9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (4 page)

A light shower started when she left the bistro. It didn’t daunt her. She turned west,
towards Beverly Hills. She looked forward to leaving her mark there.

* * * * *

The air in Central Park was cold and crisp. Milandra’s breath billowed from her mouth
as she walked. She breathed easily, in spite of her bulk and the frosty air. She didn’t
intend going far, but she felt the need to take in the winter air and feel the sun,
however weak, on her head before the Deputies arrived. She didn’t think they would
allow her to leave the apartment for the next few weeks.

She strolled south in that peculiar rolling gait, like a ship in a heavy swell, past
Strawberry Fields, and chose a bench within sight of the park entrance where the horse
and carts were plying their trade to the never-ending streams of tourists. Tourists
that would likely be leaving within a day or two or three, returning to their homes
all over the world.

It was mid morning and the park was, as always, busy. Only heavy, drenching rain or
extreme sub-zero temperatures seemed to discourage visitors to the park and even then
the occasional hardy soul could be seen braving the conditions. Central Park had that
magnetic effect, drawing visitors and natives alike.

A group of Japanese tourists walked past her bench, cameras at the ready. Milandra
looked away, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye and be asked to take a group photograph.
Ordinarily, she would have been happy to oblige, but not today, despite it being the
last chance she would have to interact with ordinary people. Or perhaps because of
it.

She could not shake the vague feeling of disquiet that had settled into her ancient
bones since she had pressed the send button on her computer. It was not a feeling
to which she was accustomed nor that she could afford. She bore a great responsibility
on her shoulders and needed to remain steadfast for the sake of her remaining people.
That responsibility would be relieved, perhaps even removed—she could only hope—when
the others arrived, but that would not be for another five or six months. Until then,
it was hers, and hers alone, to bear.

So she cast her gaze upwards at the pale, almost colourless, sky or at the bare trees
or towards the Plaza Hotel and Fifth Avenue. Anywhere other than at the passing people.

The man approached from the north, from the direction of her apartment. She sensed
him coming long before she could see him. She looked in that direction, waiting for
him to come into sight. He could, she knew, sense her presence, too. When he came
into view, walking briskly, arms swinging by his sides, he was scanning the path ahead,
looking for her. He found her and their gazes locked. Neither made any sign of acknowledgement.

Milandra watched him approach, wondering whether he would walk on by. As he drew nearer,
she could see that he had a small knapsack on his back.

The man slowed, as though debating whether to stop. Then he walked up to her and stopped
before her. He did not sit.

“Milandra?”

“Yes,” she replied.

She did not require his permission, not in her position, but she sought it anyway.
She probed gently, merely nudging the surface.

The man nodded and she probed a little deeper, just far enough to see it. There! A
small worm of doubt, mirroring her own that she was trying so hard to quell.

Milandra withdrew and smiled up at him, a smile that hinted at shared grief.

“Be strong,” she said. “We have to be strong.”

The man nodded again.

“I’ve come from Harlem,” he said. His tone was expressionless. “Going to work my way
down through Midtown, then West Village and Greenwich. Battery Park by evening and
on to Staten Island.”

Milandra didn’t need to hear this—she knew without being told—but she let him continue.

“Tomorrow Brooklyn and Queens,” he said. “Then a Greyhound to Albany.”

She glanced down at his ungloved hands. His right hand glistened faintly in the weak
sunlight, the only hint of its powdery coating.

The man followed her gaze and held up his right hand self-consciously. His smile was
almost embarrassed, sheepish.

“The hand of God?” he muttered. He dropped his arm back to his side.

“Well,” he said. “I guess I’d best be on my way.”

“Yes,” said Milandra. “Me too. I’ve dallied here long enough. Good luck. We’ll meet
again soon. At the airport.”

“Yes,” said the man. “Till then.”

He turned away and began to stride purposefully toward the park exit. Milandra watched
him until he crossed the road and was lost to sight down Seventh Avenue, heading for
Times Square.

She turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes for a few moments. Then she
stood and walked back to her apartment.

