Flu (20 page)

    "Some of them wanted to travel to the docks, take a ship over to Scotland. I wanted to see if there was anything left of Belfast."

    "So you left a relatively safe bus, filled with other survivors, who you had just been through hell with, to come… here? I'm sorry, son, but none of this adds up to me.

    "W-what do you mean?" Paddy asked, looking to the others for back up. "I saw you coming and going from the house. I was hiding in a car down the road, and I -"

    "You were spying on us?" Norman quipped, chuckling slightly.

    "No! It wasn't like that!" Paddy protested.

    "I think Paddy's been through enough," Geri said, defusing the situation.

    "I-I just want to -" Paddy said, rising to his feet and then stumbling.

    Lark jumped from his chair to grab hold of him as he fell. "I've got you, mate…" he said, propping the man up. He helped him through the kitchen, into the hall. He turned to the other survivors at the table. "I'll take him upstairs to the spare bedroom," he said. "McFall and I can sleep somewhere else tonight."

    Geri was surprised by Lark. It wasn't like him to be so altruistic. Not since she'd known him, anyway. He'd certainly come on a lot from the days of locking her in the patio. It gave her hope to see that even a man like Lark, a man who seemed as selfish as they came, could be moved by such a story. He was human, after all, underneath all of that rough exterior. But the cop… he was still sitting at the table, his face heavy with cynicism. It angered Geri all of a sudden.

    "I'm off to bed," she said, shaking her head.

    "Okay, night, love," Norman called after her.

    "Fuck you," she muttered under her breath.

    "What was that, love?" she heard him call after her as she slipped out of the room.

    Norman sat at the table, alone. All the others were sleeping, George in the living room and McFall curled up in the corner of the patio. But Norman couldn't sleep. His mind was still working, working as if on a case.

    George had always said he'd make a good detective. He had a good nose for bullshit, and that was half the battle when it came to detective work. Unfortunately for Norman, the other half was paperwork. And that was why he never made detective. In fact, that was pretty much the reason Norman never got above constable.

    Back in the day, the old days of RUC-style policing, paperwork wasn't just as important. Norman had learned to dodge it, getting some of the women in the office to sort out as much as he needed done, enough to keep the boss-man off his back. They would never have suspected that he couldn't read or write, but they knew he hadn't got what it took to make the Sarge exams.

    It wasn't that he couldn't read at all. He could read some things, the important things. And he learned to look for other clues when it came to other stuff. Like the pictures around the text. Or signs, symbols. The teachers in school hadn't had much interest in him. He was too big, too stupid for any of the other kids to do anything other than avoid him. Eventually, he learned to use his size to his advantage, ruling the playground with a rod of iron. People wouldn't dare make fun of him, anymore. He made sure of it.

    He thought of the story he had just heard. How it didn't make sense to him, how the scent of bullshit was heavy on young Paddy's tongue. Norman knew there was more than met the eye to him. He just didn't have the evidence to call it, though, and he knew George was too soft for his own good to listen to him. That lad always saw the best in everyone.

    Lark appeared in the kitchen doorway, snapping Norman out of his daze.

    "Thought you'd gone to bed," the cop said.

    "Just tucking your new mate in," Lark smirked.

    Norman allowed himself a chuckle. "How is he?" he asked.

    "As crooked as you are," Lark said, surprising Norman. It took balls to say something as candid like that to a man like Norman. But, as Norman was beginning to realise, Lark was a man who had large ones.

    "How do you mean?" Norman said, still playing his cards safe.

    "Oh, come on," Lark said, laughing. "You spotted the bullshit as quickly as I did."

    "Maybe…" Norman said.

    "Well, this might help, then…" Lark said, sliding something across the table at him.

    Norman stopped it with his hand, finding a small, passport-sized ID card.

    "What's this?" he asked, studying the card.

    "What does it look like?" Lark asked.

    Norman looked at the card, spotting various words on it that he couldn't understand. His eyes were drawn to the photograph. His eyes narrowed as he studied it more closely.

    "That's your man," he said, finally.

