Apocalypse Cow (11 page)

Brown waved cheerily and walked over to the intercom. The man got up and stumbled over to the window to beat his slightly chubby fists on it. His mouth worked soundlessly. Brown pressed the intercom button and suddenly a voice crackled through the speakers.

‘—ucking bastard! Let me out of here right away. You’ve no right to treat me this way. I’ll have you fired for this, you homicidal maniac …’

He continued for around thirty seconds, calling Brown every name under the sun. Brown stood in silence throughout the whole tirade. This worried Lesley even more. Someone who did not react to such severe personal abuse was most likely very dangerous. Finally the man in the other room ran out of steam and stood quietly, his gaze flicking from Brown to Lesley.

‘Hello, Gregory,’ Brown said. ‘I have to say I’m impressed. I didn’t realize scientists were capable of such marvellously colourful language. Anyway, I’d like to introduce you to somebody.’

Brown waved his hand in Lesley’s direction, and Gregory peered at her.

‘Who is she?’ he asked.

‘This is Lesley McBrien from the
Glasgow Tribune
. She is the woman who intercepted the information you intended for Colin Drummond. Ms McBrien, I would like you to meet Gregory Strong, one of our senior scientists. His hobbies include golf, country dancing and bugging meeting rooms so he can leak sensitive information to the press in an attempt to salve his feeble conscience.’

Gregory stepped back from the window and held his hands up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t leak anything.’

‘Of course not,’ Brown said. ‘That’s why my men found you trying to board a cross-Channel ferry when you should have been at work.’

‘I already told you. I was just taking a short break.’

‘Unannounced? With half of your flat in the car, including your beloved pornography collection?’

Gregory didn’t respond.

‘Well,’ Brown continued, ‘I just thought you’d like to know your attempts to expose our project failed. Using a computer to place a pre-recorded call instead of sending an email was a nice effort, I suppose, although I am a teensy bit insulted you thought our monitoring wouldn’t pick up on that. Anyway, your slight on my professionalism aside, I regret to inform you our intrepid young reporter here dropped the ball. She hasn’t even told her editor, never mind written the story.’

Gregory went from hangdog to attack dog.

‘You total bloody clown!’ he screamed, punching the glass. ‘They’re going to get away with it.’

He stopped dead and looked at Brown, who simply smiled. Gregory glanced down at his reddened knuckles.

‘Why did it take you so long?’ he asked, his voice barely audible through the tinny speaker.

Lesley shifted her feet. ‘I was going to write it, I just …’ she tailed off. She’d meant to. She was going to. Christ, she had farted about and blown the biggest story of her life, probably of anybody’s life. She was a shit journalist.

‘I knew I should have gone to the
Guardian
,’ Gregory mumbled. He rubbed his scalp again. ‘At least tell me you’ve got the virus contained.’

‘That isn’t my major concern at the moment,’ Brown said.

‘Please, you’ve got to stop the virus,’ Gregory begged. ‘If you don’t, this whole country is fucked! There won’t—’

Brown let go of the intercom button, cutting Gregory off. ‘Swearing in front of a lady is such bad form, don’t you agree? But I am glad he decided to come clean. A last confession is always good for the soul.’

‘Last confession?’ Lesley asked.

‘Open it,’ Brown called, ignoring Lesley’s question.

The panel behind Gregory slid upwards, revealing a passageway. Lesley couldn’t hear the panel move, but she was sure it was humming in a way that spoke of quiet efficiency and unpleasant tasks in need of completion. Gregory certainly heard it. His face was like a wax mask waiting for a sculptor to knead life into it. The life came when he began to silently scream entreaties at the window. His facial muscles bulged and tensed as he bawled. Lesley could tell by the way he was going scarlet he was using every ounce of breath available to try to force the message through the thick glass. Then he stopped.

He faced Lesley and spoke slowly and deliberately, exaggerating the shape of the words. ‘Pub. Lish. It. Some. How,’ he mouthed.

Then he turned to face the bull that had just staggered down the passageway.

It swayed in the hatchway, its massive shoulders almost touching both sides of the entrance. Congealed drool hung from its mouth, down to the floor. It charged immediately, the saliva trailing over its shoulder like a football scarf hung from a car. Lesley jumped as the impact of the bull mashing Gregory into the window vibrated through.

