DAY 8

At 10.22am, struggling to find the mental energy to start work in her spare room, Hari checks the news.

Thousands of dead people did not cast votes in Pennsylvania, CNN and Factcheck.org report.

She reads the headline and a small piece of poached egg escapes her mouth. It slaps the plate and slides a couple of centimetres, then sits there, untouched until it goes cold. Her imagination reigns unchecked for the next 20-minutes. By 11am, she has started on the red wine.

Gabby’s head caves in when the test comes back positive. The 17-year old young offender attended a hearing, scared senseless about the idea of being sentenced for a serious crime he was only accomplice to. With serious mental health issues and deep, permanent, emotional scars, it is his strong relationship with the staff and his fellow inmates at the young-offenders prison which gives him hope and the resolve to set his life on a better track. Now parts of his mind begin to crumble and fall into a deep, volatile sea at the idea of two weeks of isolation at a time like this, thanks to some bloke high up in the system who neglected to wear the same protective equipment in the car they shared to court. He feels no anger, harbours no violent desires, just gives in to the terror of a young person realising the horror of where he is.

Kristie drives down to the testing centre, feeling like shit. Big headache, aching joints, time off work. The site looks like a zombie disaster prequel; white tents, rain lashing the window, night sky. The staff shout instructions through the window and they struggle to hear each other. When they eventually understand what is being said, she holds up a QR code, shows them a registration number and is then send onto the next part of the unnerving site where more procedure takes place. Eventually, she is told to wind down her window and they shove a plastic bag containing the test through the window. In it is a swab, a vial and step-by-step instructions. She shoves the swab into her throat and violently gags, holds it there for 15-seconds, then up her nose until it tickles her brain. All the way home, she feels violated and almost certain the virus is in her.

DAY 7

Lee feels the stale warm gust of the heater on his tense face as he enters the local convenience store for the 6th time today. With each visit, he spends longer and longer at the fridge, peering through the glass at the microwave curries, bristling with frustration at his inability to understand the idea behind ‘Schrödinger’s Cat.’ He wonders if he may be missing the point by trying to apply the theory of a thing being both alive and dead inside a box, to a ready meal in suspended animation, but it gets him out and keeps the mind busy. Besides, those things are pretty nuclear. At a loss with jalfrezis and kormas, he sidles over to the tinned deserts and eventually leaves with 4 tins of Happy Shopper rice pudding, frisky at the thought of another evening alone under his reading light, researching the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics.

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(Day 3 continued) Ena brings out a plate of biscuits and two pieces of cake. Todd is able to talk openly about the fear of the virus wrecking his healthy retirement years, about some great local history books he picked up in a charity shop. Ena talks about losing her husband and her slow healing, one long day at a time; at times a painfully expansive process without human interaction. They both laugh about the fact that plain old carrier bags full of groceries have proven the key them to a secret corridor bypassing small talk, leading straight to the big talk. Tea flows and the two agree to do this again next week.

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Nobody wants to go on Zoom outside of work hours. House Party can already be filed away with VHS. There are more cases of digital fatigue than COVID-19. Nichole asks a long-term, regular client why a routine briefing call has to be on Zoom. With a 4-year old climbing up her leopard print dressing gown and grey bags forming a saddle on her nose, she just wants to place a simple, old-fashioned phone call, sat in the sweet black void of the airing cupboard.

DAY 6

Day to day, Jo isn’t too bad, given the circumstances. She still has freelance copywriting work, has not caught the virus (as far as she knows) and her family are well. But if she stops to think about the lack of a finishing line for these strange times, a quiet anger and fierce panic meet and combust inside. She has never harmed anyone, or even been mean; the kind of person who will happily spend the best part of her morning running back and forth between the kitchen and garden with a teaspoon of sugary water, trying to save the life of a bee. For this reason, it comes as a shock to Niall, who catches her stealing the valve dust caps from his car tyres at 7.30am and tails her for a few yards before staggering to a halt in disbelief as she scurries off down the street, a trail of other caps rolling around on the floor as they rain down from her bulging pockets. Her girlfriend, Leah will later knock on with a bottle of red wine, a written apology on her partner’s behalf and a pack of 4 new dust caps from Halford’s.

 Primary teacher, Martha watches her class as attention spans fizzle out towards the end of a task. 20 petri-dishes, failing to distance, climbing over each other, grabbing at silvery snot-soaked sleeves, drinking out of each other’s cups at lunch time and piggy-backing around the playground. The staff room is now the couch for one, big, communal therapy session, full of staff who watch the daily germ-swap, but cannot go for a quiet pint or a cup of coffee.