    "Bingo, Einstein!" Lark exclaimed, facetiously. "Now, don't you see what this means?"

    "Well…" Norman stalled, not quite sure what the connection was.

    "He was lying!" Lark said, excitedly. "He wasn't staying at the camp, he was fucking running it! Look at the ID card again."

    "Oh yeah," Norman said, none the wiser. There were numbers, words, symbols on the card. He recognised the logo as one of the new governmental agencies set up to tackle the epidemic. He joined the dots, realising what Lark was concluding. "The slimy wee -"

    "Yes, exactly," Lark said, finally having the cop on the same page as him. "He was fucking doing that shit to people, not having it done to him. We can't trust him, man. He's bad news."

    "So what do you want me to do about it?" Norman asked. "Let's face it, none of us are saints, are we?" He thought of his own role in the quarantines. The yellow suit that
he
had worn.

    "Come on, man!" Lark protested. "This is fucking different! The things they do at those camps, haven't you heard the rumours?"

    "Sure, but that's all they are. Rumours," Norman countered.

    "Rumours which he practically confirmed," Lark pressed. "That little story of his was practically a signed confession. We need to get him the hell out of here."

    "No way," Norman said, waving his hand and throwing the card back. "I'll be watching him like a hawk, but I'm not going to turf him back out there. No way."

    "Jesus," Lark said, throwing his arms into the air. "I'd have thought that you, of all people, weren't fucking soft."

    "I'm not a fucking animal!" Norman yelled, suddenly angry. "So put this thing out of your head and go and get some sleep! We've a lot of fucking work on tomorrow, and I could use your help with that, rather than this bullshit." Norman could see the other man staring at him, baffled. But he held his ground. He wasn't going to be the local hard man. The 'go-to-guy' when it came to doing something unsavoury. Not anymore. This was too serious a situation for that kind of thing.

    Lark looked disappointed. Deflated.

    "Listen, I'm glad you told me, though -" Norman offered.

    But Lark wasn't listening. "Forget it," he snapped, grabbing the ID card and storming off.

    Norman watched him leave, slamming the kitchen door in his wake.
Stupid little prick,
he thought, blowing some air out of his mouth.
What did he expect? A lynch mob? A witch hunt?
But the young punk hadn't been too far off the mark, of course. Were he looking for any of those things in days gone by, he would have been talking to the right man. Norman thought on what he would have done with that information, of how it would have played out a lot differently for young Paddy even mere hours ago. The Norman-Of-Old would have wasted no time in confronting the newcomer, literally beating the truth out of him. But even his interrogation around the table had been half-arsed. More like a fucking quiz. He just seemed to have lost his oomph.

    Of course, he knew exactly why this was. His mind travelled back to the off-licence and the little girl licking the blood of a dead soldier off her fingers. The events surrounding flat 23 came flooding back as well, somehow interlinked, as if both girls were the one and same, somehow intertwined in their undead quest to haunt him, to pine for his guilt.

    Norman Coulter made a decision, right there and then, at the kitchen table. He would try to be a good man. He would try to treat people fairly, to act in a manner that was at least half appropriate for a man wearing the uniform. He owed it to George. He owed it to himself, to the badge on his shirt.

    He also decided to right his most heinous wrong, the only wrong he could address in this new and broken down world. Tomorrow, after the supply run, he was going to visit flat 23. He was going to open up the flat, and put a bullet in that little girl's head.

    Geri closed the curtains, blocking out the sun's rise to allow her tired eyes to close. She couldn't believe it was dawn. She was far too tired for it to be morning. She pulled off her t-shirt, then kicked the skinny jeans from her legs, awkwardly. She made a mental note to try and find some new clothes at their supply run later. Those jeans might walk out of the room on their own, if she had to wear them much longer. But, for now, she needed sleep. And lots of it.

