“Wait,” says Fellows, “I need to ask you something.” The man is stuffing all the leaflets in the inside pocket of a coat too thick and woollen to look anything other than suspicious in this heat.
“What?” the man whispers, as if the Guardia negotiating at the melon stall are close enough to overhear.
“I was told that you... I was told you had some of the pre-quarantine money?”
The man looks puzzled; his eyes dart around as if his very nodding were a crime. “Yeah. Of course. You need some? You?”
Fellows hasn’t time to be confused, he just names an amount he hopes will cover the rest of the Boursier stories. But the man is already pulling out notes from his overcoat and stuffing them into Fellows’s hand. After not seeing them for so long the notes look odd, almost futuristic with the shining metal stripe up one side; nevertheless they are also grubby and slightly damp, as if they have changed hands too many times. There are more than he asked for and Fellows struggles to pull out his wallet with his hands so full. He can hear the footsteps of the Guardia start to cross the square towards them, echoing in the still and quiet air.
“How much?” he whispers to the man, grabbing his arm so that he can’t leave.
“Huh?”
“How much? How much real money do you want?” The man continued to look baffled, as if this whole transaction has a script and Fellows was suddenly changing his lines.
“Why would I take your money?” he says, so quietly Fellows can’t tell which word he is stressing.
“Why would I take yours?” Fellows says. The footsteps are closer now, unmistakably heading their way (all the other protestors have fled). He glances guiltily over his shoulder although he has done nothing wrong; the shadows of the two Guardia are stretched out and distorted in the bright sunlight, their bodies looking as misshapen as that of the ghost in his house.
“Huh?” says the protestor again. “It’s not mine.” And with that he pulls away from Fellows and dashes off, head down. He looks ridiculous in his greatcoat, obviously suspicious, and Fellows is surprised when the Guardia still walk up to him.
“Everything all right sir?” one of them says; he turns and sees them looking at him, their lips still red from watermelon. Very casually, one of them shifts her stance so that he can see the holster at her hip.
“Yes, yes, fine, thank you,” Fellows says quickly. He finishes stuffing his wallet in the pocket of his white linen jacket; he is aware his hands are stained with the ink from the mimeographed leaflet. “Just looking, uh, just looking for somewhere to get out of this heat. Phew!” He blows air into his face, feeling himself a fool. The two Guardia look at each other.
“I’d very much suggest,” one says, “that you move along and do just that. Sir.”
Relieved, Fellows heads off in the opposite direction to the one the protestor took. Bloody idiots, he thinks again.
~
He tries to remember how to get to The Echo Bookshop, his thoughts struggling in the heat to connect where he is to where he needs to be. The afternoon is so bright it plays tricks on his eyes, the old brick and wood of the city lit up like glass and metal. As he squints the roads seem wider, the buildings taller but casting no shadows. When he turns up the alley towards the bookshop it is like reality has reasserted itself, for there is shade again, and in the dim light the cracks and faded past of the city are visible once more.
The Echo is as deserted as it had been the day before; it would be a relaxing, quiet place if not for the hostile frown of the boy behind the counter. I’ve got your damn money, what’s the problem? Fellows thinks but doesn’t say.
“It’s me,” he says instead.
“Yes?” the boys says, in his parched voice that doesn’t suit his face. “And who are we today?” What a... what a twat, Fellows thinks.
“I’m here to buy the rest of the Boursier stories,” he says briskly. “I’ve jumped through your little hoops, got your pre-quarantine money...”
The boy sniffs at him. “Seller’s instructions,” he says.
“Okay, fine,” Fellows says, irritated and hot. “How much for the rest of them?”
The boy names a price just greater than the amount Fellows has.
“You’re kidding me?” he says. “How can each of these stories be worth so much more than the one yesterday?”
“Seller’s instructions,” the boy says again. “It’s more expensive if you buy them altogether.”
“Surely that should get me a discount?” Fellows says. “I know, I know,” he adds hurriedly, to avoid the bookseller’s anger. “Seller’s instructions. Look, I’m a bit short, can’t you...”
“Oh for God’s sake!” the boy shouts, his dry dusty voice cracking in his throat. He turns and digs a note from his pocket—old money—and hands it to Fellows. “Here, here!”
“Why are you giving me money?”
“From yesterday!” the boy yells. “I’m sick of it all!”
Yesterday? Fellows closes his eyes, feels the heat and pressure threatening to bloom into a headache in the darkness. Does it matter? The bookseller is obviously another lunatic, but he has enough money for the remaining Boursier stories now, so after today he never has to step foot in the place again.
“Right,” he says, “fine, fine. Here’s the cash then.” He hands all the pre-quarantine money, including the orange note the boy has just handed him, over. Silently the boy takes the cash, and hands over the further five stories. The one on the top of the pile is called Into The Rain. It appears to have been published as a series of newspaper columns, which someone has cut out and stuck to a flimsy cardboard backing, although it is not from any newspaper Fellows recognises; certainly not the city’s local.
