DO YOU REMEMBER COVID?

I get up on the second alarm as usual. Never the first and rarely the third. I’m a creature of habit. I use the toilet and then have a shower. My body disappoints me so I keep it brief. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror though and do a few face stretching exercises, to keep things supple. The muscles don’t get much use these days. I’m not one to spend too long contemplating my own features; all I see are age and defeat where I used to have youth and enthusiasm. When did that all drain away? Not overnight; it’s been a gradual process but one that’s sped up recently. Was I genuinely optimistic once or was that naivety? Am I cynical now or is this realistic? You say potayto, I say potaato. You say tomayto, I say we haven’t got any because nobody will pick the crops. 

I masturbate with some of my go-to porn: women with small breasts and big hair. It’s Saturday after all, my usual day. But there’s not much pleasure. I have my regular mug of tea with peanut butter on toast while I check my messages and listen to the headlines. 

‘You!’ My Rist-Bot bleeps. ‘Tell me the UK news. Top 6 stories. No sport.’ It’s the usual stuff about law and order, government announcements, inflation, health measures and some unrest when a party spilled out into the streets. Only eight arrests, that’s not so bad. But – Holland Park? 

I take Gove for a quick walk so he can sniff some butts and do a pooh. I gather it up in the correctly-coloured bag to dispose of it in the right bin. It’s firm stools, thank God. ‘Good boy, Govey.’ Last week he had vile diarrhoea. I would have walked away and left it on the pavement but there was a Civvie watching from across the road, desperate to pounce and issue me with an Insta-fine. I didn’t allow her the pleasure because I managed to scoop it all up somehow. Euch. That still makes me queasy. I monitor Gove’s diet more closely now. No more left-over curry.

On the walk home I message Carmen to check that we’re still on for our meeting. Yes, she’s looking forward to seeing me again; can’t wait, she says and adds a kissing gif and the sound of applause. We’ll have to keep an eye on that. It’s a while since she’s been in the country, years, so I’ll need to explain a few things. Anti-DEEP rules for a start. 

At eleven-thirty-five I leave for the station. When I’m there I realise I’ve forgotten something and lift my arm to mutter discreetly into the Rist-Bot, ‘You!’ He wakes and beeps. ‘Play Easy Tunes on shuffle, volume 4.’ Gove will be happier now.  

I take the overground up to town. Carmen and I have agreed to meet in the West End, our old stomping ground. Ha, that’s ironic; no stomping allowed these days. We used to have our favourite little cafés where we’d sit talking for hours over a flat white and a bacon butty, when you could eat whatever you liked. Laughing too, loud and unrestrained. Gosh, it makes me shudder to think of it. A short stroll to Covent Garden or Soho and feeling so smug because we weren’t tourists but real Londoners, living right in the heart of things. 

Feeling smug. Feeling content. Feeling...  in love, I suppose. 

 Gosh, all those feelings back then. 

And now, how do I feel now? The 11.55 to Liverpool Street isn’t too busy, only a few solemn faces around, so I risk exploring that. When we go through a tunnel I practise a few expressions to see my reflection in the window, ones I might use later. A smile, a frown, a bigger smile. Nobody sees me, I’m pretty sure. Even if they did, they'd keep schtum. No-one wants to make a scene, get a fine. 

There used to be something called a ‘quiet carriage’. They’re all quiet now. 

It’s the same, reassuringly, on the tube. A lot of people going up West but we’re all well-behaved and orderly. There are a few conversations, but sotto voce, nothing jarring. How much nicer this is than the old jostling and rackety chaos. People wait for each other and keep their heads bowed, not risking eye contact with strangers. So much more civilised. 

Honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss was about when the new regulations were brought in. Well, I do. ‘Loss of freedom’ and ‘civil liberties’ and all the usual bleating from the woke blob of lefty do-gooders. But they were never going to win; those voices were ignored, silenced like the rest of us. And a good thing too. Life is quieter and easier now. Calmer. In fact my company was doing some PR for the Department for Home Security and I was at the meeting that came up with the ‘calmer / karma’ line for their campaign. Genius. It wasn’t me but I was in the room. That’s history, that is. The sort of thing I’ll tell my kids, if I ever have any. 

