I've just had one of those moments. Where everything slows right down and it really does feel like everything has. Just. Stopped. I'm standing in the middle of the road. I turn my head slowly to the right and on a white front door I can see a
painted
red
cross.
And a piece of paper. I don't know how long I stand there, but eventually I decide that I have to know and begin walking over to it. There's still utter quiet. If I listen very very carefully I can hear some small noise, but it sounds very distant. I feel very distant.
The front square of grass, too small to be called a garden, is overgrown and caressing my coat. My mouth has gone dry and I feel as though I'm forgetting to breathe. The red paint is old; it is flaking. The paper is in a plastic cover. Swallowing, I take the piece of paper out. I'm not sure why I'm so nervous, I've been through worse than this. I spent a month with a dead body in the next room. I was with her when she died. There are two pieces of paper. One is a newspaper article.
Evening Standard Friday May 26 20--
PLAGUE COMES TO LONDON?
The plague that has been ravaging Australia and Asia may have reached Britain and Europe. With terrifying speed the plague has raced through Asia and yesterday reached Germany and France. This morning, three possible cases were reported in a London hospital. Two women and one man, all in their forties, were admitted ton a West London Hospital with similar symptoms. None had been abroad recently. No other details have been released. LATEST NEWS: PAGE 8
The second piece of paper says:
Oh, Jesus. that poor kid. Knowing that your mother was one of the first cases in the country. I want to talk to that girl, I want to know what she's like. I want to know she's okay. It took a lot to write that note. It took a lot to stay alive after that. But she's gone now, and I've no way of finding her.
I put the paper back, and turn to go. Then I stop. There is a way I could find her, if she's in London. I hate doing this, but it's the only way. I try the door, expecting resistance, but it slides open. As I walk in, I can see why. It's been broken into before. Breathing in, I step inside.
Surprisingly, giant spiders, bats, corpses or anything else from my nightmares don't immediately assail me. The house is just plain and normal from what I can see. I walk in through the hall; trying to fight the urge to say 'hello?' and looking for any kind of clue to this girl. In the lounge, there's a big TV, with digital box. It's a bit dusty, but otherwise it looks in working order. I ignore it, but it beckons me over. There won't be anything on it. There can't be. Not this long afterwards. Not now. There shouldn't even be any electricity.
So that was it. Simple, really. He'd lied, and it would take a long time before I even came near to forgiveness, but for once the world didn't seem so lonely.
One of those women was my mother.
age 14 June 12 20--
The day I left this place for something new
My hand hovers over the plug for about five minutes before I decide I am NOT living in a horror film and shy away from the machine. CDs line the wall nearest me; someone had classical music tastes. The three-piece suite was also new before the plague. It looks like the family moved in just before the plague hit, which makes me a little sadder for this girl. Not finding what I want, I decide to try upstairs.
Going up the stairs, there are art paintings. Nothing flashy - probably bought in Spain, Cityscape pictures with smiling face, roadside cafes and people who are now long dead. They were probably meant to add a bit of colour to the house. At the top of the stairs there are four doors. Presuming she was an only child, that's a bathroom, 2 bedrooms and one spare room. I try the one closest to me first.
It's the bathroom. Pale blue with a white bathmat and various accessories. Totally nondescript. Which is somewhat of a relief. I've got a bad feeling about this house, and I want to find what I need and go. I'm probably just being superstitious.
The next one I try looks like the spare room. The bed is hidden behind boxes. I move to close the door and move on when I notice feet. One of two problems presents itself: I'm in a room with a dead body, or I've disturbed someone. I take a step back, and - of course - make a floorboard creak. Almost quicker than I can react, someone very, very tall stands up and fires a gun at me. Having nothing else to do, I hurl myself into the bathroom. After I've locked the door, I sink to the floor and check that he didn't hit me.
"You can't stay in there forever. Well, actually you can. When you die of starvation I'll leave you and you'll be here forever and ever and ever. Unless you want to talk."
"About what?" I try not to sound scared. And I fail miserably.
"Why you're here. That'll do for a start."
"I was looking for a picture."
"Of what?"
"The girl who lived here. I wanted to try and find her and talk to her."
"What?"
