Chapter Twenty-Seven
For her official briefing from Devon Police on Tuesday morning, Stevie Mason had set up her laptop to ensure her fiancé would not be visible.
Her bed was against the wall and ran underneath the window.
She sat on the bed, the computer on her lap, seeing the picture of herself with the slate-grey sky behind her; had summer been and gone?
She watched the caption: THE HOST WILL LET YOU INTO THE MEETING SOON.
‘Can’t believe I take the week off before my wedding, and I have to spend it with someone who’s radio-fucking-active. You look like a troll, sat there with your hair on end.’
Stevie said meekly, ‘I’m sinking into the bed, aren’t I? We can’t get married at the weekend. And I’m not a troll.’
‘What about the bloody refunds?’ he said. ‘I know your parents are paying, but still …’ His voice was muffled. He was wearing a reflective red tracksuit, and had zipped the top half all the way to the neck and pulled it over his face, up to his nose. He also wore mirrored sunglasses.
‘I can’t hear you, darling. I need to watch this.’
‘Are you in the waiting room? That clueless cop. What’s he going to say?’
‘An update, I hope. You’ll hear. Just don’t make a noise, Roddy, please. I had to sign something saying I wouldn’t record it or have anyone else in here.’
‘But I’m not “anyone else”, am I?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘you’re bloody well not anyone else. No, you’re not.’
‘Say it again without swearing if you can.’
Stevie was tempted to unleash a volley of expletives, and normally she might not have been able to control her own response, but there was always something threatening about Roddy.
He could sit there against the wall, coiled like a snake, half-asleep, and suddenly strike.
Words were a weapon, all those comments about her looks, but – and she wished she’d had the courage to tell Kim this – he had been at her throat once, in a row over a burnt toastie.
The movement of his hand on her neck had been excruciating with the scarring, so now, to be safe, she just said: ‘You’re not “anyone else”, Roddy. ’
‘Say it without the sarcasm now.’
The stand-off was broken by a sound from the laptop. ‘Hello everyone.’
Stevie muted her channel. ‘Not a word, Roddy, please, darling.’
Roddy stretched the tracksuit collar even higher up his nose. She saw her face reflected in his lenses, saw her scarring, was grateful again that he had chosen her.
The policeman’s face appeared. ‘Acting Chief Constable, Devon Police, Jordan Callintree’, it said.
Since the day she’d met him, she had wished a thousand times that she had not done it.
The instruction to isolate made her wedding impossible.
Roddy was only in her bedroom now because, as he put it, he ‘did not believe in radiation, or wouldn’t we all be dead from radiators?
’ He was anti-vaccine, very worried about chemtrails and 5G, and refused to believe in viruses ‘because how can something exist if you can’t see it? ’ She wished for his certainty.
She looked at the laptop screen as it populated with dozens of faces.
She scanned them. Mainly men, some who had worked in the pizza parlour, some who were dads.
Four or five women – she recognized Andrea Lopez, without make-up, face drawn, alone – and two couples, each trying to squish themselves into the same shot and failing.
‘Excuse me one second,’ said Jordan. ‘I’m isolating too, so I have to do this on my own.’
He evidently had not meant all the callers to be visible to each other, because a moment after he reached for his computer screen, every face except his disappeared. The screen was now four lines of small grey squares, each with a name in the corner.
‘Sorry, all,’ he said. ‘I’ve cut the video of you all for privacy reasons. Your microphones are open, but’ – at that point there was a loud crashing sound from one of the callers – ‘please mute yourselves now and then we can have questions at the end.’
‘Fucking get on with it,’ said Roddy.
Stevie was already on mute. She put her finger across her lips and shook her head at her fiancé.
Jordan Callintree had a window to the side of him so his features were in sharp relief. He wore a white police shirt open at the neck.
‘You are all on this call because you were in the pizza parlour last Friday when the bike crashed. Thanks to the local radio station and to appeals on local TV, we’ve tracked you down and have asked you to isolate because we now know there was a leak of radiation as a result of the crash, and the terror squad are here from London on the basis that the biker had Russian connections. Or may have.’
