Tell him to bring the professor down here and this time, he isn’t to come back without him.’

  ‘Williams said he’d gone out—’

  ‘It isn’t up for discussion,’ Emerson barked. ‘Send. Williams. Now. Adams.’

  ‘I had an idea while I was round at the community centre,’ Williams said, waving a book of raffle tickets at Croft. ‘The warden said I could have them. We give these out to everybody in chronological order. It means they can leave the queue without losing their places. The community centre has agreed to donate tea and coffee for free, and allow the use of their toilets.’

  ‘A bit like queuing for cooked chicken at the supermarket? John, that’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘Give me those; I’ll start handing them out right away.’

  ‘That’s not all. As you go round, tell people that if they’d prefer, they can write down their names and addresses, detail their complaints, and hand them over to Fletcher on the door. Then they can go home.’ Williams winked. I’ll just organise it with them in there, get paper and so on.’

  ‘All right,’ Croft said, and started to hand out the tickets.

  Williams approached the door. The mood and tone of the crowd outside lifted perceptibly. He raised his eyebrows at Fletcher and pointed to the lock. He opened it just as Adams appeared. ‘Emerson wants you to fetch the professor,’ he said.

  ‘Again? This is getting ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, John, but you’re to go right away.’

  Williams knocked on the door, his signet ring producing a sharp rapping sound. Through the frosted glass, he watched as a figure ambled towards him. The door opened. ‘John,’ Professor Young smiled, ‘so soon? Do come in.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude on you like this, Dai, but Emerson has again asked if you can come to the station.’

  ‘Is he suffering from agoraphobia? Tell him he’s very welcome to come here. Second thoughts – I’m off out in a few minutes. I’ll visit as soon as I can.’ He looked at his watch. ‘All right, come in and sit down for a while. Tell me, what’s the problem?’

  When Williams had finished briefing him, the professor pinched the loose flesh under his chin. ‘It seems to me your inspector isn’t very good in a crisis. Mind you, I would think there’s been more than a few caught out by this solar storm. Throw into the mix a giant cannibal killer, and it’s no wonder he’s struggling. In normal circumstances, he could just pick up the phone and direct operations from there, even call in reinforcements from neighbouring counties. It’s a wake-up call that may have come too late.’

  A puzzled frown appeared on Williams’ forehead. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know the transformers they run the power grid through?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I told a little white lie earlier, when I said the electricity companies had them stockpiled. They’re made in Japan.’

  Williams shrugged. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Apparently, John, the idea was to ship the parts around the world so they’d be ready for an emergency, but they never got around to it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Without communications, how is anyone going to order the parts? How will they transport them anyway? By sea? How will they refuel, with buckets?’

  ‘Christ, it sounds like we’ve had it.

  ‘It depends on whether they had time to switch the transformers off before the solar wind hit. If we’re lucky, they did, or only the transformers at the edge of the grid have been damaged.’

  ‘Dai, do you think the rest of the world is affected? I mean, we all club together and help one another in times like this, don’t we?’

  Professor Young considered the question. ‘From the manifestations in the sky, I have to say it’s possible the whole Northern Hemisphere is affected.’

  ‘If that were the case, how long do you think it would take to sort out?’

  The professor stood up. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, John.’

  Williams also got to his feet. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ The old man led him down the passageway to the front door. He opened it, his smile grim. ‘Let’s just pray that it is not the case, shall we?’

  Chapter 37

  Bell House. 5:35 p.m.

  Drunk, Gloria staggered outside and onto the lane. She’d dismissed her parents from her thoughts when she took the first sip of wine. The afternoon had passed in a glorious blur. Two glasses taken in ten minutes, she’d laughed ecstatically. How could she have denied herself these feelings? The potatoes. I’ve burnt the potatoes. When she checked, she’d not put them on. She thought her sides would burst, she’d laughed so hard. And then, she cried. For her failure. For the disappointment certain to cloud her parents’ faces. Couldn’t go look for them now. Where have they been all day, anyway?

  Twenty-seven years old, she’d returned to the family fold after her life had taken a dive. Her boyfriend had, without warning, committed suicide. She’d always thought they were close. If he had problems, he’d never spoken to her about them. Never even left a note. Selfish bastard. She’d taken to drinking – as if her life depended on it, one of her friends had said. And worse. In her brain, the pattern resumed as if it had never stopped. The drink led to cravings. Cigarettes first, and as each line was crossed, she’d go further. The vices born of in
security bled into one another: drugs, sex and strangers. In her jumbled-up head, she knew all these things, but she didn’t care. She swigged from the bottle of wine she had with her and headed for the pub. Someone would buy her a drink.

