Fever (Flu) (14 page)

Her flat’s buzzer sounded.

Someone at the door.

It wasn’t the first time the buzzer had sounded. Vicky had learned to ignore these calls regardless of when they came, whether in the middle of the night or middle of the day. But this time the caller persisted, and something about the rhythm of the buzzer struck a chord with her. The timing seemed oddly familiar...

“Colin,” she muttered to herself. It was his ring.

She moved towards the buzzer. She pressed the answer button. “Hello?”

“Vicky!” came the voice, and it was Colin. “It’s me, let me up.”

She pressed the buzzer unlock immediately. She unlatched the door to her flat and entered the hallway.

She descended the hallway stairs meeting Colin as he entered the flat.

He was crying. There was a bandage on his head. “What is it?” she said. “Are you hurt?”

Colin wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.

“I’m alright,” he said. “Would murder a cup of tea, though...”

***

They sat on the edge of her Murphy bed, its wire frame and battered mattress pulled down from the back wall of the bedsit, near the built-in plywood cupboards. The sheets hadn’t been changed in weeks.

Colin’s eyes were surveying the flat as he sipped on his tea. Vicky realised it was the first time he’d visited. In fact, it was the first time
anyone
had visited.

“Been a mad week,” she said. “Haven’t been much in the mood for domestic Goddess duties, as you can see.”

Colin smiled, then placed his lips against the hot cup, flicking his fingers back and letting the tea move towards his mouth until he was sipping again.

Vicky hated to watch him drink. So robotic, so precise. So fucking camp.

She looked away.

“They—” he started, but his voice broke, his free hand clenching into a fist and pressing against his grimacing mouth. He steadied himself then looked back at her. “Aunt Bell,” he said. “She had the flu. They came and locked her in the house.”

Vicky searched his eyes for any hint of a lie or a sign that this was one of the elaborate jokes at her expense he was known for in work.

“They did
what
?!”

“They quarantined her,” he said, holding her gaze and talking in a low voice as if the room was bugged. “Came dressed in yellow protective suits and
fucking quarantined her
.”

It took Vicky a while to digest this, to understand what the word ‘quarantine’ could mean outside of some stupid sci-fi film. She’d known Aunt Bell. She’d chatted to Aunt Bell on the phone. Aunt Bell gave her tea, made small talk about the weather, the soaps, her bloody knee operation. Vicky had sent Aunt Bell a birthday card last year,
and
a Christmas card. Aunt Bell was real to her.

“Jesus Christ...”

Vicky stood up.

She felt trapped. She needed air.

She walked to the window and peered out.

The view was pitiful: a yard with overflowing bins. Cigarette butts littering the ground, leading to a pale, concrete wall with barbed wire running along its top.

“I haven’t been out since they closed the shop,” she said in a flat voice. “I was scared.”

She turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,” Colin said. “I should have called. But everything was just so...” His voice trailed off.

“It’s alright,” she said. And she meant it. There was no sarcasm in her voice.

Colin looked up. There was a determined look in his face. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “The city, I mean. Let’s hit the road, head down the M1 as far as it’ll take us.”

Vicky looked at him with disbelief in her eyes.

“I mean it,” he stressed. “Vince is outside, full of juice. Running better than ever. We’ll leave this godforsaken city and wait until the whole thing blows over. I’ve friends in the country, just outside Portadown. We’ll check in with them. They’ll be only too glad of the company.”

“And how’s that going to help?” The question seemed contrary, but it wasn’t. Sure, she wanted nothing more than to be out of this flat, but she also needed to feel safe. Vicky wanted to believe that Colin and his half-baked plan with his half-baked car (Christ, that thing was almost antique!) was the escape hatch she had been waiting for. But, when it all boiled down, Colin just wasn’t a man who inspired confidence in her. God knows, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d let her down.

And then there was the gay thing. Colin wasn’t a
real man
, a man who would fight for her, shout and wave his fists at other men when her honour was threatened. Political correctness meant nothing to Vicky now; the truth of the matter, plain and simple, was that she didn’t feel safe with Colin.

But Colin remained persistent. “Vicky,” he said, “When this thing hits, and I mean
really
hits” he stretched his hands wide apart, several bangles on his wrists jingling, “you don’t want to be in the city. In fact, the further you are from the city, the better.”

