Hater Page 9

  “Bullshit. You’re starting to sound like Dad.”

  “It’s not bullshit. Remember those riots last summer?” I ask, luckily managing to think of another example to try and strengthen my tenuous argument. About eight months ago there was a string of race-motivated disturbances in a few major cities, ours included.

  Lizzie nods her head. “What about them?”

  “Same thing again. Someone started a little bit of trouble out of the way in some backstreet somewhere. The media got hold of it and the problem was made to look a hundred times worse than it ever was. It was the way they reported it that made it spread and maybe that’s what’s happening now. There’s a genuine problem somewhere that gets reported and before you know it you’ve got mobs in every city starting trouble using whatever it was that caused the very first fight to kick off as an excuse to get involved.”

  “And do you really believe that?”

  I stay quiet. I don’t honestly know what I believe.

  “I think you’re talking crap,” she snaps. “None of what you’ve said explains why I watched a perfectly healthy and normal eleven-year-old boy beat the hell out of the principal this morning, does it?”

  I still stay quiet. I’m relieved when, at long last, something different happens on the news channel. The usual presenters behind their expensive-looking desk have suddenly disappeared and we’re now watching a round table discussion between four people who are probably all politicians or experts in some field or other. They’ve already been talking for a couple of minutes so we’ve missed the introductions.

  “What are they going to be able to tell us?” I grumble. “How can these people be experts if no one knows what’s happening yet?”

  “Just shut up so we can listen,” Lizzie sighs.

  I can’t help being skeptical. The whole setup reminds me of the start of that film Dawn of the Dead where the views of another so-called expert are ripped apart by a nonbelieving TV presenter. I know we’re not dealing with a zombie apocalypse here but the way these people are talking to each other makes it feel eerily similar. No one’s backing up what they say with any facts. No one has anything to offer other than half-baked theories and ideas. No one seems to believe what anyone else is saying.

  “The police force is already operating at full strength and our hospitals are struggling to cope with the increase in injuries,” a gray-haired lady is saying. “The situation must be brought under control soon or we will not have the capacity to react. If this situation continues indefinitely and at the rate of increase we’re presently seeing we’ll be in danger of reaching saturation point where we simply will not be able to deal with what’s happening.”

  “But what is happening?” someone finally asks. It’s a middle-aged man. I think he’s a doctor. Not sure if he’s a medical doctor or a shrink. “Surely our priority must be to identify the cause and resolve that first.”

  “I think with this situation the cause and the effect are one and the same,” a small, balding man (who, I believe, is a fairly senior politician) says. “People are reacting to what they see in the streets, and their reactions are making the situation appear far worse than it actually is.”

  “See,” I say, nudging Liz.

  “Shh . . .” she hisses.

  “Do you seriously believe that?” the other man challenges. “Do you really believe that any of this is happening purely as a result of the violence we’ve already seen?”

  “The violence is a by-product,” the gray-haired lady says.

  “The violence is part and parcel of the problem,” the politician argues. “The violence is the problem. Once we’ve restored order we can start to . . .”

  “The violence is a by-product,” the gray-haired lady says again, annoyed that she’s been interrupted. “You’re right in as far as there is a huge element of copycat violence, but the violence is not the cause. There’s an underlying reason for what’s happening which needs to be identified before . . .”

  “There’s no evidence to suggest that’s the case,” the politician says quickly.

  “There’s no published evidence to suggest that’s the case,” the middle-aged man snaps, “but how much unpublished information is being withheld? This is unprecedented. With an escalation in trouble of this scale there has to be an identifiable cause, doesn’t there? For this to be happening independently in so many different geographical regions there has to be an identifiable cause.”

  “If you look at what we’ve seen over the last few days,” the politician says, shaking his head, “there has been a steady increase in the recorded levels of violence around major cities where there are high population levels. This is wholly expected. With situations like this the more people who are concentrated in a particular geographic area, the more likely it is that trouble will develop there . . .”

  I stop listening. I sense that this bureaucrat is launching into some prearranged spiel in which he’ll no doubt deny all cover-ups and hidden agendas. This sounds like more bullshit. The other people taking part in the debate challenge him but, although he squirms and struggles to keep control, he ultimately remains tight-lipped. I get the feeling that this program might have been arranged as a public relations exercise but it’s failing miserably. The politician’s unease and the way he’s blatantly avoiding the questions people are putting to him means one of two things. Either the government knows full well what’s happening and is simply choosing not to tell the public, or the authorities genuinely don’t have a clue. Both alternatives are equally frightening.

  Twenty minutes more of the news channel and my eyes are starting to close. The debate is over and the headlines are back on. They say that the military may be drafted to help maintain law and order if the police do become overstretched as the gray-haired panelist suggested in the debate earlier. They also say that the problem is largely limited to major cities and there are, as yet, no reports of it spreading to other countries. Most worryingly of all, there’s talk of an after-dark curfew and other restrictions being introduced to keep people off the streets and out of each other’s faces.

  It’s what isn’t being said that bothers me. I’m just concerned that no one seems to have a clue what’s going on.