    She slipped under the covers, her body almost screaming with tiredness. She drifted off very quickly, Paddy's story of the Great Outdoors flashing around her brain like dim lights, unable to keep her awake. She felt herself beginning to dream again, the images and words mixing together, Geri finding herself acting out some of the highlights from Paddy's story at the camp. At times, she was a guard, and the survivors morphed into a herd of dead fucks. She lifted her rifle and blasted them mercilessly. And then she would be a survivor, scrambling to get out of the camp as a crowd of yellow- suited giants chased her with a huge net, as if she were some kind of animal.

    She woke with a start, immediately finding herself staring into the dark face and wide, piercing eyes of Paddy. The covers were removed from the bed, and she suddenly felt cold. Paddy was spread across her, in the poor light, like a huge bear, his old, ragged coat cloaking them both like huge, dark wings. She thought that she was dreaming, at first, closing her eyes and then opening them again. But he was still there, his hands gripping her wrists tightly to hold her down. She tried to struggle, but he held her fast, his breathing intensifying, his breath heavy with alcohol and rotting gums.

    She went to scream, but he placed a hand over her mouth silencing her. She tried to kick him, but his naked legs were pressed against her own. She was pinned down and completely helpless.

    She looked to the door, finding it closed tight. She looked to the window, but the curtains were pulled right across, allowing only a little light into the room. She could hear the dead outside, their occasional moan croaking against the ever-decreasing morning chorus of the birds.

    Paddy's eyes looked sad. Sad but desperate as he moved one hand over her throat to hold her while the other reached below his waist. She could feel the warm, moist tip of his penis as he worked it near her legs. She struggled, her eyes almost popping out from her face, but she was still unable to move. She felt as though she couldn't breathe, even though her airways weren't fully restricted. She tried to scream again, but her voice was dry and hoarse and only a pathetic squeak left her mouth. She could smell the coat, now, its mixture of the city's sweat and piss storming her nose like heavy smog. And then he began to press against her, the attempted penetration causing her bladder to weaken, the hot trickle of urine soaking her legs as he continued his assault.

    The door opened, Paddy turning towards it quickly. Geri followed his gaze, finding the unmistakable silhouette of Lark standing in the doorway.

    "What's going -" he began, but Paddy was off the bed in an instant, standing by the side as if embarrassed.

    "What are you fucking -" Lark said, more angrily. He reached for the man, grabbing him by the overcoat, realising that he was completely naked underneath. He shook him like a tree, punching him squarely in the jaw to send him across the room, tripping on the end of the bed. Geri scrambled to cover herself with the damp, pissy duvet. Tears were streaming down her face, and she could hardly breathe.

    "Get him out of here!" she screamed at Lark. "GET HIM OUT!"

    Lark grabbed the other man, lifting him from the ground once again by the lapels of his overcoat. He head butted him, the attack more out of sheer anger than to immobilise him, but it both scared and bloodied Paddy.

    "I didn't m-mean -" he began before being interrupted by Lark.

    "Shut up!" the tattooed man bellowed in his face. "Shut the fuck UP!"

    Lark felt more angry than he'd ever felt in his life. He dragged the scrawny shambles of a man out of Geri's room by his greasy hair. He threw him down the stairs, following him as he rolled, kicking him with his DM boot at every opportunity. Blood stained the walls. Paddy was crying like a child. Curling himself into a ball like a dog being beaten. But Lark continued to kick him vehemently.

    George came running out of the living room, just as they reached the front door.

    "What the hell?!" the cop began.

    "He's leaving," Lark said, abruptly.

    "What do you mean?" George said, his eyes heavy and hair ruffled, as if he were still waking up.

    "He fucking tried -" Lark began, before checking himself. "Listen, he's not who he says he is… He's a liar. He's lied to us all."

    "Wait," George said, putting his hand on the door to stop Lark from opening it. "What do you mean? What's going -"

    But Lark pulled the revolver from his jeans, pointing it confidently at George.

    "Move away from the door," he said, his voice shaking with anger. "Move away now, or I swear I will kill you…"

    George moved away immediately, sensing Lark's anger. He was out of control. More unpredictable than ever.

    Lark opened the door, immediately catching sight of the faces of several of the dead.

    "P-please," Paddy said, blood seeping from his mouth and nose.