Jackson – Thursday: Plague Day
His belly hurt. It was like he’d eaten an entire carton of ice cream and one of the bitch’s dodgy curries. The thought of his girlfriend made his eyes water. He rolled onto his side and tears streamed down his face. He’d called her a bitch! He shouted at her and screamed and threatened. How had he done that? How had he done all those terrible things?
He rolled onto his front and pulled his knees up, forehead pressing into the concrete. His throat was like sandpaper and he coughed, retching and choking. He could feel them, their little hands clawing at his mouth, their feet shoving and kicking as they went down.
His throat was blocked for a moment and he wrapped his hands around it, gasping for breath. His vision began to blur and he rocked back and forth, trying to dislodge them. Some tiny part of his brain, the part not overwhelmed by terror, told him there was nothing there. It had to shout, but it was good at it and suddenly he could breathe again.
They were gone. Were they inside him? He lifted his head off the pavement and looked at his stomach. It wasn’t swollen or bloated. In fact, the only thing that remained was his aching belly and sore throat. How had he done that to all those children?
Tears came again and he sobbed and coughed. Finally he sat up and crossed himself. He hadn’t done that since he left home, since mam threw him out. She’d always crossed herself, often right before she took the belt to him.
‘My son, you’ve brought shame to us again. I pray to the lord for salvation for your soul. Now grab the door handle and keep your mouth shut.’
Wham wham wham and no sit down for the rest of the week. He hated mam. Had hated mam. He remembered the funeral well, the looks of disdain from his brothers and the warmth he felt as she was lowered into the ground. Now he thought of all the love she’d given him, the teachings and the faith. It took a minute or two before he ran out of memories and he crossed himself for the entire 120 seconds.
He stood and stretched, his sleeves sliding up his arms as he reached for the sky. His tattoos sprang into sight and he groaned and shook his head. What was he thinking? He’d scarred himself. He chuckled and shook his head. Scarring on the outside meant nothing compared to what was burned into his soul. What he had done could never be washed away.
His only hope was to balance up the scales and find some way to become useful to mankind. He would still go to hell, but perhaps he could buy himself onto the higher levels. Nodding righteously, he strolled into the park and took a deep breath. It was beautiful here, so beautiful tears sprang into his eyes.
It felt good to cry. It had been too long. To think he’d been ashamed of it before now. He needed to get home and see Maria. She deserved so much better than him and he needed to tell her that and help her understand how amazing she was. He bit his lip as it wobbled. How had he ever called her all those terrible things?
His belly ached, but it was nothing compared to the hurt in his heart.
He heard sirens and ducked his head. Instinct, driven so deep he wasn’t even aware of it, making him glance around for a good spot to hide. The sirens were numerous enough to make him more curious than scared so he jogged across to the entrance to the park to see what was happening. As he reached it, four pig cars went past at a serious lick. He flushed as he caught himself thinking of them as pigs. When had he ever believed that was an acceptable way to speak about the police?
They were followed by ambulances and he watched them past and out of sight. They were heading for Oxford Circus. Maybe something big was going on. Something stirred inside, an old habit of taking opportunities when they arose. He walked through the gate and set off at a steady jog after the police cars.
The sirens weren’t stopping and another two cars hammered past. They were going faster than they were supposed to in the city. In this second group, the ambulances out-numbered the police cars. He heard something else as well, the distant but unmistakable sound of screaming. His heart jumped. It was a sound that made him feel at once queasy and oddly excited. It stirred things he recognised all too well and shoved down as quickly as he could.
He stepped up the pace, pleased for the hours in the gym. It had nothing to do with staring at the gym-bunny’s tight arses and everything to do with keeping fit. He flushed and put his head down. His ears were burning as more memories flooded back. He tried to remember exactly where he’d been in the interim, but all he could picture were the children’s faces. That and the feel of boots against the inside of his throat. Which was ridiculous, of course, but he still put a hand against his neck each time the feeling grew strong.
His feet brought him to Trafalgar square and he stopped dead, bending over as he struggled for breath. It wasn’t the running that had him gasping, but what lay before him. The square was covered in bodies, tourists and suits alike. They were lying as though they’d been frozen in time, hands held out before them, grasping and eager.
The nearest body provided no clues as to what had happened. He couldn’t find a pulse and his own heart rate sped up. The skin was dry and cold and the limbs were stiff. He backed away. Something terrible had afflicted them, something evil and rotten. He put his hands together and glanced heavenward.
But God wouldn’t help him. He was a sinner of the worst kind. Asking God for help now was an insult. It was up to him to help himself and others. He set off through the square. The screams were coming from the river and he looked down Charing Cross road to see crowds of people running, fleeing like rats from a burning building.
The road up to Leicester Square was just the same as here. The ground was littered with bodies and not a soul moved. The screams were growing fainter and he caught a glimpse of how it would be in a day or two. There was absolute silence, save the sound of his laboured breathing. London was doomed. So why was he still here?
He dashed for the river. He had to find someone else alive. He was half way down when he heard the rumble of trucks and glanced behind. They were coming his way and he split to the hotel that ran all the way down the right hand side. Jackson crouched in the doorway, hands shaking. He wasn’t a scaredy-cat but there was no way anyone driving that thing was here for fun and hugs.
The first truck roared past his hiding place, all armoured plating and wheels taller than he was. He caught sight of a gas-masked figure peering out the back, then the next one came and another. The fourth truck carried a container rather than people and smoke jetted from a nozzle on top of it.
So that’s what had happened. An invasion. Some goddamn terrorists had invaded and were poisoning them. How had they got into the capital? Was the Queen dead? His fists clenched and he stared at the truck, looking for some sort of marking. Surely those Al-kyeeda bastards would want everyone to know who done it?
But the trucks were blank, painted a city-war grey and bearing blacked-out windows. He waited till they’d gone past before he straightened and stretched. He still shook and broke into a walk in the hope it might stop it. He reached the river, still following the screams, in time to see the trucks go over Waterloo bridge.
All the way down the north side of the river, bodies were scattered like flowers after a funeral.
Next Installment Thursday 28th August
