World War Moo (28 page)

“You're the one who just quoted a film,” Mick said.

“I didn't do it on purpose!” Fanny shouted.

Geldof sighed. “Fine. I'll stop. But I just don't see how this can have any kind of combat application. Can't he teach me kung fu or something?”

“He's right,” Mick said. “Yoga's for fat birds who can't be arsed with proper exercise and gay boys in ball-hugging pink leotards. I'll teach him some proper hand-to-hand combat.”

“If it helps, I'm already an expert in face-to-hand combat,” said Geldof. “My face. The other guy's hand.”

“Do not listen to him,” Nayapal said serenely. “There are many roads to the top of the mountain.”

“You're going to make him run up a mountain?” Mick said. “That's not fair, now. Even Rocky only had to go up some stairs.”

From the grin on Mick's face, Geldof could tell he'd thrown in another film reference just to wind Fanny up.

Nayapal folded his hands. “Allow me to translate,” he said, before turning to Mick and saying in a thick Scottish accent that was pure Cumbernauld, “There are shitloads of ways to kick the fuck out of cunts like you.”

Geldof burst out laughing, but Mick's face reddened. He stomped over to Nayapal, throwing off his jacket to reveal biceps that were larger than the Nepalese man's head. “How's about you prove it, then?”

“We do not practice in anger,” Nayapal said, unflinching even as Mick lowered his face into his.

“I knew you were all talk and no fecking trousers,” Mick said.

“I'll take you on,” Fanny said. She wore the same scathing snarl that had always painted her lips when she argued with their neighbor David about his environmentally unfriendly meat obsession. “Geldof needs a demonstration.”

“I don't fight women.”

“And I don't take kindly to sexists. Your swollen, misogynist balls should have done the world a favor and forgotten to drop. Whether you fight back or not, I'm going to right that wrong and kick them back up into your abdomen.”

Geldof had seen his mum in action, jamming her armpit into David's face with steely strength when their game of Scrabble escalated into all-out warfare. With the virus inside her, she would be more likely to jam Mick's armpit into her own face and bite it. “I don't think this is a good idea,” he said.

They both ignored him. Fanny advanced and Mick backed off to face her. “Fine,” Mick said. “I can be modern.”

As soon as Fanny came within range, the Irishman spun on the spot and whipped a booted foot toward her head. Geldof cringed, expecting to hear a crunch and see his mum's teeth fly through the air. The speeding foot whooshed through empty air as Fanny crouched low to balance on the balls of her feet. From there she came up onto one foot and slammed the other upward into Mick's exposed groin. He let out a keening grunt and collapsed to his knees. Fanny gave him no time to recover. She leapt forward, hitting him square in the face with her groin and sending him crashing backward. She squeezed her thighs round his neck. “You were saying?”

To Geldof's surprise, Mick began to laugh. He put his hands on Fanny's waist, in a way that was as far from combative as possible. Fanny, suddenly aware the timbre of Mick's arousal had shifted despite what must be a pair of firmly smarting testicles, loosened her thigh hold. Still holding her waist, Mick got his feet under him and hauled them both up. They stood face to face, both breathing heavily. Geldof remembered his mum's nymphomaniac tendencies. Two days without sex had been enough to send her running into the street to hump lampposts. He couldn't begin to imagine how seven months of abstinence had made her feel, particularly since the virus turned the bearer's sex drive up to eleven. Sure, the leaflet she'd given him called for regular sex, but as far as Geldof could tell she wasn't getting it on with anybody in the commune. With no suitable partner, she must have resorted to sorting herself out. That was something he really didn't want to think about.

Fanny's mouth was half open, and she made no attempt to pull away. For a moment, Geldof thought she was going to whip down Mick's trousers and give him a brisk seeing-to there and then. To Geldof's relief, she took a deep breath and an unsteady step backward.

“Lesson's over,” she said, and virtually sprinted away.

Mick watched her go, a grin plastered across his face. “That's some woman, there. I'd like to have a proper wrestle with her.”

“That's my mum you're talking about,” Geldof said.

