Empty World, Page 3

  “Terrible,” Grandpa repeated.

  “Well, yes. But probably no more so than dying of cold because you can’t afford to switch an electric fire on in the winter. Or being beaten to death by thugs for the fifty pence in your purse.”

  He downed the second drink, and reached for his bag.

  “Well, I’d better be hitting the reassurance trail again.” He nodded amiably to Neil. “At any rate, you’re in a safe age-group.”

  Neil said: “There have been some cases of younger people getting it, haven’t there?”

  “Freaks,” the doctor said. “And well out of your range, even so. The youngest was thirty-seven. That’s ancient, wouldn’t you say?”

  The dam burst two days later with an official admission of the presence of the Plague in Britain. It had also crossed the Atlantic, and was in both North and South America; and despite continuing denials it was believed to have been active for some time behind the Iron Curtain.

  The official line now resembled the one the doctor had suggested. The worse the epidemic got, the sooner it would run its course. Meanwhile all pos­sible measures were being taken to control the situa­tion; and the cooperation of the public was sought in helping to get the country through the dark and difficult days ahead. In particular it was urged that older people should only leave their homes when the journey was absolutely necessary. This would give them the best protection personally, and also minimize the risk of spreading the epidemic.

  It was not easy to gauge exactly what was going on after that. Official news was scanty, and not only about the position in England: what was happening elsewhere in the world was played down, too. The rumours multiplied, of course. There were stories of lime pits being dug in the London parks, of people fleeing from the unbearable stench of decay in districts where the disposal of bodies had completely broken down. It was said that the Prime Minister was dead, and most of the Cabinet. Certainly he did not appear on television again.

  Then suddenly the plague was in Rye, and two days later in Winchelsea. That was the day Mr. Dunhill stayed away from school. He was back two days later, and looked no different.

  But through the days that followed the class watched him. It was impossible not to, Neil found—impossible not to speculate that he was marked for death, and wonder how soon the end would come. The faces looked at Mr. Dunhill and Mr. Dunhill looked back at the faces, and talked about Biology. One morning he set an examination, and was scathing about the results. They would need to do a lot better, he said, in the end-of-term examination. But would he be there to set it—did he himself believe he would?

  On Monday morning his appearance was shocking. He looked ten years older at least, and they saw his hands tremble when he went to write on the blackboard. The writing was scrawled and wavering.

  During class the Headmaster came in and spoke to him. Their voices were low, but it was obvious that the Headmaster was urging something, Mr. Dunhill refusing. It was easy to guess what: that he should do as another master had already done—go home and die in peace, free from watching eyes. But in the end the Headmaster retired, defeated, and Mr. Dunhill turned back to face the class.

  “Radcliffe, I trust you have used that unexpected break to some advantage.” His voice was thinner, but steady. “Perhaps you would be good enough to try again, on that question concerning the structure of the rabbit’s eye.”

  It lasted another two days, during which he continually deteriorated. His skin wrinkled, his voice became more reed-like, his movements tottery and uncertain. In the final lesson the effort to write on the blackboard was too much for him. It was then, sinking into his chair, that he spoke about himself.

  “You will, I am sure, have been noting the changes in my appearance—more closely and more accurately, most likely, than I have done by studying my reflection in the looking glass. I wonder if you have pondered an interesting anomaly—that while my skin is wrinkled my hair has not noticeably changed in colour. The emphasis, of course, is on ‘noticeably.’ The hair roots are quite white. The reason the hair proper, while thinner, is still no more than tinged with grey, is simply that human hair grows at a slower rate than that of the cellular ­deterioration caused by the Calcutta virus.”

  He paused, as though speech were becoming weari­some. He made his old gesture of rubbing his palms together, but feebly. He went on:

  “It seems that you may shortly be living in a world in which the old have ceased to exist. The middle-­aged, too, perhaps, because the number of cases in the thirty plus group seems to be increasing.”

  He paused again. “This may appear, minor personal considerations on one side, to offer the prospect of a glorious freedom from the tyranny of the older generations. Perhaps it will. On the other hand, it may prove less glorious than you imagine. At any rate, I hope you put your freedom to good use.”

  Mr. Dunhill stood up. “And now, being rather tired, I propose bringing this lesson to a premature end. I shall not be with you tomorrow, but I imagine the loss of tuition in Biology may be one of the smallest of the problems ahead of you. I bid you all goodbye.”

  Someone mumbled something in reply. The rest of the class watched in silence as he shuffled to the door and, without a backward look, closed it behind him.

  3

  SCHOOL CLOSED AT THE END of that week; temporarily, it was said, but there was no suggestion as to when it might be reopened. Things in general were becoming chaotic. There were unexpected power cuts, some lasting for hours, shortages of certain foods and other goods, a growing emptiness of the streets as fewer people ventured out on any but essential business. The green expanse of the Salts, below the town, gradually turned brown as the bulldozers—one of the few remaining indications of activity—scored trenches for the mass graves.