(Day 2 continued) Errol and Ayanna follow Bruce into the woods where mushy carpets of orange and brown leaves cover treacherous roots. Errol is clad in seven layers of clothing and has the same swiss army knife he has carried since childhood in his dressing gown pocket. This takes him back; all those summer days spent outdoors, learning life, how to get by in simpler times and yet… this may be the first time he may need to use it. Ayanna is still giggling with nervous excitement. It takes 20 minutes for the three of them to struggle over a stile into a field of cows on the other side of the woods, Bruce grumbling the entire time. Errol’s gown gets caught on some barbed wire and he momentarily dangles upside down on the other side of a dry-stone wall. Bruce finds this hilarious, but Ayanna is no longer laughing as they get the fabric loose, sending the 86-year old rolling into a muddy puddle. He is fine, but now wet through and pissed off. She wonders if this was a good idea after all.

DAY 5

Billy can’t feel his feet. The cold, brown stream water dips into and bursts back out of an upside down, decomposing wheelbarrow, a few yards away. He can see no fish. This is not a beautiful river. Last week he mistook a mannequin arm for a body and called the police. A nice bit of unexpected drama goes a long way in lockdown.

Reddish yellow. That’s what colour they say raw gold is.

That’s what he’s been training his eye to see, with a kitchen sieve in hand, his slender frame covered in fishing gear. Prospecting for gold passes the time and since there are upwards of 200 people squirming to escape the ever-rising pit of the unemployed, all who, it seems, want the same sales role which evades his grasp, it’s a logical way to try and build some supplementary income. Sadly for Billy, the closest thing to gold he’s found turned out to be a near-fossilised chunk of insulation. He trudges home, runs a hot bath and loads up LinkedIn. There’s always tomorrow.

Trinity is just bored with COVID-19 now. It’s frustrating, how long it’s dragging on. She wants herd immunity now. If the shedding of the weak is what it takes she can go out and get pissed up on a Friday and not have to play child-sent-home relay each week, then maybe that’s how it has to be.

(Day 1, continued) The blood spatters must have hit the woman’s coveralls with ferocious impact, given their trajectory. That’s Awadil’s first thought to break through the void of shock. Then his brain starts to chug and judder along like an airport baggage belt. The woman meets his eyes and looks more unnerved by him than he is by her, despite her horror-movie attire, here on the street. Before his legs work again, he makes the grave mistake of glancing to his left, through the door from whence she came. A flickering tube light illuminates a stop-motion purgatory; a cage crammed full of chickens. He should have known! What else could this have been. He can never un-see this sickening scene. They desperately clamber over each other, trying to jam their beaks through the tiny squares between the bars. The woman opens a hatch, uses her thick, white rubber gloves to grab several by their necks and removes them before walking down a corridor with their fattened bodies flailing, still kicking the air, screeching for survival. For the next hour, Awadil feels a great trauma deep in his guts, a hopelessness worse than any he has ever felt, a despair worse than any human bereavement has dealt him. Worse than anything this lockdown has thrown his way, including his debt management debut. He plays out multiple suicides in his mind. That’s how hard this hits him. Strangely, he contemplates the number of times he must have walked past this poultry supplier; thousands of times… and somehow managed to avoid the asphyxiating, visual reality of what goes on behind the metal shutters. Now, the world around him looks terminally ill; cold, hostile, with all the colours washed out. He continues to walk, the sickness in his loins weighing more with each step, those noises haunting him.

DAY 4

Gladys snaps around midnight when a giant firework crescendo causes Bert, her 13-year old Jack Russell Terrier to piss on the rug and yelp. On bonfire night, she accepted the inevitable bi-annual mincing of her sole companion’s nervous system. The next night, irritation marched on her defences, but did not quite breach the walls as tolerance held out. It was a lockdown Friday night and she understands that young people have to let off some steam somehow. Tonight, two nights removed from the occasion and justifiable use of pyrotechnics, her knuckles shine white, arthritic fingers throttling the handrail and makes her way upstairs, stiff-legged, fuelled by rage.

In the spare room, she unlocks a chest in which her late husband's belongings have laid untouched for 23 years and withdraws the sawn-off shotgun he kept for the few occasions his naughtier pastimes would bring bad people to their door. His voice drifts into her head, a distant, yet clear echo from the time things got really ugly, when he had to teach her how to use it in-case they 'got to him.'

