Contactless - a lockdown story

1

It was my thirteenth birthday when we heard about it.

I used to go to school with a boy, Richard Bullock, though we called him other things. He never bothered me, I mean he bothered me in the sense that I'd rather share a room with a flatulent pig, but he never bothered me like a bully or a troll. Yet my friend Ava, she got both barrels. The thing about Big D was, he never targeted anyone, he was more of a crazed gunslinger firing rounds in any direction with blatant disregard for anyone unfortunate enough to share his immediate vicinity. I think that's what soured my opinion of him more, that he was the sole occupant of the hamlet of blissful ignorance.

So on this day, Ava was showing us her new bag. It wasn't designer, but it was sturdy and chic and far less holey than her old one. Her dad had bought it for her after she aced the end of term exams, while in competition, her Mum had bought her a three months subscription for music on Beatstick. This situation was a first for Ava. She'd been on the dreaded intervention list since day one, equally enjoying the social stigma as much as the surrendered lunchtimes. And while Miss Sharp polished her teacher of the year trophy with Ava's achievements, Ava was just pleased to be free of those chafing chains. She would have taken off and soared around the room but for the arrival of Dicky. At once he stole the class' attention, proclaiming the wonders of his shiny new PS6 console. That was the reward from his work-away father for his respectable exam scores, a success he enjoyed despite having given zero effort out of hours. With his gloating came the usual testosterone fuelled howling from our peers, and the collective amnesia regarding the tale of Ava's persistence. No one, not even Miss Sharp spoke of it again. And on my thirteenth birthday, I finally appreciated how Ava felt. But it wasn't some spoilt ignoramus who eclipsed the celebration of the day I left the womb, it was the news that the virus had reached our shores.

"...around a dozen people in the UK have tested positive for the virus," spoke the newscaster from my father's phone. Dad was staring at the screen while drops of milk and chocolate cereal gathered in the corner of his mouth. Perhaps, like his capacity for rational thought, his ability to chew had also gone on strike. My mother, also captive to her device, gripped her lips and shook her head, while I stood in the doorway to the kitchen, waiting for a fanfare, an applause or I don't know, maybe even just the acknowledgement of my existence.

"We're on the hairy edge of it here though," her voice faltered, "Greece have got it bad. They're considering a lockdown."

"The luck of our generation," my father said, "two of these viruses in ten years. What are the odds?"

"Oh god I hope it's not like last time. My mother's not in a great way as it is."

"Don't panic, love," my dad downed the milk from his bowl, "media sensationalism. Half of the stuff they say is made up anyway. Fake news. They'll do anything to sell a story."

"You said that about the last vaccine," Mum said.

"Oh, hi sweetheart," my Dad turned his phone facedown on the table as I entered the room; it couldn't see us so logically, in his mind, it was now invisible to me. "Have you heard the news? What a morning eh?"

"It was honestly the first thought that entered my head when I woke this fine morn."

"I bet it wasn't," he got me there, "I bet you went straight to your phone first..."

"...and checked your Buddy or whatever social media you kids do these days," my mother chipped in.

"If I do use social media, it's because I had excellent tutors," I pointed at each of my parents in turn as I took my seat opposite my dad at the table. "Maybe I thought to myself, you know what Emilia, today could be really special."