Apocalypse Cow (18 page)

For the next ten minutes, the warring duo could not
produce
any more meat- or vegetable-related words. Geldof played ‘integer’, which drew a nod of approval from Mary, and emptied the last few tiles out of the bag. With no more letters left, and Fanny and David apparently out of ideas, he relaxed.

Just as he thought disaster had been averted, Fanny let loose a hoot and lunged across the board to link up with the R Geldof had just set down.

‘Quorn!’ she declared. ‘On a triple word. That’s forty-two points.’

David stared incredulously at her. ‘You can’t put down “Quorn”.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a product. It’s like trying to put “Mars Bar”.’

‘Nonsense,’ Fanny said. ‘Quorn is a mycoprotein. Not that you would know.’

‘I know what Quorn is. Tastes like sandpaper, looks like solidified vomit.’

‘Don’t talk about Quorn like that. It’s nutritious and healthy and feeds people without the need to murder animals.’

‘I don’t care how many hippies and women that don’t shave their armpits eat it. You can’t bloody well use it. It’s spelled with a capital letter.’

Fanny narrowed her eyes. ‘So you have a problem with hairy armpits?’

What Fanny did next surprised even Geldof, who had under estimated how much strain the lack of sex had put her under. She ripped off her top, exposing her braless chest and hirsute armpits, and leapt across the table, sending the tiles flying. Shock, and Fanny’s strong left arm, held David motionless as his face was forced into her armpit.

‘How about that then?’ Fanny asked. ‘Like that, do you?’

David tried to squirm away, but either Fanny’s grip was iron tight or her armpit fluff had bonded with David’s copious nose hair like Velcro. Geldof, Mary and James recovered from their shock and surrounded the combatants while the twins guffawed in the corner. James had to prise Fanny’s fingers apart to break her headlock, allowing Mary to slide David’s head free. The enemies stared at each other across the ruined Scrabble board, panting. A letter X that had attached itself to Fanny’s breast dropped off.

Before anybody could say anything, a car roared up outside and stopped in a squeal of brakes. A wild chorus of barking filled the gap left by the engine as it revved down.

Thank you, God
, Geldof thought, and dashed upstairs to look out of the window and see what all the fuss was about.

Lesley was already half-awake, gazing through heavy-lidded eyes at a poster exhorting people to take the stairs instead of the lift – the subtext of which she took to be: ‘Stop annoying busy doctors with your complaints, you fat, lazy bastards’ – when Terry stirred and walked stiff-legged into the hallway. Soon after, noisy peeing echoed around the room. The unrestrained gurgle brought home just how quiet it was. The wall clock said it was almost midday, yet ever since Lesley had woken up she had heard not a peep from outside.

‘Thanks for the alarm,’ she said when Terry returned. ‘Reminded me of a clock I used to have: you could set it to wake you up with birdsong. Or a babbling brook.’

One of Terry’s cheeks was bright red from being pressed against the floor all night. The other quickly changed to the same colour. ‘Sorry. I, er, left the door open so I could hear if anything happened.’

‘Yeah right, you did it so you could save me,’ Lesley replied, standing up and stretching. ‘You live alone and you leave the door open when you pee, it’s no big deal. I do the same.’

‘You pee standing up too? Your aim must be pretty good.’

Lesley ignored the wisecrack and peered at the professor, who was lying with her head thrown back, stretching the papery skin on her neck. ‘Think she’s OK?’

‘Well, she’s no spring chicken. I don’t rate her chances.’

‘Do you think we should wake her and get going?’

‘No, let her sleep. I think she needs it.’ Terry yawned hugely. ‘And so do I. Do you mind if I steal the chair? I didn’t get much shut-eye on the floor.’

‘It’s all yours.’

Terry flopped into the chair, and was asleep within a few minutes.

Lesley hadn’t slept well either, regularly starting awake to stare at the door or window, searching for the source of some imagined sound she had heard in her sleep. She lay down on the floor, but between her growling stomach and churning mind found it impossible to drift off. She lit one of Constance’s cigarettes and looked at Terry, who was curled up in a ball with his pert little behind sticking out of the robe. While in normal circumstances she might have found herself fighting an urge to creep over and indulge her love of nice behinds by playing the bum bongos, she was too busy brooding over her failure.

During her captivity, Brown hadn’t returned after the initial interrogation. Either he had been too busy dealing with the unfolding chaos or had figured out Lesley was too thick to have created a backup. Not that it mattered. The facility, and all of her proof, was destroyed and the professor was
probably
going to die. Lesley had nothing. Sure, Terry could tell his story and she could tell hers. But it would be their word against the government’s. That contest never worked in favour of the little guy.

Not for the first time, she found herself glad her father lived in Kenya. Even imagining how he would react if he found out she had let the family down with such shoddy journalism made her cringe. The way she saw it, she had three options to avoid incurring Charles McBrien’s wrath. The first was to resurrect the story, which would require energy, verve and determination. She was sorely lacking in all of those qualities. The next was to let herself be ripped apart by infected animals, or let Brown finish her off. That seemed a little extreme. The final option was simply to escape with her life and tell nobody about her failure.

We have a winner
, she thought, chucked the spent cigarette out into the corridor, and went back to staring morosely at Terry’s bum.

She woke up to find Terry crouched over her, shaking her shoulder.

‘Christ, did I fall asleep? What time is it?’

‘Four. Time to go. Constance is conscious.’

Constance looked about as alert as Keith Richards after a night on the tiles with Pete Doherty, swaying on the edge of the table with glassy eyes. Nonetheless, Lesley patted the pocket of her suit to make sure the cigarettes she had nicked weren’t on show.

Terry picked Constance up and carried her to the front of the surgery. Lesley followed, stepping over the body of the dog, which lay limp and bloody like a discarded mop head
against
the wall. She opened the door and glanced out into the street. Nothing moved.

