#9 Life
The Metro station serving Al Sadd has four exits for each
point of the compass. Even in the midday heat, each can easily be reached in seconds
with a quick walking pace.
The gravelly wasteland - all concrete, bits of brick,
gritty stone and sand, always sand: fine, powdery and with malicious power to
imprint deep on sandalled feet - stretches iron board flat between these four
points so that each can be seen from the other without strong spectacle.
And they resemble desert tents. Scalloped golden shells
on top of glass fronted, automatic doors that lead to escalators, descending
into cool, dark, air-conditioned depths and mazes of underground automated walkways.
Tunnels link each of the four tents to one another,
criss-crossing underground, a hidden city in themselves, full of shuttered
nooks and shadowed alcoves that serve no obvious purpose. Therefore, due to the
proximity of the four portals, a casual visitor might wonder what the point of
the complex is?
You might ask just what hides in those shadowy depths? What
is it that needs such complete concealment from the over-city? Surely there
must be more to it than just a way to cross the C Ring, a near-motorway separating
Al Sadd from Bin Mahmoud?
Perhaps the virus lurks there.
Such thoughts were often far from Wendy’s mind as she
picked her way unevenly towards the northernmost of these. She rarely used the
Metro since the outbreak and, even before, she had mostly left it for the
Filipinos to make their way to the shops they served in or the apartments they
cleaned. Here were some now, cheerfully chattering in soft, song like voices,
sitting upon the sandstone steps outside the entrance, smoking.
They were always smoking. Especially the men, she noted
with an inner tone of disapproval. Damned unhealthy – healthy body, healthy
mind, that’s what she preached, preacher man.
Those men. What had they to be so cheerful about? See
that one? He was already developing a slightly plump belly, noticeable as they
approached middle age. Those bright colours he was wearing only made it more
pronounced, didn’t it? And the way he was looking at the two girls – night
slips of girls – posing coquettishly for a selfie by the Metro sign as though
they were bloody tourists. It quite made her gall freeze in revulsion.
But she reminded herself that such thoughts might be
racist; unfitting for a teacher, so squashed them almost as soon as they had
scuttled across her synapses...but then, like cockroaches they revivified,
making a bid for freedom, so:
Why weren’t they usefully employed, instead of wasting
time flirting? And there’s more, like some of us have important things to do,
we can’t chain smoke to titilize brainworkers, can we?
That contemplated, she paused at the steps and squatted
down at an safe distance from the colourful mop-topped malingerers who,
observing her thin, spiny frame and sheet-metal grey hair, smiled in welcome
before rising to greet one of their friends who passed through the station
doors – a medical assistant, still wearing her mask and face shield. So, there
were a few cheers and much grinning all round.
Wendy sat. It took a little effort due to her back ache,
but she placed her satchel beside her, then looked left and right. The early
morning sun beat her beige head, dumpling chest and humpback spine like the
stick from that fairy story.
What was it called, now? ‘Stick?’ Was that it? The one
where the troll says ‘Stick, beat!”
Was it a troll or a fairy? Could’ve been either.
Anyway, Wendy pursed her lips as if she was going to kiss
a person, but instead made that immediately recognizable sound that all the
world over uses to call cats. “mwuhizz, mwuhizz,” followed by the rapid
clicking of the tongue.
And the thing is, cats almost always recognise it. They
either trot towards it, stiff tailed and smiling, or scatter for shadows in
silent explosion.
Wendy repeated the incantation, clapped her hands and
ignored looks she was getting from her distanced companions. Sure enough, after
a while, there was movement from within shade and a reasonably smart ginger and
white cat emerged, stretching its legs the way they do, and padded quickly
towards where she was sitting.
In the evening, and through the night, the cat made
itself a home within the vast labyrinth of tunnels of the Metro complex,
eluding the security staff with cunning although, in truth, it was more than
welcome to hide there. During the day it was to be found sunning itself,
stretched out along one of the sandstone walls, perfectly content.
The cat, obviously a stray but friendly anyway, brushed
herself against Wendy’s thigh and, in turn, Wendy scratched the scrawny fur
between its ears. Not so vigorously as to get anything underneath her nails –
because she would feel that in her mind for hours afterwards – but enough to
convey affection.