Half an hour later, Bert sedated on the couch under a crocheted blanket, Gladys tears a fist sized hole in the bridge over the main road with the powerful firearm. Under it, her targets, a litter or witless teenagers in black Nike sportswear, scramble, scream and scatter in all directions, each face a sunless mask of disbelief. She wears no mask; only her red all-weather dog walking coat, grey trousers and black, orthopaedic shoes. At 89-years of age, under cover of social stereotyping, she has far too much fun showing the youngsters what an explosion should look like. Tonight, she will make them feel alive for once in their Playstation stunted excuses for lives. Dissatisfied with her wayward aim, glasses steamed over, she sniffs the smoke hanging in the night air, waits for the next fizz of pink and green overhead and shuffles off towards it with her kill-switch very much engaged.

DAY 3

Lyra tries not to laugh when the lady on the current affairs radio phone-in says that Joe Biden, U.S. Democratic presidential candidate’s entire strategy to engage with Latin American voters was to play 10-seconds of Despacito on his phone. It’s not funny, but kind of is.

Recently retired Todd quietly eases the shopping bags on Ena’s doorstep, knocks and briskly walks back down the path. He’s been volunteering his time wherever possible to stave off the boredom and existential sadness which waits for him indoors. On a weekly basis, he brings as many items from Ena’s shopping list as it is possible to carry, on foot and drops them outside. As he starts to leave, he hears the scratch of a key seeking the hole, then the creak of the door hinges. He knows what’s coming and stops. He’s seen it in her eyes, through the window; two black holes of loneliness. Ena tells him she’s lost two family members, including her husband since the start of lockdown and has seen nobody since April, pleads with him to stay just a little while. Over a cup of tea in her porch, they both admit they’d rather risk death than watch the days fade away alone.

 A Premier League manager is on the radio, complaining about the fitness struggle his players face after playing a game in Eastern Europe on Thursday, ahead of an away fixture on Sunday. 15-year old Fred shakes his head and says he doesn’t understand why the broadcasters have so much say in the schedules when it ruins the players this way. His dad, Neville has spent the last 48-hours in front of the TV, advocating Donald Trump’s policies and has been highly-irritable since the HGV company made him redundant. He says that if today’s players think they have it tough, they should try working 8-hours down the pits the same day as a game, like Jackie Milburn did for Newcastle. Fred doesn’t know what to say to that and goes on Facebook.

DAY 2

Nigel tip toes around to next door and puts a packet of paracetamol wrapped in a bow through the letterbox. He will later receive some Anadin Extra in lavish gift-wrapping, from Brianna. By the end of the week, it spirals and climaxes with a dubious looking, bubble-wrapped bottle of ethanol, which Nigel occasionally opens and just sniffs, but dares not drink.

Who caught COVID-19 from who is still a mystery, but there is also a chance Nigel picked it up at the bookies. He does not say anything to Brianna about that. Nor does she divulge the fact that last Friday, she took a swig straight from a shared rosé bottle two days before her aunty tested positive when her hangover did not dissipate. They’ve both got it now, so whatever.

Kendall stares at his wife, Lizzi. She keeps chewing, a single noodle swinging from her mouth. On the TV, an interview with an angry care home owner draws to a close. The newsreader is caught off guard when they return to the studio. Kendall does not break the stare. Lizzi eventually sighs and turns to him.

“What?” She sighs.

“The biggest mistake the government has made-“

“Oh I can’t- just…” She snarls garbled consonants into her knitwear as she marches upstairs to get away from him as he shouts after her,

“…was to assume the general public had any common sense!”

And with that, he slaps his belly and reaches for another biscuit, a self-satisfied grin etched across his tiny, red face.

 Errol is the first out. His slippers make for silent footsteps across the car park as the nursing-home staff are busy taking in a food delivery. Then it’s Ayanna, giggling, gripping the strap of Errol’s dressing gown as they make for the dirt track to freedom. Bruce makes no effort to keep his voice down as he shuffles along behind them, grumbling about the fees their relatives have to pay to keep them in here when it’s this easy to escape.

When Ayanna saw the 2nd lockdown headline on the living room TV, the look she shot to Errol said it all. No more. Not alone. Not again. They’d promised that if this came to pass, they were getting out, no matter the grave risks. Seconds after they turn right at the top of the trail and cross into the woods behind the sheep, the delivery van emerges and drives back towards the city. The three have not felt this alive in years.

DAY 1

Hattie still wants to kill the UK chancellor, Rishi Sunak for his assertion about her hard-earned, jeopardised career as a guitarist and private music teacher is no longer viable. But she slightly regrets posting him a small doll with a plectrum driven into its head. So far, there has been no indication there will be comeback on this, but she is not convinced she is out of the woods yet. It may be classed as terrorism.

