Fever (Flu)

by Wayne Simmons

  Ciaran looked down finding a beer mat on the table. He picked it up and twirled it around his fingers. “Been signing on. Got a new job today but don’t start for a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, congratulations then. I’ll get you a drink to celebrate.” She pointed at his pint of Harp. “Another one of them?”

  “Er, yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He watched her walk to the bar, looking her up and down. There were a couple of fellas standing nearby, pints in hand. One of them looked over and nodded at Ciaran as if to say, Nice one, mate. Ciaran looked away.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated, causing him to jump. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. MAM CALLING. He swore then selected IGNORE CALL. He switched the phone off and slid it back into the pocket of his joggers.

  The girl was back now. She sat another pint beside his half-empty glass and slid into her seat. A glass of what looked to be Coke was in her hand.

  “That vodka?” he said.

  She sniffed the glass. “No. Just Coke.”

  “Don’t you drink?”

  She looked up at the television as if the answer to his question might be there. Rooney was arguing with the referee. The bar erupted again, the group of fellas nearby pointing at the screen and shouting.

  “I used to,” she said, still watching the TV.

  Ciaran nodded. New conversation needed. “What do you do?”

  She turned back. “I’m a teacher,” she said.

  “Yeah? What do you teach?”

  “Just everything. Primary school.”

  “What age?”

  “P 7. Ten and eleven year olds.”

  Ciaran smiled. “They’re wee shits at that age.”

  She laughed, took a sip of her drink, then asked, “What’s your new job?”

  Ciaran looked at the clear plastic envelop sitting on the table beside him. “Just joined the TA,” he said.

  His voice was muted. Apologetic.

  “Wow,” she said but she didn’t look wowed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s just a job.”

  He lifted his pint and drank deeply. He went to set it back on the table, but she stopped his hand.

  “Let’s drink to your new job,” she said, then put her lips around the straw. He watched the Coke move up towards her mouth. He lifted his own glass again, lightly knocking it against hers as she continued to drink. He drained his own glass dry.

  Voices swelled suddenly around them. Someone had scored.

  “What’s your name?” Ciaran said, leaning closer to the girl.

  “Julie,” she shouted over the noise of the crowd. And then she smiled again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Waringstown, County Down, 1st June

  The boot sale was less crowded than usual.

  Martin’s stall was gaining little attention; people weren’t interested in the contents of his garage, the old records and books, the toolbox he’d never used. He’d dusted them all down, even polished a few things to give them a shine, but still no takers.

  He reached a hand by his side finding his dog, Fred. He stroked the dog’s fur as it slept peacefully. Fred was his right-hand man. The old dog lay beside Martin’s deck chair, soaking up the heat, giving moral support.

  Martin looked at the other stall-holders, the ones with trinkets and curiosity items. He wondered why folks bought such junk. Then again, these things were more social than anything else. All about the chit-chat.

  He wasn’t a boot sale regular; twice a year would usually clear him out.

  People here wanted a bargain, something for nothing. Martin had learned to barter over the years, not allowing folks to grab his stuff for buttons. One time, when Martin was greener to it all, some old pro bought half the stuff on his table, only to add it to his own stall, selling at twice the price. These tools he brought today were brand new, hardly out of their packaging. Martin wasn’t going to let them go for pennies. He’d rather give them to charity.

  He spotted an Indian family. They were usually good for a sale, descending like hawks, mid-morning, filling plastic bags with clothes and toys for their children, anything they couldn’t get cheaper elsewhere. Martin recognised them. He’d seen them haggling in the local shops, broken English sounding aggressive to whatever old dear was manning the till.

  “How much for the tape?”

  Martin looked around, finding an old man waving a roll of half-used masking tape. He wore a white string vest, formidable belly hanging over belted trousers, bare arms sun-scorched and covered with white hair.

  “A pound,” Martin told him.

  The old man sniffed, turned his face up and set the roll back on the table. “Fifty pence,” he said without looking at Martin.

  “Pound,” Martin said, reaching his hand over to ruffle the head of Fred.