‘You ready?’ Terry asked.

‘Yes. But there’s one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I drive, you navigate. When you press the pedals, your robe rides up just a little too high for modesty.’

Terry let Lesley take the keys without a word.

They set off through the deserted streets. Lesley found herself glancing nervously at every corner and doorway, expecting a gun-toting Brown, a sex-crazed bull, or a gun-toting Brown riding a sex-crazed bull, to charge the car and slaughter them all. To stop her mind conjuring up such ridiculous yet still terrifying images, she decided to interrogate Terry.

‘So why did you become an abattoir worker?’ she asked.

Terry, who was determinedly holding down the edge of his robe, kept looking out of the side window. ‘No real reason.’

‘Come on, just tell me. I’m nosy.’

Terry turned to look at her, his face solemn. ‘You know I told you my parents died?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t tell you how they died.’

He paused.

‘Go on,’ Lesley said.

‘They were dairy farmers. We had a great life out in the country. My dad would take me out on the tractor every morning. That’s how I remember my mum: her waving from the doorway, me sitting up on the dashboard waving back.’

Once again, Terry stopped and stared off into the middle distance. ‘One day, my dad was out milking. Nobody knows what happened: maybe something spooked the cows; maybe
he
pulled too hard on a nipple; maybe it was even deliberate. All we know is that he got crushed to death between two cows.’

Lesley took one hand off the wheel to lay it on Terry’s arm. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’

He lowered his head and fiddled with the edge of the robe. ‘My mum found him, lying in a pool of blood and milk. The shock gave her a heart attack. Killed her on the spot. I found them both, dead on the floor of the barn. I was six.’

‘That’s terrible.’ Lesley squeezed his arm and waited for Terry to continue. He said nothing, his face completely still.

Even though she suspected she shouldn’t push further, Lesley couldn’t help herself. ‘What’s that got to do with the abattoir?’

Terry sighed deeply. ‘When I found their bodies, the cows had fled the scene of the crime. But I swore I would avenge my parents’ deaths. I took a job in an abattoir, hoping one day to meet the cow that killed my parents and claim my vengeance.’

Lesley dug her nails into his forearm.

‘You are a lying bumhole!’ she shouted.

Terry erupted into laughter, continuing even when Lesley gripped still harder. She tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist,’ Terry said when he had got himself under control.

‘Did you even live in the countryside?’

‘There was a bit of old yellow grass near the bins outside our tenement, if that counts.’

‘That doesn’t count.’

‘The real story isn’t as interesting. I dropped out of uni when my mum died. My dad was already dead, and I spent
the
little bit of money she left me on travelling. I wasn’t doing very well anyway. Brain stuff isn’t my strong point. When I came back, I had no skills. I saw an advert for trainee abattoir workers and applied. That’s it.’

Lesley turned to Terry, who was still grinning. ‘You’re right. The other story was better.’

When she looked back at the road, she shrieked and slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt a few feet from three bodies strung across their path. While the previous evening the darkness and the car’s worn-out headlights had meant they couldn’t have a good look at the corpses, on this occasion there was enough early-evening light to reveal far more than either of them wanted to see. The bodies were mauled and battered beyond any point of telling whether they were men or women. Lesley stared at the mangled corpses, unable to look away even though she wanted nothing more.

‘I don’t suppose you want to get out and move them?’ she asked.

Terry shook his head. ‘You’re going to have to drive over them.’

Lesley gripped the steering wheel hard, counted to three and then pressed down on the accelerator. She flinched as a tyre sank into the first body’s midriff, making it sit up slightly. She grunted and looked fixedly ahead.

No sooner were the bodies behind them than they saw a pack of dogs – two Labradors, a very mean-looking pit-bull and some assorted small terriers and mongrels – worrying at something at the foot of a roundabout in a swing park by the side of the road.

‘Just keep driving,’ Terry said. ‘They’ve got their dinner.’

As the car drew level, one of the terriers looked up and began barking. The biological imperative of chasing cars was clearly stronger than that of eating: it came scurrying out of the swing park on stumpy legs. The other dogs followed, quickly overtaking. One of the Labradors drew alongside the driver’s door. It looked at Lesley and snarled. The virus had clearly not increased the dog’s intelligence, for it launched itself at her window, only to bounce off with a surprised yelp and disappear under the wheels. The others kept coming.

‘My cousin’s place is just round the corner, but we need to shake them off first,’ Terry said. ‘Go straight ahead.’

Lesley sped up and the dogs receded into the distance. She drove around randomly for five minutes, just to be sure they had lost them. Terry directed her to his cousin’s house and Lesley screeched the car to a halt, slinging the wheels up onto the pavement.

‘You do know we lost them, don’t you?’ Terry asked.

‘I just like a dramatic entrance.’

They hauled out Constance, who had lapsed back into oblivion, and set off towards David’s house. There was a volley of barking and Lesley looked up to see the dogs, who hadn’t realized they had been shaken off, round the corner.

‘Move it!’ Terry yelled.

They had taken a few steps when they heard a shout and looked up to see a boy waving from the upstairs window of the house next door. They changed direction. The dogs were almost upon them, and Lesley had to fight the urge to thrust the old woman towards the pack as a sacrificial decoy and run for it. The gate opened and they stumbled through. The boy slammed it closed behind them. A few seconds later the wood shuddered with multiple impacts.

‘Don’t worry,’ the boy said. ‘It’s solid.’

Leaving the barking and snarling dogs to assault the fence, the three of them dragged the professor up the garden path and into the house, where four adults – one of them a dreadlocked woman naked from the waist up – and two teenage boys stood in the middle of the living room around the ruins of a Scrabble board.