Skin Page 7

  I moved on, the office blocks eventually giving way to a small parade of shops. Here, though, each one had been ransacked, the front of each so comprehensively obliterated that it was difficult to guess what they had originally sold. I stuck to the middle of the road, the gaping shopfronts like sunken eyes, watching me as I passed.

  As I reached the end of the high street, I hesitated. I was heading away from the city now, out into the suburbs. The houses there were bigger, five- and six-bedroom monstrosities that had once commanded eye-watering prices, but now lay abandoned, having been deemed too big and draughty to create effective quarantine zones. I was wary of straying so far from my designated patrol route. Glancing down at the camera, I realised I would have to wipe the footage again. Fatima wouldn’t be pleased.

  I’d just hit the pause button, when a sudden noise made me look up.

  A loud crack.

  There was something out there. Something close by.

  The dappled fur of a leopard stalked through my imagination, its eyes wild. Teeth bared. Ready to pounce.

  There was no sign of any animal, though. There was no sign of anything at all. I told myself I was being ridiculous. All the same, I decided to leave. It was time I was getting home.

  Before I could move, however, the crack sounded again. Louder this time.

  Unmistakably real.

  At once I felt my chest tighten. Each breath a dagger slipped between my ribs. The sun, which by now was directly overhead, suddenly felt unbearably hot. I needed to lie down somewhere immediately. Somewhere cool and dark. Alone.

  Standing a few feet away from me, I spotted the rusted green tombstone of a broadband junction box. I quickly ducked behind it while I tried to regain my composure. Crouching behind the metal cabinet, I listened closely as the sound rang out again and again. Sharp and insistent. Almost like a gun being repeatedly fired. Resisting the urge to curl into a ball, I forced myself to peek over the top of the box.

  Though I knew the sound was coming from nearby, it was hard to pinpoint from where exactly. It seemed to bounce off the buildings and the surface off the road, burrowing its way into my head.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Suddenly I caught a flash of colour. Something red moving behind the murky windows of the nearest shop.

  I held my breath as the sound came again, the red thing seeming to jerk violently with each crack.

  And then the sound stopped.

  And the red thing shifted into the light.

  And then I could see that it was actually orange, rather than red.

  It was an orange T-shirt, worn by a man.

  A man without a suit or a mask.

  A man holding an axe.

  A man looking right at me.

  NINE

  AS LONG AS we stuck together, we’d be fine. That’s what we told ourselves as we set out from the ruined cottage. We’d find somewhere to stay for a couple of nights while we made a plan. Hell, we’d sleep in the car if we had to. Whatever it took for us to be safe. To survive.

  By then we’d stopped trying to pretend to the kids that this was a holiday. Now we had the radio turned on, scanning through the few stations that remained on air, hoping for advice or answers about what to do next.

  ‘Outbreaks of violence…’

  ‘Extensive loss of life…’

  ‘Millions of refugees…’

  We kept to the quiet back roads as we traced the coast. The GPS had stopped working hours ago, and so we’d been forced to switch the car over to manual mode, Colin hunched behind the wheel, his face set in deep concentration as he wrestled with the unfamiliar controls. The clock on the dash read 08.30, the world bathed in gaudy morning light. Just a few weeks earlier, this would have been the most frantic time of the day. The four of us in the throes of the school run. Trying to remember lunchboxes and laptops. Battling traffic. Sprinting for the school gates. Now, though, the roads were utterly deserted.

  It wasn’t just the roads that were empty. There were no planes in the sky. No boats on the ocean. No ferries. No trawlers. The only movement, other than us, was the occasional flock of sheep or herd of cows pacing uneasily in their fields. It was as if all the other people in the world had simply evaporated.

  Every now and then, I would twist around in my seat to check on the children. They looked tired. Their faces creased. Their hair stuck up at awkward angles. To my surprise, neither seemed especially anxious. Rather, they wore the same resolute expression I’d seen on the faces of children in charity appeals following a natural disaster. Famines. Earthquakes. Tsunamis. There were no tear-stained faces. No cries of anguish. No wallowing in self-pity. No. Those Third World children always stared out stoically from the screen. A dullness in their eyes, as if they’d lived a thousand years. As if they’d already seen everything the world had to throw at them.

  In some ways, my kids were the same. They no longer moaned about how hungry they were or asked endlessly when we’d arrive. It seemed they’d already adjusted. For them, this was the new normal. Fleeing looted cities and burnt-down cottages. Not knowing where we would spend the next night. Sitting quietly while Mummy and Daddy went to pieces in the front seat. This was just what they did now.

  We drove and we drove and we drove.

  And we tried to stay alive.

  AFTER A COUPLE of hours on the road, the battery warning light flashed up on the dashboard. The car needed to be charged soon. Colin shot me a look but didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

  Gradually, the landscape became increasingly rugged, the road narrowing to reveal a sheer drop down to the sea. There was nothing out here. No villages. No farms. Certainly nowhere we could plug in the car. I was about to suggest we turn around and look for another way, when Amber piped up in the back.

  ‘What about that place?’