  The old man smiled, sticking his hand into his trousers pockets and jingling change. A rucksack hung from his shoulders, packed full. “Is the dog for sale?” he said smiling, then handed Martin a pound.

  “You wouldn’t want him,” Martin said, already sick of the quip he’d heard about twenty times that day.

  The old man dropped his rucksack, unzipped it and placed the masking tape inside. Martin noticed some other rolls in there along with a clear plastic tub filled with nails and screws.

  He noticed Martin staring. “Stocking up,” he said. “For the end of the world.”

  “That so,” Martin said.

  He knew the old boy as one of the regulars from the boot sale. A bit of a head-melter, always preaching to all and sundry about the latest conspiracy theory he’d picked up from some book he’d just read. No harm in him, mind. Usually filed along quietly, once you looked bored enough.

  But today the old fellow was keen. He pulled a crumpled brown envelope from his rucksack. He looked over his shoulder, as if whatever new top secret he was about to divulge hadn’t been shared to every other stall holder. He opened the envelope, carefully removed what looked to be a glossy leaflet. He placed it on top of Martin’s pasting table, spreading it out flat, clearing stock to make room.

  “These are going out next week,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I’ve a friend in the know.” He smiled mischievously. “If you ask me,” he continued, voice still low, face beaming as if this were all good news being shared, “I’d say it was all them wars landed us in this shit.” His eyes rolled slightly backwards, gesturing towards the Indian family, the mother shifting through a cardboard box of old toys and showing them to a disinterested child in a buggy. “Probably one of them biological attacks you hear about...”

  Martin said nothing, simply flicking through the brightly coloured leaflet detailing methods to prevent the spread of germs. There were pictures on every page with smiling, middle-class mothers helping to fit yellow surgical masks over the faces of their children. Other pictures showed a calm workman, also wearing a mask, stepping back to admire the handiwork of a window he’d fully covered with clear plastic using the same sort of masking tape Martin had just sold. All measures your family should take in the unlikely event of the flu virus becoming a ‘Stage 2 Pandemic’.

  Of course, none of it mattered. Just nonsense some joker on the internet had dreamed up from his bedroom. Fairly well done, mind.

  Martin handed the brochure back, blowing some air out of his mouth.

  “I’m telling you,” the old man protested, reading Martin’s mind, “This is the real Mc Coy!” He was getting more and more worked up. A volley of spittle left his mouth.

  Martin felt Fred’s hackles prick up under his hand and instinctually grabbed the dog’s collar. “Not saying there’s no truth in it,” he said. “So calm yourself down, okay?”

  The old man grabbed his brochure from the pasting table.

  Fred was growling now, a low murmur vibrating from his throat like a distant roll of thunder.

  The old man left them, no doubt to poison some other poor bastard with his paranoid bullshit.

  “Easy,” boy,�
� Martin said, stroking the dog. “Everything’s alright.”

  He looked back at the Indian woman, now bent over her child in its buggy. The child was crying, and the woman was trying to wipe its face with a tissue, despite its protests.

  A sneeze exploded from the stallholder beside him.

  It was late afternoon before the old man approached his farmhouse home, feet sore and mouth dry from walking and talking. He looked around, dropped his rucksack and retrieved a heavy bunch of keys. He turned each of the five keys in the five locks, looking around once more before letting himself in.

  The sound of a parrot greeted his entry, the bird singing “Tom, Tom, Tom” and fluttering its wings with delight. Tom whistled back at the bird, tapping its cage.

  He moved through the living room-cum-kitchen, setting his rucksack down by the desk in the corner, then flicked both internet and PC connection to ON. He listened as the old computer whirred, nodded in approval before moving through to the kitchen.

  He filled the kettle, set it onto the gas cooker and turned the dial. He lit up a match, leaning it gently towards the escaping gas to ignite a small flame under the kettle, then pulled it sharply to his mouth and blew it out.

  Tom moved back to the computer, moving the old stool out from under its desk before sitting down.

