dickhead who lived in one of the houses opposite
– a proper geezer; all bullshit, attitude and swagger – he didn’t
care. I used to see him regularly walking over his neighbours’ lawns to get to
his front door or reversing onto their drives to turn his car around because he
couldn’t be bothered to drive the few metres to the turning point at the end of
the grove. Insufferable arse. Wonder where he is now? Wonder if he is...?
And
this house I’m outside now... he was another one. Objectionable dick. A proper
show-off. I remember Christine gossiping about him once. A single man with no
shortage of visitors. Apparently he’d made a fortune from a dating app for
mobile phones... some kind of personality compatibility test or something like
that, preying on the vulnerable with computer-generated bullshit and lies. He
used to annoy me. Half my age, and absolutely dripping with cash. He had one of
the biggest houses on the development and I doubt he even had a mortgage. I
know it shouldn’t have bothered me but it did because I’ve worked my arse off
and done everything the right way since leaving uni, and it pisses me off when
I hear about people hitting it lucky like that. It used to, anyway. Things have
changed. I have to start thinking about this stuff in past tense now. Like I
said, I did everything the right way and it’s paid off. What good did the luck
and all that cash do this guy? Not a lot, by the looks of things. I peer in
through his lounge window, cupping my hands to block out the light. Christ,
look at the size of that TV! It nearly fills the entire wall! But material
possessions don’t change material facts: this house is empty, devoid of all
life. There’s stuff all over the place, like he left in a hurry. Who knows
where he is now? Chances are his life won’t be as comfortable as he’s used to
anymore.
What
was that? I stop dead, sure I heard something. It sounded like a door, but when
I look around there’s nothing and no one. I tell myself to calm down, my own
heartbeat now the loudest thing I can hear.
I
keep going, moving into one of the side roads now.
Another
noise up ahead. There’s definitely someone else here.
I
remember the woman who lived in the house at the far end of the cul-de-sac just
as she appears in the shadows of her open door. At first the light’s so poor
I’m not even sure there’s anyone there, and my dirty safety goggles don’t help,
but then she trips down the step and almost falls and my throat becomes dry
with nerves. Is she as scared as I am?
It’s
hard to tell what’s happening here. Is she infected or clear? Her pale skin is
heavily discoloured, like she’s been living in squalor since all this began. I
take a few steps closer, and she does the same, stepping out of the shade and
into the light. Is she sick? Is she just scared? I try to talk but my tongue
feels too big for my mouth.
I
feel like we’re staring at each other forever, but it can only be a few
seconds. I can’t see where the dirt stops and her body begins. Her flesh is
mottled, her face hollowed out, eyes and cheeks sunken. And now I can see that
she’s hardly wearing anything, just a pair of brown-stained knickers. I clear
my throat and try to speak to her.
‘Are
you okay...? I live just around the corner. Are you on your own here or...?’
She
doesn’t talk, but her actions immediately answer all my questions.
Her
head jerks back twice, like she’s choking on something, struggling to swallow
it down. Then her chin twitches, her face in spasm, turned round so she’s
looking at me sideways. And then she starts to run, a sudden burst of frantic
speed, legs pounding, arms flapping uselessly at her sides, brown drool spewing
from her open mouth. I know she’s beyond hope and that I should run but my legs
are like lead and I can’t move. She comes at me making a godawful moaning
sound: a dry half-choke, half-scream and I know what I have to do, but I don’t
know if I can. I’ve
– a proper geezer; all bullshit, attitude and swagger – he didn’t
care. I used to see him regularly walking over his neighbours’ lawns to get to
his front door or reversing onto their drives to turn his car around because he
couldn’t be bothered to drive the few metres to the turning point at the end of
the grove. Insufferable arse. Wonder where he is now? Wonder if he is...?
And
this house I’m outside now... he was another one. Objectionable dick. A proper
show-off. I remember Christine gossiping about him once. A single man with no
shortage of visitors. Apparently he’d made a fortune from a dating app for
mobile phones... some kind of personality compatibility test or something like
that, preying on the vulnerable with computer-generated bullshit and lies. He
used to annoy me. Half my age, and absolutely dripping with cash. He had one of
the biggest houses on the development and I doubt he even had a mortgage. I
know it shouldn’t have bothered me but it did because I’ve worked my arse off
and done everything the right way since leaving uni, and it pisses me off when
I hear about people hitting it lucky like that. It used to, anyway. Things have
changed. I have to start thinking about this stuff in past tense now. Like I
said, I did everything the right way and it’s paid off. What good did the luck
and all that cash do this guy? Not a lot, by the looks of things. I peer in
through his lounge window, cupping my hands to block out the light. Christ,
look at the size of that TV! It nearly fills the entire wall! But material
possessions don’t change material facts: this house is empty, devoid of all
life. There’s stuff all over the place, like he left in a hurry. Who knows
where he is now? Chances are his life won’t be as comfortable as he’s used to
anymore.
What
was that? I stop dead, sure I heard something. It sounded like a door, but when
I look around there’s nothing and no one. I tell myself to calm down, my own
heartbeat now the loudest thing I can hear.
I
keep going, moving into one of the side roads now.
Another
noise up ahead. There’s definitely someone else here.
I
remember the woman who lived in the house at the far end of the cul-de-sac just
as she appears in the shadows of her open door. At first the light’s so poor
I’m not even sure there’s anyone there, and my dirty safety goggles don’t help,
but then she trips down the step and almost falls and my throat becomes dry
with nerves. Is she as scared as I am?
It’s
hard to tell what’s happening here. Is she infected or clear? Her pale skin is
heavily discoloured, like she’s been living in squalor since all this began. I
take a few steps closer, and she does the same, stepping out of the shade and
into the light. Is she sick? Is she just scared? I try to talk but my tongue
feels too big for my mouth.
I
feel like we’re staring at each other forever, but it can only be a few
seconds. I can’t see where the dirt stops and her body begins. Her flesh is
mottled, her face hollowed out, eyes and cheeks sunken. And now I can see that
she’s hardly wearing anything, just a pair of brown-stained knickers. I clear
my throat and try to speak to her.
‘Are
you okay...? I live just around the corner. Are you on your own here or...?’
She
doesn’t talk, but her actions immediately answer all my questions.
Her
head jerks back twice, like she’s choking on something, struggling to swallow
it down. Then her chin twitches, her face in spasm, turned round so she’s
looking at me sideways. And then she starts to run, a sudden burst of frantic
speed, legs pounding, arms flapping uselessly at her sides, brown drool spewing
from her open mouth. I know she’s beyond hope and that I should run but my legs
are like lead and I can’t move. She comes at me making a godawful moaning
sound: a dry half-choke, half-scream and I know what I have to do, but I don’t
know if I can. I’ve
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