‘Don’t worry,’ Brown said reassuringly. ‘It’s very strong. Just sit back and watch the show.’

Lesley tried to turn away as Gregory was jammed against the glass. Brown grabbed her head with one hand and pushed it back towards the window. When she closed her eyes, Brown dealt her a heavy slap.

‘Watch,’ he hissed into her ringing ear. ‘Or you’ll be in there in five minutes.’

Lesley opened her eyes. The bull was covered in the same sores as the dogs, except on the larger animal they were huge saucers of suppurating flesh. Gregory’s face was wedged up against a particularly large specimen on the bull’s chest. Lumps of it slid across his cheeks. That was when Lesley realized the beast was up on its hind legs, its tongue lolling out of its mouth and painting the window with saliva as it pumped furiously against Gregory.

‘Is that bull …’

Lesley tailed off.

‘Yes,’ Brown replied. ‘Delightful, isn’t it? There is an element of poetic justice involved, since Gregory was the mucky puppy
who
suggested the virus could also be sexually transmitted. I suspect he’s rather regretting that bright idea now.’ The bull threw back its massive head and let out a silent bellow. ‘Ah, I do believe it’s finished.’

The bull backed off. Gregory fell. There was a clear patch where he had pressed up against the glass. The rest was spattered with flecks of blood. The scientist crawled back into view, trying to head for the passageway. The bull shook its head, and then pawed at the ground.

Brown pressed the intercom button again. ‘I hope you’ve got a post-coital cigarette to offer, Gregory. He’s looking a bit cranky.’

The bull charged again, this time intent on a different type of penetration. It speared Gregory in the thigh and then dragged him around the room. When Gregory fell off the horn, the bull stamped on him a few times, then began to chew at his wounds. A minute later it bellowed again, then began to alternately butt and stamp on its prone victim. At first Gregory’s fingers twitched with each impact, but as the white walls grew ever redder he fell still.

Lesley’s legs gave way. Brown let her slide to the floor. ‘I’m going to give you some time to think about what you’ve seen and what you may have to tell me.’

He left her slumped beneath the window. The room plunged into darkness, allowing the wall lights from next door to shine through and create a shadow theatre on the wall. A dark head, horns curling upwards in two sharp points, reared up and plunged down, reared up and plunged down. Lesley began to weep.

7

TV dinner

Geldof crossed over to the Alexanders’, batting at the dark grey flecks that swirled around him and piled up in little drifts on windowsills and gutters. They also streaked the cars parked in each driveway with grime, much to the irritation of Mr Brownlee across the street, who was alternating between sponging his Mercedes with soapy water and staring angrily at the column of smoke smearing the blue sky above the rooftops. The smell of cooking flesh accompanied the unseasonal precipitation, but it was not the sweet, succulent aroma of sizzling steak – a tantalizing scent that would taunt Geldof on those rare hot days when barbecues were fired up in back gardens. The stink of singed hair, crisped skin and baked faeces ensured few of his neighbours would be enjoying their Sunday roast with the usual relish.

The flecks were the charred remains of cows, sheep and pigs, wafted out from the funeral pyres disposing of thousands of animals killed in precautionary culls around the Bearsden and Milngavie area. Despite more cases of the illness
cropping
up, most of the animals being slaughtered were still uninfected. The TV and newspapers were awash with images of welly-clad farmers looking on distraught as workers in face masks piled stiff-legged cattle onto the bonfires.

Even though the smell was foul, Geldof stuck out his tongue to catch some of the flecks, like a child in the first snowfall of winter. He captured a big one and swallowed, ignoring the dry tickle as the ashy particle slipped down his throat. He glanced around furtively. Although his parents had gone off to a session given by a visiting yogi, his mother had an unnerving habit of materializing any time he even thought of doing something contrary to her vegan ways. The coast was clear. This, his first ever carnivorous act, was not as satisfying as he had imagined it would be. Yet it was still enough to leave him feeling slightly giddy.

