Hater h-1

by David Moody

  Liz crouches down in front of Ellis and brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

  'I'll take her back to bed,' she whispers as she carefully slides her arms underneath her and lifts her up. Ellis mumbles and shuffles but she doesn't wake up. Harry and I watch as she carries her away. Harry then walks around and sits down in the middle of the sofa where he's probably been sitting all evening. I lay Josh down on my lap.

  'So tell me again,' he says quietly, 'what exactly did happen?'

  I sit down next to him and kick off my shoes.

  'I don't know any more than what I've already told you. A group of blokes lynched a Hater, that's all. Evil bastard probably deserved everything he got. Then the bus was late and a road was closed and…'

  Harry nods his head, sighs and rubs his eyes. He looks tired.

  'I don't know what's going on out there,' he says quietly. 'Anyway, I'm glad you're back. I had a feeling you might have some trouble tonight.' I'm about to ask him what he means when he grabs the remote control and turns up the volume on the TV. 'Been watching the news since the children's programmes finished,' he explained. 'Things are getting out of control.'

  I turn my attention from Harry to the TV. There's been no let up in the level of trouble across the country. On the news they're talking about an 'exponential increase in incidents'. Mathematics was never my strongest subject at school but I know what they mean. One incident becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes eight and it goes on and on until… Jesus, where's this going to end?

  There's a definite change in the way the reporters on TV are talking about what's happening tonight. They're concentrating on the people - the so-called Haters - who seem to be at the root of all the troubles. They're stressing that it's only a very small minority who have been affected but they're warning the public to stay away from anyone who appears to be behaving erratically. Bloody hell, that's half the population of this town on a good day.

  'It's like a disease,' Harry says. 'Crazy, isn't it? It's spreading just like a disease.'

  'Someone better hurry up and find a cure then,' I mutter under my breath, still staring at the screen.

  'They keep saying that all of this is down to just a few people, you know,' he continues, repeating what I've already heard. 'When it gets them, whatever it is, it drives them mad. They had some doctor on talking about it earlier. It's the first few minutes you have to watch out for.'

  'What?' I mumble, only half-listening.

  'When it gets them they lose control, like that chap you saw tonight I expect. They just lash out at whoever or whatever's around them. Then they say they start to calm down. They're still capable of doing these things, but they're not quite so volatile.'

  What is he talking about?

  'What do you mean, not quite so volatile?' I ask him. 'Are you saying they'll only do enough to hospitalise you and not kill you?'

  'I'm only telling you what I've heard,' he sighs. 'I won't bother if you're going to be like that.'

  I shake my head and look back at the TV. The screen is filled with images of convoys of troops driving into a city centre somewhere. Not sure where it is but it's nowhere I recognise. The reporters are talking about the police and armed forces being used to full capacity and I think back to the TV debate we watched last night. Have we reached the saturation point they were talking about yet? The voices on the TV are taking great pains to stress that, although stretched, the authorities are still coping. Just. Christ, imagine what will happen if this thing gets any bigger and they can't cope. Bloody hell, it doesn't bare thinking about.

  The screen shows a stream of government statistics and I lose interest. I don't believe statistics. They're all made up. They can make statistics say whatever they want.

  'Problem is,' Harry says, 'they've let it get out of control. This is too little, too late.'

  'It?' I say. 'What's 'it' supposed to be?'

  He points at the screen.

  'The trouble,' he answers, 'the violence… the people.'

  The statistics have gone and we're left watching footage of a row of burning houses. Desperate, screaming people are being held back by a police blockade. All they can do is watch as their lives go up in flames.

  'What's happening,' he whispers secretively, 'is people are panicking and overreacting to the slightest thing because of what they're seeing and what they're being told. The whole situation has been allowed to get out of proportion. People are seeing the death and the destruction on the television and it's making them want to become a part of it too. It's like those bloody awful horror films that you and Lizzie watch. They make you want to do things. They put ideas in your head and they make you think it's all right to do things. They're even giving these people a label now. Calling them 'Haters' for God's sake. They're glamorising it. Almost makes it sound like a club you'd want to join, doesn't it?'

  He's saying the same kind of things I was saying just yesterday. But I've already begun to accept that I was wrong, and when I look at the TV screen tonight I'm even more sure that I'd misjudged the situation badly when I was rambling last night. The sheer scale of what's happening is really beginning to scare me now. They keep talking about small minorities but thousands, possibly even tens of thousands of people are involved in this violence. Hundreds of lives are affected by every incident in some way. Young, old, male, female… people from every section of society are involved. This is far more than just paranoia. This is more than the media stirring things up.

  'I don't want to join any club,' I tell him, 'and no-one's put any ideas in my head. I haven't started any fights. I'm no more going to go out and attack anyone than you or Lizzie are.'

  'I know that. We've got maturity and common-sense on our side though, haven't we? We know the difference between right and wrong. We know what's acceptable and what isn't.'

  'Are you trying to say that everyone who's been affected by this is just immature? Come on, Harry, do you really think…'

  'There are plenty of people out there who couldn't give a damn about right or wrong,' he continues, ignoring me. 'There are people who get a kick out of causing trouble, and putting it on the television like this has just made things worse. By showing it they're saying it's all right, that it's acceptable.'