The cat mewed. It was a high pitched and attractive
sound.
Wendy’s eyes softened and her face relaxed. This was a
daily ritual for her. Whilst she knew the cat was often fussed over by Metro
users who would bring tiny handfuls of dried food and even water poured
carefully into the ripped bottoms of plastic bottles to form tiny bowls, she
liked to fancy that it had a special connection to her alone and she sometimes
considered adopting it.
But it would claw at the furnishings in her apartment, so
it really was out of the question. Shame.
If the cat had expected something to eat or drink, it was
to be disappointed. Still it seemed satisfied enough. But as Wendy rose to
continue her day, it batted her leg with its paw. The tiniest of movements, but
enough to draw a pinprick of blood.
Wendy scarcely thought about it as she opened the door of
the Uber.
And who knows what cats think?
At about the same time as Wendy’s Uber roared off in the
direction of school, a turquoise flashed blue bus had welcomed on board
passengers bound for the very same destination – a modern concrete
semi-circular school, at a drive of half an hour.
Now these teachers, being a mostly young bunch, had
bundled into the door and flipped into seats like tossed pancakes. Following
them had been a dull sprinkle of mask wearing, middle aged and over riders;
easily distinguished by their studied social distancing, lack of communication
and uniform looks of disapproval and contempt. These ones were either too mean
to buy a car or too new to have made friends with the many of a similar age who
already had them.
The young ones either didn’t care or couldn’t drive yet.
In fact, it was a good study in social psychology for any
passing practician.
The bus was an almost perfect practical demonstration of
stratification: divided, as it was, by an invisible partition. At the back the
young ones, barely out of school themselves, were hooting with laughter,
screaming, shouting and completely unmasked. Whereas at the front, facing
forward and sporting facial protection with grim determination, the old ones
ignored them completely. And if they did catch each the other’s eyes, would nod
mutely and raise a hopeless eyebrow or two.
Later, each party would bitch about the other, comfortably
united in their disdain. In this way, relationships were formed and as months
passed, the older ones would lessen in presence and further in distance by
lessons learned.
But, as it was today, there at the epicentre of the
backseat cacophony, the rock at the ripples’ centre, a tall curly haired Irish
boy was holding court. He was surrounded by several smaller, wispy bearded
males, who secretly hated his tufty blonde hairstyle, shaven face and confident
strut, but relied upon him for any table leavings.
The majority of his audience were female, however, and
none had lived beyond the age of 22 yet.
They had been almost literally sucked out of the doors of
numerous Dublin or Belfast centres of further education and blown onto planes
bound for Kata to teach primary aged kids how to read, write and count to ten.
Peter O’ Sullivan was different, however, which made all
the difference; gave him cachet. Perhaps 28, he was upstairs in secondary,
dealing with some of the older students. ‘Big School,’ he called it openly, to
tease the younger ones and because he knew it pissed his boss off.
Even now, he was broadcasting live to the bus and to any
other vehicles on the eight lane expressway foolish enough to be in the
vicinity, reliving the weekend. This had been no more or less drunken than the
three or four previous ones, since that fateful day they had all tumbled off
the plane to replace the previous year’s crop.
Negotiating the weekend’s story was one complex and vast
labyrinth of false starts, blind alleys and dead ends. Thrown into this dark
pit were stories of rugby set pieces, necking shooters, chasing pints of beer,
fumbling with flimsy dresses and trousering cheap offers of lust. Oh, these
were the tales of derring-do indeed, by a crew of cut and thrust buccaneers set
adrift, their umbilical hawsers cut in twain.
“You shall reap what you sow,” Peter was screaming, to
howls of approval, as he neared the end, “aye, that was a good crack, that was
a good crack.”
As the noise subsided, the girl opposite to him and
within kissing distance – for he was kneeling on the seat and facing to the
rear as though it were a stage – reddened beautifully, having thought of a good
riposte which she was sure would catch Peter’s attention.
As we so often do, she waited for a moment, choked back
the word as if slightly unsure, but then blurted it out: “Aye well, you’ll be
calling it that now, Peter, for sure.”
Catching the gist, the audience screamed again, and
Peter, liking her pluck, gave her a wink. She reddened still further but the
point was made and Peter pushed home his advantage, “aye well, you’ll be
catching me wanting, Anne Marie, so you take care, now.”
