Remade

by Alex Scarrow

  He pulled himself wearily off the couch and joined her. She was standing at the counter with a bag of sliced white and a jar of peanut butter beside her.

  ‘Two handed job, bruv’, innit?’

  He winced at her mock-London accent.

  He sighed as he made her sandwich. He looked at her arm in its sling. ‘Don’t get too used to me being your slave. That arm’s going to heal one day.’

  She shrugged. ‘How’s your head today?’

  ‘Sore. I’m ready for another aspirin.’

  ‘How many have you had?’

  ‘One at breakfast,’ he lied. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Arm’s really aching. Some kid bumped into me in the hallway. Practically knocked me on my ass.’ She fluttered her eyelids. ‘Then Peter, my knight in shining armour, sorted him out for me.’

  Leon shook his head. ‘Jeez . . . didn’t take you long to get your claws into this school.’

  She blew a raspberry at him.

  He pulled a glass from the draining board, filled it with tepid water and popped a pill from the packet.

  ‘You know, Leon, you really just need to, like, stress less.’ She took a hearty bite of her peanut-butter sandwich. ‘That’s what all these headaches and nosebleeds are – it’s you being totally neurotic and stuff.’

  ‘Neurotic? Where do you pick this stuff up?’

  ‘Yeah, neurotic! I know . . . new word. Yay, for me. But, seriously, you sulk and worry about, like, everything.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’ He didn’t have an answer better than that. He was saved by the ringtone of his phone. Pulling it out of his jeans, he stared at the screen.

  ‘That Mum?’ asked Grace. ‘Tell her—’

  He shook his head. He let it ring another couple of times, reluctant to answer.

  ‘Well? You gonna get it, or not?’ prompted Grace.

  ‘Uh . . . it’s Dad.’

  She tucked her sandwich into her sling then flipped her middle finger at him. ‘Tell Dad that’s from me.’

  He tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear. ‘So, what’s up . . . Dad?’

  ‘Leon, DON’T hang up on me!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to. I—’

  ‘Leon, I need you to listen very carefully to me.’ The line was crackly. ‘This African virus is spreading fast. The media over here is being pressured to downplay the whole story, but I’m telling you the government is rattled. They’re taking action . . . but they’re doing it quietly.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Leon, I need more than a grunt from you.’

  ‘God, Dad . . . I’m listening!’

  ‘What does he want?’ sniffed Grace. She turned her back on him, grabbed her sandwich and left the kitchen.

  ‘Leon, I need you and Grace and Mom to get out of the city. Go visit your grandparents and stay there! Do it before this thing hits the UK.’

  ‘Dad, we can’t. Mum’s got a job now, I’ve got college, Grace has to go to school. We can’t just—’

  ‘Screw that! This thing is already in Europe! Do you know about those migrant ships?’

  ‘Uh . . . no. I’ve been at coll—’

  ‘It was mentioned on the news over here this morning. Then they dropped the story like a goddamned brick. There are thousands of boats adrift on the Mediterranean, fleets of them . . . hundreds of thousands of people, millions, fleeing Africa. The media are doing their best to link it to an escalation of various conflicts over there . . . to terrorists, radicals . . . but they’re not saying what this is really about.’

  ‘The virus?’

  ‘For God’s sake . . . yes!’

  Leon wandered into the lounge. Grace was on the couch, flicking through TV channels, texting and attempting to eat, all one-handed.

  ‘I don’t know if the BBC or any Euro-stations are making much of it yet, but the point is everyone I know over here who has contact with the government is grabbing their kids and heading out of town!’

  ‘Dad . . . come on. Just, like, chill—’

  ‘Leon, don’t you think it’s damned odd that twenty-four hours ago the news was jumping on another exciting virus story . . . and now they’re hardly mentioning it?’

  Leon silently nodded. Not that his dad would see that. But maybe he had a point.

  ‘Look, maybe I’m over reacting, but . . . I want you guys out of London as soon as possible.’

  Leon grabbed the remote control from Grace’s hand –

  ‘Hey!’

  – and cycled through the stations until he hit BBC News 24. The volume was down low but on the screen was an armada of bobbing, overladen fishing vessels being circled by Italian navy speedboats.