  'Bullshit! They're not saying that at all…'

  'They're implying that because so many people are involved now, anyone left might as well join in.'

  'Bullshit!' I say again.

  'There's no need to swear at me,' he snaps.

  'You're so wrong,' I try to explain. 'It's got nothing to do with…'

  'And that's just the kind of thing I'm talking about,' he continues, raising his voice and still not listening to any of what I'm trying to say. 'Thirty years ago you'd never have used that kind of language in everyday conversation. Now every other word you hear is a curse. Standards have slipped and that is what's happening out there on the streets.'

  For a moment I can't answer. The old man has suddenly become very agitated. His face is flushed red with anger and a terrifying thought flashes into my mind. Is he a Hater? Is he about to change? Is he going to become like those people we've seen on TV? Is he about to attack me? Should I attack him first before he has chance to get me? Is this how it begins…?

  'No-one has any respect for anything or anyone else anymore,' he continues. 'It's a bloody disgrace. It's been coming for years. Before you know it we'll have total anarchy and you'll see…'

  'I know what you're trying to say, Dad,' Lizzie interrupts, returning to the room, 'but I don't agree. Danny and I had this conversation last night, didn't we? I've never seen anything like the things I've seen over the last few days. I've seen plenty of trouble before, but never anything like this.'

  I relax. Liz's sudden arrival seems to have calmed the situation. The anger in Harry's face has gone.

  'What do you mean? What's different?' he asks. Liz stands in the doorway and thinks for a few seconds.

  'Out there tonight, after they'd beat
en that man, you could almost taste it in the air.'

  'Taste what?' I wonder.

  'The fear,' she replies. 'People are scared. People are already starting to expect trouble and they're tensing up ready for it. And when it happens they react, most of the time completely out of character from what I've seen. I don't know what's causing any of this, Dad, but I do know there has to be a definite, physical reason for it. People are bloody frightened and the situation's getting worse by the day.'

  'Things will start to calm down…' Harry starts to say instinctively. Lizzie's shaking her head.

  'No they won't,' she says, her voice trembling and unsteady. 'We watched a group of men lynch a Hater tonight. I don't know what he'd done, but it couldn't have been any worse than the way they retaliated. There was as much hate and anger coming from them as anyone else.'

  WEDNESDAY

  vii

  Daryl Evans sat at the back of the top floor of the bus as it wound its way through the streets towards the city centre. He leant against the window and looked down as he headed towards the council offices where he worked and yet another day of grind and grief. He didn't feel like working today. Maybe he'd try and leave after a couple of hours, he thought. Maybe he'd tell Tina, his supervisor, that he didn't feel well and that he needed to go home. With everything that was happening right now he didn't think she'd try stopping him.

  Evans wasn't particularly interested in the rest of the world. He didn't pay much attention to anything that happened outside his immediate circle of family and friends. He'd had a good night last night and that made it harder to motivate himself this morning. He'd spent some time with a friend he hadn't seen for a while. They'd spent the evening drinking beer and eating junk food. He still felt bloated and a little hung-over this morning. He'd slept through his alarm and then turned the flat upside down looking for his watch. He'd eventually found it under his bed but by then he was already late leaving for work. He just knew it was going to be one of those days where everything takes more effort than it should and nothing goes right.

  Evans didn't have any time for news and current affairs. He didn't know why the streets were quiet this morning or why he'd had to wait twice as long as usual for a bus which was half-empty. He did notice that things felt different today, but he really couldn't be bothered to try and work out why.

  There were seven other people on the top floor of the bus. Five of them sat alone, quiet and thoughtful, watching the grey and damp morning outside. A couple sat together towards the front, laughing and joking with each other and making more noise than the rest of the passengers combined. Evans sat right at the back and watched them all. The inside of the bus was steaming up with condensation. He wiped the window clean so that he could see how far he'd got left to travel. His sudden movement caught the attention of a pencil-thin, wiry-haired man sitting two rows of seats ahead who nervously turned round to see what was happening behind him.

  Evans made eye contact with the other passenger and froze.

  The man - quiet, unassuming and not wanting any trouble - quickly turned back and faced the front of the bus again, praying that nothing was going to happen. It was too late. Evans, filled with a sudden uncontrollable fear and compulsion, jumped up and pulled the other passenger out of his chair. He shoved him down into the aisle between the two rows of seats and he landed with a heavy thump which was loud enough to be heard by everyone on the lower floor. He looked down at the man who stared back up at him petrified, his shoulders wedged between the seats on either side. Evans raised his foot and stamped on his face, breaking his nose and splitting the skin under his right eye. Then he stamped again, then again and again, feeling any resistance almost immediately fade and then feeling the man's bones beginning to crack beneath the force of his relentless attack.

  The driver looked up in her monitor but the rush of top floor passengers getting up from their seats and running down the steep staircase blocked her view. She brought her bus to a sudden halt in the middle of a usually busy dual carriageway road. A week ago many people would have tried to do something to help, but not today. Terrified and fearing for their own safety they ran as quickly as they could, spilling out onto the street and looking up at the occasional flashes of movement they could see from the bloody and violent attack which continued on the top floor.