  The monitor displayed its usual gibberish before throwing up his log-in page. Tom tapped in the sixteen-character password then struck the RETURN key.

  He waited while his customised desktop loaded, tapping his fingers on the desk.

  Once in, he connected to the internet and began his rounds, opening up the various message boards he frequented all on the topic of TRUTH. He searched each of the threads for new entries.

  Tom was a regular on a lot of message boards. Sometimes he argued, striving to convince the idiot sheep of what was going on around them. Most users would laugh, make fun of him. That made Tom angry. He’d swear at them, tell them they were going to die, type feverishly in capitals. And then he’d get banned.

  A pop-up box in the corner indicated an incoming request to chat. Tom moved the mouse cursor, accepting, the dialogue box flicking open onto the screen.

  “Agent13”, he muttered to himself reading the username in the chat box. “Wait til I show you what I’ve got...”

  Tom had waited a long time for this. Finally, he’d something big to share. He reached for the rucksack on the floor, opened it and retrieved his prize. Carefully, he placed the brochure face down on the scanner next to the PC.

  The computer beeped, the words ‘Agent13 is typing’ appearing on the chat screen.

  “Just wait, will ye?!” Tom barked, frustrated. The message NEW PLAYER appeared onscreen.

  Tom stared at the words, rubbing the three-day-old stubble on his chin. He sighed. His curiosity got the better of him, despite himself. “Who?” he said out loud as he typed.

  LOCAL, came the response.

  Tom laughed. “Ever the cryptic bastard, aren’t you?” He typed again, this time in capitals: WHO?!

  The message ‘Agent13 is typing’ appeared again, Tom laughing. “Just get on with it!”

  CONNOR JACKSON

  “Who?!” Tom said again as he typed.

  THE CHAMBER came the reply and then MAHON ROAD.

  “Only the old army camp there,” Tom muttered back and then typed it in.

  EXACTLY replied Agent13.

  The kettle whistled in the corner. Tom walked back to the kitchen, retrieving his favourite mug from the draining board where he’d left it. He dunked a tea bag in, lifted a nearby bottle of milk, smelled it, turned his nose up yet still added a drop. He drowned the lot in hot water from the kettle. Lifted his mug and returned to the computer.

  There was a link on the screen now, provided by Agent13. He knew the link as one of the regular truther user-groups he would download from.

  Tom clicked on it.

  The link brought him through to encrypted data. Tom swore. He opened the program Agent13 had supplied him with for decrypting code like this. He ran the data through it, waiting as the PC clucked and burped before throwing up a new page with the data decrypted.

  Tom squinted, reading through the small type. It talked about something called The Chamber, a surveillance project running out of the Mahon Road Army camp. The project was particularly active during Northern Ireland’s Troubles, interrogating suspects behind closed doors, employing CCTV to keep an eye on key suspects, using the information gained to blackmail, coerce and generally manipulate some of the key players on both sides of the conflict. The result was a swiftly drawn-up ‘peace’ deal.

  Tom read on with interest, almost forgetting his own news.

  Major Connor Jackson, whoever he was, was up to his eyes in all of this. He’d led the project in the 80s, soon bringing another player in, a young doctor called Miles Gallagher. Seems the pair were something of a Jekyll and Hyde, reports from Agent13’s source confirming disharmony. Eventually, Jackson left, transferring his command to another officer.

  LITTLE TASTE OF HOME appeared on the chat screen.

  Tom smiled. Like him, Agent 13 was based in Northern Ireland. They ran a truther group together. It was rare they’d uncover something local. Normally, they had to make do with whatever US truthers were pedalling: Bohemian Grove or the Bilderbergs or whatever. The Mahon Road was so close to him, Tom could almost throw a stone at it.

  He had the urge to go out to the Mahon Road right now and take some pictures, feign a stake-out and talk it up for effect, uploading his story and pics to the group. But then he remembered the brochure. The tape in his bag, the plans he was making to stock up and lock up.

