Class of 2022

CW: This is based on current events and might be a bit 'too soon' for some.

It was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives – one of them, anyway: watching your child graduate from university. And in surroundings like these, it should have been; hundreds of smiling, black-robed young people, milling around in the square in front of Westminster Cathedral, with the modern, shining buildings of London surrounding them and the old, ornate church rising up ahead, its huge double doors open to welcome in the class of 2022. The paving stones beneath their feet were smoothly laid in alternating squares of grey and soft pink, warm underfoot and pleasant to walk across; the summer sun glinted from the myriad of windows around them, turning the square into a bright, magical, airy space. The atmosphere was one of laughter and happiness, excitement and hope. Everyone was smiling.

Everyone but Joan. As her husband elbowed her gently in the side, she jumped and forced a smile onto her face. “Sorry,” she said automatically.

Henry looked at her carefully. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You feeling okay?”

Joan nodded and tried to make her smile a little more convincing. “Yeah, sorry,” she said again. “Just not used to so many people, I guess.”

It was a reasonable response; they were small town folk, unaccustomed to the throngs of central London. Not to mention that it had only been 6 months or so since the country had finally emerged fully from an exhausting string of lockdowns, movement restrictions and strangely-tiered alert systems. Since the vaccine had rolled out, things were finally getting back to normal, but ‘normal’ was still relatively new. Especially for someone who spent most of the pandemic hiding out in a bungalow in a small Kent village, ordering online and anxiously surveying the news. She’d hated sending Amelia back to university in the midst of all that, had been convinced she was going to get sick and die. And she had gotten sick; but she was a strong girl, and otherwise healthy, and she’d fought it off.

Today wasn’t just for Amelia to celebrate her academic achievement, Joan reminded herself. It was also to celebrate her determination not to let the pandemic ruin her plans or her future. She supposed it was the same for everyone here. This was more than a graduation from university; it was a graduation from disaster.

But something didn’t feel right to Joan. She had a strange, nagging feeling, just on the edges of her nerves, bothering her. Old instinctual danger sense sending out alarm bells. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what yet, but …

No, she told herself. You’re overreacting. Two and a half years spent being afraid of everyone will do that to anyone. It’s just nerves. Ignore it and don’t ruin your daughter’s big day.

A bell chimed in the tower of the enormous cathedral, and everyone started to file in. Joan suppressed a spike of alarm as she watched so many people crowding shoulder to shoulder, jostling and bumping and touching each other. Everyone had had their vaccination, of course; they’d been made compulsory at the end of 2021. There hadn’t been a confirmed case of the virus in the UK since last October. She fought back her anxiety, looking instead at the fine stonework of the cathedral itself. All those saints and angels … they’d lasted the test of time, a testament to humanity from hundreds of years ago. Humanity endures, she thought. There have been countless pandemics, countless disasters, but humanity endures.

As they reached the doors, an usher was directing the graduates to the left and right, and the guests to the nave of the cathedral, straight ahead. Rows and rows of chairs awaited, already filling up. At the end of each row was a slender metal stand with a white dispenser on top, the blue symbol for sanitiser emblazoned across it. As they filed into their row, both she and Henry paused to squirt a penny-sized glob of the clear liquid onto their palms. Joan winced as the gel discovered a previously unnoticed cut in one of her fingers, making it sting. Taking her seat, she was gratified to see that nearly everybody was dutifully rubbing their hands together.

The cathedral filled with the surrounding hum of conversation, hushed voices nonetheless made loud from the echoing effect of the ancient building. Joan looked up at the ceiling, so high above their heads, at the murals and filigree there. It was all so beautiful … but she still felt anxious. Something was wrong, her nerves were still screaming. In fact, since they’d come inside it had gotten worse, and she was seized with a desire to get out. But others had filed in behind them, and they were trapped in the centre of their row. She couldn’t get out without causing a scene. And for Amelia’s sake, she was not going to cause a scene.

On the stage that had been set up in front of the chairs (the church’s altar being some distance behind it all), a man in priest’s robes stepped forward, next to a woman of about Joan’s age in a smart blue suit with the university logo on the lapel of the blazer. He raised his hands, and the din of conversation fell to a hum, then a whisper, then silence. The priest stepped behind the microphone and started speaking, but Joan wasn’t listening. She was alert for something else.

Someone coughed, near the back of the audience. A slight shiver went through the crowd as several people turned to look for the culprit. Joan was glad that she wasn’t the only one still a little afraid of the virus. Anyone who coughed instantly made her want to take a wide berth. She looked too, but she couldn’t locate the cougher. They were probably trying their best to suppress it, not wanting those accusing eyes on them. But it was nothing to worry about. The virus was gone, remember?

The priest finished speaking and made way for the woman, who took her place in front of the microphone and started on reciting the long list of graduates. Beside Joan, Henry was craning his neck eagerly, inspecting the queue of black-robed figures quietly lining up beside the stage, ready to accept their scrolls and handshake. A photographer crept forward at the front, crouching down in the middle of the centre aisle, massive camera raised and ready.

Someone coughed again – the same person? – but nobody looked around this time. Except for Joan.

