Ralph Jolly
Pat.
We still don't know where it came from. Some speculate from another world, some favour biowarfare as theory. We just don't know. We do know from the stories gathered it always starts the same. The feel of the air, the change in it. Tangible. Then comes the overwhelming all enveloping fear. The fear you felt as it grew near. Instant. Full tilt, pure fear.
It would approach en masse, like a shiver through the crowd. Tantalising itself with your last thoughts. A scene grabbed, a moment seized. Now put on loop. For some distancing oneself from the infected, with time and a strong mind the virus would pass. The loop broken and reality returned. For others not so fortunate insanity ensued, caught up in a permanent gif. Burning deeper into their mind. Unable to communicate, tortured by one word one sentence one moment forever ephemeral.
I though, survived. Back when the early cases were first reported by the mainstream papers, headlines of alarm, digested as blurb. Dismissed by most and barely discussed. Generally ignored considered no more than just another end of the world conspiracy. A memory virus? a loop switch for the mind? Pure fantasy, just more scaremongering, by those that do such things was the opinion of most. Back then I was doing what I enjoyed the most. Sat drinking cold beer in the sun with friends.
It was a perfect day. Clear blue skies untouched by even the slightest of white. A summer unusual by British standards as this was now into its third week and no rain had fallen. I felt it unusually missed.
Sat outside this country pub set with in a traditional English village I first noticed the unusual name and swinging sign above the door. A painting of a proud old man, arms folded. Dressed in adidas from head to toe. His smile presented, not worn. This one expression of facial muscles portrayed a man who knew the good he had done for others, noble and modest. happy and content knowing his journey was ever closer to the last stop.
The beer garden grew crowded of thirsty folk enjoying the moment. Some with friends or family some alone observing, enjoying. We'd arrived early, a secured large table centre to the sunshine atmosphere.
Friends in flow, a relaxing choir of verbs and nouns passed from tongue to ear. Cold drink in hand, sunlight glistening droplets run their race down icy glasses. The happy old man looking down at the people drinking to his image, remembered with revere. A character so well respected someone gave suitable tribute, his image now above an English church. A flock called forward by the clink of pint glasses.
I had to ask, I needed to know the story behind the owner of the contented smile. His history well known to locals and as it goes some of my friends knew too.
A man brought up in foster care brought up in hard times, he spent his adult life raising funds for those in need. He favoured local causes. Dedicated was an understatement. By the age of 30 he had already raised a million pounds back when a million carried clout. An entire street built to home those without. A community centre to provide social care and the bus, the brand new local bus. The community definitely benefitted by this mans selflessness and did not forget it. Marathons ran and hundreds earned right until the day he died, a selfless martyr to his need to help. His name? The name above the door? I asked.
"Patrick Porter, he liked to be called Pat"
'Pat'
Good old Pat.
I felt the change, then fear, the intense fear as I felt the wave travel through the crowd knowing my last thought a mocking repetition. With eyes wide open I turned to warn the others opening to speak the only word I could.
'Pat'
'Pat'
'Pat'
Pulling my self forward straining to hear my friends words above mine I hear them say.
'Pat'
'Pat'
'Pat'
'Pat'
Speaking in unison
'Pat'
We say
'Pat'
Continuous 'Pat'
Ralph Jolly.