And the bus, half in silence, half in noise arced
gracefully around the cloverleaf as it sped towards the waiting school gates, listening
to the never-ending, unfolding tales of drunkenness and cruelty in the best Ray
Davies style.
The noise from the rear subdued as it entered the huge
iron gates because it signalled the end of the weekend. The elderly teachers
picked their way off, showing their cell phones with the ‘Green for Good’ track
and trace screen to the security on watch. They entered the cool depths whilst
the young ones were caught short.
Nursing the most terrible hangovers, clutching giant bottles
of iced water which they constantly sipped like babes at the teat, they fumbled
confusedly within Michael Kors handbags in the realisation that no phone meant
no entry.
It’s like that, sometimes, isn’t it? And the pounding,
aching heads only slows down the thinking.
Wendy had arrived ahead of them. She was now sitting at
her desk underneath the blowing air conditioner, the door of her small office
open as usual. She shivered as the air swirled around her slender body, dancing
with her thin blouse. Wendy scratched at her leg and then, checking to see no
one was looking, worried at the rash to her left shoulder where her bra was
callously reddening her skin.
Now she was sifting through the weekend’s G Mails and
they were mostly a dull read. Four complaints that started ‘Mister, my son is
in the wrong set for English, put him in top set’, which she deleted after
reading the first sentence; weekly bulletin (delete), memo from health and
safety (delete) and a promotion from Kata Airways.
This one she read more closely. It promised free flights
for ‘World Teacher Day’, but only if she was out of bed at four in the morning.
She wouldn’t be (delete).
And then one G Mail particularly caught her attention,
and she stifled a cry.
Instinctively, Wendy glanced at the cover list to see which
of her young, hungover slackers hadn’t made it in. Where would she have to do
extra teaching? No. He was in. The bloody fool. She cackled and almost clicked
her heels together.
As she put a mask on, her mouth twisted halfway between a
smile of contempt and a scowl of irritation.
Quickly scrubbing that off with invisible Kleenex, for
she, as head of department, always had to project an empathy she seldom felt
towards the young ones, Wendy rose and left her office. “We were all young
once,” she muttered to nobody and in a voice that betrayed the fact she didn’t
believe it herself. She had never been young. Of that, she was sure.
It was a quarter past seven, Sunday morning, first day of
the school week and the wide bleaches were empty. A smattering of children
queued outside classroom doors, but the virus had persuaded most parents to
keep their youngsters at home in their mansions for online lessons. “Which the
Filipino nanny will probably do with the camera switched off,” snapped Wendy’s
inner voice, harshly.
That one nearly came out. Be careful.
Wendy shivered again. Her head always ached on a Sunday
due to the stress she felt being so far away from Kensington, but today it was
slightly worse than usual. Why? Well, she was pretty certain it was due to have
being woken up at one o clock that morning by a screaming horde of drunks
flying into the Apartment block.
There had been a particularly vociferous cry, loud,
Irish, and it had screamed ‘There’s the crack! There’s the crack!” over and
over for about twenty minutes. Wendy had an idea of the owner of that voice and
it was his classroom she was heading for.
“Peter,” she purred, “How are you this morning?”
Peter looked up at somebody who, if he scrunched his mind
up for a while, resembled his mother. He always had a little trouble
remembering these things, for sure, but as he didn’t like his mother anyway, the
remembrance skimmed away like a stone across oceans of pirate ships, hitting
the surface maybe thrice before plunging like a cannon ball.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he shouted, from his desk.
Shouted, because when hangovers bite hard, the voice and
body language always overcompensate in a manic way when called upon, before
lapsing later into sullen, thudding defeat.
“You don’t look fine, Peter. Your eyes look bloodshot and
your skin looks a bit waxy. I hope you did not overindulge yourself this
weekend?”
“Aye, well there’s no law against that,” replied Peter,
loudly again.
“Well, there is here, as a matter of fact. They don’t look
too kindly upon vomiting in the street at one o clock in the morning and
screaming ‘it’s a crack, it’s a crack’, Wendy pointed out, “notwithstanding the
ten o clock curfew the school has imposed upon the building.”