"The note. On the door. The girl. Her mother was the first to die." Amazingly he laughed.
"That's why you're here? Well then, it seems this is my fault."
"Your fault? Why?"
"She doesn't exist. At least not here. I made her up to keep people away, not to attract people like you."
"But she was from around here..."
"She might well have been, love, but not this house. I made it up. I don't know whose mother it was or where they lived." By now I can't help it and I'm crying. I don't care if he thinks I'm stupid, but he made it up. Someone had to go through that, and he's used it as a Keep Out sign. On the other side of the door, he sighs.
"Look, I'm sorry, love. I only wanted some peace and quiet. I didn't want to hurt anyone."
"So you tried to shoot me."
"You broke into my house!"
"You put up a note saying it was empty!"
"Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Now come out of the bathroom, there's a good girl."
"Why? How can I be sure you're not just going to kill me?"
"Because I'm not, alright? Are you always this difficult?"
"Oh, right, so I'm being the difficult one, because I want to avoid being shot? The only reason I'm coming out is so I can get out of here and away from you." I open the door and look out. He shows me the gun, and throws it away. It's a bit of a pantomime, but I know he's only doing it to make me feel better. Maybe he's not so bad. And he is quite cute. Looks...wrong though. Like he doesn't fit in here. I'm not sure why. He sticks out his hand.
"John Constantine." I laugh, out of shock. I haven't heard anyone use a surname for over three years.
"You really are a hermit, aren't you?' He looks confused. 'No-one uses surnames anymore. Most people have forgotten theirs."
"You going to tell me yours then?"
"I haven't told anyone my name in four years. What makes you think I'd start with the man who tried to shoot me?" He shrugs.
"A trade. Like for like. You know my name... I know yours."
"Jenny Sparks."
"That's not your real name!"
"Oh, and John Constantine's yours? How stupid do you think I am?"
"Didn't think you'd have heard of it. Look too young."
"Thank you, John."
"No problem, Jenny."
There was someone who knew how I felt seeing the people around me, knew exactly why I was on the outside and always would be. So...I have a friend.
Not just an acquaintance, but a friend. Rob doesn't count; I've barely had a conversation with him outside work, and Leah's even more closed than I am.
Always be cheerful, but never let anyone get close to what's inside. And he actually seemed genuinely interested in what I did.
"And people read this stuff?"
"Why shouldn't they?"
"No reason at all, I just thought that reading had gone the way of surnames. These...they're really good."
"Thanks."
"Did you want to do this before the plague?"
"I ask the questions, remember?"
"Oh, come on. I only want to know if you wanted to write before." I sigh. I don't like giving away personal details.
"Kind of. I wanted to write, but not exactly like this. But then, it was never meant to be like this."
"What was?"
"The world...life in general. This plague was never meant to happen. It was always a threat, biological warfare, but I never thought it'd actually happen. Did You?"
"Yep. I was always a pessimist. Sometimes I wish I hadn't been proved right."
"Only sometimes?"
"Well, until you came along, I had my peace and quiet. That's all I ever wanted. In a way, I was welcoming the plague. To me, at least. I wanted to die, I wanted it to be over, I wanted to sleep. So I've been here alone for four years and it's been good. It'd been quiet."
"Is this a hint?"
"Eh? No, I'd have shot you if I wanted you to leave." Ah. So maybe I don't trust him yet. He isn't joking.
"So what now?"
"How do you mean?"
"My story's not here. I'm going to go, I fancied a trip to Kew. And seeing as you're a hermit, this is goodbye."
"What if I don't want it to be goodbye?"
"Then you'll have to come with me. I'm certainly not staying here. I think this story'd get boring pretty quickly."
"Then I have no choice."
"Well, no. You can stay here and continue being a hermit, or you can come with me and we can explore Kew Gardens."
"You're quite an old romantic aren't you?' I look confused 'Explore Kew? It'll all be mush and broken glass now."
"You never know. There might be something you're not expecting."
"Alright, alright. You've convinced me. Let me get some stuff." He gets up to go upstairs, collecting whatever possessions he has. I look around. This house
looks so damn normal, it's tempting to stay here and pretend the last four years never happened. But I can't do that. I have work to do, and a city to write
about.