One More Night

by Nathaniel Williams

‘He still isn’t here?’

My wife.

I shake my head.

She’s chewing her lip.

I gently grip her elbow and she stops.

‘You’ll give yourself another bloody mouth.’

‘I’m sorry’, she mutters. ‘It’s just – ’

The kitchen door swings open and Tom Jones’ It’s Not Unusual fills the room. Some woman I can’t place (a schoolfriend?), is in the doorway, swaying as though she’s been partying all night, despite everything kicking off only a couple of hours ago.

‘Where were you when he died?’

My wife sets about making herself a drink. Vodka. Ice. She’s done. She slides by the woman without a word, lip firmly between teeth again. The woman’s too pissed to care. Her eyes are on me anyway. She’s waiting for an answer.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You’re not sure where you were when Tom Jones died?’ She’s incredulous as she reaches for the vodka bottle my wife left out. As I move it out of her reach she falls into me. I taste her breath, booze and fags, as she says, ‘I don’t believe you.’

Cheering from the other room gives me an opportunity to escape. He’s arrived, and my friends, childhood through to work, are homing in. He breaks free of the crowd to lock me in a tight embrace and declares, ‘Happy birthday, brother!’

More cheering. Some clapping. I hug him back. My wife has stopped biting her lip.

* * * *

Later.

‘I just can’t believe he’s here!’

‘Isn’t it great that your birthday has fallen now, in the middle of everything, giving us all the chance to meet him?’

‘Could you introduce me to him? No, wait, I need another drink first.’

All this is fired at me while I wait in a line for my own toilet. When I finally get to the front, a conga snakes through the hallway, led by my brother. My wife is behind him, hands gripping his shoulders. I forgo my piss and latch onto the end.

* * * *

Later.

Dancing. I’ve never really been one to. They seem to be enjoying it though. Nobody seems to care who anybody is. They just care that they’re here, while most of the world is screaming.

My brother is talking with an old lecturer of mine.

‘I appreciate the hush-hush nature of the matter, but surely a bit more information would help calm the populace at large?’

‘I do understand what you’re saying, Professor, but I agree with the way it’s being handled at the moment. The drip-feed is working. Mostly. Anything more could overwhelm them and then things become even harder to control.’

‘Fear. One of the main sources of cruelty...’

‘Bertrand Russell,’ I pipe in, like an eager schoolboy. My professor nods out of courtesy, then resumes his conversation. I slink away.

* * * *

Later.

‘Your poor garden.’

My mother-in-law.

She’s wearing a party hat. Tiny hairs sprout from her chin, but she’s old enough not to care.

We look through the bay window at the ravaged ground.

‘Didn’t you used to give away the vegetables you grew?’

‘Yeah. Homeless shelter.’

We stare at the things that are growing instead of produce. Large, pulsating sacks. Dark yellow. Wet.

Almost whispering, she says, ‘Have you seen one burst?’

‘Yes. I watch them most days. Sometimes – ’

‘No, I mean... On someone. Have you seen one burst on someone?’

My silence is answer enough. She grabs my hand tightly.

‘Happy birthday.’

* * * *

Later.

‘ – and there isn’t a better time to reflect on these things. To look at the promise that’s in all of us. That promise is the reason you’re all standing here today – ’

He’s speechifying. The room is rapt. I bet if I looked up tongues would be lolling.

I’m focused on a piece of birthday cake. I’m smooshing it under my fork, passing the prongs through it like it’s a miniature Zen garden.

I’m a little drunk.

My wife wrote this speech for him. Fancy that! I found a draft. I don’t even think she was trying to hide it. If I remember correctly, he’s about a quarter of the way through. He’s already described his eureka moment and his part in synthesizing the cure. Soon he’ll start waxing about how I pleaded to get everyone in the room onto a list for vaccination.

The reality is that my brother’s status got everyone on the list. I helped choose some of the people to go on it, but if my brother wasn’t my brother then we would all be out there with the rest of them. Dying. Or waiting to die.

* * * *

Later.

No signs of winding down. When it does, it’ll be late. Unsafe, in the current climate, for people to leave. I’m making beds up.

‘You’re wasting your time.’

My brother.

He enters with a glass of vodka in his hand... a hand that is tremoring slightly. I’ve spent most of the evening avoiding him, but now I see him properly, I notice signs of dishevelment. He’s always had rings under his eyes (the price of being a miracle worker), but now they look starker. Dirt under the nails.

‘I just wanted...’

Something is wrong.

‘What?’

‘I just wanted...’

‘Tell me.’

He gulps down the vodka, puts the glass on my dresser and unbuttons his lower shirt. Just above his belly button is a growth. Dark yellow. Wet.

‘I just wanted one more night. One more night of being – ’

‘Moses?’

He starts laughing. I join him.

I realise that the sickness is already affecting his brain, or else he would have quarantined himself. His judgement is shot. This causes me to cackle and he follows suit. We’re in stitches, holding each other up.

‘The vaccine doesn’t work.’

I drop the pillowcase I was holding. He’s right. It doesn’t matter if people stay or go now.

I swing my arm around my brother’s shoulders and guide him downstairs. For the first time all night, I’m ready to party.