The Rain by Virginia Bergin Page B

could almost just imagine it! Look, Ruby, I know you’re upset and some terrible things have happened, but we have to get on with things
(‘It’s only a shower’) – plus you’ve got your mocks coming up (he was obsessed with exams) and, after all, what would your mother want? Etc., etc., etc.: GO TO
SCHOOL.
    Then we put the radio on. It wasn’t over.
    The same emergency broadcast played over and over. Simon turned it down, but I’d already tuned out, same way you would if it was some blah-blah thing about politics (or
Gardeners’ Question Time
). That was how to deal with it.
    The thing that was less easy to deal with was the thirst. The day before, I hadn’t really noticed it so much, not after I’d seen Mum. That next day . . . best way to describe it is:
you know how it gets when you really, really fancy someone, when you’re basically totally in love with them? Well, it was like a horrible version of that. I COULD NOT STOP THINKING ABOUT HOW
THIRSTY I WAS.
    (And you know how if you can actually SEE the person you fancy it makes it even worse and you keep wanting to look at them? Felt like every other second I found myself staring at the little mini
poisoned sea of pots and pans and jugs of water in the corner of the kitchen.)
    I had to close the fridge door quickly to avoid the terrible sight of Henry’s teething rings. There was nothing to drink anyway. The orange juice was long gone; that last tiny drop of milk
was off and I’d already scraped the freezer clean of ice. Completely; I’d even found a pizza – they never bought pizza – stashed (as in hidden from me) under the peas and
the broad beans in the freezer drawer that had all the veg in it, where no one in their right mind would go rummaging. Through the little plastic window they put so you can see they’re not
lying about how good the pizza is, I saw it had gathered a massive layer of frost on top, so the sneaks must have had it stashed for a while. I picked off the frost and boiled it in the kettle with
the tinchy bit of melt-water I’d thawed off the peas. The tea, Simon had said, savouring the taste like a chef would, tasted of oregano . . . with a hint of fish. He was right; I’d also
found half a box of frost-furry fish fingers and carefully scraped the little spikes of ice off them.
    We had one tin of fruit left: strawberries. Simon wanted to give them all to me and even though I wanted them all I made him split it. He gave me more, though; I saw him do that. I mashed mine
up in a cup. I slurped as slowly as I could, pretending I was having a smoothie, as we watched the town from the kitchen window, taking it in turns to zoom in on the action with his binoculars.
    In some ways, the outside world looked normal. Mainly that was because what you can see from our kitchen window is rooftops and trees; when all the leaves are out, when all the plants are
sprouted, you can’t really see down into the streets (where there were dead people); you can’t see down into the beer gardens of pubs (where there were dead people); you can’t see
into people’s homes (where there were dead people) and you can’t really see into people’s back gardens. If you could have done, you would have seen what I’ve seen a million
times since: dead people sprawled around barbecues. So, yes, it all looked normal. The trees and plants seemed to be OK; nothing looked withered or sick or dying. Birds flew in the sky. It looked
like a nice, normal day . . . except – even with the windows still tight shut – you could
hear
it wasn’t right. There were alarms going off all over the place and . . .
you could see the car park behind the library. Cars were coming and going; not tons like there’d normally be, going round and round looking for spaces, but there were some cars.
People
were coming and going. That was where the normal bit stopped.
    The people in the car park, they weren’t just your regular shoppers; they were staggering back from