Hater

Chapter Eleven
It's past ten o'clock before we know it. The children are finally settled and asleep and the flat is silent. The television has been off all evening but now the living room is too quiet so I switch it on just so that we have some background noise. Liz is subdued and preoccupied and we've hardly talked. It's getting late. It won't be long before we go to bed. Before we know it I'll be up again and back into the grind. Sometimes I feel like I'm running at a different speed to the rest of the world. I feel like I'm always having to go flat out just to keep up.

I go to the kitchen and make us both a drink. I take Lizzie's through to her.

'Drink.'

She looks up and smiles and takes the cup from me.

'You okay?' I ask.

'Of course I am. Why do you keep asking me if I'm okay?'

'Just want to be sure you're all right. You've had a shitty day.'

'I have but I'm okay,' she says, her voice a little edgy and tense.

'Fine,' I grumble, overreacting, 'sorry I asked.'

'Oh come on, don't be like that...'

'Be like what? I only asked if you were okay, that's all.'

I sit down next to her. She stretches out her arm behind me and begins to gently rub my back.

'Sorry.'

'Doesn't matter.'

Same old rubbish on TV. I pick up the remote and work my way through the channels. The comedies aren't funny tonight and the dramas are too dramatic. Nothing seems to suit the mood. I head for the news. I want to find out more about what's been going on. Apart from hearing the odd snippet of information at work today this is the first chance I've had all day to catch up. What we see is more of what we saw yesterday - more trouble and more violence. What we don't get is any explanation. Each individual report seems to follow a pretty standard format - one or more incidents take place in a particular area and they report how people react to the fall-out. This is insane. I keep hearing phrases like 'copycat violence' and 'revenge attacks' being banded around. Are people really as stupid as Harry tried to suggest yesterday? Would anyone really want to start trouble just because they've seen others doing it?

'Look at that,' Lizzie says as we stare at the headlines together, 'they're even giving them a name now. How's that going to help?'

She's right. I heard the word used a few minutes earlier but didn't think anything of it. The minority who are causing the trouble have been branded 'Haters'. It came from a tabloid newspaper headline that was published this morning and it's quickly stuck. It seems appropriate because there's still no mention of these people fighting for any cause or reason. Hate seems to be just about the only thing driving them.

'They have to give them a name,' I mumble. 'It makes it easier for them to talk about it if they give them a name.'

Lizzie shakes her head in disbelief.

'I don't understand any of this.'

'Nor me.'

'They're talking about it like it's an epidemic. How can it be? It's not a disease, for Christ's sake.'

'It might be.'

'I doubt it. But there has to be a reason for all of it, doesn't there?'

She's right, but like everyone else I have no idea what that reason might be so I don't bother answering. Watching the news makes me feel increasingly uneasy. It's making me feel like shutting the front door and not opening it again until all of this sudden violence and disruption has stopped. I instinctively start trying to come up with an explanation to try and make myself feel better if nothing else.

'Maybe it's not as bad as they're making it out to be,' I suggest.

'What?'

'They always exaggerate things on the TV, don't they? They've just been saying something about an increase in the number of violent incidents being reported, but that doesn't necessarily mean there's been any increase in the number of incidents actually taking place, does it?'

'Not necessarily,' she says, sounding unsure.

'There might have been just as many fights as last week, but they weren't newsworthy then. Problem is when something like this makes the headlines people start jumping on the bandwagon.'

'What are you saying?'

'Maybe this whole situation is something the TV and newspapers have created,' I say. I'm making this up as I'm going along.

'It can't be. Something's definitely happening out there. There are too many coincidences for...'

'Okay,' I interrupt, 'but if they haven't created the problem they're definitely making it worse.'

'What about what happened at the concert on Friday? And in the pub? And whatever was going on with that car last night and what happened at school this morning... are you saying that all those things would have happened anyway? Do you think we're reading more into them just because of what we've seen on TV?'

'I don't know. There's no way of telling, is there? All I'm saying is that we've seen things like this get out of control before.'

'Have we?'

'Of course we have. It happens all the time. Someone somewhere broadcasts a story, then a brain-dead section of the audience copy just to try and get themselves on TV or on the front pages of the papers.'

Now I think I've really lost her. I can tell from the expression on her face that she doesn't understand. Either that or she doesn't believe me. I'm not entirely sure about this myself.

'Don't get you.'

'Remember dangerous dogs?' I ask. She shakes her head and screws up her face again. 'A few years back a kid round here got attacked by their neighbour's pet Rottweiler, remember? The kid's face got all messed up and she needed surgery I think. They had the dog put down.'

'So? What's that got to do with what's happening now?'

'Point is until that story broke hardly anyone had heard anything about dogs attacking kids, had they? But as soon as it made the papers there were suddenly stories about the same thing happening all over the place. There was a bloody epidemic of dogs attacking kids. Now you only hear about it happening once in a blue moon again.'

'What's your point? Are you saying that those kids didn't get attacked?'

'No, nothing like that. I guess what I'm saying is that things like that must happen all the time but no-one's interested. As soon as it makes the news, though, people start to report it and before you know it you've got dogs biting kids on every street corner.'