‘May,’ hissed Roddy, pulling his sunglasses down for a second so he could visibly roll his eyes. ‘March April May. He’s just reciting months of the year now.’ Stevie checked the mute icon nervously.
‘Remember,’ Callintree continued, ‘I’m isolating too, so I very much feel your pain.
I’m on the sixth floor of the Police HQ in Exeter and I have a camp bed here.
The reason for us all isolating is that’ – he seemed to be consulting notes – ‘radiation can have a deleterious effect on a person’s health, and that includes even small amounts of radiation from another person who has been exposed.
’ He looked up at the camera. ‘I’m sure we’ve all been googling this like crazy.
I have.’ It was the wrong thing to say. He was supposed to be the expert, not another victim, and there was a growing hubbub of annoyance from those who were not muted.
It swiftly turned to anger. Stevie saw the square with the name ANDREA LOPEZ disappear.
There were more shouted questions from the other grey squares, the faceless names.
‘What’s the dose?’ someone rasped.
‘Why can’t we get any medical advice?’
‘Is there not some kind of state assistance we can draw on? I can’t work!’
‘Nor can I!’
Stevie tried to ask: ‘Will there be more news later today?’ but she forgot she was muted. There was a cacophony of angry questions. Someone seemed to be crying. Eventually the noise stopped – Jordan had muted everyone else.
‘We can’t all just shout. I’ve turned you all off for a second.
Listen, I can’t give you any information at this minute on the substance or the dose or the danger.
What I want to say is that if anyone is at risk because of their isolation, for example because they can’t get food, please message me on the dedicated number you’ve been given.
If you and your family are all isolating, my information is that you are no danger to each other.
But if you have young children, say, and they weren’t at the pizza parlour but you were, you must stay away from them.
We are talking separate rooms at the very least. Please, everyone.
I know it’s hard. If there are child welfare issues arising from that, please, again, tell me on the number provided.
‘I know you all want more information. This next bit is vital. At six p.m. today, the Met will hold a press conference at St Giles and St Nic’s and they will have a lot to say. Please don’t ask me for details, as I am out of the loop. I’m going to unmute you now, if you have any questions.’
‘If you’re out of the loop, with respect, what is the point of you?’ a voice barked as soon as the mic icons went on.
For a moment the police officer breathed in as if winded. ‘Does anyone have any other questions?’
Stevie expected a racket, but gradually the grey squares started to disappear. There had been five rows of four, and a couple extra – soon there was only Jordan, herself, and two others.
‘Looks like I cleared the room,’ said Jordan.
Stevie unmuted herself. ‘They just want the facts.’
‘The Met will have them. Oh, hello!’ he said, suddenly recognizing her. ‘I bet you regret helping me now.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘YES SHE FUCKING DOES!’ shouted Roddy.
‘Sorry,’ said Stevie. ‘That’s my fiancé.’
Jordan pretended not to have heard. Another voice piped up. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to run my business when I can’t meet any customers? I’m at the newsagent’s on Borough Road.’
‘I hope,’ said Callintree, ‘that when the Met tell us exactly what’s going on, there’ll be a way of measuring your exposure and treating it, and we can get a timetable for our release.’
The other grey square fired up now. A young woman with a strong Indian or Pakistani accent. ‘Is it cancer? Is that what we have to be fearing?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Jordan said.
‘Because that would be a life sentence,’ said the woman. ‘The fear itself is the sentence, even if the person doesn’t get sick.’ Her square suddenly disappeared, as did the other one, leaving only Stevie and Jordan on the call.
‘Apologies for the shouting on my line,’ said Stevie, staring at Roddy, who pulled a face.
‘I assumed it was someone passing your window,’ said the policeman insouciantly.
‘So we find out more later. I was getting married on Saturday.’
‘I-I don’t think you are now,’ said Callintree.
‘That sounded bad though. What you said.’
‘I mustn’t speculate. I don’t know the details.’
That sounded really bad, thought Stevie. She muted her end of the call and asked Roddy, ‘Now it’s just me and him, do you have a question you want me to ask?’