From Holborn I walk down Kingsway, then Long Acre and into the old piazza, Thatcher Court now. Loads of tourists but everyone so quiet and restrained. Even the Americans.  

There she is, outside the Actors’ Church, as agreed. She looks wonderful. Her hair is shorter than it used to be and she stands out from the crowd with her elegant peacock blue coat and air of confident expectation. But standing out in the wrong way, too animated, as if ready to burst into action. 

And then she does. She sees me and lights up, her whole body swelling with pleasure and – shockingly – she reaches up an arm and waves it in a wide arc, shouting my name. 

‘Russell! Russell, hi!’ 

I wince and see people around her glance and cringe away, terrified of being complicit in this blatant transgression. I mean, it happens but only in extremis. A baby in a buggy cries; we look away, pity the mother. A teenager shouts across the street; we pretend it hasn’t happened. A homeless woman rants at the world; we avert our gaze and scurry past. 

I hurry forward to greet Carmen and stifle her. 

‘Russ - ’

‘Ssh, ssh,’ I take her hand in a sort of improvised shake that prevents her hugging or kissing me. ‘Not here. Not yet.’

‘What?’ She’s out of the loop, as I thought. 

‘I’ll explain. Come on. How about The Sitting Room?’

‘The Sitting Room? Wow, is it still there?’ She’s delighted. Too delighted. ‘Oh, what gas!’ 

That expression; I’d forgotten. Her use of English always charmed me. Fluent but idiosyncratic, with phrases harvested from a variety of sources and eras. ‘That’s the dog’s biscuits’ was one she manufactured herself. 

It’s only a short walk to the café, thank goodness. She grips my arm and is talking ‘eighteen to the dozen’ as she’d say. About her business trip to see her London clients and discuss a possible exhibition in Madrid. I’m nervous, that’s a feeling I am sure of. No need to practise a grimace for that. I expect I have a fixed half-smile as I hurry her through the crowd to the sanctity of indoors. 

Once there I can breathe. There’s animated chatter around us, people taking advantage of the venue to be as open as they like. Even so, it’s not as bustling as it once was; lots of customers have VR headsets on and are nodding and craning within their own worlds. 

We choose a table near the window. It’s one we must have sat at a hundred times before. But that’s when we were a couple, creating our team, building a future, exploring the world together. Now we’re... what? Exes. Mates, I suppose. But mates with a history. Almost a decade together. And now another decade apart. But these were our haunts; these were our times. When we felt we would go on together, doing it all and each being everything for the other. 

We were wrong. I couldn’t be everything she wanted; she was too much for me. I fell short of matching her power; she outgrew my grasp. The Friday she left me will always be the saddest day of my life. Hearts don’t break, they atrophy and cease to function.

‘So, Russell, tell me everything. Everything! How are you?’

‘Fine. I’m fine.’

‘You look...’ she considers this. Is it her indecision or lack of fluency in English that delays her? ‘...well.’ 

‘You look amazing,’ I tell her. 

‘Are you happy?’

‘Happy?’ I say. ‘What a question. No, of course not. But I’m… you know.’

‘Sure.’

We sip our coffees, still looking at each other. And then we laugh. It’s a giggle that grows. It feels – there’s that word again - it feels naughty but fun. 

‘How long has it been?’

‘Too long,’ she says. ‘Too long.’ And she reaches out a hand to touch my arm. It’s all I can do to avoid gasping, so dangerous does it feel. But thrilling too.

‘How is Spain?’

‘Very Spanish!’ 

‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’

‘Oh... both, I think.’ She gives a little shrug. She used to complain that London was too British, after all. It’s a damn sight more British now and that’s a bloody good thing. We have taken back control. 