  ‘Well . . . it’s on the news here,’ said Leon. He read the tickertape at the bottom. ‘Sudden spike in migrant ships as African unrest escalates.’

  ‘OK, so they are reporting it. But “unrest”? God! Not using the word “virus” or “plague”?’

  ‘No . . . not those words.’

  ‘That’s it, son. That’s the big goddamn warning sign, right there! They’re locking the story down. If they’re doing that already, then this thing is bad, Leo. It’s not good.’

  Dad was beginning to scare him. Leon wanted to hang up, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  ‘What’s going on over there, Leo? Are the Brits doing anything? Are they closing down borders yet? Are they turning them back? Are they taking this thing seriously?’

  ‘Jeez, Dad . . .’ His voice was cracking and beginning to sound shrill. ‘Calm down, will you?’

  ‘Are they taking any action at all?’

  ‘I don’t know! Look, I just got back from college –’ a small white lie – ‘and I really—’

  ‘Leon, listen . . . when does Mom get back home?’

  ‘About six, usually.’

  ‘Right . . . that’s lunchtime for me. I’m calling you back then. I want you to tell Mom to take my call and not hang up on me, OK?’

  ‘Sure. But she won’t—’

  ‘Make sure she talks to me!’

  Leon shrugged. ‘I’ll try . . .’

  ‘Good . . . good boy.’ Leon thought for a moment that Dad had hung up. The line crackled and rustled.

  ‘Dad? You still there?’

  ‘Leon . . . I . . . I’m really sorry you guys are stuck over there and I’m stuck here.’

  ‘Well . . . you know, that’s kinda all your doing.’

  ‘I know, I know. But that doesn’t stop me loving you and Grace . . . and your Mom.’

  Yeah . . . Mum . . . sure.

  ‘Leon, remember that story I used to read you? The wheels on the wagon . . . ?’

  It was an old picture book Dad had grown up with about a wagon train crossing the Wild West. The repeated mantra of their grizzled trail guide had been, ‘Watch them bolts on them wheels, folks! They come off you’re stuck out here. The wagon train goes on without you . . . and you’re as good as dead!’

  ‘The wheel’s going to come off, Leon . . . real soon. I just want to make sure you guys react before the rest . . . OK? You got to make sure you’re one step ahead . . . that’s all. Just one step.’

  The call disconnected. He looked down at Grace. Her brows were raised.

  ‘Well . . . that sounded pretty intense.’

  ‘I told you! I’m not bloody well speaking to him!’

  ‘He’s calling back, Mum. He said you have to speak to him.’

  Mum shot a quick glance at Grace, then back at Leon. As far as she was concerned, the cheating bastard was history. Someone else’s life. She didn’t care what he was doing, whoever he was with right now, whether he was alive or dead. Her name was no longer Jennifer Friedmann, it was Jennifer Button, the name she’d been born with and every piece of plastic in her handbag – credit cards, loyalty cards, discount cards – said the same thing.

  ‘I’m not talking to him. You . . . go right ahead. I can’t stop you. But I’m—’

  ‘It’s about that virus. The African
virus.’

  She shrugged a what-the-hell look at him. ‘And what’s that got to do with him . . . or me?’

  Leon looked down at his phone. It was ten after six. Maybe Dad wasn’t going to call after all. ‘He’s just worried about us.’

  ‘Worried!’ She barked out a humourless laugh. ‘Well, it would’ve been nice if he’d been worrying about us when he decided to sleep with –’ She censored herself abruptly.

  Grace rolled her eyes and muttered. ‘I know what he did, Mom. You don’t need to censor me.’

  ‘Mum, this thing is getting pretty serious. Dad said the news stations are playing it down . . . and, if they’re doing that, then things might be worse than we think.’

  Leon’s phone suddenly vibrated in his hand. He looked down at the screen. It was Dad. Mum shook her head. ‘Don’t answer it. I’m not speaking to him!’

  Leon swiped the screen. ‘Dad, it’s me . . . Mum’s right here.’

  ‘Leon!’ She thumped the arm of the couch with her fist and shook her head. Leon held his phone out to her. ‘Mum!’ he snapped. ‘Take it!’