  We followed her finger until we saw it. A small white house perched on the edge of a distant clifftop. On these winding roads it would take at least twenty minutes to reach. If there was nowhere to charge the car when we got there, we’d be stuck.

  Colin glanced over at me. ‘What do you think?’

  On the dashboard, the small red battery sign seemed to blink more insistently.

  ‘I’m not sure we have a choice?’

  Without another word, he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  The four of us held our breath as we hurtled around the blanched-knuckle bends, until at last we pulled up at the top of a long, slate chip drive. The engine let out a high-pitched whine, then shuddered to a stop, the battery dead.

  ‘Well, it looks like this is where we’re staying,’ Colin said, shooting us a grim smile.

  We looked down the drive towards the house. It was smaller than it had looked from the other side of the cliff. A pebble-dash bungalow, set alone in a long, rambling garden. We’d passed dozens of similar places the last time we’d been here. Lonely outposts that originally belonged to fishermen but had since been modernised and converted into holiday cottages to rent to city-sick tourists dreaming of weekends beside open log fires. This one, however, looked empty. There was no smoke burbling from the chimney. No lights in the windows. No vehicle parked on the drive. Still, there was only one way to make sure.

  ‘So who’s going to check it out then?’ Colin asked.

  This was classic Colin. He might sleep with a cricket bat beside the bed, but you can guarantee it will be me who ends up going to investigate the creaking floorboards at four in the morning.

  I let out a sigh. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m a woman. If there is somebody in there, it’ll be less confrontational. I’ll just explain that we’re lost and looking for somewhere to charge the car.’

  Colin nods. ‘Okay, that makes sense. But be careful, won’t you?’

  As I unfastened my seat belt, I heard Charlie rustling in the back.

  ‘Do you want me to come, Mummy? I can use my jiu-jitsu if anyone tries to hurt you.’


  ‘Thank you, baby. That’s really sweet. But no one’s going to hurt me. I promise.’

  As I made my way down the drive, however, I wasn’t so sure. The closer I got to the house, the less abandoned it looked. In the garden, I spotted a wooden climbing frame. A trampoline. A small blue scooter toppled on the lawn. I looked over my shoulder towards my own family. Forced a smile. Gave them a thumbs-up. Then I turned back to the house, making a conscious effort to look calm. Friendly. Unthreatening. I swung my arms slightly, pretended to whistle, all the time trying my best to block out the thought that there might be a man crouched behind the window with a cocked shotgun. Ready to defend his home from invaders at any cost.

  When I reached the front door, I couldn’t see a doorbell or knocker, so I rapped my knuckles against the peeling paint. I waited, then knocked again, harder this time, my ears straining to detect movement inside the house. Nothing. I let another minute pass, then pressed my face to the front window. Through the grubby glass, I could make out a small kitchen. A fridge. Oven. Dishwasher. On the kitchen table there was a bowl of rotten fruit. Black bananas. Green oranges. Brown apples.

  I felt a flood of relief. The place was empty.

  Finding both the door and the window locked, I slipped around the side of the house, trying the other windows until I reached the back door. It didn’t budge. For a moment I considered walking away. But then I remembered the flat battery. The burnt-down house we’d left behind.

  With a quick glance behind me, I took a step back and swung out my leg. On the third attempt, there was a sharp crack as the lock gave way. I pushed against the wood and the door creaked open.

  Instantly, I was hit by a sickening odour. Like spoiled meat, only worse.

  It’s the bins, I told myself. Whoever was here last obviously left in a hurry. Perhaps the freezer has defrosted and leaked? How else to explain that suffocating stench? Or the low drone of flies that cut through the air?

  ‘Hello?’ I called. ‘Is there anybody there?’

  There was no answer.

  At this point, every cell in my body was screaming for me to walk away. But I didn’t. Instead, I covered my mouth and nose with my hand and stepped into the house.

  It was dark inside. I fumbled around for a light switch but couldn’t find one. Undeterred, I felt my way along the wall until I reached a doorway. The smell was stronger here. Almost overwhelming. I reached for the handle, but then changed my mind, deciding to carry on to the kitchen instead.

  When I got there, I saw it wasn’t just the bowl of fruit that was rotten. The kitchen sink was piled high with festering pans and dishes, the plates glazed with blooms of green mould. Stuck to the front of the fridge was a child’s drawing. An indiscernible scrawl of primary colours. I opened the door, braced for the stink of spoiled produce. Inside, however, I was surprised to find the food was fresh.

  Then it hit me.

  The fridge was cold. The light was on. There was still electricity here.

  We were saved.

  I slammed the door and rushed from the kitchen, excited to share the good news with Colin. As I hurried down the hallway, though, I once again found myself drawn to the closed door. The place where the bad smell was the strongest. I stopped and stared at it.

  Again I was hit by the impulse to flee. To run and not look back.

  Instead, I turned the handle.

  The smell was so bad it stole my breath, the same rotten stench that permeated the rest of the house, only a thousand times worse. I doubled over. Heaved. Spat. Although my eyes were streaming, I was aware of flies buzzing around me, the air thick and alive. Eventually I straightened up. Even with the blinds drawn, it was light enough to make out the crumpled mound on the bed. Swallowing down a throatful of bile, I took a step closer.

