The news reports ended with an abrupt statement from the prime minister, photographed on the steps of a helicopter, confirming that “a despicable group of unidentified terrorists has attacked the people of Britain with a manufactured virus that is both fatal and virulent.” A man-made plague spread to all corners of the nation by dirty little bombs. Apparently, “the perpetrators would be held accountable for their actions.” By whom? Were they planning some kind of response from inside a bunker? If so, there was no sign of it.
I searched the browser history for more, but that was all Julian had accessed. How long the BBC hacks had limped on, informing a dying audience of the latest, I could not tell. Maybe they were still there, holed up in a studio, like during the war. I jumped up and pulled out a storage box from under the bed. There, under the spare blankets, was my collection of treasures. The material wealth of my childhood contained in a Quality Street tin. Among faded snaps and bits of coral was my ancient Roberts radio, the one that had kept me connected to the outside world during the long school holidays visiting my parents, wherever in the world they happened to be posted at the time. The set was my source of music, gossip, and sanity during long nights in the bush. When all the teenagers back home were watching TV and going to discos, I passed the time with other trailing offspring who were orphaned from their real lives.
I clicked the radio on and the hiss filled me with a familiar yearning for voices, ordinary voices. My fingers knew their way around the dial. Shortwave was an art and a science, and the middle of the day wasn’t the best time to get good reception, but I tuned through the busiest frequencies. There was only static.
I scrabbled in the tin for the antenna, but it was missing. I kept trying anyway. I roamed the waves, through banshee cries and mourning howls, and eventually slammed the radio into the tin with the other worn-out old tat, which I threw back into the box under the bed.
There were no familiar voices out there. Only static.
Chapter Six
The laptop’s little green light fluttered bravely on even though its end was nigh. I cruised around the browser history, trying to squeeze out every last drop of information before I lost contact with the digital world. Julian had shown a frustrating lack of imagination for news sources, sticking only to the BBC and the Daily Mail. And, of course, the information ended as abruptly as he had. I still had questions. The main one being: “What happens now?”
I closed down the Internet browser. The laptop warned that it would shut off shortly. I scanned the room for its power cord, but of course, there was no power. Expecting things to be normal had become like a tic; I couldn’t stop myself. In any case, without Wi-Fi, the machine was obsolete, the entire World Wide Web rendered as impotent as a history book.
I had taken long enough. I should be catching up with Joni and the kids. But I ran the arrow across the icons, wondering if I could pluck out any last data from this virtual scrap: the calendar of events that were presumably “cancelled due to apocalypse”; an address book of acquaintances who would not be needing a Christmas card this year; and Julian’s inbox, which, unless it could connect to the other side, was equally useless. I launched the e-mail program anyway.
There was plenty of activity on Friday, but nothing since then. I scanned down a long list of social media notifications from people he barely knew emoting banal statements, everyone hoping that everyone else was “all right.” No wonder Julian never had time to get a job. There was no word from David, but was that a good sign or bad? It could mean the networks were overloaded in the States, just as they were here. Or possibly, safe and sound at his conference venue in New York, he hadn’t realized how serious the situation in the UK was until it was too late, and we’d already gone off-line. There was, though, a message from Julian and David’s little sister, who was in quarantine at Heathrow Airport after a terrorist incident: the usual stream of consciousness from a woman who lived so much “in the moment” she had no use for full stops. One of the news articles said bombs had gone off in each of Heathrow’s five terminals, which suggested that her moment had probably passed. My thoughts wandered to the scene—bodies propped against luggage as though waiting for a delayed flight, security officers slumped at their posts, the departures board going through the motions, urging all these Sleeping Beauties to wake up and get to their gates. My mind explored the scene until I realized I had edited out the panic, the fear, the buzz. I retreated from my own fantasy.
That was it for Julian’s e-mails: not much to show after dedicating nearly forty years to socializing. One sibling and a bunch of profile pictures. Where were all the mates from his ironic “darts league”? Just as the machine begged me again to plug it in, I clicked on his sent messages.
Two e-mails addressed to me—the ones I’d ignored on my phone. I wondered what I would have done if I’d phoned home as he had insisted. Presumably, driven back to the city, into the cool arms of my husband and the cold clutches of the virus. Nestled between those two e-mails, a rose between two thorns, was one addressed to Aurora.
Why had Julian written to my business partner?
He knew very well, or at least he’d been told—therein lay the difference—that I was camping with Joni, not Aurora. Like Aurora would go camping. She wouldn’t even go glamping. The mail had been sent late on Friday. The subject line was “Desperate to reach you.” I took off one latex glove to pick at the scab behind my ear as I read it.
Hi Rory,
Ive been trying to call, but cant get through, the network is overloaded. I don’t know WTF to do. I just tried to RUN to yours, but some military cordon in the high street turned me back. The guy had a gun.
Obviously Im not going to make it tonight. But we need to talk. About all of it. I cant get through to M. I dont even know where the kids are.
Fuck we need to talk. Maybe when its dark I can get to yours by the back streets or through gardens or something.
I’ll get to you somehow. Love Jules
The blood from my scab tasted tangy and fresh. I dug at the spot behind my ear, but it was clotting and withholding, already busy forming a new scab over the wound. I pulled my latex glove back on, stretching and snapping each finger into place. Then ripped it off again.
It was beyond belief that Aurora would lower herself to a thing with Julian.
I read the e-mail again, absorbing the details. A plan to meet. A need to talk. Since when did they meet? Or talk? My eyes came to rest on “all of it.” When I tried to read on, the sentences broke apart and re-formed into “all of it.” No meaning in the letters, just shapes of a secret code.
All of it.