“Oh, that bollocks,” snapped Peter, the façade slipping,
and then, regretting it, adding, “I don’t know what you are talking about. I
had a quiet weekend, sure.”
“No? Well, never mind, Peter, that’s not why I’m here.
Did you receive a text?”
“A text? I don’t remember.”
“Look at your phone,” Wendy advised. She watched as he
scroffled through his bag. There was the large bottle of water, a spare tie,
but no phone. She wondered how he’d got past security. Some sort of subterfuge,
no doubt.
“I can’t find my phone,” spluttered Peter, his face
reddening, “I can’t remember what I did with it. I’ve not seen it all morning,
you know.” He took a sip from the bottle. Well, two or three long gulps. He was
feeling hot.
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Wendy, coolly, “it was found
in the road outside the apartments early this morning. In some vomit.”
“Vermit? What’s that?”
“Vomit. Vomit.”
“Eh? What do you mean?” said Peter, confused.
“Vomit. Don’t you have a degree in English?”
“Not really. I have one in general education, bits of
this and that. It’s a cracker.”
“Vomit. Sick. Puke. In the street. Your phone was in it.”
Peter’s face unfurled in realisation. “Ah! Vomit! I
thought you said vermin.”
“Don’t be silly, Peter. Why would I say vermin?” snapped
Wendy, thinking of one or two reasons almost immediately, then repeating
slowly, “your phone was found in the street in vomit.”
“Ah, that’ll explain it. No harm done. I’ll collect it
tonight and run it under the tap. That’s a relief.”
“Hmm,” muttered Wendy. She tried really hard and her face
looked sympathetic. “It’ll be sent to you because I doubt you’ll be able to
pick it up. You won’t have the time.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m afraid, Peter, that you are off to stay a hotel. I
imagine you will be there for quite a while. You see, I…” Wendy paused for a beat,
“…received an email this morning. The same text you would have received had you
not mislaid your…ah…phone.”
“What would that be, then? What hotel?”
“You have the virus, Peter. You came into contact with it
during your quiet weekend.”
“Oh, shit,” groaned Peter, “you mean…that virus?”
“Quite so. What other virus is there? You must go to The
Principal’s office, straight away.”
Principal Putney hefted his large frame in the fake
leather armchair, behind his desk and looked in his lunchbox with irritation.
“Maureen! Maureen! Are you responsible for this Tupperwared abomination?” he
screamed from within, his voice carrying and echoing across the mausoleum that
had once been reception.
Maureen poked her nose around the corner of the door. She
was, of course, wearing a mask, however the nose peeped impertinently from the
top due to mask slippage. “Can I help you, Principal?”
“I would like to know…very much like to know…which twat
shook up my luncheon box so that the eggs have become mixed with this lamb
shank juice in a quite revolting fashion?
Maureen shook her head, “I asked Mohammed to fetch it for
you, sir.”
“Mohammed, eh? Did you also ask him to dance a fandango
on the way here too?”
“Certainly not.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but that carnal crocodile Mrs Putney
ladled in an overgenerous portion of sauce and it has congealed to my par-fried
egg. It looks like diarrhoea, for Christ’s sake!”
“Principal, please. There are parents present.”
“Are there? Where? I can’t see any of them. Are they
hiding under your skirts or have they, at last, discovered the secret of
invisibility that has hitherto eluded our greatest minds?”
“Well, there aren’t any present at the moment,” admitted
Maureen, in a reasonable tone, “but I’m sure one will turn up before long.”
“I doubt that, I doubt that very much indeed, Mrs
Maureen. This school is empty of them and empty of their odious offspring. The
only people who turn up here on a regular basis are expensive bloody teachers
with little to do except bloody talk to bloody cameras as though they were
presenting Blue bloody Peter. Bastards.”
Behind the mask, Maureen cleared her throat with a slight
cough, as we do – well perhaps not so loudly these days in case it causes alarm
– and signalled towards the foyer. “Blue Peter? No, no, not blue Peter, Peter
O’Sullivan.”
“Who?”
“You know, Peter,” she stressed wriggling her eyebrows
because any movement of the mouth was obscured. “Peter.”