  Two police officers who had been patrolling nearby were inside the bus before the last passengers had scrambled out. They climbed the stairs at speed, batons raised and ready. Daryl Evans threw himself at them. A single well-aimed smash of a truncheon across the side of his head knocked him out cold and he collapsed to the ground, falling just inches away from the lifeless feet of the body of the man he'd just beaten to death.

  14

  Lizzie called me a bloody idiot for coming here today. She said I was mad going into town and now I'm here I have to agree. I wanted to stay at home but I had no choice. I've had too much time off recently. I was disciplined because of my absence record a couple of months back and now I don't get paid if I don't go in. They've threatened to kick me out if I don't turn up for work, and no matter how much I hate this job I can't afford to lose it. Maybe I'll be the only one who turns up today. Maybe I should just take a chance and turn round and go back home anyway. I don't know what's worse - the thought of sitting through another disciplinary meeting with Barry Penny and Tina or risking getting caught up in the kind of trouble we saw here last night.

  The streets are quieter today. There are still plenty of people around but it feels more like a Sunday morning than a Wednesday. Everyone is silent and subdued and hardly anyone is talking to anyone else. I understand why it's like this. I don't want to talk to anyone either. I don't want to risk making any contact - even just looking at them - if there's a chance trouble's going to flare up. I keep my head down and my mouth shut and I guess that's what everyone else is doing too.

  This feels bizarre. Last night when we were coming home from the hospital and later when I was talking to Harry it began to feel like the world was falling apart and coming to an end. The reality this morning feels different. Despite the quiet and the lack of conversation everything appears outwardly normal. It's hard to believe the things we've seen and heard about.

  I cross Millennium Square to get to the office. It's a huge expanse of block-paving with a horrible modern fountain stuck right in the middle of it. It's right in the centre of town and people cross it from all directions to get to wherever it is they're supposed to be going. It's always busy. Between eight o'clock and nine in the morning, midday and two in the afternoon and pretty much anytime after four o'clock right through to the early hours this place is choc full of people. If there's a place you'd expect something to happen, this is it. Maybe I should have avoided it today, but that would have added at least another ten minutes to my walk to work and I'm running late as it is. It looks as if the authorities are ready for trouble. There are more police officers patrolling around here than I've ever seen on duty before and most, if not all of them, are armed. That might be normal elsewhere in the world but not here. Jesus, seeing officers walking through the crowd with their semi-automatic weapons primed and ready to fire makes me realise just how dangerous and unpredictable the situation now is. But surely their presence will just add to the problem, not diffuse it?

  My last couple of minutes of freedom before I reach the office.

  What is causing this to happen? As I walk through the silent, stony-faced crowds I can't help but wonder again what's responsible for all this madness and hysteria. What is it that's turning the world on its head? Has this whole situation been manufactured by the media as Lizzie's dad believes or is there more to it? Has anything really happened at all? Are people running scared from something that doesn't even exist? Or is there something in the water? Has something been sprayed into the air by terrorists? Are we living through some bizarre 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' type scenario?

  Or is it something worse than all of that?

  Midd
ay.

  Less than half of the staff turned up for work today. I've tried to keep my head down as much as I can. Keeping busy makes the time go faster and I want today to pass as quickly as possible. I briefly spoke to Liz an hour or so ago. The school is closed again. They tried to open this morning but only half the children turned up and even fewer staff so Lizzie is spending another day stuck at home with the kids. They're driving her crazy but I know she's happier there. Wish I was back there too.

  The lack of staff today means we're all stretched. Jennifer Reynolds is one of the people who hasn't turned up and that's meant all of us taking turns to cover Reception in hour-long shifts. If ever there was a day I didn't want to be out there it's today. Even Tina's had to take a turn. I've just finished my shift and Hilary Turner has come out to relieve me. I like Hilary. She's a sour-faced, frosty old spinster who's grossly overweight but she knows who does what around here and she doesn't take any crap. Unlike most of the other people I work with she's straight and honest. If she's got a problem with something you've done then she'll tell you to your face - none of the backstabbing bullshit you get from everyone else. She's hard as nails and I like her all the better for it.

  'It's been quiet,' I tell her as she waddles towards me. 'No-one's been in.'

  'That's the kiss of death,' she grumbles as she slumps heavily into the hot-seat behind the desk, 'they'll all start dragging themselves in here now I've come out.'

  I'm about to tell her to shut up and stop being stupid when the main door flies open. She might be right. There's a sudden flurry of movement as a man storms into the building. He's carrying a handful of papers which he slams down onto the desk in front of Hilary. She jumps back. This guy is furious. He's seething with anger and suddenly I'm too scared to move. Is he one of them? Is he a Hater?

  'Sort this out,' he screams. 'Sort this bloody mess out now!'

  He slams his fist down on the counter again. His face is flushed red and he's breathing heavily. He's over six foot tall and he's built like a bloody rugby player. I should say something to him but I can't. I'm silently willing Hilary to speak (she's usually good at dealing with this sort of thing) but she's struck dumb too.