The Cost of Living Read Free Page A

thing I’ve always
dreaded. I’m stocking up for the apocalypse. Part of me feels like an idiot,
like I’m the one who’s got this wrong. I can see people looking at me, thinking
I’ve lost my fucking mind, but all I have to do is picture the faces of my wife
and kids to keep me focused and on task. They’re all that matters. The lad on
the till looks at me as if I’ve gone crazy. Who knows... maybe I have?
    I
load everything into the back of the car, then go straight back in again for
more. This time even more of the staff have clocked what I’m doing. None of
them are completely stupid, they’re just not ready to accept that their old
lives are coming to an end and that a much more uncertain future now lies
ahead, if any future at all. This time as I work my way around the warehouse, I
know they’re all watching me. Half the staff are thinking look at that
fucking idiot . The other half are thinking, should I be doing that?
    I
have to move fast. The development is at its quietest at this time of the
morning and I reverse onto the drive of our house and unload everything into
the garage, satisfied there are no prying eyes watching. It’s almost too quiet.
There’s a guy in one of the small terraced houses across the way who says
goodbye to his girlfriend then acknowledges me, but other than him I don’t see
anyone else. The development’s only two-thirds built, but it doesn’t look like many
of the builders turned up to work today.
    Now
I head straight back out again, this time to the DIY store. It’s no good
getting in all those supplies and not taking steps to make sure the house is
secure. I buy sheets of plywood, fencing, padlocks and chains, industrial-size
containers of bleach and other cleaning agents. The teller puts everything
through. She’s polite enough, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that
she’s uneasy. Does she know what I’m doing? The combination and quantities of
stuff I’m buying is a dead giveaway. She knows the axes aren’t for cutting down
trees, and this black rubber sheeting’s not for lining a fish pond.
    I
get everything unloaded with just a couple of minutes to spare before Gabby
gets home. It’s only taken just over an hour. I’m still putting the last of it
away when she pulls up on the drive with the kids. She doesn’t have a clue why
I’m here. ‘What’s wrong, love?’ she asks me. ‘Aren’t you well?’
    ‘I’m
fine. How come you’re all back?’
    ‘Not
enough teachers at Nathan’s school so they closed it. Never mind that, Stu, why
are you home? Don’t tell me they’ve made you redundant? You said there was a
chance...’
    I
shut the front door. Nathan goes up to his room. The baby’s asleep and Sally’s
immediately occupied by the TV, so I sit Gabby down in the kitchen and try to
tell her things how I see them. ‘I think this is bad, Gab, really bad.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The
sickness. I think it’s a lot worse than people are letting on.’
    ‘Come
on, Stu... are you for real? Something like this happens every few years. A
couple of weeks time and it’ll all be forgotten and they’ll be onto the next
health scare. Honestly, love... this isn’t like you. You’ve been working too
hard. Do you need to take some time off? Maybe we should—’
    ‘There’s
nothing wrong with me, Gab. For the record, I hope you’re right. I hope I have
got this wrong, but I don’t think I have. Watch the news, read between the
lines... they know what’s coming, they’re just not saying. They don’t want
people panicking.’
    She
closes her eyes and shakes her head. What’s she thinking? Does she believe me,
or does she think I’ve lost it? Is it easier to believe that than accept the
truth? ‘You’re wrong.’
    ‘I’m
not.’ I slide my laptop across the table towards her. ‘Here, have a look. You
have a look at what’s happening in Russia, then go back a couple of weeks and
see how it started there. Look at South Sudan and South Africa. Look at