  TUESDAY

  vi

  JEREMY PEARSON FELT LIKE he was about to be sick. He’d been okay when he’d been prepped for the operation, but now that he was actually lying on the table in the operating room with people crowding around him and machines beeping and buzzing and that huge round light hanging over him he was beginning to feel nauseous and faint. I should have gone for the general anesthetic not a local, he thought to himself as Dr. Panesar the surgeon walked toward him. I’m paying enough for this operation as it is, a general anesthetic wouldn’t have cost that much more . . .

  “Okay, Mr. Pearson,” he said through his green cloth face mask, “how are you feeling?”

  “Not too good,” Pearson mumbled, too afraid to move. He tensed his body underneath the sheet and gown which covered him.

  “This won’t take too long,” Dr. Panesar explained, ignoring his patient’s nerves. “You’re the fourth vasectomy I’ve done today and none of them have lasted much longer than half an hour so far. We’ll have you out of here before you know it.”

  Pearson didn’t respond. He was feeling faint. Maybe it was the heat in the theater or was it just the thought of what was about to happen that was making him feel like this? Was this normal? Was he having a reaction to the anesthetic they’d used to numb the feeling in his balls?

  “I don’t feel . . .” he tried to say to the female nurse who stood next to him, holding onto his arm. She looked down and, seeing that he was struggling, slipped an oxygen mask over his face.

  “You’ll be fine,” she soothed. “Have a bit of air and try and think about something else.”

  Pearson tried to answer but his words were muffled under the mask. How can I think about something else when someone’s about to cut into my balls?

  �
��Do you follow cricket?” an older male nurse on his other side asked. Pearson nodded. “Have you seen the tour report today? We’re not doing too badly by all accounts.”

  The oxygen was beginning to take the edge off his nausea. That’s better. Starting to feel more relaxed now . . .

  “Okay, Mr. Pearson,” Dr. Panesar said brightly, looking up from the area of the operation. “We’re ready to start now. I explained what I’m going to do in the clinic, didn’t I? This is a very small procedure. I’ll just be making two incisions, one on either side of your scrotum, okay?”

  Pearson nodded. I don’t want to know what you’re doing, he thought, just bloody well get on with it.

  “You feeling a bit better now?” the female nurse asked, gently stroking the back of his hand. He nodded again and she removed the oxygen mask. He could feel the surgeon working now. Although his genitals were anesthetized, he could still feel movement around his legs and occasionally someone brushed against the tips of his toes sticking out over the end of the operating table. More nausea. He was starting to feel sick again. Christ, think of something to take your mind off this, he silently screamed to himself. He tried to fill his head with images and thoughts—the children, his wife Emily, the holiday they’d booked for a few weeks from now, the new car he’d picked up last week . . . anything. As hard as he tried he still couldn’t forget the fact that someone was cutting into his scrotum with a scalpel.

  Is this how I’m supposed to feel? Pearson thought. I’m cold. I don’t feel right. Should it be like this or is something going wrong?

  “Don’t feel right . . .” he mumbled. The nurse looked down and slammed the oxygen mask on his face again. The sudden movement made Dr. Panesar look up.

  “Everything okay up there?” he asked, his voice artificially bright and animated. “You all right Mr. Pearson?”

  “He’s fine,” the nurse replied, her voice equally artificially trouble free, “a little light-headed, that’s all.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” the surgeon said as he took a step around the edge of the table and looked into his patient’s face. Pearson’s wide, frightened eyes were dancing around the room, squinting into the bright lights which shone down over his supine body. Dr. Panesar stopped and stared at him.

  “Dr. Panesar?” the nurse asked.

  Nothing.

  “Is everything all right, Dr. Panesar?”

  Panesar stumbled back to the other end of the table, his eyes still fixed on Pearson’s face.

  “You okay, Dr. Panesar?” his surgical assistant asked. No response. “Dr. Panesar,” he asked again, “are you okay?”

  Panesar turned to look at his colleague and then tightened the grip on the scalpel in his hand. Crouching back down again he slashed across Pearson’s exposed genitals and severed his testicles and scrotal sac. Blood began to spill and spurt over the operating table from sliced veins and arteries.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the surgical assistant demanded. He pushed Panesar out of the way and moved to grab his hand and wrestle the scalpel from him. Delirious with fear, Panesar turned and sliced the man with the blade, cutting him open in a diagonal line down from his right shoulder.

  Panic erupted in the operating room. The staff scattered as the surgeon lunged toward them. Pearson lay helplessly on the operating table, turning his head desperately from side to side, trying to see what was happening around him. Covered in blood and still brandishing the scalpel Panesar fled from the room. Pearson watched him run. What the hell was going on? Christ, he suddenly felt strange. He felt cold and shaky but his legs felt warm. And why were people panicking? Why all the sudden movement? Why had the nurses gone to the other end of the table and where was all that blood coming from?

  Still anesthetized and oblivious and ignorant both to the pandemonium which was rapidly spreading through the private hospital and the fact that he was rapidly bleeding to death, Pearson looked up into the light and tried to think of anything but the fact that his surgeon had just disappeared in the middle of his vasectomy.