That feeling was still there. This massive building felt impossibly stifling, the graceful arches seeming to crowd down upon her. The shadows in the eaves seemed ready to swoop down and envelope them all. The faces of the saints glared, frozen in expressions of rage and horror. The people around her were all facing forward, seeming like mindless automatons, and the black-robed graduates looked like sinister cultists. There was no sign of Amelia.

Joan clasped her hands together tightly, her nails digging into her skin. She could feel sweat starting to run down her spine beneath her dress. The litany of names being read out was punctuated by polite applause as each graduate received their scroll, and each burst of clapping set her teeth on edge. How long was she going to have to endure this? There were hundreds of students here! She promised herself that once she had seen Amelia get her scroll, she would excuse herself and get outside as quietly as she could. She needed air. She couldn’t breathe in here; it was as if the accumulated dust of centuries was forcing its way into her lungs. Her heart was pounding in her ears, loud enough that she couldn’t hear the names being read out onstage. Oh, this was torture! Where was Amelia?

Henry looked around and frowned at her. Silently he mouthed: are you alright? Joan just smiled tightly and nodded. Of course she was – there was nothing wrong, not really. She just had to be patient. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was fine.

After what seemed like hours, Amelia finally appeared in the endless line of graduates beside the stage. Joan breathed a tiny sigh of relief and got ready to stand up. As her daughter climbed the stairs to the stage, she was already on her feet. She hadn’t meant to stand, but every nerve in her body was screaming in panic now, begging to be allowed to run. To her relief, Henry stood up next to her and started clapping. A few other parents had done this, and Joan shot her husband a grateful glance as she joined him in enthusiastically applauding.

“Yeah!” Henry cheered, beaming from ear to ear. “That’s my baby girl!”

From the stage, Amelia looked over and laughed. “Sit down, Dad!” she called, and a burst of laughter broke out across the large hall, echoing like ripples in water. It was a lovely sound really, but it made Joan want to scream.

As Amelia crossed the stage to retake her seat in the wings, Henry sat back down, looking up at Joan in surprise when she stayed standing. She leaned down and whispered “I have a headache, I’m going to wait outside.”

“You want me to come with you?” Henry asked, already starting to stand.

She put her hand on his shoulder. “No, you stay,” she replied. “You can sit down here.” Henry had a bad back, and couldn’t stay standing for too long. Besides, she didn’t want company. She needed to find a quiet spot and have her panic attack in peace.

Henry hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll call you when I get out,” he said, patting the pocket where he kept his phone. Joan nodded back.

Turning, she murmured apologetically to the people sitting down as she carefully edged past their knees, toward the end of the row. Each time she brushed a bare leg or nudged a shoe, she winced, her mind full of all the invisible, murderous monsters latching onto her tights and crawling up her legs. But eventually she was in the centre aisle. With space around her, she crouched to take off her shoes so she could quietly tiptoes up the aisle toward the exit. She didn’t want her heels echoing through the hall, causing a disturbance. Not only that, they’d slow her down. When she got home, she’d throw away the tights and have a long, hot bath to boil away the germs. Right now, she just needed to get outside as quickly and quietly as possible.

The usher was still standing by the door; no problems with his back, she imagined. He gave her a questioning glance as she passed. “Everything alright, madam?” he said quietly.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” she whispered. “I just need some air, thank you, I’m fine.”

He nodded dutifully and let her pass by. She hurried down the wide stone steps and back out into the square, which was now almost completely empty, the previous cheerful atmosphere replaced with a solemn calm. She half-ran across the space to a bench that was situated beneath a fenced-off tree, faced away from the cathedral, providing it with shade and a degree of privacy. That would do, she thought. She sat down in the centre of the bench, dropping her shoes down next to her on one side and her bag on the other, leaned down low over her knees and let out a long, slow breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The square was spinning around her, and she felt sick. She straightened up, taking deep breaths, and closed her eyes, waiting for it to pass.

Eventually it did. Joan opened her eyes and noticed a young man just passing her, heading toward the cathedral. She barely noticed him, and he paid no attention to her. She didn’t feel sick any more, but that dread feeling just wouldn’t go away. It was in the forefront of her mind now, screaming at her: Look! Look! Do something!

About what? She thought wearily. Everything was alright; the pandemic was over, the virus was gone, everyone was vaccinated, there was no reason to fear any more …

Her mind threw back up before her eyes the glimpse she had gotten of the young man walking past. He’d been all in black too, but not in graduate robes. He’d been wearing a big hooded top and jeans. Heavy boots.

She wondered why he’d been wearing such a big, warm top on such a warm summer’s day.

It had been quite baggy too, and his hands were shoved into the pocket on the front – one of those pouch pockets.

It had been quite full … all angles …

And his face had been so … She thought hard, recalling the glimpse she’d gotten. He’d looked … tired. Solemn. Sickly. Like those photos you see on news programmes … mug shots of criminals. Killers. Terrorists.

That feeling of wrongness crystallised, zeroed in, and everything slammed painfully into focus. Joan jumped to her feet and looked around wildly for the boy. She had to stop him. She had to tell someone!

But the boy was already disappearing into the cathedral’s yawning doorway. By then, it was already too late.