A short warning by Kent Barker

The low buzz must have woken her. For a moment she couldn’t focus on where she was or what was happening. She saw Alan still asleep in the deck-chair with the empty bottle of Chianti next to him. She remembered the late lunch, the postprandial dalliance, and the siesta in the garden sunlight. It was amazingly hot for early October she thought. Either the buzzing was growing louder or its source was getting nearer. The drone, when it came into view flying over the garden wall, was small and amateur looking. Bloody kids she thought as she hoisted her top up over her cleavage and covered her legs.

*****

It was only 7.00 the next morning when the doorbell rang but Alison had been awake for hours since Alan left for the airport. She signed for the envelope as requested without really registering that the delivery person was neither the usual postman nor a courier. In fact, thinking about it later, he had been wearing some sort of uniform. Like a security guard. But she only thought about it after she’d opened the letter and let out a vehement expletive. “What on earth? A £1000 fine for a breaking lockdown restrictions? What bloody restrictions. There aren’t any here in Durham.”

*****

Alan thanked the taxi driver as he handed over a sheaf of notes. You’ll soon need a second mortgage to get in from the airport he thought. But at least there are still flights from Teesside airport, despite the crisis. The usual policeman was on duty at the New Place Yard gates as Alan flashed his pass. “Sorry, sir, just a moment, you can’t come in here.”

“What do you mean. I always use this entrance, I know some prefer St Stephen’s but I …”

“No sir, it’s not the entrance, it’s the Palace. It’s closed. Parliament’s prorogued again. You must have heard?”

Alan looked about him. Instead of the usual bustle of MPs and staff, the place was deserted. He looked back into Westminster Square. Traffic was moving a snail’s pace and contributing to the congestion was a road-block at the bottom of Whitehall. “Is that the army?” he asked. “Yes sir, as the PM said last night, the military might be used to ‘backfill’ for the police.”

Damn, thought Alan. I knew there was something we planned to do last evening. Even a Labour MP should listen to a Prime Ministerial broadcast instead of canoodling on the sofa.

******

“I just can’t believe it. £1000 fine. For having Alan here for the weekend. And it wasn’t even illegal on Sunday morning. Plus I can’t see how they even knew he was here.”

“Possibly a nosey neighbour?”

“But we’re out in the country miles from anyone else …. but hang on a minute there was a drone flew over at teatime Perhaps that’s it. Anyway, I’ll appeal it. How’s lockdown-Uni?”

“Mum, there IS NO appeal. Johnson said so on the tele. It’s all in the Coronavirus Emergency Powers Bill which YOUR bloke supported and which means the government can bring in whatever measures they want without any vote in parliament. Anyway lockdown is crap. No drugs, no sex, and no rock and roll, well not live anyway.”

“Well that will be a relief for parents up and down the country.”

“Yep the same parents who’ll have to pay extra accommodation fees over Christmas as their little darlings won’t be allowed home. Oh, but there is one bit of news. I got arrested.”

“WHAT! What on earth for?”

“Just reading a course book. Das Capital actually. Sort of central to my political studies degree. But now, like all so called ‘anti-capitalist’ books, the government’s banned it from schools and colleges.”

******

Just how the hell did we get ourselves into this mess, Alan asked himself for the umpteenth time as he stared at the peeling flock wallpaper on the cheap hotel wall. It was day 12 of his compulsory isolation. He hadn’t left the room since being escorted to it by a smiling but firm squaddie. His loud protestations that Durham hadn’t been a red Zone when he’d arrived there on Friday, and movement out of red zones hadn’t involved sanctions when he’d gone to sleep on the Sunday night, were met with blank stares. As were his arguments that travelling on an internal flight without a permit had also been legal when he’d booked it. “What’s the world coming to?” he wondered out loud as an armoured personnel carrier rumbled past the window. What sort of government have we landed ourselves with. He allowed himself a half smile. I suppose the real question is: “What’s the world Cumming to?”