Vicky looked out the window. She could see rooftops stretching for miles. Very little greenery. The sun had dipped behind a cloud, dimming the light. A fly buzzed around the glass, trying to get out, struggling to find an opening.

“Listen to me,” Colin said. He was on his feet now. He grabbed her shoulders, looked her in the eye. “The air’s fresher in the country. Cleaner, less infected. Seriously, it’s the right thing to do. And if they do get their shit together and start treating this fucking virus properly, with drugs and stuff, well then... maybe we can come back.”

“Okay,” Vicky said.

But she didn’t move. She just stood there, like she was frozen to the spot.

“I-I just need to grab some things,” she said, finally.

It was only when Vicky disappeared to the bathroom that Colin got a proper look around her flat. It was a hovel. Several prints hung on bleached walls. A dirty brown carpet spread across the floor, coarse and hard, like sun-baked sand. Dark rot pierced the white paint of her window frames.

This was the very last place you’d expect a girl like Vicky to live, a girl whose idea of dressing down was Armani socks under Calvin Klein jeans, a girl who had once described public transport as ‘undignified’.

Colin was reminded of those celebrity shows where ’80s has-beens would be sent to live in the jungle or on a farm. And here was middle-class, designer-boutique-manager Vicky roughing it every night in a bedsit.

But that wasn’t the only thing that struck Colin.

Vicky’s OCD with tidiness was legendary in the shop. Yet the flat was a mess. Black bin bags, stuffed with clothes, gathered in a corner near the sofa, awaiting the wash or skip. A dozen or so trashy magazines littered the sofa, as if she were sleeping under them.

Colin could maybe understand if Vicky had just moved in, but she’d been here about a year.

He walked through to the kitchen, finding a sink full of dishes. An empty carton of Cup-A-Soup lay dead on the worktop.

He opened the fridge. Grimaced at the smell of stale milk and God knows what breed of fruit festering—
no, colonising
—in the pull-out tray.

He closed the fridge quickly, reached to open the cupboard above. There was tea and coffee in abundance. The odd tin of fruit. More Cup-A-Soup. Nothing else.

What the hell does she eat?

“What are you looking for?”

Colin startled.

Vicky stood in the kitchen. Her hair was brushed. She was wearing jeans and a sweater.

“Er, nothing,” he said, heat rising to his face. “Just thinking about making some tea before we get moving. Fancy a cup?”

She looked suspiciously at him.

“Not really,” she said, still sizing him up over her glasses. “Let’s just go.”

Colin looked at the small bag in her hand.

“Is that all you’re taking?”

Vicky didn’t reply, as if bored of his questions already. She made for the door.

“Okay,” Colin muttered to himself, taking the hint, “Let’s go, then.”

He followed her out into the corridor of her apartment block.

She closed the door behind them, without locking it, and descended the stairs.

”Hey,” Colin shouted after her, “Aren’t you going to lock up?”

But Vicky just turned to look at him, her eyes once more peering over the glasses. It reminded him of libraries, of banks and official scary places, of every teacher he hadn’t liked very much.

“Are you coming or not?” she said, her voice irritable.

Before long, Vicky was sitting in Vince’s passenger seat.

The car always smelled the same, regardless of how many air-fresheners Colin hung from its mirror. A smell of age, experience. A smell that said,
I’ve a few miles on the clock, you know
.
Been around a corner or two
. It was comforting, and Vicky found herself relaxing back into the seat, despite herself.

Colin started up the engine, Vince roaring to life with an angry quality that surprised her.

“Jesus,” Vicky said. “The old boy’s got wind in his sails.”

Colin smiled proudly. “Told you.”

He pulled onto the Stranmills Road, heading up towards Malone. From there it would be a quick journey to the turn-off for the M 1 motorway. But Colin didn’t go that way. Instead, he took the first left at the Stranmillis roundabout and headed towards the Ormeau Road.

“Where are you going?” Vicky asked.

“To get Sinead,” he said like she should have known. “
What?
” Vicky glared at him. “Colin, you didn’t mention anything about Sinead coming!”