  The bus failed to appear on the final day of school, and Neil had to walk the two and a half miles across the Marsh to Winchelsea. As he climbed the steep hill to the town gate a car was travelling erratically down. At one point it was heading straight for him. He found it fairly easy to get out of the way—then watched it crash into the fence, ten yards below, and hang there, suspended over the drop.

  He went back to look more closely. It had one occupant, the driver, a desiccated ancient he barely recognized as Mr. Behrens, a middle-aged friend of his grandparents. There were no signs of injury, but he was dead.

  Since there was nothing he could do, Neil resumed his climb. Winchelsea always had an empty look compared with most places, but the emptiness this afternoon was almost tangible. The day was warm and grey, and one or two large spots of rain splashed as he went along the High Street. The few shops were closed. There was no sound except a lazy twitter of birds. As he passed an open window he caught from within the sickly sweet smell of corruption. A week ago he would not have known it; now he recognized it instantly.

  He let himself into the house and called to announce his arrival. His grandfather came into the hall from the sitting room. He had had the fever a week before, and was plainly dying. Neil had thought of asking if there were anything he should do about Mr. Behrens, but could not. The body would be found soon enough, and put in the truck that went daily to Rye with the small town’s quota of corpses.

  Grandpa went through to the kitchen, and Neil followed.

  “Your grandmother’s not too well.” He gestured helplessly at a pile of new potatoes, partly scrubbed. “I was going to make supper for you, but . . .”

  “That’s all right,” Neil said. “Don’t worry. I don’t feel hungry.”

  “You must eat.” His voice was feebly emphatic. “Keep your strength up.”

  “I’ll do something. Can I get something for you, Grandpa? Or Grandma?”

  “No, but. . . . Look after her, will you? It won’t be long. I didn’t call Dr Ruston: no point. We know what it is this time.”

  He put a hand unsteadily to the corner of the kitchen table, a
nd sat on one of the stools. Looking up at Neil, he said:

  “No complaint, really, for either of us. We’ve had a long time, and it will be close together. Your grandmother would be lost on her own. But I worry about you.”

  There seemed no point in denials. Neil said:

  “Don’t worry. I’m all right.”

  “You’re more alone than most . . . after what’s happened. But at least things are in order. Penstable in Rye has the details—wills and all that.”

  Penstable was his grandfather’s solicitor. Neil did not speak. His grandfather said:

  “I suppose Penstable will go, too, if he hasn’t already. But one of the juniors will sort it out. It’s fairly simple—everything goes to you.”

  He paused. “You’ll be quite well off. It’s controlled till you’re twenty, but I’ve left instructions to them not to be unreasonable.” He paused again, breathing heavily. “The main thing is that you’ll have enough for a good education—university’s an expensive business nowadays. I hope you’ll go into a decent profession. You’ll want something more than money.”

  Neil had been listening with numb acquiescence, but said now:

  “Stop it!”

  He was angry with something or someone, but did not know what or whom. His grandfather said:

  “I’m sorry, Neil. It’s hard for you.”

  He took the old man gently by the arm; anger had given way to numbness again. He said:

  “Come through to the sitting room, and I’ll make us a pot of tea. Tinned milk, I’m afraid.”

  His grandfather let himself be led and settled into his armchair. The television set came on, signalling the end of another power cut; but the screen stayed blank until Neil switched it off. He wondered if that was temporary, too, or if tele­vision had closed down for the duration of the crisis. Not that it mattered.

  • • •

  The following morning his grandfather was dead. Neil knew what would happen if he contacted the emergency burial service: the truck would come round and a couple of men would haul out the sheeted body and put it with the others for consignment to Rye. He could not bear the thought.

  He told his grandmother what he proposed, and she turned from looking at the dead face to nod her head. There was a herbaceous border where the digging was fairly easy, and it was close to the back door. There had been rain in the night and the morning was raw and damp, but he found himself sweating as he dug. His grandmother came out of the house and stood close by. She said:

  “I’d help, if I could.”

  Neil paused, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  “Go inside, and rest.”

  She looked down at the trench.

  “You’ll make it deep enough?”

  Deep enough for two, she meant. He said again, but more gently:

  “Go inside, Grandma. I’ll call you.”

  When it was done she insisted on helping him to carry out the body and lay it in the grave. She picked up a clod of earth, crumbled it, and threw it on the sheet. She said: “Goodbye, Ted,” then turned away and went back into the house. Neil stayed and covered the body with earth.

  • • •

  Neil buried his grandmother a week later. During that time he did not go out except to get food for them both. There were difficulties about that: one of the shops had reopened, but had scarcely anything on its shelves. He walked out across the fields and found a farmhouse. It seemed to have been deserted: there was no sign of human life and no-one came when he knocked. After he had done that several times without answer, he tried the door. It was only on the latch, and he pushed it open.

  A smell of death contended with older smells of polish and leather and cooking, but he saw no bodies downstairs and did not venture higher. In the kitchen there was spoiled food, but beyond there was a larder which yielded cheese and potatoes and a large bowl of eggs which, when he tried them in water, showed their relative freshness by sinking.