'Not sure if I agree with you,' she says quietly. 'Still not even sure I know what you're talking about. There's never been anything on this scale before...'

'I think that these idiots,' I explain, pointing at the TV, 'are doing more harm than good. By giving these people a label and giving them airtime they're glorifying whatever it is that's happening and blowing it out of all proportion. People are seeing the violence and the glory and rebellion on TV and they're thinking, I'll have some of that.'

'Bullshit. You're starting to sound like Dad.'

'It's not bullshit. Remember those riots last summer?' I ask, luckily managing to think of another example to try and strengthen my tenuous argument. About eight months ago there was a string of race-motivated disturbances in a few major cities, ours included. Lizzie nods her head.

'What about them?'

'Same thing again. Someone started a little bit of trouble out of the way in some back-street somewhere. The media got hold of it and the problem was made to look a hundred times worse than it ever was. It was the way they reported it that made it spread and maybe that's what's happening now. There's a genuine problem somewhere that gets reported and before you know it you've got mobs in every city starting trouble using whatever it was that caused the very first fight to kick off as an excuse to get involved.'

'And do you really believe that?'

I stay quiet. I don't honestly know what I believe.

'I think you're talking crap,' she snaps. 'None of what you've said explains why I watched a perfectly healthy and normal eleven year-old boy beat the hell out of the headteacher this morning, does it?'

I still stay quiet. I'm relieved when, at long last, something different happens on the news channel. The usual presenters behind their expensive-looking desk have suddenly disappeared and we're now watching a round table discussion between four people who are probably all politicians or experts in some field or other. They've already been talking for a couple of minutes so we've missed the introductions.

'What are they going to be able to tell us?' I grumble. 'How can these people be experts if no-one knows what's happening yet?'

'Just shut up so we can listen,' Lizzie sighs.

I can't help being sceptical. The whole set-up reminds me of the start of that film 'Dawn of the Dead' where the views of another so-called expert are ripped apart by a non-believing TV presenter. I know we're not dealing with a zombie apocalypse here but the way these people are talking to each other makes it feel eerily similar. No-one's backing up what they say with any facts. No-one has anything to offer other than half-baked theories and ideas. No-one seems to believe what anyone else is saying.

'The police force is already operating at full stretch and our hospitals are struggling to cope with the increase in injuries,' a grey-haired lady is saying. 'The situation must be brought under control soon or we will not have the capacity to react. If this situation continues indefinitely and at the rate of increase we're presently seeing we'll be in danger of reaching saturation point where we simply will not be able to deal with what's happening.'

'But what is happening?' someone finally asks. It's a middle-aged man. I think he's a doctor. Not sure if he's a medic or a shrink. 'Surely our priority must be to identify the cause and resolve that first.'

'I think with this situation the cause and the effect are one and the same,' a small, balding man (who, I believe, is a fairly senior politician) says. 'People are reacting to what they see on the streets, and their reactions are making the situation appear far worse than it actually is.'

'See,' I say, nudging Liz.

'Shh...' she hisses.

'Do you seriously believe that?' the other man challenges. 'Do you really believe that any of this is happening purely as a result of the violence we've already seen?'

'The violence is a by-product,' the grey-haired lady says.

'The violence is part and parcel of the problem,' the politician argues. 'The violence is the problem. Once we've restored order we can start to...'

'The violence is a by-product,' the grey-haired lady says again, annoyed that she's been interrupted. 'You're right in as far as there is a huge element of copycat violence, but the violence is not the cause. There's an underlying reason for what's happening which needs to be identified before...'

'There's no evidence to suggest that's the case,' the politician says quickly.

'There's no published evidence to suggest that's the case,' the middle-aged man snaps, 'but how much unpublished information is being withheld? This is unprecedented. With an escalation in trouble of this scale there has to be an identifiable cause, doesn't there? For this to be happening independently in so many different geographical regions there has to be an identifiable cause.'

'If you look at what we've seen over the last few days,' the politician says, shaking his head, 'there has been a steady increase in the recorded levels of violence around major cities where there are high population levels. This is wholly expected. With situations like this the more people who are concentrated in a particular geographic area, the more likely it is that trouble will develop there...'

I stop listening. I sense that this bureaucrat is launching into some pre-arranged spiel in which he'll no doubt deny all cover-ups and hidden agendas. This sounds like more bullshit. The other people taking part in the debate challenge him but, although he squirms and struggles to keep control, he ultimately remains tight-lipped. I get the feeling that this programme might have been arranged as a public relations exercise but it's failing miserably. The politician's unease and the way he's blatantly avoiding the questions people are putting to him means one of two things. Either the government knows full well what's happening and is simply choosing not to tell the public, or the authorities genuinely don't have a clue. Both alternatives are equally frightening.

Twenty minutes more of the news channel and my eyes are starting to close. The debate is over and the headlines are back on. They say that the military may be drafted in to help maintain law and order if the police do become over-stretched as the grey-haired panellist suggested in the debate earlier. They also say that the problem is largely limited to major cities and there are, as yet, no reports of it spreading to other countries. Most worryingly of all, there's talk of an after-dark curfew and other restrictions being introduced to keep people off the streets and out of each other's faces.