‘How are the children?’ I ask because there’s a lacuna and I know I must. It’s not because I care. She talks about them for a while, Luís and Manuela; how they’re doing at school, what their hobbies are and so on. She spares me photographs of them. She can tell I’m not interested; she could always read me como un libro. 

‘And... um..?’ 

‘Brendon,’ she says.

‘Yes.’ I know the name, of course I do. I just can’t bear to let it sully my lips. He has everything I had, and more. I will never forgive him for that. 

‘He’s very good, thanks. His business is doing super-well and he’s about to expand into the U.S. so that’s pretty cool.’

‘Great.’ 

‘He says if things go well we might need to move there. Imagine that!’ 

‘Yes.’  

‘Sorry.’ She knows how much this hurts me, despite my attempt to seem impassive. 

‘Ironic, isn’t it? You left me because of... well, Brexit and everything. You went back to Spain and fell in love with an English guy.’

‘I’m sorry.’ 

The mood has turned dark and sad. This wasn’t what either of us wanted. I drink my coffee. She looks around the café and then signals to the outside. 

‘So what happened? Russell, what happened?’  She says it like my mum used to, indicating my untidy bedroom. As if the state of the country is entirely my doing.  

‘What do you mean?’ I know exactly what she means. The new regime, the rules and laws and controls since she left. 

‘I thought it was a joke when I read about it. I mean, leaving the EU was one thing but since then... how could you let this happen?’

‘Me? Easily. I wanted it.’

‘All of you. The country.’

‘We’re not as compliant as you think. We vote and voice our opinions.’

‘You’re not allowed to! Protests are banned. What about freedom of speech?’

‘Some demonstrations are still allowed. People apply and might get permission. Limited numbers, obviously, for safety reasons. And not within 5 miles of parliament, but apart from that - ’

‘It’s dragonian.’ She says it the same way she used to. Brandon hasn’t changed that. 

‘Yes, banners have to be approved. The size and wording. But people still march. A few. And there are virtual demos; they’re popular.’

‘But the rule about shouting in the street. Is that true? I saw your face when we met. As if I was waving a gun!’ 

‘It’s made the country a lot more peaceful.’

‘Submissive.’ 

‘Don’t assume it’s all bad,’ I say. ‘Just because it’s different. Because it’s not like Spain.’

‘Or France or Germany. Or Italy or Greece or Poland or – ’

‘Yes. Not like in Europe. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Why we left. Now we can make our own laws and behave as we want to, not the way some European unelected parliament tells us to. We have sovereignty again.’ My tone is harsher than I intended; it’s a shock to hear it. 

‘You can’t even wave to your friend!’

‘It was a law introduced after Covid. You remember, the fifth strain. The Theta variant. We got used to wearing masks for health reasons and it was agreed that the lack of visible emotions was a good thing for the mental wellbeing of the population.’

‘Who agreed that?’

‘So when the Anti-DEEP law was proposed a lot of us saw the benefits.’ I see her frown. ‘Anti-D.E.E.P. Displays of Excessive Emotion in Public. It sailed through parliament. And there’s been widespread acceptance.’

‘You’re crazy. The whole country is mad, Russell.’ 

‘It’s not a blanket ban; there are exceptions. You can still hail a taxi. Market traders shout to sell their stuff. Kids are allowed to make a noise in the playground, well up to the age of ten. And... and...’ I’m struggling to find another example. ‘Oh, if you see someone in danger you can yell out to alert them. A child running into the road, for example. And you won’t be drowned out by the ambient cacophony, so it’s safer all round.’

‘Dear God grief,’ Carmen whispers. 

‘All that sort of thing is fine. If you did get an Insta-fine from a Civvie you’d appeal and probably get let off. It happens a lot. Someone had theirs cancelled recently for calling their dog. The Civvies do tend to be a bit overzealous. But they mean well. That’s their motto: A force for good.’

She’s looking at me with an expression that is a lot like pity, shaking her head. Her hair is magnificent and I want to reach out and feel it the way I used to. I loved it at night when she’d roll against me in her sleep and I’d wake with that soft, sweet-scented curtain across my face.  