  Tom returned to his scanner, scanning the brochure from cover to cover. It didn’t take him long, weighing in at a scant 8 pages, all in easy-to-read bold print. He went into his e-mail account, uploading and e-mailing the whole document over to Agent13’s e-mail address.

  He returned to chat, a smile spreading across his face.

  “Sent something to you, buddy” he typed, then leaned back in the chair, arms folded over his formidable belly. “Let’s see what you make of that...”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Belfast, County Antrim, 10th June

  “That’ll be 19 pounds, 99.”

  Colin folded the scarf and placed it into a bag. He twirled the package around, pointing its handles at the pretty girl at the other side of the till.

  She pulled a twenty from her purse, set it on the counter.

  Colin’s eyes fell upon her t-shirt. There was writing across the chest which Colin squinted to make out. MISS BEHAVIOUR, it read.

  “Ahem.”

  Colin looked up to find the girl staring at him, eyebrows raised. “Just reading your t-shirt,” he said, lifting her twenty and ringing it through the till.

  “I’ll bet you are...”

  Colin smiled, handing her the penny change and receipt. “No returns for sale items.”

  She pocketed her change, took her bag and walked off. She didn’t look amused.

  “Really not a boobs kind of guy,” Colin muttered under his breath then turned to the next person in the queue.

  A young, chavvy-looking bloke approached next, placing a pair of boxers on the counter.

  “£6 pounds, 99, mate,” Colin said, his voice dropping a key or two.

  The chav fumbled in his pockets for change.

  Colin smiled as he waited, whistling along with some unknown tune playing on the store radio. He wasn’t normally a whistler. It was something he would do subconsciously, an attempt at manning-up, when needing to fit in with whatever alpha-male was nearby.

  Chavvy Bloke produced the cash, setting it on the counter. His face screwed up, muscles tensing as he went to sneeze, the spray blasting Colin. “Sorry about that, mate...” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Colin replied, through clenched teeth. He took the money, shaking it in his hand then ringing it through the till. He offered the penny change.

  “
Keep it,” Chavvy said, rubbing his face with an old battered tissue. He flashed a grin then wandered off, bagged boxers in hand.

  Colin turned to Sinead, who was standing at the till beside him, her pent-up giggle waiting.

  “Fucking twat,” Colin said, pulling off his snot-soaked t-shirt. “Should stay indoors if he has the flu. That’s what the ads say!”

  He left the till. Bare-chested, Colin strolled to a nearby railing and retrieved a vest-top. He could hear Sinead laughing behind him. “What?!” he said, looking back at her, face filled with mock anger.

  Sinead was laughing so much now that she gave way to a coughing fit. She pointed at his bare chest. “It’s your tan line,” she managed, red-faced and exasperated.

  Colin put his hand to his mouth, feigning diva-style shock. He marched to the full-length mirror at the other side of the shop, oblivious to the customer using it to try a coat on.

  “Oh my GAWWWWD!” Colin burst, doubling over, screeches of laughter ringing out. “I’m such a milly!”

  He replaced the vest top back on the railing, instead lifting a short-sleeved, high-collared shirt. He pulled the tag off and slipped it on.

  “That looks nice on you,” came another voice, accompanied by the familiar clap of high heels. An impeccably dressed young woman approached. “How will you be paying?” she quipped. “Cash or cheque?”

  “What’s up, Vic?” Colin said. He shot an acid look at Sinead, who rolled her eyes, then turned to the next customer.

  “Call just came in from head office,” Vicky said. “They want us to close.”

  “What?”

  “It’s this—” she looked to make sure no customers were within earshot, “this fucking flu,” she said in a low voice. “Government’s closing all businesses, except what they deem ‘necessary’. They’re going to announce it on the news later. Unless you’re selling groceries or hardware, you’re gone.”

  “We sell clothes,” Colin said, “surely that’s essential enough for them?”

  “Colin,” Vicky said, looking over her glasses as if he was irritating her with his stupidity. “This is the twenty-first century. Supermarkets sell all the clothing deemed essential. Our quaint little overpriced boutique just didn’t make their list.”