Apocalypse Cow (12 page)

The minister gathered his features up into an expression of sincerity and said, ‘As you are aware, terrorists have unleashed a virus that infected a small number of cattle in the Glasgow area. We have taken all necessary steps to quarantine the area and prevent any further spread. A team of scientists is working on the problem as we speak. In the meantime, let me assure you, the Scottish – and indeed British – public, there is nothing to worry about. We have key suspects in custody and are confident there will be no further attacks. There is also no evidence that this illness is dangerous to humans in any way. We have the situation under control and are culling animals in the affected area to prevent further spread.’ McCauley dialled up the sincerity a notch, throwing in a little sympathetic frown. ‘Farmers will, of course, be compensated for their losses.’

He paused to rein in the restless daughter, who was trying to prise his fingers off her shoulder one by one.

‘Now, as I am sure you are aware,’ he continued, ‘France has banned British meat products from its market.’

‘Cunts!’ David shouted, prompting a tut from his wife.

‘We believe this to be a gross overreaction. It smacks of protectionism, something that goes against the principles of the EU. The Scottish parliament and British government will be making every effort to reverse this ban.’

The minister turned and nodded at a man in a white tunic, who was hovering beside the barbecue with a spatula in his hand. The chef swung round, showing the camera only a hunched back and a pair of busy elbows.

‘First, I want to reassure all British consumers that our meat products are absolutely safe, and send a message to these vile terrorists who are attacking our way of life. My family,’ McCauley paused to ruffle the hair of the two children, who looked as though they were on the verge of bursting into tears, ‘has no intention of stopping eating meat. You have failed.’

The man in the tunic walked over with a tray, upon which lay three plates, each containing a burger. McCauley handed one to each of his children, who eyed them with trepidation, and picked up one for himself. He bit into the burger, making exaggerated chewing motions directly into the camera. The children held their buns in slack hands, tomato sauce and melted cheese dripping onto the grass. Only after they glanced to the side, no doubt receiving off-screen directions, were the burgers raised to small mouths.

Mary frowned as the girls unenthusiastically chewed and flashbulbs popped. ‘That’s disgusting.’

‘Dry your eyes,’ David said. ‘He’s just feeding them on TV.’

‘He’s using his children for naked PR.’

‘They’ve got to earn their keep at some point.’

There was a sneeze, followed by indulgent giggles from the assembled media.

‘Never work with children or animals,’ McCauley declared with a grin, tickling the smaller of his two girls under the chin.

‘It wasn’t me, Daddy,’ the girl said.

‘Don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean it.’

The little girl stamped her foot. ‘It wasn’t me.’

Another sneeze exploded, clearly not from the girls. The tidy privet hedge parted just behind the barbecue, and a sheep came barrelling out. It cannoned off the barbecue, sending sparks and hot oil flying, and then paused. It let loose another sneeze, shaking its head comically as it did so.

‘See!’ the little girl cried, pointing. ‘It was the sheepy!’

Everyone laughed. Except the sheep, which took three quick steps towards the chef and bit him in the nuts. He let out a scream and began to slap the animal about the face with his spatula. The sheep ignored the blows, instead shaking its head like a dog trying to wrestle a bone from its owner’s grasp. On the third tug, the chef fell to the ground, dragging the woolly fiend with him. Man and beast rolled around, the sheep releasing its ball-hold only to sink its teeth into the chef’s stomach. He persevered with the spatula, which was bending from the force of the blows.

The little girls clapped in delight while their father gawked. Nobody ran to help the chef, who had managed to wrestle the sheep onto its back and was now busy head-butting it. Unfortunately for the chef, there was no such thing as a lone sheep. The rest of the flock arrived, pushing through the gap created by the trailblazer in ones and twos. Their flanks were
bleeding
, scratched by the passage through the hedge, and their gazes were fixed on the chef, who, realizing the fight was about to get a little unfair, got to his feet and sprinted up the hill towards the house. Some of the sheep lit out after him. They were replaced by dozens more coming through the ever-growing hole in the hedge.

The cameraman began to edge away, although he still kept McCauley in the foreground of the shot. The politician was attempting to stuff a wriggling child under each armpit. He secured his first daughter, but the second slipped from his grasp. She dodged his outstretched hand and ran towards the sheep to join in the silly game, squealing with delight. A woman in a twinset and pearls flew in from off-camera to scoop up the girl. It was too late. The flock, sparked into a charge by the little girl’s advance, had already closed the distance. They engulfed mother and child. Geldof could not see what was happening to them in the middle of the melee. Judging by the distressingly youthful screams, it was not at all pleasant.

The din shook the cameraman out of his reverie. He dropped the camera, which landed on its side. McCauley’s polished shoes twitched back and forth a few times in a nervous bop, and then grew larger as he ran away from the woolly maelstrom behind him. They disappeared as he hurdled the camera. Some of the sheep peeled off after him, their shaggy underbellies pink with blood. The screaming went on, a constant backdrop to the shouts, grunts and yells of what Geldof numbly supposed were the assembled journalists trying to get the hell out of there.

And then, just like that, it was over. The picture turned to static for a few seconds before cutting back to the studio. The
entire
panel stared out of the screen, their mouths opened into little circles that made them look like goldfish and the TV screen their bowl. Geldof looked at the Alexanders, who were both wearing the same expression. He closed his own mouth.

The presenter touched his hand to his ear and then looked into the camera. ‘Sheep have just attacked a Scottish minister and his family.’ He fell silent, once again touching his ear. He turned to one of the pundits. ‘What do you make of that, Tim?’

Tim continued gaping at the camera.