“Peter? Has he come to fart on my shanked egg?” Then, Putney
glanced at his phone. “Oh, that Peter. One of those drunk small ones. Well,
he’s not coming in here, Maureen. Tell him to piss off. Bloody time wasters.”
“He’s got the virus.”
“Has he?”
“Yes. I think he infected the whole bus.”
“What? Even the old ones? That’ll teach them not to own
cars, the cretins.”
Putney reluctantly rose from his desk and his portly
frame waddled to the door, avoiding Maureen at under a safe social distance,
but avoiding her nevertheless. “Where’s this wretched boy, Peter?”
Upon hearing his name, Peter rose to his feet. He had, of
course, seen the Principal before on a couple of occasions, hobbling around the
vast, empty building, but had no particular respect or fear of him. He treated
him as he would anybody else who was older than him. Whatever was said would be
of absolutely no relevance. Like Morrissey might have sang, he’d: ‘have nothing
to say about my life’, except Peter had never heard of Morrissey, or if he had,
he’d forgotten him by now.
No matter. He was probably right because Principal Putney
simply scowled at him, spat and told him to piss right off.
“I was told you would be wanting to see me on account of
I have the virus, Principal?” replied Peter. Even if he had heard him, Peter
was unconcerned and stretched out his hand. He had been taught that was the way
to greet older people. Or he thought he had. By now it was instinct rather than
a conscious decision.
Putney ignored the gesture.
No, he didn’t ignore it but looked with revulsion. “Have
you even washed that hand?”
“Aye, I recall doing that very thing yesterday. Or maybe
today.”
“Are you simple?” Shaking his head, Putney wondered why
every year they employed this plane load, only to send them back ten months
later. Why, if he was in charge of the recruitment, if he was, well things
would be very different. “No. Don’t come any closer. You think I want to catch
it?”
“Well, now, if you lost a few pounds, you’d have nothing
to fear, would you? It’s only a wee sniffle for most of us.”
“You arrogant, young puppy. It’s off to Hotel Quarantina for
you, boy.”
“Is it now? What will that be like, then?” Peter looked
at him with clear blue eyes then snorted to retrieve a trickle that was
dribbling out like a fine stream from his nose. What he couldn’t retract, he
wiped with his shirt cuff.
“Piss off there and find out.”
And when later, the rest of the bus turned up, he
repeated those very same words, then retreated back to his office where he
spent the rest of the afternoon moodily poking at a congealed lamb shank with a
biro, before hurling it at the wall. “At least that solves the issue of the
payroll.”
For Wendy, the day that had started so promisingly was
getting worse.
After sending Peter flying downstairs in a blur, then
watching many other teachers pack their desks and leave, some with smiles,
others with scowls, she had returned to her office.
But after removing her mask, she shivered again and
scratched at the sore on her leg, wondering how it came to be there. It was
throbbing in time to her head like a lump-hammer into concrete sending shards
of pain into her eyes which watered as she scrolled the text downwards on the
screen in front of her.
Throbbing.
Throbbing like Derek’s…no, she pushed that image away
from her in panic. It had not happened. It did not happen. It would not happen
again, if it ever had. Oh, my, that bra strap is so tight; her skin flared in
rashers of shame.
Rash. Oh, so rash.
Wendy coughed. A strong cough that caused her lungs to
rasp against her throat like sandpaper. Her heart flipped around like a deck of
cards in the hands of a sharp and the office was dancing; flecks of light
bouncing like the reflections of a glitterball.
Steadying herself, she looked up as the Deputy Principal approached
her office door. Collected and with the physique of a tennis player, Anita
stood outside the glass fronted space, clipboard in one hand, phone in the
other. “Wendy, my dear, how are you feeling? Did you have a relaxing weekend?”
Wendy coughed again. “Very quiet,” she managed, getting
it together, “nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Good, good,” replied Anita, with a bright smile, looking
at her clipboard again, “and we are in a mess now. Yes, my dear, a mess, what
with Derek and all our teachers, the virus…”
“Derek?” snapped Wendy, ignoring her aching head as her
bowels did a little somersault. “What do you mean? I have nothing to do with
Derek. Derek is gay. Everybody knows he’s gay.”