Chapter Four

I
t had gone four o’clock by the time Troy Bishop returned to his apartment, foot-sore
but exultant. The first hint of dawn was streaking the sky as he let himself in, closing
and locking the door behind him.

He extracted the polythene bag from the pocket of his shorts. Almost a third of the
powder remained, which pleased him. The way it gleamed faintly in the moonlight when
he rubbed it onto things had caused him to christen the powder ‘Moondust’. He had
already covered a large part of the city, jogging and pausing to touch things and
jogging again, and would probably only use half of what remained in the bag in finishing
Sydney off. That would leave him with a plentiful supply for the airport and the capital,
Canberra, then every coastal settlement between Sydney and Melbourne.

By the time he reached Melbourne, half the population of Sydney would likely already
be dead and the other half dying.

Bishop threw back his head and laughed long and hard. Tears of mirth squeezed helplessly
from his eyes and rolled down his chiselled cheekbones. The fit of laughter became
so prolonged that he had to sit on the bed until at last it passed, leaving him with
an aching stomach and a general feeling of weakness that he didn’t like one bit and
that drove away the last vestiges of humour.

He needed to be in the sun.

He began casting around the apartment, deciding what he would need on his journey,
though he preferred to think of it more as a crusade. A giggle rose unbidden in his
throat and he quickly banished it.

A few changes of clothes went into a suitcase—he may have limited opportunity to buy
more as he travelled. He paused at his dressing table, eyeing his collection of gold
jewellery. Monetary value would soon become meaningless, but he liked the weight of
the bracelet on his wrist and the pendant around his neck. Shrugging, he put them
on. Gathering the rings and watches (by Cartier, Rolex and Hublot) and chains, all
gold, all satisfyingly heavy, he chucked them into the case on top of the clothes.

Into another case he packed bottles of water and foodstuff, mainly tinned and dried.
The suitcases were small—his car was built for speed, not storage—but they held sufficient
for his needs.

Finally, he retrieved a small holdall from the top shelf of his walk-in wardrobe.
Into this went a couple more bottles of water, a few thousand dollars in cash and
the silvery metallic canister. From the drawer of his bedside table, he removed a
black automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. The handle of the pistol was smooth
and gleamed as though well-handled. The pistol and box of cartridges went into the
bag, too, alongside the canister. The polythene bag went back into the pocket of his
shorts.

He attached the shoulder strap to the holdall and hoisted it over his right shoulder.
At the door, he looked back at his apartment. He liked this apartment; loved this
city, despite its people. He had every intention of one day returning. Even if he
couldn’t, he did not want anybody else intruding on his space.

He unlocked the door, thrust it wide and moved the suitcases into the corridor. He
locked the door, listening to the satisfying clunk of the deadlocks engaging.

Hefting a suitcase in each hand, he headed for the basement car park.

* * * * *

The telephone began to ring as Tom let himself into his house. He knew who it was;
she was the only person who ever rang on the landline and the only reason he bothered
to keep a handset plugged into it. He dropped his bag in the hallway and hurried through
to the living room to answer it.

“Hi, Mam,” he said.

“Tom? Tom? Is that you?”

“Who else calls you ‘Mam’?”

“Well, no-one. You’re an only child.”

Tom tried manfully to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Exactly.”

“I’m ringing to see if you’re still coming to tea.”

“Yes, Mam. I told you last night I’m coming.”

“Oh, good. I’m making your favourite. Sausages and mash with baked beans.”

“Mmm,” said Tom. He felt it impolitic to mention that this had been his favourite
meal twenty years ago and his tastes had grown a little more sophisticated. “Look,
I’ve just got in from work. I’ll have a quick change and then I’ll be on my way. Be
with you within the hour, all right? By six at the latest.”

“All right, love. Drive carefully.”

“Yes, Mam.”

Tom replaced the handset and sighed. He felt like collapsing in front of the television
with a takeaway and bottle of wine, and that in turn made him feel guilty.

Years of working underground in the coal mines had eventually caught up with his father
six months ago. His mother had still not grown used to not having her husband around—she
had relied on him for virtually everything from taking care of their finances to gardening
and jobs around the house. Tom had helped her as much as he could: showing her how
to reconcile her monthly bank statements, mowing her lawns, arranging to pay her bills
by direct debits so she wouldn’t have to remember to pay them. It never seemed to
be enough and he sometimes resented the unspoken demands she made of him. And he then
hated himself for feeling that resentment.