Fellows is about to turn away without further response when the boy speaks to him; he sounds genuinely intrigued. “Did you read the story you bought yesterday. Did you like it?”
Fellows is at a loss how to reply, both because of the boy’s sudden change in tone and because he isn’t quite sure; did he like it?
“It... It made me look at things differently,” he says.
The boy gives a mirthless, hollow laugh that makes Fellows dislike him all over again. Wordlessly he turns to go; even through the dusty glass of the bookshop door he can see the oppressive white light outside, the sun obviously having risen to a zenith that lets it scorch the alleyway too. The thought of going out into that heat and walking home fills Fellows with a sudden weariness.
In one corner of the bookshop he sees the chair on wheels he noticed yesterday, although not in front of the desk anymore, as if the boy had kicked it in pique and sent it rolling away into the corner.
“Any objection,” Fellows says, “if I sit here and read until it cools down? Buyer’s instructions,” he adds sourly.
The boy laughs, this time seemingly genuinely amused although Fellows can’t see why. “Sure, why the hell not?” he says. “What’s one more bit of craziness going to matter?”
Ignoring him, Fellows sits on the chair; it has an adjustable height and angle, but it is already at the correct settings for him. Taking the top most story from the pile, he starts to read.
Into The Rain by Boursier
There was a noise outside, or rather a further noise, one not the pouring rain or howling wind. Laura was on her feet almost instantly.
“Was that him? Was that Mogwai?”
“No I don’t think so,” Trent said quietly, his voice almost lost because of the storm outside.
“Go and look? Please?”
Reluctantly, Trent got up from his seat—his hair was still wet from the shower he’d taken when he got back from work, and Laura noticed a mark on the sofa. His shirt clung oddly to him, as if he hadn’t dried himself properly. Maybe he hadn’t—he had said that he didn’t feel himself.
She heard him walk slowly downstairs to the front door, which he flung open to the sounds of the storm outside—there was so much rain that it made a constant, muffling sound, broken only by th
e shriek of the wind and the shaking of the trees. What had happened to the weather, she wondered. What had they done?
“Mogwai? Mooooooogwai!” she heard Trent calling, his voice thrown out into the storm and swallowed by it. She knew it was stupid—the damn cat was probably hiding under a bush or parked car somewhere, and would come back when the rain abated. He had never not come home. But something about the weather unnerved Laura—the sheer unnatural ferocity of it made it hard to imagine it ever ending.
“Shake his treats!” she shouted down to Trent.
“What?”
“His cat treats—shake the box. He might come then. The box with the fish on top,” she added. She heard Trent grumbling—he always did what she asked when he knew it was important to her, even if he thought it to be pointless. But the sound of him shaking the treats was lost to the storm even more than his voice had been.
He came back upstairs. They lived in a three-story townhouse and their lounge was on the middle-floor—something she was glad of when she saw news footage of people being flooded out of their homes in another city just further north. When Trent entered the room his hair was if anything even wetter, his face seemed to drip. Had he actually stepped out into the rain looking for the cat? He was good to her.
“Sorry,” she said. “Glass of wine? We’ve got that nice dry one in the fridge.”
He seemed to flinch at her words, to be distracted from himself—”Huh?”
“Wine? Not too early?”
“Oh. Okay. Yes please.”
Laura went into the kitchen and took the bottle out of the fridge, poured two large glasses despite it being only early evening. Each night she swore they wouldn’t open more than one bottle, because if one was opened they usually drank it all. But what did it matter if they did? she thought sourly. She knew, if she turned the bottle to look at the back she’d see the silhouette of a heavily pregnant woman drinking from a wine glass with a cross over the top. What did it matter at all, Laura thought, and took a big gulp.
The kitchen was also on the middle floor, and from where she stood all she could see out of the window was a dark sky shot through with rain, like the sky itself was something that would inevitably be eroded away by the incessant water. She thought of Mogwai out in the storm and something in her heart fluttered; she felt a heaviness in her stomach that wasn’t just the wine. Although he was an unfussy male cat who was out all hours, she still couldn’t help but think of Mogwai as being something fragile that needed her protection. She opened the kitchen window; the storm seemed to deliberately whip warm, heavy raindrops into her face. She wiped them away frantically, as if they were something less pure than rainwater.
“Mogwai!” she called from the window; he could be right in front of her but given he was completely black she’d never realise. “Mog...”
She almost shouted as she felt arms encircle her—she could normally tell Trent just by his smell but ever since he’d come out of the shower earlier she’d had the impression he smelt different to normal. He must have got a new brand of shower gel or something. She started to pull away from his embrace, knowing he thought her worry for the cat an overreaction, but then she relented and let him hold her. He was her man, after all, and things weren’t his fault. Weren’t necessarily his fault, anyway—the doctors didn’t seem to know what was wrong. The annoyance and intimacy of their attempts to find out would have been worth it, would have been something she’d have undergone a thousand times over, if it had turned out as she wanted in the end... But no. Laura took another gulp of her wine.