David got up and turned off the television. ‘Doesn’t he live near here?’

Without a word, Mary put down the jigsaw piece she was holding, walked over to the back door, which had been left open to let some air in, and locked it.

‘Still think the French were wrong?’ she asked.

David said nothing.

The twins, who were attracted by screams of pain the way dogs are attracted by high-pitched whistles, flew down the stairs and hurtled into the living room, skidding to a halt when they saw the stunned faces.

‘It’s happening again,’ Geldof told them.

The boys turned white.

‘What’s happening again?’ Mary asked.

‘We’ve got something to tell you,’ Geldof answered. ‘And I don’t think you’re going to like it.’

An hour later, Geldof was still in front of the TV, watching the endless discussion of the press conference. He had related his story about the chase in the field – diplomatically lying that they were there to pinch apples from the farmer’s trees. Only
Mary
appeared much worried by the story, immediately picking up the phone to call her mother and sister to warn them. David quickly shrugged off his initial shock at the mayhem, and fell asleep. The twins melted back upstairs before their mother could realize she was angry with them. They had been silent ever since.

Geldof was just considering heading home, as his parents would be due back soon, when high-pitched screeching broke out in the street. David spluttered awake, while Mary rushed through from the hallway. The three of them made it to the window at the same time and peered through the net curtains.

The old lady in number sixteen, who had at least ten cats of her own and had also set up her home as a feeding and watering point for strays, was standing on her doorstep, kicking her legs and flapping her voluminous dressing gown. At first Geldof thought she had gone mad and was reliving some dance from her youth. Then he realized half a dozen cats were clinging to her. She staggered down the path, slapping at the hissing and spitting balls of fur, and then began to whirl on the spot. The tails of her dressing gown rose up, revealing thick varicose veins that sprouted from her tan-coloured socks and climbed around her legs like vines. Geldof could not help but wonder exactly how much centrifugal force was being applied to the cats, which held on tenaciously until the woman planted her foot in the metal bowl of milk she always left out. Her legs flew out from under her, one tatty old slipper somersaulting through the air. She landed heavily, crushing one of the cats. The others spun off and landed a few feet away.

The break in the battle shook Geldof into action. He ran to the door, unlocked it quickly and sprinted down the path. By
the
time he got to the gate, the cats were back on the old woman, clawing and biting at her face and neck. She tried to rise, clutching at her chest, then fell back. Even as Geldof ran across the road and ducked between two parked cars, he was aware of the pale streaks of faces at other windows.

When he reached the bottom of the old woman’s path, she was immobile. Her eyes were lifeless pools of blue, her cheeks and forehead criss-crossed with scratches, none of them more than skin deep. The cats sat in a quiet circle around her, licking their paws and cleaning blood from their faces. Then they saw Geldof. As one, they bared their teeth and hissed.

‘Zounds!’ he shouted, and then turned tail and ran.

Mary was leaning out of the door, urging him onwards. He hurdled the gate and flung himself into the house, not looking back to see if the cats were following. Mary slammed the door behind him.

‘She’s dead,’ he said.

He returned to the window and looked out. The old woman lay where she had fallen. Today was a day of firsts: his first taste of meat, his first time seeing a dead body.

Mary came up behind him and touched his arm. ‘That was very brave of you.’

Geldof waited for the familiar raising of the flagpole contact with Mary brought about. Nothing happened. He realized his attempt to save the old woman was possibly the first brave thing he had done in his life. Any feeling of pride in his actions was stifled as he watched milk, mixed with blood from the cat the old woman had crushed, trickle down the driveway and into the gutter. His bravery had meant nothing.

‘Nobody came to help,’ he said, looking at the other windows, which were now empty.

‘Bastards,’ David growled.

‘I know.’

‘They’re going to scratch up my paint job.’

Geldof realized David was talking about the cats, which had followed him as far as David’s BMW 7 Series, complete with the personalized number plate B1G DAV5. The private registration had been prised from the previous Big Dave for almost as much money as the actual car, which was the first thing David had purchased with his lottery money. The ostentatious display of nouveau riche vulgarity only enhanced the Alexanders’ local reputation for being unable to display an appropriate level of decorum in spending their money. The cats now sprawled across the bonnet, staring sourly at the window and flexing their claws in complete disregard for the shiny red paintwork.

Mary frowned. ‘That poor old woman’s dead and you’re worried about the car?’

David turned to his wife. ‘So what was her name then, Florence Nightingale?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘What’s her name?’

Mary looked at the floor. ‘I don’t know.’

‘There you go. We’ve lived here for three years. So has she. But we’ve never spoken to her. None of the neighbours have. She used to chuck cat shit at the boys if their ball went in her garden, for fuck’s sake. Why should anybody care now?’

Because it’s the right thing to do
, Geldof thought, almost immediately realizing that was exactly what his mother would have said.

Mary walked away without a word. As she picked up the phone and called the police, her husband opened the window
to
throw a pebble from a display bowl on the table at the cats. It smacked the side window of the BMW, putting a chip in it.

‘Shite,’ he said.

Geldof smiled out of the corner of his mouth.

The sharp crack at least disturbed the cats, which leapt off and ran up the street. David went back to his armchair. Geldof remained by the window, unable to stop staring at the dead body. He still couldn’t believe not one person had come to help the old woman. So what if nobody knew her name and she stank of cat piss? She was still a person. He felt a sudden burst of affection for Fanny. She would not have hesitated to run out and help and her hair looked so much like a sheepdog’s arse she probably would have frightened the cats away.

Mr Brownlee’s door opened.

Probably going to check if she’s still alive
, Geldof thought.
That’s something
.