Tom removed his coat and went upstairs to change. Ten minutes later, he was back in
his car heading towards Swansea.

His mother lived in a terraced property on the outskirts of the city. As usual, Tom
had to hunt for a parking space and ended up leaving his car almost half a mile away.
It was just turning six when he reached his mother’s front door. He had a key and
could have let himself in, but part of him refused to acknowledge that he and his
mother were that trusting of each other. He knocked.

She answered the door in her apron, wiping her hands in a teatowel.

“Tom! There you are,” she said. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Tom stepped forward and kissed her cheek, bending a little. Every time he saw her,
she seemed to have shrunk a bit more, somehow diminishing before his eyes. But some
things never changed: she still smelled of apples and lavender and wintergreen, though
overlaid by the aroma of fried food.

“I
told
you I was coming,” he said. “Traffic was heavy and trouble parking as usual.”

He followed her through to the kitchen, leaving his coat on the end of the banister.
She wouldn’t let him help prepare the meal—there were some things she would never
accept help with—and so he sat and watched her, drinking a cup of tea, only half listening
to her chatter about the neighbours.

After they had eaten, Tom insisted on doing the dishes while his mother wiped and
put them away. Then they retired to her living room, fresh cups of tea in hand. The
scent of pine resin—his mother always insisted on a real Christmas tree—reminded him
strongly of childhood Christmases.

“Mam,” Tom started after they had settled in. “Have you thought any more about what
we discussed?”

“What’s that, love?”

“You know. Selling this place and either moving closer to me or. . . .”

“Oh, Tom, you’re not going to go on about putting me in a home again, are you?”

Tom started, almost spilling his tea. “Mam, I wasn’t talking about a home!” He took
a deep breath. “You don’t need to go into a nursing home. You’re not ill. I was talking
about sheltered accommodation. You’ll be sixty in February. That’s old enough to go
into sheltered . . . I’ve looked into it. You’ll have company. Other people to talk
to. And there’s a warden in case you need help with anything.”

“But you help me, Tom.” Her voice had grown smaller and Tom had to fight to keep his
voice level.

“I know, but I live twenty miles away and I work. If you fell or something . . . Oh,
Mam, don’t get upset.”

She had taken a handkerchief from the sleeve of her jumper and dabbed at her eyes
with it. Tom placed his cup and saucer on the occasional table next to his armchair
and sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees.

“Look, Mam, why don’t you at least arrange to see the council? Find out a bit more
about it before making up your mind. I’ll come with you, if you like. It’ll have to
be in the Christmas holidays, though.”

Without lifting her head to look at him, she nodded. “Whatever you say.”

“Right. Okay. That’s what we’ll do then. I’ll ring the council on Monday during my
lunch break and arrange an appointment.”

As Tom drove home later, it was with a heavy heart.

* * * * *

Across the world, almost five thousand people with silvery canisters left faint, barely-visible,
powdery hand-prints and finger-prints on handrails, door handles, pedestrian crossing
buttons, hand-dryer switches in restaurant and bar restrooms, sugar cubes in bowls,
cruet sets on tables, napkins in holders, park benches, telephone handsets, books
in libraries, knick-knacks in shops, taxi and train and tram seats and hand straps,
cans and packets on supermarket shelves, trolley handles, electronic key pads, parking
meter dials . . . the list could go on.

In churches in Italy and Spain and Greece and in countries across Latin America, powdery
residue appeared on the feet of statues of saints and madonnas and Christ on the Cross,
feet that would be kissed by the faithful.

Hand-prints of the famous in Hollywood (courtesy of one Diane Heidler) and Leicester
Square in London bore faint dusty traces.

In Ireland, a woman braved the stomach-churning drop of Blarney Castle, thickly coating
her lips with powder as the guide’s attention was elsewhere, before being helped upside
down through the gap where she planted a full kiss on the Stone.