“Look,” he said, raising one finger from the wheel and pointing at her, eyes still on the road, “Sinead’s one of us. She’s on her own. There’s no way I’m leaving her, and that’s that.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

Vicky should have known he would do this. Colin and Sinead were thick as thieves. Two peas in a fucking pod. Christ, Vicky even considered they might be sleeping together at one stage, right before Colin came out, surprising her and just about no one else.

Sinead lived in a shared house off the Ormeau Road, a spot known as the Holylands. The place was notorious, each street lined with tall robust houses, packed to the rafters with undergraduates, drug dealers and migrant workers. Rumour was that the area was a dumping ground for those intimidated out of other areas for bad behaviour. Either way, the Holylands was becoming less holy by the day, with increasing reports of burglaries, joyriding, rape and muggings. And that had been before the flu hit.

They moved up University Road before pulling onto Damascus Street. As Colin parked Vince by the pavement, Vicky noticed a crowd gathered just outside one of the houses.

“Jesus,” Colin said, pulling the handbrake then unclipping his seatbelt.

“What is it?”

“That’s Sinead’s house.”

Colin got out of the car, Vicky following closely behind. He prodded one of the bystanders, a lanky guy with floppy hair and a long, narrow face.

“What’s going on?” Colin asked.

“Dunno,” lanky guy mumbled.

His friend, of similar build and dress, spoke up: “It’s the flu. They’re sending an ambulance out. Think it’s that house there.” A long finger peeked out of the cuff of his cardigan, pointing towards Sinead’s house.

Colin grabbed Vicky, said: “We’ve got to get her out of there.”

Vicky laughed. “What? Are you crazy?”

Colin left her, moved quickly through the crowd. Vicky followed, reaching for his arm. “Colin, what if it’s Sinead that’s sick?”

“We’re taking her with us,” he said.

“Like hell we are!” she protested.

But Colin was in the doorway now.

“Listen to me!” Vicky called, “COLIN!”

Still he ignored her. “Sinead!” he shouted.

A few people were on the stairs. He recognised them as her flatmates.

“Where’s Sinead?” he said to one, a small mousy looking girl with round glasses.

“Upstairs,” came the reply. “In her room.”

Colin turned to Vicky, pulled her aside. They stepped into the nearby kitchen, finding privacy.

“There’s going to be a crowd of men showing up, wearing yellow plastic suits,” he said to her, “Just keep them from following me, got it?”

Vicky grabbed him. “Colin, think about this. If she’s sick—”

“Just do it!” he said, pulling away.

Vicky watched Colin go, storming up the stairs towards Sinead’s bedroom. A dark and wrong part of her wondered if he’d be so quick to act if it was
her
up there.

She turned to look out the open door, hearing the sound of sirens.

The landing was what you’d expect in a gaff like this. Mildew climbed the walls. Dusty old carpet covered the floor. It was your typical house share in Belfast. Cheap but not very cheerful.

Colin tried each door, knocking with his fist, calling out Sinead’s name.

He heard the sound of strained coughing coming from the next floor.

He took the stairs, found a single door at the end of a short corridor. He knew this was Sinead’s room. Everything about it screamed her name.

A poster, featuring a white kitten with the word ‘Miaow!’ inscribed below, was tacked to the door. A small whiteboard and pen hung above the poster with the words ‘Stacey called at 8.30’ inscribed in pink, the date from two weeks ago. Even Sinead’s smell was here, a sickly sweet perfume that always reminded Colin of the confectionary counter at the Movie House.

Another cough, this one more aggressive.

Colin knocked the door.

“Sinead?” he called quietly.

He could hear sirens outside.

“Sinead, it’s Colin,” he said, opening the door gingerly.

“Colin?” Her voice came, raspy and forced.

He pushed the door wider, finding a small box room decorated much the same way as her door. More posters of cats. Pink wallpaper. A dream catcher hung from her open window, flirting with the breeze.

Sinead was lying on the bed, a fever breaking on her forehead. Her duvet was slung to the side. Her pyjamas were soaking wet.

“Jesus, babe,” Colin said to her, his voice low and comforting. “You’re all sweaty.”

She rolled her eyes like she always did when he said something silly, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She was scared, and he knew it.