‘Civvie?’ she says, as if indulging me. 

‘Civil Disorder Officer. They’re volunteers, like neighbourhood watch used to be but with powers. There are loads of them; it’s helped bring unemployment down.’

‘You said volunteers. If they don’t get paid, how does that affect the figures?’

‘Ah, the government changed the way the statistics are calculated.’

‘Of course.’

‘It was part of the New Identity project. After the Johnson meltdown, the Truss disaster and the Rishi rebrand. Once he had Johnson back on board as Minister for Integrity the Blues were unstoppable. The Reds were tearing themselves to bits as per usual. And the Orange lot, well, that was always a wasted vote. It’s all so much more civilised these days. Everything makes better sense.’  

Carmen takes a deep breath and looks out of the window. 

‘Oh, Russell.’ 

The atmosphere is terrible. I wanted this to be a reunion of laughter and memories. Even to establish something about the way we might interact in the future, although God knows what that might be. At least an acknowledgement of the bond between us, our special connection forged in the old London existence, a reality that even Brandon and her new Andalusian life can’t erase. But the Velcro isn’t holding.  

My Rist-Bot starts to peep-peep. 

‘Does that thing take calls?’ says Carmen.

‘No,’ I tell her, pressing the acknowledge button. ‘It’s to let me know that...’ I check the reading, ‘My caffeine levels are high and I need to exercise.’

‘Wowzer. You can set it to do that?’

‘No. I have no control. I’m part of the Central Health Monitoring System. I get points for every week I wear it and I can redeem the points at the supermarket or the gym.’

‘How about the pub?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s about health. Eat-Move-Sleep.’

‘I’d chuck the damn thing away,’ she says. ‘What?’ She’s seen my expression. 

‘I can’t remove it. Not until I’m told to by  Central Office.’

She’s about to make some sarcastic point, I can tell. ‘Look, let’s go for a walk, before I get another warning and risk losing my points. We can visit some familiar places.’ 

She nods sadly, indulging me. We stand up.  

‘You!’ I say to the Rist-Bot. He beeps. ‘Pay location 55603/AB45 twelve pounds and eight shillings.’ 

‘Amazing,’ she says. 

‘The Bot?’ I say. ‘Oh, you mean the currency?’

‘The price.’ 

As we head to the door I lift my wrist once more for a quick glance at the Securicam and see Gove happily curled up in his bed. 

I’m just wondering whether to take Carmen’s arm when she slips hers through mine anyway, giving me a little squeeze. The familiar gesture brings a dab of delight, echoing countless previous walks together. But the moment is  bittersweet since it’s no more than platonic now. 

‘This is weird, Russell.’ I realise she doesn’t only mean us but the city she’s seeing. ‘It used to be so vibrant, colourful.’ 

‘There’s still colour, look.’ I point to a big poster advertising a government scheme for housing loans. It’s dark blue with an orange sun. 

 ‘Hm,’ she says as we turn the corner into the Strand. ‘You’ve lost something, you know?’

‘You think so? We reckon we’ve gained a lot. Become more harmonious. There’s much less dissent than there was.’

‘You think that’s a positive?’ She sounds incredulous.

‘Oh yes, one of many Brexit benefits. There were sceptics for a while, it’s true. I was one. Undecided, that’s why I didn’t vote in that referendum.’

‘I remember. God, I was so angry with you.’

‘And it did take a while for the 48% to get on board. There was a period of... shall we say adjustment?’   

‘There were protests, marches, rallies. I remember, Russell. I went on them. Every single one! I was fighting for your country harder than you were.’

‘To be fair, Carmen, weren’t you really fighting for your own right to stay here? To work and study and benefit from our health system?’ 

She pulls her arm away. 

‘I never had more than a bloody check up with your NHS.’ 

‘I’m not saying you did; but you had the right to treatment if needed. And thank the lord it never was. Look, I’m not saying – ’

‘You have become more...’ 

‘More like the Swiss?’ I say.