Julie doesn’t know if the café will survive, this time. She is distracted on the walk to school, providing only robotic, one-word answers to Maisy, her 6-year old daughter. Maisy still holds a little tighter to her mother’s arm than she used to and her nightmares about the giant octopus persist almost every night. Julie runs margins through her head, ways to make a takeaway system profitable, but these pragmatic thoughts are stomped on and swallowed up by the admittedly inflated, yet anxiety-inducing worst-case scenarios.

Bern is one of a handful of people who have stopped and gathered outside a small grotto next to the recycling bins outside Morrison’s Supermarket. One miserable string of fairy lights is thrown lazily over the porch and inside, a man in a Barbour coat, a surgical face covering and red wool hat with a bobble sits on a single chair. A piece of carboard is propped underneath him, on which is painted LOCKDOWN LAPLAND. A three-legged wicker deer uses its face as a fourth leg. A passing small boy asks his mother if Rudolf is in pain, but nobody stops or visits. When the police bundle him into the car, he looks happy, shouting ‘Happy lockdown!’ and waves at the onlookers.

Awadil walks along a wet street in an industrial part of town but is not aware of consciously moving his legs. It is almost noon, yet as gloomy and miserable as dusk. The white noise in his head sounds like he is standing under a gigantic waterfall. His mood is encroaching on total despair; the worst mental health he can recall since his late teens. He has no reason to be here, but here he is and he wanders, hands in pockets, past shutters and piles of litter, trying to breathe deep to slow his racing heart. He wears his mask, even though the law states this is not required outdoors. Awadil lives alone and spends long hours reading depressing news stories about the climate crisis and arrogant politicians. Facts and figures swirl around his skull, individual letters and numbers sticking to his brain like leftover Weetabix. Only when he has been staring at the lady wearing the apron, mask and boots, with blood spattered up her front for almost a minute, does he consciously register her, this slasher baddie from a budget horror movie, staring back at him.

START AGAIN

When UK Prime Minister, Boris Johnson announces the nation will enter a 2nd lockdown, due to a sharp rise in cases almost everywhere, Mick takes little Alfie out for a walk in his pram. It is dark, wet and misery sags in the air above endless rows of houses. Soon the vibrant colours of the Autumn leaves will be dead along with high numbers of people, if we don't act now. That’s the official line.

It’s been almost 9 months since they called the 1st lockdown in an effort to control the global COVID-19 pandemic. The mood has changed. The head of every adult in the country is swollen, about to give birth to a squirming, screaming, creamy bag of bones.

Mick's socks are pissed through inside 5-minutes and the occasional child and parent scurry past houses they cannot visit this year, halloween costumes plastered to their skin.

 No sweets, no pocket change.

The rain comes down so heavy now that they dare not even lift their ghoulishly masked heads to look for the pictures of pumpkins some homes have printed off and stuck up in their windows for the little ones to count.

 How depressing, thinks Mick.

His pork-fat face winches up a couple of millimetres in the closest thing he has to a smile. Through the small slit between folds of greasy skin, he cackles noxious laughter at the collapsed pumpkin heads strewn along the street. One of them is cleverly designed to vomit its own seeds. Its next-door neighbour, just a torn hole in an orange sphere has gone mouldy and buckled in on itself; somehow, all the more sinister than any face design.

Mick’s wife recently warned him that if he did not sort his stinking attitude out, she would leave.

On the last stretch of road before returning home, the cold, rain-soaked shirt feels agonisingly uncomfortable against his skin. He arches his back and rolls his head on his neck in an effort to shake it loose and it is then that he sees the thick clump of dog shit whirring round and round on the back-left pram wheel. He snarls and swears at whoever left it under the fallen amber leaves, then drives the pram off the kerb so he can run it through a deep gutter puddle where the drain overflows; blocked with clumps of leaves, plastic bottles and sweet wrappers. Back and forth, over and over, with increasing defiance he drives the pram through the brown slush, but the mess will not come off.

The smear will not go.

Mick begins to shake and gnash his teeth.

Little Alfie starts to cry and kick at his dripping rain cover.

Mick orders the child to shut his mouth but Alfie gets louder.

The pumpkins wake up, one by one, all the way up the street and turn to watch his breakdown with burning orange triangular eyes. They are all alive with sadistic grins, feasting on this lost soul trying to break out of its fleshy cell, which rams the pram against the kerb, screaming at the unmoving metaphor for his life in 2020.

In a hell-fire, tuneless chorus the pumpkins scream, “STAY AT HOME. PROTECT THE NHS. SAVE LIVES.”