COVID FICTION

Veteran Runner Safe After Lockdown Incident

Broken news from our future coronavirus world

June 2021. Coronavirus is still with us and impacting our lives in countless ways. But some things haven’t changed: we’re still enjoying our daily exercise. Here’s Andy Smillie, the Silver Fox, hitting a rhythm in his head as he goes flat out on his morning run. Little does he know how — or where — the run will end.

legs pumping heart pounding lungs bursting mud squirting nobody could match him nobody could catch him nobody could track him down the path through the trees narrowing now through the leaves to the gate where he would wait and catch his breath …

He makes it to the gate. Opens it. Goes through. Side of the road. Bent double. Hands on knees. Exhausted. Gasping.

As he recovered, his lips curled in a slow satisfied smile. He was the Silver Fox. He’d escaped, like always. He was free.

He’d run this route a hundred times, down the gentle slope through the woods. He played the same scene in his head every time. A pack of baying hounds was on his trail, and he had to reach the gate before they caught him. This was where he got his speed. To match his distance endurance.

He loved winning. And he still had it — not just the ability but the drive. It wasn’t just about the age-group competition. He could still beat most guys half his age. Which made him feel half his age.

Just recently there was another reason to run in the woods. Out on the roads through the villages and towns there was trouble everywhere. Little gangs of angry protestors with their #YouToo placards outside schools and shops, or breaking up suspicious groups, or checking cars to keep out ‘foreigners’. So far they hadn’t bothered him, but it was best to avoid them. They always looked like they were spoiling for a fight. Unemployment does that to people, the media said. He certainly wasn’t going to ask them their views on the matter.

He’d got his breath back and hauled himself upright, ready to go again. That’s when the car sidled up alongside.

The cops!

His gut clenched. Did they know? A window rolled down.

– Are you all right, sir?

– Me? Yes, I’m fine. Just taking a bit of a breather. I’ve been using the woods for my sprint training.

Don’t say too much! Don’t get into a conversation.

Too late — the cop was getting out of his car, fastening his mask as he approached. Should he make a run for it? This guy was in no condition to race, his stomach drooping over his belt. There was a weapon there, he noticed. That was allowed now, under the new regulations, for police on community patrol duty. For the national security force too, outside key institutions and installations.

– Come far today, sir?

– No, not really. Just the usual.

– And the usual is …?

– Well, I live on the other side of Salford.

– It’s a big place, sir, Salford.

The officer looked down at the device in his hand, then back up, narrowing his eyes.

– 10.4 miles. Does that sound about right, sir?

A glance at his own watch showed it was precisely right. How did they know? Of course, the mobile! He always carried it on the long runs, just in case. They must have followed the GPS. But why were they tracking him?

– Why were you tracking me?

– I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.

– No, come on. I have a right to know.

The driver was out of the car now too. The two of them exchanged a look.

– All right, if you must know, someone told us they were concerned for your welfare.

– So who was that then?

He racked his own brain for the answer. Nobody he could think of was concerned for his welfare. His kids? No. He hardly saw them these days. Why would they suddenly start worrying about him?

Someone on his street then? No. In the old days, when everyone knew everyone, they all used to look out for each other. Not any more though. All the old crowd had moved out; sometimes they almost seemed to vanish overnight. Nowadays everybody was temporary — students or, in the last months, key workers. There was no money left to reward the people who kept the country staggering on, but at least they got free Government housing if they needed it.

He had no friends. Just one enemy. The next-door neighbour. It all started when garbage collections were cut to every six weeks. Generally people stashed everything in neat refuse sacks in their yards. Not the neighbour, who sometimes left her small plastic bags open, leaving a trail of wrappers and cans and wipes scattered across his garden one windy day. When he knocked to complain, the discussion grew heated. When he followed up with a letter under the door, she sent an abusive reply. Now she always dumped her bags as close to his property as she could, and if they ever met she’d look straight through him, pretending he didn’t exist.

Was she the ‘concerned’ one? The cop clearly wasn’t going to tell him.

– Are we done here? Can I get moving?

– Just a minute, sir. Like I said, we’re concerned. You’re a long way from home.

– So what? There’s no law against that, is there?

– No law, sir, no. But is it really necessary?

– Yes it’s bloody necessary. I’m training for a marathon.

– And what marathon would that be, sir?

– The next one. When we start having them again.

The officer pursed his lips.

– Could be a long wait, sir.

– Look I’m sorry but I need to get on…

– I’m afraid we can’t let you do that.

– The second officer, the silent one, had come up behind him and took him firmly by the arm.

– Hey let me go. What are you doing? You can’t do this.

– How old are you?

– What?

– I’d like to know your age.

– Oh. 67.

The first cop consulted his device again.

– I believe you’ll find, sir, that you’ve miscalculated. Andrew John Smillie — born August 7th 1950. I make that 70, Mr Smillie. Coming up to 71.

So they knew everything. That knot in his gut tightened.

– Mr Smillie, I’m giving you a choice. Either you get in the car and we’ll drive you home. Or I’ll be obliged to charge you for two offences under the Coronavirus Act 2021. The first under the provisions currently in force for Generational Distancing as stated in clause 47 — ‘No person over the age of 70 may be permitted to leave his or her house without reasonable excuse’. And the second, under clause 28 — ‘It is an offence to provide false or misleading information to police officers as they investigate infractions of the coronavirus rules’. So what’s it to be, sir? The car or the charges?

Smillie nodded towards the car. The Silver Fox had finally been caught. He couldn’t outrun them this time.

The driver never said a thing. But his flabby colleague loved to talk. Now the confrontation was over, his tone had changed completely: he was affable and apologetic, only doing the job they paid him for. He turned to face Smillie in the back.

– You won’t remember this, but you coached me once up at the Harriers. Four of us were sent for Thursday night training because we were the best runners at the school.

If he was looking for congratulation, Smillie wasn’t going to oblige.

– So? What happened?

– Oh, I don’t know. Life took a different course, I suppose. Listen Andy— can I call you Andy? — I’m really sorry about all this. I didn’t like what happened back there any more than you did, but the law’s the law, and it’s my job to enforce it. And besides, it’s for your own good. We’re all trying to do our best to protect the vulnerable.

But Smillie wasn’t listening. Something was wrong.

– Where are we going?

– I told you, home.

– This isn’t the way home. We’re going away from Salford.

– It’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t you love the countryside out here?

Sure enough, a few minutes later they pulled up in front of a set of heavy black security gates. The driver gave two sharp hoots and the gates slowly slid apart. An armed security guard briefly checked the car’s occupants, and then beckoned them through. There was a driveway and a grim Victorian mansion. There was a sign: ‘SUNNYBANKS RESIDENTIAL CARE’.

The Silver Fox briefly considered resistance, but knew it was useless. When they unsnapped the child-lock, he stepped unaided out of the car and allowed himself to be ushered through the front entrance. Inside, in an empty, sparsely-furnished entrance hall, a prim woman sat behind glass, unsmiling.

– Welcome to Sunnybanks. How can I help?

– This is Andrew Smillie.

– Ah yes, we’ve had the paperwork.

She shuffled through a small sheaf of papers, found the one she was looking for, and slid it under the glass.

– You’ll need to sign this consent form, Mr Smillie. It’s just a formality for our records. No need to read everything — just sign. And in the meantime, before we take you to your room, I’ll arrange for some more suitable clothes to be sent down so you can change out of your running gear. You won’t be needing that here.

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