  Stop, I told myself. Get out of here. Go. It’s not too late.

  I couldn’t help it, though. I was a rubbernecker at a car crash. A kid poking at roadkill with a stick.

  I took another step forward. Then another.

  And then suddenly there they were.

  Two emaciated figures, lying side by side on a double bed. A woman and a child. A little boy, no more than two or three years old. Both of their faces swollen and disfigured.

  Their lips blue.

  I gagged again, this time unable to stop myself from throwing up. Doubled over, I fought the urge to burst into tears. I was a little girl again. I wanted my mum or dad. Someone to come along and make things better. To make all the bad things go away. Back in the old world, there were procedures to follow. People to call. Police. Paramedics. Coroners. Now, though, there was no one.

  I’m not sure how long I stayed there like that, clutching my stomach, until a sound behind me broke the spell.

  ‘Angela? Is everything okay? And what the hell is that godawful stench? You can smell it from the front door…’

  Colin.

  I dived for the door, heading him off just as he reached the hallway.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said as I pulled the door firmly shut behind me. ‘It’s nothing. I mean…’

  Before I could say anything else, there was a cry from outside.

  ‘Mum! Dad! Come quickly!’

  Sprinting, we tumbled out into the light to find Charlie standing in the driveway, his face flushed with fear.

  ‘It’s Amber,’ he panted, trying to catch his breath. ‘She’s sick.’

  ‘What do you mean? She was fine just a moment ago. What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘It’s her chest. She… She can’t breathe.’

  TEN

  THE MAN STARED . His back straight. Muscles straining. Had he seen me? I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. For a moment I was certain he’d come and investigate. But then he shook his head and looked away, evidently believing he was mistaken.

  Still crouched behind the cable box, I watched as the man continued dragging a long wooden beam out of the shop and onto the street. Once there, he laid it across the kerb and raised his axe, severing the beam in two. He stooped to reposition the wood then repeated the action again and again, until eventually eight pieces were lined up on the pavement.

  Satisfied, he stood back and stretched. He was filthy, greasy streaks smeared across his hands and arms, and his matted hair still flopped across his face. He looked like the men and women I used to see crouched in the doorways of shops as I made my way home from work, coiled up in sleeping bags with dogs at their feet. Homeless. Only that didn’t make sense. There weren’t homeless people any more. Not since the virus. With nothing to protect them from contamination, people on the streets had been some of the very first to get sick. And yet here this man was, healthy as anything, chopping wood in the middle of the road, apparently without a care in the world. Even with my mask and suit, being outside for short amounts of time was risky. I had to be fully quarantined after every trip out. To be out here in nothing but a faded pair of jeans and a thin T-shirt was utterly insane.

  I watched in fascination as the man hoisted the entire bundle of wood into his muscular arms, before tottering down the road to where a red bicycle and trailer was parked. The trailer was already piled with various other pieces of scrap wood and metal. It seemed the man had been busy.

  Once he’d finished loading the wood, he added his axe to the pile, before securing the entire bundle with a length of blue cord, giving it a firm tug once he was done. Satisfied, he took the bike by the handlebars and swung his leg over the saddle, the little trailer rattling and bumping behind him as he pedalled away.

  When I was certain he’d gone, I crept out of my hiding place and stepped into the middle of the road, staring after him. For a moment I wondered if I’d imagined the whole scene. If it might all just have been a bizarre hallucination brought on by the heat. When I cupped my hand to my visor, however, I could still just about make the man out in the distance, although by now his bike was little more than a black dot in the distance, getting smaller and smaller by the second.

  I
stood there for a moment, too stunned to move, before I suddenly remembered my camera. Looking down, I saw that it was still paused. Cursing myself for not thinking to film him earlier, I pulled the camera from its harness and held the small LCD screen up to my mask, zooming in to try to get a better view of the man. It was no good, though. Even set to maximum, he was no more than a faint blur.

  Although every rational part of my brain was screaming that I should turn around, to go back to the apartment and immediately contact Fatima, the thought of leaving filled me with a strange sort of dread. After all, what were the chances of spotting this strange man for a third time? Besides, even if I did go back and tell Fatima, would she believe me? Without video footage, there was nothing to stop people thinking I had made the whole thing up for attention.

  I checked the camera display. The battery was at twenty-five per cent. That should do it. All I needed was to get close enough to him to capture some irrefutable images and then I could head back home and write up my report.

  I cupped my hand to my mask again. By now, the little black dot had faded to nothing. It was now or never. And so, as quickly as I could, before I had a chance to change my mind, I placed the camera back in the harness and started walking in the direction the bicycle had disappeared.

  AS I WADED deeper into the suburbs, the houses I passed grew larger. Once, the gardens of these sprawling family homes would have been beautiful. Their lawns manicured. Flower beds blooming. Weeds selected and destroyed. Now they were sprawling, overgrown jungles that threatened to swallow the decaying buildings altogether. At one point I heard a frantic scurrying from deep within the bushes as a startled cat scrambled out of my path. At least, I hoped it was a cat. I picked up my pace, not wanting to think about what else might be lurking in the undergrowth.