“Right you are. Not your wife or your daughter. So it's none of your business.”

Mick was right, but Geldof couldn't help but feel protective: of both his mum and the memory of his dead father. The mercenary wasn't an ideal choice for a boyfriend—although admittedly neither of them appeared to be thinking of anything beyond the next couple of minutes. Still, he thought it wise to attempt to dissuade Mick from further pursuits. “Don't her injuries put you off?”

Mick scowled at him. “That's a terrible thing to say, so. Never judge a woman by her face. It's what's in here that counts.” He thumped his chest. “Passion. Heart. And she's got them in spades.”

Geldof, suitably reproached, felt awful about trying to use the scars as an impediment to Mick's lust. He wondered if he'd misjudged the mercenary: perhaps there was a tender soul under the crude, gruff exterior after all. What Mick said next ruined it all. “Anyway, I don't know about your cock, but mine doesn't have any eyes. Even if it did, it'd be too dark in there to see.”

With that, Mick went striding off after Fanny. As he went, Geldof realized he had one card to play. “She's got the virus!”

“That's why God invented condoms,” Mick said without looking back.

“God doesn't approve of condoms.”

“Only the Catholic God. I'm a proddy.”

“And you actually brought condoms with you?”

“You're such a virgin. Always have condoms in your wallet. You never know when you're going to get your end away.”

“You thought you'd get lucky on an island full of bloodthirsty maniacs?”

“I'm a bloodthirsty maniac myself, so it was a fair bet.”

“But she might attack you.”

“I like it rough,” Mick shouted.

Geldof turned to Nayapal. “Can't you restrain him or something?”

“Soul and body are two halves of the same whole,” Nayapal said in his calm, mystical voice. “There can be no unity of purpose without completeness.”

“Have you got a stash of fortune cookies somewhere? What does that even mean?”

Nayapal smiled and reverted to Scottish. “A good, hard shag never hurt anybody.”

Even though he'd never been the recipient of a good, hard shag, Geldof couldn't argue with that sentiment. His mum had always known her own mind, and, virus or not, if she gave in to Mick's advances it would be because she wanted to. And after all she'd been through, and all of the problems that no doubt lay ahead, she surely deserved something for herself. If anything, he should probably be more worried about the mercenary. Should he succeed, he had no idea what kind of relentless pummeling his blind little friend would be in for.

 

23

Long before the sun had even begun to think about making another half-arsed attempt to illuminate the savage streets of Aberdeen, Lesley and Tom were heading out of the city. The blank windows of the silent homes stared at her like dead eyes, and their doors seemed like maws ready to vomit out a stream of infected. She did her best to hold her nerve and stuck close to Tom's back wheel. Only when they'd cleared the worst of the urban sprawl did she begin to relax a little, at least in terms of her fear of being disassembled atom by bloody atom. There was nothing at all relaxing about the bike ride. Her legs felt like planks of wood after the previous day's exertions, and the good night's sleep Tom recommended she enjoy hadn't materialized. She'd locked her bedroom door but still woke at every creak and rustle. At one point she'd plunged back into her dream of standing in the wasteland. This time, when she stepped on the last other living being, she looked down to see it was a tiny Jack.

“How many more people are going to die because of you?” he said with his last breath.

She jerked awake in breathless terror to find it had started raining. The patter on her windowpane sounded like hundreds of pounding feet. She scrambled under the bed, where she spent another hour hiding behind a dusty suitcase until Tom knocked on her door and told her it was time to get ready. Prior to leaving, he suggested she go into the bathroom and douse herself with aftershave to try hide her scent. She stripped to her knickers and poured almost an entire bottle of Old Spice over her body, prompting a wave of aching desire to see Terry again. Now that they were apart, she could remember the good things about him and their relationship: his honesty, his kindness, his luscious body. She needed something to take her mind off recent events, just for a few minutes, so even though she felt little desire she slid her hand into her knickers and tried to awaken her body. Her middle finger stroked and teased as she imagined herself in bed with Terry, all of their relationship problems forgotten in the urgency of carnal acts. She began to warm to the fantasy, but memories of all the harm she'd done kept forcing their way to the fore. In an attempt to add impetus to her imaginings, she lifted her arm to take a whiff of Old Spice. She breathed too deeply and the searing in her nostrils and lungs kick-started a fit of coughing that killed any chance of escape. She'd pulled on her clothes and trudged downstairs.