It's what isn't being said that bothers me. I'm just concerned that no-one seems to have a clue what's going on.

TUESDAY

vi

Jeremy Pearson felt like he was about to be sick. He'd been okay when he'd been prepped for the operation, but now he was actually lying on the table in the operating theatre with people crowding around him and machines beeping and buzzing and that huge round light hanging over him he was beginning to feel nauseous and faint. I should have gone for the general anaesthetic not a local, he thought to himself as Dr Panesar the surgeon walked towards him. I'm paying enough for this operation as it is, a general anaesthetic wouldn't have cost that much more...

'Okay, Mr Pearson,' he said through his green cloth facemask, 'how are you feeling?'

'Not too good,' Pearson mumbled, too afraid to move. He tensed his body underneath the sheet and gown which covered him.

'This won't take too long,' Dr Panesar explained, ignoring his patient's nerves. 'You're the fourth vasectomy I've done today and none of them have lasted much longer than half an hour so far. We'll have you out of here before you know it.'

Pearson didn't respond. He was feeling faint. Maybe it was the heat in the theatre or was it just the thought of what was about to happen that was making him feel like this? Was this normal? Was he having a reaction to the anaesthetic they'd used to numb the feeling in his balls?

'I don't feel...' he tried to say to the female nurse who stood next to him, holding onto his arm. She looked down and, seeing that he was struggling, slipped an oxygen mask over his face.

'You'll be fine,' she soothed. 'Have a bit of air and try and think about something else.'

Pearson tried to answer but his words were muffled under the mask. How can I think about something else when someone's about to cut into my balls?

'Do you follow cricket?' an older male nurse on his other side asked. Pearson nodded. 'Have you seen the tour report today? We're not doing too badly by all accounts.'

The oxygen was beginning to take the edge off his nausea. That's better. Starting to feel more relaxed now...

'Okay, Mr Pearson,' Dr Panesar said brightly, looking up from the area of the operation. 'We're ready to start now. I explained what I'm going to do in clinic, didn't I? This is a very small procedure. I'll just be making two incisions, one on either side of your scrotum, okay?'

Pearson nodded. I don't want to know what you're doing, he thought, just bloody well get on with it.

'You feeling a bit better now?' the female nurse asked, gently stroking the back of his hand. He nodded again and she removed the oxygen mask. He could feel the surgeon working now. Although his genitals were anaesthetised, he could still feel movement around his legs and occasionally someone brushed against the tips of his toes sticking out over the end of the operating table. More nausea. He was starting to feel sick again. Christ, think of something to take your mind off this, he silently screamed to himself. He tried to fill his head with images and thoughts - the children, his wife Emily, the holiday they'd booked for a few weeks time, the new car he'd picked up last week... anything. As hard as he tried he still couldn't forget the fact that someone was cutting into his scrotum with a scalpel.

Is this how I'm supposed to feel, Pearson thought? I'm cold. I don't feel right. Should it be like this or is something going wrong?

'Don't feel right...' he mumbled. The nurse looked down and slammed the oxygen mask on his face again. The sudden movement made Dr Panesar look up.

'Everything okay up there?' he asked, his voice artificially bright and animated. 'You all right Mr Pearson?'

'He's fine,' the nurse replied, her voice equally artificially trouble-free, 'a little light-headed, that's all.'

'Nothing to worry about,' the surgeon said as he took a step around the edge of the table and looked into his patient's face. Pearson's wide, frightened eyes were dancing around the room, squinting into the bright lights which shone down over his prone body. Dr Panesar stopped and stared at him.

'Dr Panesar?' the nurse asked.

Nothing.

'Is everything all right, Dr Panesar?'

Panesar stumbled back to the other end of the table, his eyes still fixed on Pearson's face.

'You okay, Dr Panesar?' his surgical assistant asked. No response. 'Dr Panesar,' he asked again, 'are you okay?'

Panesar turned to look at his colleague and then tightened the grip on the scalpel in his hand. Crouching back down again he slashed across Pearson's exposed genitals and severed his testicles and scrotal sac. Blood began to spill and spurt over the operating table from sliced veins and arteries.

'What the hell are you doing?' the surgical assistant demanded. He pushed Panesar out of the way and moved to grab his hand and wrestle the scalpel from him. Delirious with fear, Panesar turned and sliced the man with the blade, cutting him open in a diagonal line down from his right shoulder.

Panic erupted in the operating theatre. The staff scattered as the surgeon lunged towards them. Pearson lay helplessly on the operating table, turning his head desperately from side to side, trying to see what was happening around him. Covered in blood and still brandishing the scalpel Panesar fled from the room. Pearson watched him run. What the hell was going on? Christ, he suddenly felt strange. He felt cold and shaky but his legs felt warm. And why were people panicking? Why all the sudden movement? Why had the nurses gone to the other end of the table and where was all that blood coming from?

Still anaesthetised and oblivious and ignorant both to the pandemonium which was rapidly spreading through the private hospital and the fact that he was rapidly bleeding to death, Pearson looked up into the light and tried to think of anything but the fact that his surgeon had just disappeared in the middle of his vasectomy.