“Bi, surely? He told me that once, I believe…oh, I’m sure
he always is careful, but he is such a terror, isn’t he, for someone
of…advanced years? Well, I hope he is careful. One should always
take…precautions.” Anita’s mild, breezy gaze stiffened into something
approaching a brisk wind billowing her sails, “my dear, what is that on your
leg?”
“A rash.”
“It looks quite unsightly. How has it spread like that?”
“I haven’t a clue, Anita, I only noticed it this morning.
How can I help you?”
“Oh yes, ah, well, with 34 teachers now in quarantine, I
wondered if you could teach their…my dear, perhaps you should wear tights?”
“Tights always give me a rash.” snapped Wendy.
“Maybe that explains it. I heard Derek has a penchant for
wearing them on his head.”
“What?”
“Yes. On the top, with both legs hanging over his ears
whilst he hops around the bedroom naked like a bunny, calling himself Mr Flopperdop.”
Wendy lost her temper at this ludicrous image and it
blurted out before she could stop it, like hitting a toothpaste tube with a truncheon:
“Well he certainly didn’t use my tights on Friday, if that’s what you mean.”
Anita’s clipboard fell from her chest and hung limply
from her left hand as Wendy’s face reddened. “You were with him on Friday?”
“Yes. Well, for a bit.”
“You were with him for a bit? A bit of what?” Anita gasped,
taking it all in. She dropped the board where she stood and began tapping her
phone in time to the clang it made as it hit the hard floor. “Did you enjoy
intimate relations, Wendy?”
“I have never enjoyed intimate relations.” Which wasn’t
quite a lie given the amount of effort it had taken to stiffen his resolve. Quite
revolting. She would never drink Campari again.
Even as the words left her lips, though, she coughed
again and this time there were real spasms.
“My dear, you have the virus.”
The office wheeled around her head like a spinning top
upon hearing these words. “I can’t,” she gasped, “I refuse. I’m a grown up, I’m
a grown up.” And seeing herself see herself in a dream, gas hissed through the
keyhole as she struggled towards the bed, upon which was an opened suitcase;
towering above her skyscrapers which melted, melded in cross fades until she
stopped struggling and collapsed.
And Anita might have said something like welcome. Welcome
to your home from home.
Diary of O’Sullivan
This being the
true and actual thoughts of a lost boy far away from his home which he made
among the green and rolling emerald forest hills and sparkling blue seas upon
the event of his dying a painful death from the virus which was undeserved and
uncalled for and also in the desert amongst those other rats who abandoned him.
Day One
The name is O’Sullivan. Peter
O’Sullivan.
I got the virus and I’m dying for it –
that being the virus. In bravery will I be trying to write these words to the
future from the past. The pen is my master. It’s my true promise to write each
day and track the progress of the virus through my body and I’ll leave this
great work to mudical science.
Day One - Suppository
Today I wrote the introduction that
you just read if you’re reading this. I found most of the words in an online
bog. I left him a comment. I think it said: ‘I’m burrowing these words, bye’. I
told the bog person that I’ll promise to be writing each day and leave this
great work to mudical science. And that today I was writing the introduction
based on ‘your bog’.
Day Two
I have tracked the virus to my left
foot. It smells very bad and has left its mark. A sniffle today. I made a mess
all over my sheets. And my pyjamas. I didn’t have my hanky. Ma would do that
and say to use it if I finished my snack. I have made a new fiend. He’s the man
from the bog. He’s asking me to RETURN the words when I’ve finished with them.
That’s a good crack. He wrote ‘RETURN’ using all capital letters. I think I’ll
start to do that to HIM.
I have decided to write a poem to
commiserate my great work for medical Science and here is the fist line which
is mainly mine.
‘On a lone desert
virus highway.’
Day Three
It is now in my right foot, which is
now as bad as my left foot and the smell is worse. I woke this morning to find
both my feet had got caught in a pizza box. This virus is thirsty work. I asked
the guard for some Guinness. He said ‘none sir at Hotel Quarantina’. Due to his
bad English and Arabic accent I didn’t understand him. So would you not. They
should speak batter in this country and louder. He was a Muslim.
I can no longer leave comments on my
fiend’s bog. The bog is blocked.
‘cool virus in my
hair’
Day Four
Today is the fourth day in Hotel
Quarantina as shown from the date.