“I don't want to sound like a little kid, but are we nearly there yet?” she called out to Tom.

He slowed down to ride beside her and said, “Only another one hundred and forty miles.”

“I'm going to take issue with your use of the word ‘only' here,” Lesley said. “How long will that take us? A lunar cycle?”

“Normally, I'd say nine hours. At this pace, double it.”

“You can't expect me to ride that long.”

“If time's as tight as you say it is, you have to. Look, it's four in the morning now. We'll be there by around eleven in the evening, provided we have no incidents.”

“Whoa there, cowboy. Incidents? You said all the bandits had cleared out.”

“That's true, but there are still wild animals about.”

“Why didn't you mention this before?”

“I didn't want to worry you.”

“Well, consider me extremely fucking worried now.”

Tom hiked a thumb toward the loaded crossbow slung across his back. “Nothing will mess with us while I've got this.”

“Oh, so this virus has made cows smart enough to recognize a crossbow and keep their distance. That's reassuring.”

“Look, you'll be fine. You're not going to set anything off smelling like you took a bath in Old Spice. Which, by the way, was a Christmas present from five years ago. You should have used the Paco Raban.”

It was reassuring to hear that Tom, who was after all infected, couldn't detect her unsullied condition. Terry would be proud of her. Yet as she rode she divided her time between dropping her head to grimace at the effort of the steady climb they were now on and shooting anxious glances at the fields opening up around them. It was going to be a long day.

*   *   *

Amazingly, Tom's prediction of an uneventful journey proved correct, although the stillness was eerie, particularly under the lowering stacks of clouds that threatened to dump rain on them at any minute. At first, the ride wasn't too bad. They stuck to the main road, and Lesley's legs ached less as the repetitive motion lulled her into a trance-like state. They left the road twice to avoid checkpoints, which she couldn't see the need for since there was almost no traffic. The only vehicle they passed was an army truck that roared up the other side of the road and ignored them. Once they'd skirted around Perth, though, the road began to wind and the hills took their toll. She began to feel light-headed, and at one point even had an out-of-body experience that made her fall off her bike and skin her hands. Tom gave her fifteen minutes to rest, before pushing on. Past lochs, villages, and glens they slogged, only the thought of the story keeping her going. Lesley had no idea at what time they arrived at the camp; all she knew was that it had been dark for what felt like an eternity. Yet once they'd ridden down the hidden track, she saw that a fire still burned.

“Wait here a minute,” Tom said at the end of the road.

He got off his bike and skipped off toward the light source.

Lesley let the bike fall sideways and toppled to the ground herself. Her thighs, bum, back, shoulders, and forearms were having a raucous argument about which hurt the most. She let them get on with it, too exhausted to display even the slightest curiosity about her surroundings. Her eyes drooped and sleep was beginning to take her when Tom returned.

“Follow me,” he said.

“You'll have to drag me,” Lesley said. “Or give me a ko-carry. I don't care which. Seriously.”

And so it was that Lesley, mounted on Tom's back, approached the campfire. As they drew closer she saw two people: a woman with short hair and deep scars illuminated by the shifting light and a boy who had his back to her. The woman rose, tilting her head at a quizzical angle. “Lesley?” she said, her voice rising at the end in a disbelieving tone.

“Do I know you?” Lesley said.

The boy turned. Even though his face had filled out and he wasn't wearing glasses, Lesley recognized him as Geldof. At the same moment, she realized who the scarred woman was. The feeling of d
é
j
à
vu came on again, so strongly that she let go of Tom's neck and slipped backward. She landed on her shoulders with her legs still held around his waist. The faces of Geldof and Fanny appeared above her, and, in chorus, they said, “What are you doing here?”