Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

Iqbal returned her squeeze, a gentle pulse of flesh on flesh. He said, ‘There’s something happening out there.’

It was quiet in the flat amongst the glow of the computer screens. Stevie asked, ‘Is it getting worse?’

‘The official media is playing it down, but #sweats is just about the only topic on twitter. According to it and other sites I looked at while you were asleep, the sweats are spreading.’ Iqbal stroked the back of her hand. ‘I’m glad PC Caniparoli sent you here. Working through the data is just about the best distraction I could have had.’

‘Derek said that I was fiddling while Rome burns.’

‘What else is there to do?’ Iqbal sounded hopeful.

Stevie let go of his hand.

‘Watch television?’

She got up, took the TV remote control from its dock on the shelves, pointed it at the television and clicked. The same images as before flashed on to the screen: the hospital wards, the masked scientist staring intently at the test tube as he introduced something into it, drip by careful drip.

V5N6 IS NO RESPECTER OF AGE OR SOCIAL CLASS. SCIENTISTS ACROSS THE WORLD ARE TAKING PART IN AN UNPRECEDENTED COLLABORATION TO FIND A VACCINE. MEANWHILE PEOPLE ARE BEING ADVISED TO TAKE SOME SIMPLE PRECAUTIONS.

Stevie looked over her shoulder at Iqbal. ‘You were right. It’s better not to touch.’ She turned her attention back to the screen.

LIMIT TRAVEL TO NECESSARY JOURNEYS. DO NOT HOARD FOOD OR PETROL.

Iqbal got up from his seat and stood behind her. Stevie could smell the fragrance of the fabric conditioner he washed his clothes with, and beneath that his own sharp scent. He rested his fingers gently on her shoulders, a feather-light touch more warmth than weight.

REPORTS OF WIDESPREAD INFECTION HAVE BEEN CONDEMNED AS ALARMIST BY THE GOVERNMENT

‘The more I consider it, the more I think it might be worse not to touch.’ Iqbal squeezed her shoulders gently. Stevie felt his breath on the back of her neck and then the trace of his lips, dry and delicate, at the top of her spine. She felt her body respond and whispered, ‘I might be a carrier.’

THE MINISTER FOR HEALTH HAS URGED INTERNET USERS AND THE MEDIA TO MAKE CLEARER DISTINCTIONS BETWEEN HARD NEWS AND RUMOUR

Iqbal pulled the left strap of her vest to one side and grazed her shoulder with his teeth.

‘I know.’ His mouth continued its progress across her shoulder and his words were a murmur. ‘But maybe the news is right and reports of multiple deaths are much exaggerated.’

‘My best friend died of it.’

He kissed the top of her head again. ‘Would you like me to stop?’

Stevie hesitated for a beat. Thinking about Joanie had made her remember how alone she was.

‘No.’

He shifted her other strap and ran the tip of his tongue along Stevie’s right shoulder, making her gasp.

‘The sweats has some positive outcomes.’ Iqbal’s teeth found the sensitive spot between her neck and her shoulder. ‘It makes men bolder. I guess, in the end, all we are is a bundle of cells with the same needs as a mayfly.’

Stevie shivered and leant into him. Iqbal was slim and light compared to Simon’s solid bulk, but the heat of him, his urgency, recalled Simon, and she found herself wanting to be overwhelmed. Stevie turned to face him, still in the orbit of his arms. She whispered, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t.’

‘Maybe we should.’ Iqbal caught her hands in his, holding her embrace tight. ‘People like you are survivors. I’m just a computer geek, the kind of guy who gets shot in the first frames of the movie.’

Stevie remembered her mother, the months of battling, the growing indignities that had turned her into someone else, and the final relief of defeat. She said, ‘It’s not as simple as that. Life isn’t like the cinema. No one’s invulnerable, no matter how strong they are. We can’t predict who’ll live and who’ll die.’

Iqbal whispered, ‘This might be the last chance either of us ever gets.’

Stevie laughed. ‘Do you hit every girl you meet with the please-make-love-to-me-before-I-die-of-the-plague chat-up line?’

He touched her hair with his face. She felt him breathe in her scent the way Simon had done when they were making love.

‘Not usually.’

‘Good, because only an idiot would fall for it.’ Stevie raised her face and they kissed. She felt Iqbal’s body tremble and knew that beneath his desire he was shy. The realisation emboldened her and she pulled off her vest.

Iqbal ran his hands the length of her body, stroking her breasts through her bra, exploring the slide of her back, the slope of her rear. She whispered, ‘Are you sure?’ and he led her up the floating staircase to his bed. Iqbal’s body was smooth, his skin almost as soft as her own. She tried not to think of Simon’s broad chest, the rough, gratifying weight of him, as she let Iqbal touch his lips to her bruises. He traced his fingertips across her body, his caress so light that when she closed her eyes Stevie was barely sure that he was there. She saw his hand on her thigh and thought, we are all flesh. Then Iqbal leant across her, turned out the lights and they clung to each other in the dark.

In the hours they had spent in bed, it had grown obvious what was wrong with the view from Iqbal’s apartment. There were fewer street lights than there should have been, and whole districts of the city were now sunk in darkness.

Stevie stood at the window, trying to work out which neighbourhoods were illuminated, but it was like trying to map an unfamiliar galaxy and she gave up. Iqbal was still in bed, sprawled beneath the duvet, sleeping like the dead.

She had lain on her side watching the gentle rise and fall of his breaths, and been surprised by two contradictory emotions: a stab of guilt at being unfaithful to Simon, and an urge to close her eyes, give in and stay with Iqbal. It would be the sensible thing to do. Sit tight, tune into the TV and radio and wait until things worked themselves out. But it would be a kind of death too.

Stevie padded downstairs in her bare feet and got dressed. She copied Simon’s files on to the memory stick Iqbal had given her and then printed out two copies of each. It might only be a matter of time before the electricity failed here too, or the Internet went down. She left one of the bundles of printouts on Iqbal’s desk and tried to compose a note, but there was too much and too little to say. In the end she scribbled her mobile number on a scrap of paper, added her name and a kiss: Stevie X . It would have to do. She hesitated over Simon’s laptop, wondering if she should take it with her, but decided to leave it where it was. It was safer at Iqbal’s, one computer hidden amongst many, the same way that Simon’s murder would have been one small death amongst thousands, were it not for the letter he had left her.

Stevie had her hand on the front door when she suddenly turned back, booted the computer up again and printed out the photograph of the two of them laughing together in Russell Square. She folded it into a small square and slipped it into the zip pocket of her tracksuit. The bottle of antibacterial gel was on the desk, next to a set of keys. She hesitated, and then shoved them both in her satchel and left, closing the door gently behind her, careful not to wake Iqbal.

The satnav instructed her to follow an unfamiliar route. Stevie obeyed its directions, slipping along residential roads and dual carriageways, passing parks and parades of shops, moving in and out of darkness like a restless sleeper sliding in and out of consciousness.

London had always been a city of contrasts, but tonight it seemed a place divided into light and shadows. She travelled through streets where every gate was bolted, every shop shuttered, every window a closed unblinking eye. Then she would turn a corner into bright lights and see drinkers crowding pavements outside pubs whose closing bell should have rung hours ago.