He snagged a few more of the cowdrops as he waited for the door to open, savouring each and every one as though it were the most delicate slice of prime beef. Mary let him in, ruffling his hair and brushing his shoulders to rid them of the flakes. He stood in still, silent bliss as her hands fluttered over him, willing them to move lower. She stopped at his chest and then ushered him into the living room.

‘Fucking French wankers!’ David screamed at the television as Geldof entered.

David’s hands were clutching the armrests as though he were about to use them as leverage to propel himself into the TV screen to strangle Nicolas Sarkozy, who was in the middle of announcing a ban on British beef.

‘Typical!’ David addressed Geldof without greeting him. ‘Look at him, with his big nostrils and garlicky fingers. They eat brains, bloody hypocrites. I saw them in the supermarket
when
we were on holiday. Big, nasty yellow brains wrapped in clingfilm, sitting next to the sausages. And they’re banning our meat? Un-fucking-believable.’

‘Hello, Mr Alexander,’ Geldof said. ‘Sorry about your cousin.’

He received a grunt in return.

On the face of it, David had every right to be angry about the French, although it didn’t take much to light his fuse. The problem still appeared to be confined to the northern Glasgow area, and the government was taking steps to deal with it. It didn’t seem to be a big enough crisis to warrant an embargo on all British beef. Not that such details mattered to the French, who tended to slap on a ban if a cow in Auchtermuchty developed a slight cough. As Geldof flopped onto the sofa, he thought of the jaws that had come within inches of carving a chunk out of his bum only two days before. Perhaps if David had been through what Geldof had, he would concede the French had a point. In fact, it was surprising his cousin’s death hadn’t impressed upon David the seriousness of the situation.

There came a thump from upstairs, followed by a loud yell. The twins, who were normally out causing havoc at this time on a Sunday, had sequestered themselves indoors since being chased by the cows. Geldof had seen Malcolm the previous day, when they happened to be at their respective windows at the same time. They had exchanged conspiratorial glances, like comrades in arms. Or rather, cowards on bikes, since all three of them had fled screaming. All the same, a small hope had sparked in Geldof that their shared experience would spell an end to the bullying – at least for a while. The twins’ violent tendencies appeared to be unabated, however. It
sounded
as though they were expending their excess energy by punching lumps out of each other.

‘Shut your cakeholes, you two!’ David bawled. ‘I’m trying to watch the telly.’

He turned to Geldof and said at his normal volume, which was still only a decibel or so below foghorn, ‘That McCauley wanker’s going to give a press conference in a minute.’

‘He means Brian McCauley, the Cabinet Secretary for Rural Affairs and the Environment,’ Mary expanded without looking up from the jigsaw she had settled back down to complete.

‘Yeah, that prick.’

‘Why am I married to you?’ Mary said, just loud enough for Geldof to hear.

Marry me instead
, Geldof thought.

She glanced up at him, and for one horrible second Geldof wondered if he had spoken out loud. She just went back to her jigsaw, her expression unchanged.

The TV had cut to a gaggle of talking heads in the studio, discussing the outbreak. The panel couldn’t agree whether there was a danger that the virus could travel from animal to human, and then human to human, thus creating a global pandemic and eclipsing bird flu and swine flu, which had failed to kill very many people at all. On the subject of the French, they were in accord. The consensus was the French were arrogant tossers who wouldn’t know good beef if it bit them on the behind, something Geldof suspected could be a distinct possibility if the spread of the disease wasn’t halted. Eventually the presenter cut across the debate and announced that the live broadcast was about to begin.

The cameras panned in on McCauley standing in the middle of a manicured lawn, which rose in a long slope
to
the kind of grand house only old money could buy. McCauley was dressed in a bright yellow polo shirt, the collar turned up in an attempt to convey ‘casual’ but which instead screamed ‘prat’, and a pair of trousers so red Geldof initially thought something had gone wrong with the contrast on the television. Standing beside the minister were two little girls, dressed in matching pink dresses covered in frills and bows. They had the same weak chin and bulky forehead as McCauley, although their youth meant they carried the unfortunately proportioned features better than their father. The girls were blinking nervously and the younger one, who was maybe six or seven, kept trying to edge away, only kept in place by the fatherly hand across her shoulder. Just behind McCauley’s left shoulder sat a spitting, crackling barbecue.