  Gloria stumbled, almost fell. It started a chain reaction of clumsiness; tripping and lurching, she staggered from one side of the lane to the other until she reached a signpost. She leaned against it, and steadying herself, noticed a tall man in uniform striding up the hill towards her. Eyes struggling to focus, she was amazed at his height.

  ‘Hello, handsome,’ she slurred. ‘You’re a big boy.’

  The stranger narrowed his eyes. There’s something not right about this one.

  Gloria emptied the bottle she carried and threw it in the bushes.

  Drunk? He’d never seen a drunken woman before. He undid his flies and exposed his engorged penis. Gloria gasped and grabbed him, taking him in her mouth. Her sudden acquiescence took him by surprise.

  ‘This uniform stinks,’ she mumbled. Her lips around his cock, she made little mewing sounds as her head bobbed up and down his shaft. Already hard at the thought of what he planned to do, his stiffness reached another level. He felt something like gratitude. ‘God,’ he exclaimed. ‘No one’s ever done that to me before.’

  ‘You have a beautiful dick,’ she slurred. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  Afterwards, they lay down together. She caressed him, gently stroking his length. Semi-flaccid, it began inflating. Gloria glanced up at him, his eyes already locked onto hers. She smiled. ‘Look who’s coming back,’ she said.

  Chapter 38

  Hilltop Cottage. 6:00 p.m.

  At the edge of consciousness, listlessness held Anderson in its grip. Come on Michael, time to wake up. Fuzziness clouded his thinking. Nytol. At one time, he’d been used to them, taking them habitually, but he’d stopped. Smoking. Drinking. Using weed. All of his demons conquered in one fell swoop. He was unconvinced he really felt better, but kept with it. Two bloody Nytol and I’m a zombie.

  He opened his eyes. The lights he’d turned on remained off. Still no power. How long have I slept? He checked his watch. Six o’clock. Morning or night? Could he have slept right through until the next day? The walls shimmered eerily green. Evening. The direction of the feeble light coming in through the window confirmed it. Soon it would be dark. He furrowed his brow. His eye felt bulbous, the skin tightest around the epicentre of the bite. Is it bigger? He traced its outline with a finger. It frightened him. He couldn’t feel his face. The antihistamine in the Nytol hadn’t worked. Have the tablets reacted with the bite? Anderson thought about looking in the mirror. What good’s that going to do, seeing something grotesque that I can’t do anything about? I need a doctor.

  The CB radio. Maybe if I can raise someone, they’d be able to help me. To find the radio, I need a torch. There’s one in the under stairs cupboard, next to the gun cabinet. He jackknifed in slow motion, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and pushing down with his hands on his knees, got up.

  Snatches of dreams tumbled through his mind. Ryan had placed great value on dream analysis for assessing the depths of post-traumatic stress disorder.

  A question came full-circle. What is it you search for? Heavy with a sense of déjà vu, he left his bedroom, walked unsteadily down the corridor to the head of the stairs, and began to descend them. At the last step, he stumbled. Unconvinced he was seeing out of both eyes, he felt curiously detached. Not taking any more Nytol. But he knew he would. He’d slept all day. How would he sleep without taking it?

  He opened the cupboard door and felt around. Got it. His fingers closing around the barrel of the torch, he took it from the shelf and pressed the switch. Not working. Unscrewing the base, he tipped the batteries out. They dropped into his palm. Sticky. He’d had them so long they’d leaked. Shit! Do I have any spares? Wait. Candles. I must have candles. Navigating to the kitchen, he reached up to the corner wall unit. In there, he found an unopened pack of tea lights, and next to them, a box of matches he’d had the foresight to stow away alongside them. Splitting the pack, he lit the first candle. Holding it, he searched for something to put it in so he wouldn’t burn himself. Hot wax tipped over the side of the foil casing, searing his fingers as he reached for a breakfast bowl. Shit. Now he had a means to carry light around with him. He repeated the process. More and more lit, he placed them in various rooms. One in the toilet. One in the lounge. Later, he’d put some upstairs if the electricity hadn’t come back.

  He hoped the radio still worked. There was a spare battery in the garage, which he kept charged. What was the point of a spare if, when needed, it was flat? He made his way to the front door, opened it, and cupping the candle, crossed the courtyard to the garage.