Across the world, unsuspecting people collected unnoticed particles of powder—Moondust
as Troy Bishop now called it—on their fingers, palms, wrists, clothes, hair. In most
cases, sooner or later, those particles would find their way into the person through
their mouth or nose. There, in the moist warmth of throats and nasal passages, the
particles activated.

And so it began.

* * * * *

In Sydney, in the same apartment block from which Troy Bishop had departed almost
six hours earlier, Nicky Moran awoke on Saturday morning with a muzzy head and sore
throat. He had slept solidly for nine hours, but didn’t feel any the better for it.

The previous day he had worked a fourteen-hour shift as a sous chef in the upmarket,
waterfront restaurant, a stone’s throw from the opera house, where he had been employed
for the past two years. Fourteen hours on his feet. It would be worth it if he was
promoted to Head Chef when that lazy, grumpy bastard Maitland decided to retire. Or
was given the push. If Nicky owned the restaurant, Maitland would have received his
marching orders months ago.

Nicky wasn’t working the lunchtime shift today so, after a visit to the bathroom to
empty his bladder and slurp some water to ease his raspy throat, he went back to bed.
Before drifting back to sleep, he replayed the incident that had occurred when he’d
returned to the apartment building last night. He had only the fuzziest recollection
of standing in front of the lift, wanting only to get to his apartment and fall into
bed, but having his way barred by that cobber from upstairs. The one who occupied
the penthouse and dripped gold whenever Nicky saw him, yet never seemed to go out
to work. The one who usually didn’t so much as glance at Nicky if they encountered
each other in the lobby.

Strangely, Nicky seemed to recall that the man had greeted him like an old friend
and had asked him to smell something. Something sweet. Something that was on his finger.
Very strange. . . .

When Nicky awoke again, it was late afternoon and he had developed a tickling cough.

By the time he finished his shift in the restaurant that night, the cough had become
a nagging, rasping bark and Nicky had unwittingly infected four waiters, two diners
and three fellow chefs, including Head Chef Maitland. So Nicky’s wish for Maitland
to cease to be Head Chef would come true much quicker than he had thought. Sadly,
Nicky would not himself be around long enough to derive any satisfaction from the
grumpy bastard’s demise.

Nicky Moran was the first person in the world to become infected by what would soon
become known as the Millennium Bug, so christened by some wag on a current affairs
programme during the first days before the scale of the problem had begun to be truly
appreciated.

If it ever was.

* * * * *

Peter Ronstadt watched as the phone sizzled, crackled and popped, melting and blackening
into running blobs of molten plastic and misshapen metal. Destroying the phone had
cut off one possible method of them tracing him. If they attempted the other method,
he would know about it.

Now that his decision was affirmed and accepted, he felt lighter, at ease with himself.
He would play no part in what was to come. At the same time, a dark contradiction
twisted inside him like a barbed hook. Although he would play no part, it would nevertheless
happen; was probably already happening.

That knowledge sickened him.

He should not harbour such human feelings, but the ability to control his emotions
had left him many years ago. And as that control had at first loosened and then let
go, empathy and compassion had taken its place.

Peter sat back in the settee and reached inside his shirt. He drew out a heart-shaped
locket attached to a fine silver chain. An onlooker might have considered the locket
to belong to a woman, not a man of such muscular stature, and that onlooker would
be correct to an extent: the locket had once belonged to a woman. Peter had removed
it from her neck as he placed a tender kiss to her cooling lips.

He flicked open the locket with practised ease. Each interior half of the locket contained
a protective cover of thin glass, held in place by two tiny metal clips on each side
that could be swung aside to remove the glass.

Beneath the glass on the left was a photo: a sepia-tinged image of a middle-aged woman
with greying hair pulled back into a tight bun; she wore a high-necked blouse with
a frilly collar like a choir boy’s ruff. The photograph was necessarily small and
cropped to fit into the locket, and thus details of the woman’s features and expression
were only suggestions. Peter only needed suggestions. One glance at her image conjured
up the complete woman in his mind, from the fresh-rosehip scent of her hair to the
mountain-spring tinkle of her laughter. Another glance recalled the forest-pool depths
of her green eyes and the ember-warmth of her embrace.