  She closed her eyes tightly, then after a moment’s hesitation snatched the phone from him. ‘What do you want, Tom?’ she said icily.

  Leon expected Mum to listen to his opening few words then either toss the phone back at him or launch into a shouting match. Instead . . . she was silent. He studied her face, locked, perfectly still except for a frown slowly forming between her brows.

  ‘When?’ she said finally.

  She was listening. Leon turned to look at Grace. She’d put her own phone down for once and was watching Mum’s face too. For the first time in God knows how many months, his little sister actually looked . . . concerned.

  Another long silence . . . Mum’s frown was deepening, and the colour seemed to be draining from her face.

  ‘Seriously?’ She wandered out of the lounge, into the kitchen and out of earshot.

  ‘I guess this must be pretty serious . . .’ said Grace. ‘They’re actually, like, talking to each other.’

  Leon nodded slowly. ‘Dad sounded . . . real twitchy. Scared.’

  ‘But . . . Dad doesn’t do scared,’ said Grace. For the first time in a long time, Leon’s younger sister’s normally composed face, prematurely teenaged, all heavy-lidded and sardonic and so-o-o certain, ever the Congresswoman-in-waiting . . . began to soften into that of a twelve-year-old girl. ‘Leo . . . is this really bad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They could hear the murmur of Mum’s voice, lowered almost to a whisper. Leon got up off the couch and was about to take several light steps towards the kitchen when he heard the last few words of the phone call.

  ‘. . . and you too, Tom . . . you too.’

  Their mum came out of the kitchen, looking as pale as a ghost. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Both of you. You’ve got five minutes to pack some clothes . . . one bag each. Then we’re leaving.’

  CHAPTER 15

  The 20.30 out of Liverpool Street to Norwich was one of the last of the rush-hour trains, busy with a mixture of frazzled-looking I stay later than the next guy types, and tousled one or two drinks after work types.

  The train rocked and rattled out of the station. Their coach was silent except for a couple of men several seats down noisily breaking down the results of some football match. Leon looked around. Pretty much everyone else was staring at a phone or tablet. He could see the red flash of the BBC banner in the reflection of the dark window beside him.

  News . . . everyone’s checking the news.

  ‘Mom . . .’ whispered Grace. The same question again. The same one they’d both asked over and over on the tube. ‘Come on, what did Dad say?’

  ‘Please . . . Grace, just give it a rest. I said I’ll tell you when we get to Grandma and Grandad’s.’

  ‘But I’ve got really important project work to hand in tomorrow!’

  ‘I’ll call the school and tell them you’re poorly. Now just . . . please, be quiet and let me think.’

  An old man was sitting across the table from them. He looked up from his phone. ‘Getting out of the city?’ he said quietly.

  Mum flicked a polite, noncommittal smile at him and nodded.

  ‘Because of . . . the news?’ he added softly.

  The news? Leon inwardly laughed at the term he’d used. No one seemed to want to say the ‘v’ word, the ‘p’ word. No one seemed ready to look like a panicking idiot yet.

  Except us.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  He nodded approvingly. ‘One step ahead of the herd. Very sensible.’ He turned his phone round so she could see his screen. ‘I go to Reuters for my news. Things look a lot more worrying the way they’re being reported there.’

  Leon leaned forward. ‘My dad’s really worried.’

  The man cocked his head. ‘Is that an American accent I detect there?’

  Leon nodded. ‘But actually I’m British.’

  ‘His father’s an American,’ added Mum. ‘He’s in New York.’

  ‘I see they’re not taking any chances over there. Martial law? Mobilizing the National Guard?’

  ‘That’s exactly what Dad said . . . but over here . . . ?’ Leon shrugged. ‘It’s, like, hey no big deal.’

  The man smiled. ‘I know . . . Don’t panic. Don’t panic. It’ll all be fine. Just sit tight have a cup of tea and watch EastEnders.’

  Mum laughed politely. ‘What about you?’ She looked around the carriage to check if anyone appeared to be listening in on their conversation. ‘Are you taking, you know, precautionary . . . steps?’