‘warm smell of a
virus’
Day Five
Today I misremembered that I am dying.
I tracked the virus to my head. There are spots all over it. They look
different from the usual ones that Ma told me not to squeeze. One is very big
and I thought I should. I asked Abdul for more pizza. I shied him the spots but
he put his mask on and pointed to my door and shook his finger at me.
This is a Muslim custom.
‘virus into the
air’
Day Six
I tracked the virus to my eyebrows. I
plucked at them There was blood. I told Abdul
he’s my brother. This is also a Muslim thing to do. As he can’t speak Irish I’m
speaking Muslim to him. ‘Hallas’ and ‘Yallah and ’Chub’. These are words he
shouts at me a lot when I go into the corridor and now I’m shouting them back.
There was no pizza today. Hungry and I
must be close to death now.
‘up ahead was a
virus’
Day Seven
On my floor of Hotel Quarantino there
are lots of other dying people. They are also into virus tracking. You can hear
them moaning and wailing. It keeps you awake, the feckers. I saw some sick in
the corridor too. So when Abdul was somewhere else I knocked on a few doors to
ask why the sick was still there.
I found that lots of them are from my
school and get the same bus as me.
‘saw a shimmering
virus’
Day Eight
I am dying for sure. I tracked the
virus to my brain. Last night I had visions of people on the bus pointing at
sick and they were laughing and wailing ‘it’s the crack, it’s the crack’ over
and over again.
I woke up with a terrible mess in my
pyjamas. I was sweating and my sheets were sticking to my lad. It was throbbing
like it would burst.
‘my head felt
heavy and my virus grew dim’
Day Ten
I missed day 9. This is because I hid
in Anne Marie’s room on the floor beneath my floor. I didn’t want Abdul to see
me even if he is my brother. Me and Anne Marie are both dying, so we got to
riding, and she asked me to stop the night. I saw a few of the others doing the
same. It was a good crack. Some old people told us to ‘shut the feck up with
your moaning and wailing’. They’re dying too but nobody cares that we are.
I was pleased to get out of Anne
Marie’s room due to her telling me ‘to be careful to pull it out’ every time.
She’s got some gob on her, that one.
‘I had to stay
for the night with a virus’
Day Eleven
I am close to death. I tracked the
virus to my lad. The spots on it are worse and my nose is still leaking onto my
pillow and I soiled my bed. The smell was fecking terrible. I told Abdul to
take out the sheets but he refused. I had to put them out of the window. Later
I saw some mudical experts in the street pointing at them and shouting.
I hope the mudical experts will add
‘soiled sheets’ to their encyclopaedia. With a picture of me next to them.
I think
I will be dead tomorrow for sure.
‘not plenty of
room at the Hotel Quarantina’
Day Twelve
I saw them taking an old woman out to
the ambulance. This woman looked pretty dead and she was in a right state,
writhing all over the carpet. Feel too weak to write now. I have tracked the
virus to my right wrist. It cannot hold the pen.
Very sticky.
‘it’s a fecking
shite, bollocks, fecking feckering place full of feckers like Abdul, the bollocks,
with no fecking crack and a virus and that’s fecking that.’
Day Thirteen
I found another online bog to help me
write my final words: ‘Oh, cruel world that has such feckers in it’.
The Eulogy of
Wendy Darling
To be read during
the funeral…
My
dear friends and all of you also gathered here today.
This
is probably the hardest thing I have ever had to set down on paper. I thought
it best if I wrote this; you cannot trust a priest, can you? You read such
awful things.
Is
it raining? Strangely, that is the first thing that occurs to me, because it
seldom rains out here in the desert. If it is, I hope you remembered to pack
your mackintoshes and the priest remembered to put a plastic flimsy around this
eulogy. If that is not beyond him and he has time between his other unsavoury activities.
On
the other hand, your standing around my grave in the rain is a pleasing image
because it will hide the tears or lack thereof. Forgive me if I have a sniffle
and a catch in my throat.
I
suppose, thinking about it now, I could have recorded this using Zoom. But the
thought of my words from the grave at the grave truly terrifies me. Also, I
wonder if a parish priest has the necessary tech and, if he did, could he be
trusted to use it? These days, you cannot trust a priest not to fiddle about
and I do not want to be misinterpreted or, indeed, fiddled about with.