“I’m sure he’s okay,” Trent said to her; he kissed the side of her neck from behind and she felt like his clammy skin must be leaving a mark on her... But this close, this connected, she could smell the old hints of him, detect the faint scent of what she unconsciously thought of as ‘Trent’s smell’, and this reassured her.
“I know, I’m just... You know how I worry about him,” Laura said.
They’d bought Mogwai when all hope had seemed gone, although because the clinic had never found anything conclusively wrong she’d never fully given up. Still hadn’t, even now Mogwai was five. She knew Trent hadn’t really wanted a cat, but he’d agreed because he knew how much she did. She thought he had grown to love Mogwai, just like he had grown to love the rest of her stupid failures and anxieties.
“I really am lucky to have you,” she said to him, turning to him and giving him a kiss; the sound of the storm provided a backdrop she tried to ignore. She could hear the pattering of raindrops on the sill, coming in from the open window.
“Yes, yes you are,” Trent said with a grin.
“Cheeky sod. Here, drink your wine.” But then she didn’t hand it to him but kissed him again, suddenly deciding she wanted something else. Her hands cupped his face as they kissed and she tried not to care about how damp he still felt to her touch. A forelock of his hair had dropped down with the weight of water, and she felt it against her brow. But still, she kissed him and felt his arms tighten around her and, maybe more tentatively than normal, move down to squeeze her behind. She was pressed against him; he wasn’t hard yet but she knew he’d had a tiring day, and she could smell him, underneath the odour of whatever new product he’d used (and which she’d tell him to throw away, and which he would), smell her man and at that moment it didn’t matter if it were just the two of them and the cat, didn’t matter if that was all there was ever likely to be...
From the open window came a high, piecing sound, cutting through the wind and rain, shockingly loud. They sprang apart from each other and even though the noise had been nothing like she’d ever heard before, Laura’s first thought was:
“Mogwai!”
“I don’t think that was him...” Trent started to say.
The sound came again and there was something dreadful about it, something alien but also, Laura was convinced, something hurting.
“What else can it be?” she said frantically. “It’s, it’s a yowling sound isn’t it? You know how he makes weird noises when he fights other cats. Or what if he’s been hit by a car?”
“It didn’t sound like a cat to me.”
“Oh please, what if he’s been hit by a car, please go and check he’s okay?”
“Out? Into that?” Trent turned his head towards the open window. For a moment she thought that, for once, he wasn’t going to do what she asked—he thought it silly and no doubt it was silly, but if he could see she was upset was he really going to refuse her?
But Trent sighed and went downstairs, she heard him struggle into his coat and get the torch from the drawer. She looked out the window again, into the seething dark sky, and her thoughts were an echo of his words: you’re sending him out into that? Out from what she had made into a good, ordered home for them, despite how empty it felt in any bedroom but their own. The storm didn’t seem to be abating; when she peered downward she could see water swirling around the drains which were unable to cope with the sheer volume of rainfall. She knew the chances of Trent finding Mogwai, who was probably sheltering somewhere sensible, were slim and she almost called him back, but then she heard the front door slam and saw his figure stalk out into the storm. Within a few metres she could barely make him out, his slim shape erased by the sheets of falling rain. She could see the light of his torch moving backwards and forwards, but it seemed dimmer than it should be. If he was calling Mogwai’s name then she couldn’t hear him.
She wanted to shut the window, to shut out the rain and gale, but somehow it didn’t seem fair when she had sent him out into it all. Why hadn’t she gone herself? She was not normally one to act like a helpless damsel in distress. But something about that storm though... She watched the drops of rain as they seeped into the house, wetting the worktops. And then she thought fuck it, downed her glass of wine, poured herself another, and went back into the lounge.
She sat waiting for Trent to come back with increasing agitation not soothed by each sip of wine. She had only expected him to go
out and look for a few minutes, and as time passed and as the storm outside grew if anything more ferocious, she started to get worried. It’s only rain, she told herself, only water. She wondered why she always worried about those she loved, wondered what unfocused emotion was making her feel sicker each minute Trent, and Mogwai, weren’t back in from the rain. The wind outside seemed full of fury; she kidded herself she could feel the house shake. The attack of raindrops against the window stopped her thinking anything sensible, as did the second glass of wine. But still the worry remained, and after a few more minutes Laura got up suddenly from the sofa, and stood perplexed for a second wondering if she was imagining the feeling of dampness from her clothes.
She nervously went back into the kitchen—she looked out the window but couldn’t even see the light of Trent’s torch anymore. What was he doing, how far had he gone? She wondered how angry he would be when he returned. I don’t care, she thought, I just want him back. She was shaking and it was as if she was being buffeted by the storm despite being safe from it inside.
The sound of the rain increased and for a paranoid second she imagined the unnatural storm had torn the roof from the house leaving the third floor, with its three hopeful bedrooms, exposed. But she realised it was just Trent coming back inside. She hadn’t seen him from the window because the batteries in the torch must have gone—something else to make him angry with her. She turned to refill his wine glass where he had left it on the kitchen worktop, and saw it was untouched.
The Quarantined City Page 5