‘Yes! The bloody Swiss.’ 

‘Good. That’s a fine country.’

‘Dios mío, Russell, estás loco.’ 

We go west towards Charing Cross. 

‘Wait.’ She stops in front of a block of apartments. ‘Wasn’t this a theatre?’ Then she points at a vacant lot a bit further along. ‘And there too. What happened to them?’ 

‘Was it? I don’t remember.’

‘We saw that terrible musical about Donald Trump here.’ 

‘Did we?’

‘You must remember, surely?’ She looks quizzical, as if she doesn’t recognise me, can’t quite place who I am. 

‘I don’t go to the theatre much any more. It’s so shouty and retro. And now I live much further out of town. You know.’

‘Oh dear.’

We walk into Trafalgar Square. 

‘This hasn’t changed, has it?’ I say, clutching at the hope that she’ll agree. 

‘No...’ she says but with a tone of doubt. 

‘Still good old London?’

‘Almost.’

‘But..?

‘If you can’t see it, Russell...’ 

I try to look through her eyes. I really try. The grand, traditional, proud monuments and buildings. Nelson’s Column, the lions looking down, keeping us safe, the troughs where fountains used to splash, covered now in Perspex to avoid messy New Year celebrations, the former National Gallery building and Queen Elizabeth pedestrian Mall stretching to Buckingham Palace, home to King William. Awful really, his father’s heart attack so soon after his coronation. But they made a terrific film about it. That actor won the Oscar, didn’t he? 

Somehow it’s even more magnificent than before. There are tourists still but now all so well behaved, gently perambulating and quietly soaking up the rich heritage we offer. Gosh, it makes me proud to be British. I mean English, now that Scotland have taken the retrograde step to be part of the Euro-bloc again. What on earth were they thinking, losing their identity? They’ll see the error of their ways but it might take a generation. It’s the youngsters I feel sorry for.  

I look from the splendid sight of London at its most spectacular back to Carmen, the woman I shared my life with for ten years. Almost ten; we didn’t quite make the anniversary. I’d ordered the balloons and cake but she pulled the plug the week before. ‘Russell, there’s something I have to tell you.’ I got a rush of excitement, guessing that she was about to say she was pregnant. I thought we were a forever thing, you see. She decided we weren’t. 

I think this country is more stable, more proud, more sovereign than when she lived here. She sees something different. We won’t agree. She’s Spanish after all, part of that brainwashed mass who shout and cry and shamelessly display excessive emotion in public. Were we ever really compatible? What is she doing here, wanting to meet me on her brief trip? What’s the point? 

‘Carmen,’ I say to her. But she’s looking back at me with an odd expression. It’s the face she’d pull when she was about to do something naughty, steal a book or break wind in church. 

‘Russell,’ she says. ‘Oh Russell, you poor man.’ 

And then she throws her arms wide, like a child, like Julie Andrews on that mountain, like she’s pretending to be an aeroplane. ‘You are mad, Russell!’ she shouts. ‘You are so very, very mad! Not just you but all of London. This whole country! Ma-a-a-a-d!

My Rist-Bot starts to vibrate and emit a wail I’ve never heard it give before. The screen flashes a message: Excessive Decibels! Excessive Decibels!

Carmen begins to run;  away from me around the tranquil square. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ she shouts at startled people, who freeze at this unconscionable display. Her arms are waving down and up as if she thinks she can fly, her lovely bright blue coat flapping like wings. Then Carmen starts a scream of pain and exultation and something else I can’t define as she wheels about like a lunatic. 

I am appalled. Scared too, embarrassed and ashamed. But most of all I am angry. How dare she? She knows the rules. How dare she? 

My Rist-Bot is still howling. To cut the alarm I turn and walk away, disowning her and severing any connection we ever had. She emerges from behind one of the lions, howling like a wild creature running for its life. I see two Civvies closing in on her, one filming the evidence and the other holding the restraining belt and electronic dart. 

‘You!’ I command. ‘Play English National anthem on earbuds. Volume ten.’