I
did not make a fortune, and the only fame I can expect is linked to this
aforementioned bad fortune. Whatever is left, after transporting my body to
England, you can divide amongst yourselves or donate to the Crematorium. As you
pass the bag amongst yourselves to collect the offertory, keep a close eye on
the priest. I have heard it said that they will go with false bottoms.
Mine
is a life of unfulfilled potential, it’s true. But I bear no bitterness as I go
into the flame. I might have been a Brown Owl, but my sister Mavis was before
me, always. She chose the trodden path, I chose a different direction. Hers led
her straight into the clutches of Reverend Roger Rowbottoms.
I
complained bitterly, but she never did, and I often wonder how their marriage
fared. We lost touch soon afterwards. If Mavis finds her way here upon hearing
of my tragic demise, I bear her no malice. All is forgiven.
I
contemplated taking the orders and a life in the nunnery. ‘Hie thee to a
nunnery’ as someone once said. But one reads such terrible things. Those nuns
are all at it, aren’t they? In any case, I saw a film about nuns once and it
gave me nightmares. It was all running around mountains, singing and escaping
from Nazis. Also, I wasn’t seventeen going on eighteen by then.
I
went into teaching and hereby lies the beginning of the end. One has such
terrible colleagues. Most of them want
to take you out, in the hope of a quick grope. Or just grope you anyway without
even taking you out.
I
thought I would make Headteacher soon but was pipped to the post by Myrtle who’d
take her bra off and let her nickers down for anyone, especially Doctor Pottle.
If Myrtle finds her way here upon hearing of my tragic demise, I bear her no
malice. All is forgiven. Hope the marriage worked out just fine.
Also
there’s always a priest hanging around the gates, isn’t there? Waving a cross
and demanding access that he may convert one or two stray sheep, while addressing
the faithful. I didn’t like the look of them at all, I can tell you. I reported
them straight away to OFSTED.
It
was my sheer bad luck that Hashtag Me Too hadn’t been thought of then; I found
myself in the desert, but it wasn’t all bad. There was a cat I was fond of, and
pretty soon I was made up to Head of Department when the other one, Mary, had
to go off sick with expecting a baby thanks to Professor Pommelsnatch.
Still
this tale has a tragic ending, as you, my dear friends and others standing here
in the rain (probably) know only to well. Made worse by the unwanted attentions
of Derek Pumfrey who gave me the virus after three or four stiff Camparis down
the throat. But Derek, if you made your way to be here today, I bear you no
malice. Also you might want to chat to the priest later.
All
I have left
to say to you is this. I tried to live the life of a grown up. I tried to be
responsible. Avoid temptation. Look after the pennies. And my reward? Well, my
reward is this.
I
hope you are partial to Quavers. Enjoy the snacks I have provided at some
expense, and, if you feel able, raise a glass to one who loved herself not
wisely but too well.
Goodbye
forever.
Wendy.
The
funeral was a quiet one and, it being the desert, the grave was fittingly
shallow.
At
the centre of the four Metro station exits, serving Al Sadd so well for each
point of the compass, a small entourage began to gather quietly under the
midday sun, for each is within walking distance of the other and the paths
cross above just as well as below.
People
quietly exited from each one, forming a train, then gathered around a small,
female medical assistant. All were masked, one or two looked sad.
In
her hands, the Filipino nurse held a small cardboard shoebox. This she laid,
without ceremony, into the grave.
Now,
the gathered began to throw minute handfuls of dried cat food, dark like soil,
and, as it hit the box, it made hollow pitter-patters, like drops of rain
falling onto cracked mud.
“He
was a good cat,” said one.
“She.
She was a good cat.”
“They
say it is passed by animals.”
“Poor
cat. All those months hiding so well in the Metro tunnels and, all the time, it
was out here.”
One
or two of the Filipinos knelt and gently pushed the small amount of grit, sand
and gravel on top of the small shoebox. That done, they all stood back and
contemplated the little patch of slumbering earth.
“She
must have thought it was safe.”
And
with that said, they began to drift away, in ones and twos, back towards their continuing
lives.
Because who knows what cats think?