  12

  THERE’S A STRANGE ATMOSPHERE everywhere today. Everyone seems to be on edge. No one seems certain about anything anymore. Everybody seems to be thinking twice about everything they do and worrying more than normal about what everyone else is doing. Our ordinary lives and the day-to-day routine suddenly feel more complicated than they did before and yet I’m still not even sure if anything’s actually changed.

  I had a phone call from Lizzie just after I’d been out for my lunch break today. We had an appointment to take Josh for a hospital checkup this afternoon and, with everything that happened at school yesterday, we’d both forgotten about it. He fell off a chair at playgroup three weeks ago and cut his head open. The appointment was just to make sure that everything had healed properly and that he was fit and well. Lizzie had also forgotten to tell Harry that school was closed. He arrived on the doorstep at eight this morning expecting to be looking after Josh as usual. Liz arranged for him to drive her and Josh into town, then take Ellis and Ed back home. I said I’d meet them at the hospital and we’d travel home together after he’d seen the doctor. I managed to convince Tina Murray that I needed to be at the appointment too. For once she bought my story without putting up much of a fight.

  Despite trying to make a quick getaway I was later getting away from the office than I should have been (I stopped to chat to someone) and it’s taken me ages to get across town. Josh’s appointment was at three o’clock—three-quarters of an hour ago. Still, hospitals are always behind and with everything that’s going on there’s bound to be more delays than usual today. I bet he hasn’t even gone in to see the doctor yet. I walk quickly down the sloping path which cuts through the parking lot. The hospital looks busy. The afternoon is dull and dark and bright yellow light shines out from the building’s countless windows. It’s a bloody grim place. I wouldn’t want to have to stay here for . . .

  “Danny!”

  Who the hell was that? I turn around and see Lizzie walking toward me with Josh in his stroller.

  “You okay?” I ask, confused.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “I couldn’t get here any earlier,” I answer, lying through my teeth. “Have you only just got here?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You’re joking, aren’t you? We’ve already been in.”

  “What, he’s had his appointment?”

  “It was at three o’clock. It’s a good job you weren’t taking him.”

  “I know but . . .”

  “We’ve been waiting for you for the last twenty minutes. We were in and out in seconds. They rushed us through.”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  She shakes her head again and starts to push Josh up the hill back toward the main road.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she mumbles. Christ, she’s in a bad mood.

  “And is everything okay?” I ask, having to shout after her as she storms away. “Is Josh all right?”

  “He’s fine,” she grunts back over her shoulder.

  The afternoon goes from bad to worse. Lizzie’s talking to me again now but she’s still not happy. Neither am I. We’ve walked back across town to the station but there’s been a problem with the lines and our train has been canceled. We can’t get Harry to come get us (there isn’t enough room in the car) so the only option left is a long journey home on three buses. Liz has just phoned Harry and told him we’ll be back late. By all accounts he’s not at all impressed.

  The working day is drawing to a close. The light is fading and those office workers who finish at four o’clock are already starting to crowd onto the streets. We need to get out of town quickly or we’ll get caught up in the main rush-hour crush.

  “Which bus?” Lizzie asks, having to shout to make herself heard over the traffic.

  “The 220,” I answer from just behind her. I’m pushing Josh now and we seem to be moving in the opposite direction to almost every other pedestrian.
It’s hard to keep moving forward in a straight line. “The stop’s just up here.”

  Our stop is halfway down a one-way street. Lizzie ducks into the shelter and I follow. Josh is moaning. He’s cold and hungry.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the hospital on time,” I say. “Things are difficult at the moment. You know what it’s like when . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she interrupts, obviously not interested in my explanations.

  I peer down the street as a bus appears. I squint hopefully into the distance to make out the number but it’s not ours. I slump into the shelter again.

  “So what did the doctor say?”

  “Nothing much. We were in and out in five minutes. His head’s healed as it should have and there’s no lasting damage. He’ll have a small scar but it’ll be hidden by his hair.”

  “That’s good,” I say, looking down at Josh who, somehow, now looks like he’s about to fall asleep. “It’s a relief. You can never be sure when they hurt themselves like that . . .”

  I stop talking when a sudden stampede of footsteps thunders past the bus stop. A group of six men are chasing after a single shaven-headed figure who is desperately trying to get away. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt which is covered in blood. Two of the men barge past us and almost knock Lizzie over.

  “Watch where you’re going you fucking idiots!” I shout after them. I immediately regret opening my mouth. Lizzie glares at me. Thankfully both of the men keep running and neither of them reacts.

  The man they’re all chasing sprints into the street and runs immediately into the path of a taxi which blasts its horn and flashes its lights at him. The driver swerves and skids to a halt and somehow manages to avoid a collision. The man pushes himself away off the hood of the taxi and turns and starts to run down the middle of the road. But the slight delay is his downfall and the group of men following are onto him like wild animals chasing down their prey. My heart is in my mouth. The rest of the world seems to have stopped still.