  He made up a bundle of what he wanted and left three pound notes on the kitchen table, weighted down by a potato. He doubted if there would be anyone to collect them, but it seemed the proper thing to do. He had, anyway, more money than he knew what to do with: his grandfather had drawn several hundred pounds out of the bank a few days before his death.

  Going out, he was confronted in the yard by a cow. It mooed hoarsely and sounded distressed, he thought. Its udders were heavily swollen. Neil studied the beast for a moment, then went back into the kitchen. The bucket he had noticed standing upside down on a table looked clean, but he washed it out anyway.

  The cow was still there. It lowered its head as he advanced on it, which he found a bit unnerving, but did not move. He spoke to it reassuringly in a low voice, calling it Daisy, and positioned the bucket underneath. The cow mooed again when he put his hands to her udders, and shifted her feet. He thought she was about to make off and had mixed feelings: there was a good supply of tinned milk at home. But she stayed where she was, and his awkward pulling motions, copied from someone he had seen on a TV feature, produced thin uneven squirts of milk which splashed noisily into the bucket, or sometimes missed it and hit the ground.

  The operation would have been a lot easier with a milking stool, but it didn’t seem worth while going to look for one. They probably didn’t exist, now that cows were milked by machine. He had to kneel, with his face against the animal’s warm heaving side, shifting position when he got cramped.

  With the bucket three quarters full, he had had enough. The udders still looked gorged, but presumably she felt a little happier. He wondered how many other cows were wandering around in distress; probably thousands, throughout the county. He gave Daisy a farewell slap on the rump and picked up the bucket as she moved away. Milk, he remembered, was supposed to be pasteurized. He decided he was not going to be worried about that.

  On the way back he encountered sheep loose in the road, having made or found a gap in the fence which normally penned them in. Since there was no traffic, it did not matter. But climbing the hill into the town he met someone coming down on foot. A cracked voice greeted him by name, but it took him a moment or two to recognize Jack, the garage hand who serviced his grandfather’s car. This was an old old man, ready to drop: Jack was in his middle twenties.

  Neil mumbled some kind of answer. What was there to say? He had become accustomed to the terrible alteration produced by the Plague, and learned to view it with no more than a shiver of revulsion. But this time the shiver was deeper, and had fear in it. Jack was the youngest victim he had seen—by ten years at least.

  • • •

  The weather, which had been unsettled, stabilized into high pressure and a cloudless sky. The day after Neil’s grandmother died the sun beat harshly down against the white walls of the houses, and by the middle of the afternoon it was very hot. The smell of death grew stronger. The corpse-lorry had been full the previous day; today it did not appear.

  Evening brought a lessening of the heat, but it was still warm. There had been no electricity for twenty four hours, and he guessed it would be a long time before it came back. He switched on the battery radio, and searched the air waves. There were few stations broadcasting: a couple in French, one in German, one in what was probably Dutch. Eventually he found the BBC, and a voice monotonously reciting emergency regulations and instructions. They related chiefly to life in the cities, and it was possible to read a fairly horrific picture into them. Much was made of the country being under martial law, and there were repeated warnings that troops had orders to shoot looters on sight.

  Neil switched off. It was discouraging, told him nothing useful, and was a waste of precious batteries. He made himself a supper, of tinned ham and baked beans; then sat staring out of the window as the dusk deepened. Someone on the other side of the road had lit candles, but that was the only light showing. He had candles of his own, b
ut thought he would save them like the radio batteries. In the distance a dog howled for a time. After that there was a period of silence, before the din started.

  It began as a distant whine, which rapidly became identifiable as the oncoming roar of motorbike engines. They were coming from the Hastings direction, and not taking the bypass road but heading into the town. The noise swelled and faded, changing note, and he guessed they were going through towards Rye. But the roar flared up again, sank and rose and went on in that pattern.

  They were clearly racing round and round the churchyard square. Curiosity took Neil out of doors and along the dark street to look. Headlights flashed in front of him, and he ducked out of sight into a doorway.

  There were half a dozen, the riders leather-­jacketed and wearing white helmets painted with a black device—a skull possibly. They went on roaring round the square, the reverberation of their engines hammering the night air. No-one came out from the surrounding houses, or if they did they too were keeping under cover.

  After a dozen or so circuits they turned into Hiham Gardens and the engines stopped. He heard shouts and a crash of glass, and realized they were raiding the pub. It had been closed for some days, but there would be liquor there.

  Neil stayed where he was; he had an uneasy feeling about going back to the house while they were still in the town. It was about half an hour before the engines started up, once more heading for the High Street. Again they made the circuit of the churchyard. They swept past his doorway and he heard them shouting above the blast of the engines, but could not make the words out. They were driving one-handed with bottles in their free hands.

  They made two complete circuits. On the third, first the leader and then the others in turn rose in the saddle and hurled the bottles to crash high against the wall of the church. That was the end; they passed him again but turned left instead of right, and the racket retreated southwards.