  ‘I live in a quiet little village. I’ve got water and tinned food and bottled gas central heating. I suppose we’ll be fine to sit tight for a few weeks.’ He tapped the screen of his phone. ‘And I suspect tomorrow . . . I might just decide to call in sick.’ He winked at Leon. ‘I’d rather look the silly old fool than be caught on the hop.’

  ‘Oh marvellous.’ Stewie Delaney spotted the red signal up ahead and sighed. He eased the pressure off the speed-control lever and gradually pulled on the braking handle.

  They’d finally emerged from the stop-start snarl of rail signals out of London and left the sickly night-time glow of endless urban sprawl behind and were now entering the relative darkness of countryside. An irritating burr of radio traffic came from the speaker beside him: comments from other train drivers behind him about the tail-end-of-the-day rail congestion, inappropriate quips about luckless passengers racing and gasping to catch the train as it pulled out. (Commuter Bingo: one point for each passenger left stranded; five points if they raise a fist; ten if they hurl their bags to the platform in frustration as the train pulls out.) And there was somebody bitching about today’s news of the vast flotilla of migrant ships. ‘Just what we need . . . looks like they’ve ALL decided to come over!’

  Stewie had been hoping it was going to be a straight run out to Norwich. Two more hours and then he was done for the day. The train finally lurched to a halt and he picked up the radio controller. ‘Stewie on the nine from Liverpool Street . . . Dave, what’s the red light for? I thought you said it was an all clear ahead for me?’

  The speaker crackled beside him. ‘All right, Stew? Sorry, mate, I thought you were still back at Manningtree. I was just about to call you . . .’

  ‘Call me about what?’

  ‘Obstruction on the tracks.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Hold on . . .’ The line was left open – Stewie could hear other voices in the background. Somebody sneezing then apologizing. ‘OK . . . you’re waiting at signal N32, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s right up ahead of you, then.’

  Just up ahead was an overpass. Stewie closed his eyes and sat back. Please . . . not another jumper. He’d had one last year. Seen the mess on the tracks, then made the mistake of finding out about the woman . . . her story. Discovered what chain of events had led he
r to do such a pointless and tragic thing. Big mistake.

  He’d ended up with a name, a face, enough to haunt him for years to come.

  ‘Dave, please tell me it’s not another jumper.’

  ‘Relax . . . someone just called it in. Looks like an animal.’

  He sucked in a deep breath. ‘Thank Christ for that. How long are we going to be waiting here?’

  ‘Not good news. I’ve called section maintenance and they said it might take an hour to get someone down there to clear it off.’

  ‘Shit.’ Stewie tapped his fingers on the console for a moment. ‘Dave, how big is it? Are we talking cow-big?’

  ‘The caller said it might be a dog or sheep or something.’

  ‘Well for Christ’s sake . . . I’ll just kick it off the rails.’

  ‘Uh . . . Stew . . . come on, mate. You know you can’t do that. Union rules. Health and safe—’

  Stewie switched channels. ‘Ladies and gents, this is the driver. Sorry about the temporary stoppage. We’ve got a red signal up ahead . . . apparently there’s an animal on the tracks. I’ve been advised we should be on our way soon.’

  He undipped his seat harness . . .

  Damn health and safety.

  . . . and opened the door to step down on to the gravel bed.

  Stewie’s dad had been a driver back in the good ol’ days of British Rail. How many times had he booted a dead dog or deer off the tracks . . . and survived to tell the tale?

  Flippin’ ridiculous health-’n’-safety whingers these days.

  The train’s headlights illuminated the rails and sleepers clearly for a hundred yards. His shadow stretched out ahead of him in extended sharp relief. He started down the apron of track, gravel crunching noisily beneath his boots.

  Health-’n’-bloody-safety. Stewie was amazed anybody got anything done these days. Just a small dose of common sense was all that was needed. They could sit here like a bunch of muppets for an hour waiting for some ‘qualified’ external contractor to kick it aside. Or he could just get off his arse and do it himself.

  He could see it already. A small, pale carcass. It looked like a lamb or a sheep.

  Small enough to grab by its hooves or trotters or whatever damned thing you called its feet, and swing it aside. He closed the last few dozen yards and then squatted down in front of it.