  Anderson put everything he needed into a box and carried it inside the conservatory. Connecting it up was easy. He stood on a chair, raised up on tiptoes to hook the antenna on to the winding mechanism of a roof-light, and stepped down. The indicator on the handset glowed red when he switched it on. The radio crackled. What are the chances anyone else is tuned in? When he’d bought the unit years before, they were all the rage and he’d purchased it in the unlikely event of becoming cut off in his farmhouse. Although he’d played around with it, he’d not got into the lingo or protocol, and never had more than a five-minute conversation with anyone. Expectant, he scrolled the channels hoping to hear someone talking. He frowned. Maybe I’m out of range. The emergency channel. Go to that. Channel nine selected, he listened intently. No one was talking. He pushed the button on the microphone and spoke. ‘This is Michael Anderson of Hilltop Cottage. Does anyone copy?’ No response other than static. He repeated the call, adding, ‘I’ve been bitten by a mosquito, and I think I’m in some kind of shock. I need medical assistance.’ Still nothing. ‘Can anybody tell me what’s happening out there?’ The electronic chatter intensified, the sound like a foaming wave rushing onto sand. A woman’s voice came through. ‘This is E.R. I hear you, Michael.’

  ‘Thank God,’ he whispered, and then raised the level of his voice over the distortion. ‘E.R, this is going to sound ridiculous, but I’m having an adverse reaction to a mosquito bite.’

  ‘Okay, Michael, take your time. What are your concerns?’

  ‘I need a doctor.’

  ‘I can’t help you there, Michael,’ she said. ‘But I’m a nurse. Tell me what’s going on. What symptoms do you have?’

  If he’d lived in town, he could have just walked in to a surgery or a hospital. He silently cursed living in the countryside and being so far away from everyone. ‘My eyelid is numb and swollen; so is half of my face. I can’t think straight.’

  ‘But in yourself, Michael, are you all right?’ she said, her voice concerned. ‘You don’t sound all right.’

  ‘I’m fine, really.’

  ‘You seem a little drunk.’

  He registered the suspicion in her voice and laughed. ‘No, no.’ Suddenly, he didn’t want to burden her. ‘I could do with a drink, though, I’m so thirsty.’ He flicked the tip of his tongue over dry lips.

  ‘Do you want me to hold on while you get something?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m okay. I just need to wake up. I’ve been asleep all day, it seems.’

  ‘Didn’t you sleep last night? I sometimes get that. It makes you feel like a zombie, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not lack of sleep. I told you, I got bitten earlier today—’

  ‘Not by a zombie, I hope?’

  ‘Are you not taking me seriously?’ he said, his voice almost drowned out by interference. ‘I know it sounds daft, but it was definitely a mosquito.’

  ‘They bite me all the time, the bloody things. You ask me, what value do they have? I’ll tell you. None.’

  ‘E.R.,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a reaction to it. My eye’s come up. Didn’t I tell you? I didn’t have any antihistamine, so I took some Nytol.’

  ‘Crikey, no wonder you slept all day. Look, switch to channel twe
nty-seven. We need to leave the emergency channel clear.’

  Anderson clicked through the channels. ‘You there?’ he said.

  ‘Course I am. Where are you? You not in town?’

  ‘No, about nine miles out. I can’t drive. My car’s not working.’

  ‘You haven’t heard? There’s been a solar storm. It’s knocked out the electricity grid, communications, everything. I take it you don’t have power?’

  ‘No, I don’t have anything,’ he said. ‘A solar storm? How did you hear that?’

  She laughed. ‘People have been talking about nothing else all day.’

  ‘Any news on when we’ll have electricity again?’

  ‘We’re reassured the authorities are working on it. Once darkness falls, though, I foresee problems.’

  Anderson’s mind traipsed through scenes of anarchy, riots, and fires burning. ‘For some, any excuse will do for causing trouble, and then others join in like pack dogs. Once one city starts . . . Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m not thinking. If communications are lost there, too, they won’t know about each other, will they?’

  ‘So far, things haven’t been too bad, considering.’

  ‘E.R., I’ve got such a headache.’

  ‘It could be dehydration. Are you going to get that glass of water?’ She paused. ‘I’ll wait.’

  Anderson took a long swig from the glass and placed it on the table. ‘I’m back, E.R.’ The set crackled. She’s gone. A surge of disappointment rushed him. ‘E.R.?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said.

  ‘I-I thought you’d gone. Is it normal to crave salt?’

  ‘Don’t have salt. It’ll just make you thirstier,’ she said. ‘When did you last have something to eat?’

  ‘I feel like I’ve swallowed a sponge.’

  She giggled.

  ‘What’s so amusing?’ he said dryly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Michael. I heard a joke with that line in it once; always cracked me up, though none of my friends saw it.’