‘Cancer and radiation,’ Roddy said casually. ‘Classic state control tactic. Control through fear. Don’t accept any injections if they offer you them, Stevie, okay? Turn it off now. That muppet knows nothing. Fucking Covid needle dance puppet.’
But Stevie felt sorry for Jordan Callintree. If he knew more than he was saying, he was being very discreet. She was about to ask another question when Roddy jumped from the bed and slapped the laptop shut. ‘Fuck him and his larks.’
She looked down, a sudden anger kindling inside her. The jibes, the casual authority – Kim’s words ringing in her ears: ‘He’s the one who’s fucking lucky.’
‘Now I want you to make me glow,’ said Roddy.
Stevie looked up. The mirrored glasses stopped her seeing the eyes. She was staring into her own face – he must know she avoided mirrors at home. ‘Take them off.’
He loosened the drawstring on his tracksuit bottoms.
‘Not those. The glasses.’
He cocked his head to the side, smirked, obeyed. Removed them, folded the arms, passed them to her.
She held the glasses thoughtfully.
‘I wonder why you wear these, when I stay away from mirrors?’
‘Didn’t give it a thought.’
‘Expensive?’
‘A ton, a ton ten.’
‘Let me show you what you’re doing to me.
’ She held the sunglasses by the furthest point of each arm.
Slowly she pulled the end tips apart. At the instant one of the hinges broke, Roddy’s hand shot out with a vicious slap.
Sitting below him, she ducked slightly, and his open hand struck the top of her head.
‘Hang on,’ said Stevie, scooting backwards, trying to get out of range. ‘I only broke one of them. You’re doing more than that to me.’
As she began to bend the other arm, he snatched at the glasses. The frame broke completely when she pulled back, and he was left with a single mirrored lens in his hand.
‘You’re in trouble now,’ he said.
She could have scooted further away from him, back across the bed where she would have been able to kick out if he came closer, but instead she moved closer, until her feet found the floor and she was standing.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
‘A hundred and ten, those glasses!’ He was incandescent with anger, ten inches taller, almost dribbling the words. He grabbed the hair at the back of her head and yanked it, jerking her chin up. He span her ninety degrees, and pushed her.
In that moment, Kim’s words came back to Stevie: I learnt how to brace my shoulders so it hurt less when I got pushed into a wall.
The wall hurt. Stevie’s scoliosis passed the impact in a zigzag from her shoulder blades to her hips, but she had braced, just like Kim said, and the impact of the wall on her head went mainly to flesh not bone; her head struck the wall but she was not knocked out.
‘I will smash sense into you,’ said Roddy. ‘You smash my glasses and I will smash you.’
‘You’ve already broken me,’ said Stevie.
He relaxed his grip for a fraction of a second, allowing her to fall back against the wall. She felt warm blood ooze from her head and drip down her neck. Now she was dizzy; maybe he had hurt her more than she knew.
‘Hit me again and my parents will go to the police,’ she gulped. ‘You’ll be the guy who beat up the woman who got radiated in Toppings trying to help the cops. So go ahead. You have one punch left in this relationship, and then we’re through.’
Roddy stood opposite her. He kept glancing at the single mirrored lens in the palm of his hand, as if he needed reminding why he had every right to beat her.
‘We’re getting married, darling,’ he said suddenly. ‘All couples have issues like this.’
‘One punch, one push, you choose,’ Stevie said. ‘Last chance.’
‘We can get counselling.’
‘The only counselling you need is to work out why you’re so shit in bed.’
‘I’m shit in bed because you’re such an ugly fucking gnome.’
‘That was it,’ said Stevie, ghosting sideways and past him. ‘Your last hit. Hope you enjoyed it.’ She brushed past him to the door, expecting to be grabbed or struck, or even lifted and thrown. To her surprise, a shocked Roddy took a step back to let her past.
Stevie opened her bedroom door and saw her parents outside. Moira began applauding. Theo laid his hands across hers to stop her, then set off downstairs, saying over his shoulder, ‘This way, Roddy. I’d say it’s been jolly nice meeting you, but vicars don’t lie. I’ll help you find the front door.’