The Support Group

Every week, a group of people get together in a community hall in South Belfast and they talk. They talk about their new aches, the mole that just started itching or the fever they're sure is a sign of COVID. It doesn't matter that all the tests have been negative, or that their doctors have re-assured them countless times.
The fear is real. That's all that matters.
It's why Mary O'Neill started the support group. It's the reason why Michelle takes the risk of leaving the sanitary confines of her house each week. It's the reason why Kate has come along for the first time.
There is safety in the support group. There are people who understand. Most importantly, each person acts as a kind of re-assurance for everyone else. No one actually gets sick in the support group.
The Support Group works flawlessly so long as everyone sticks to the unwritten rule.

Kate makes her way out of the community hall, zipping up her black bomber jacket. The March air feels as unforgiving as any other winter month. A wave of nervous tension is washed away as she takes the first inhale of her vape pen.

From across the road, she can see one of the group’s other members getting into their car. For a brief second, Kate catches the eye of Michelle, who stares with visible judgement from inside her Porsche Cayenne. She wonders if it’s the vape she’s being judged for, or just everything else.

Oh well, Michelle is hardly the first person to make her feel uncomfortable.

She heads off along the Annadale Embankment, half watching a digger on a tug boat pull debris from the river. It spews gallons of diesel exhaust fumes as the two men on board shout and bark commands at each other. Cyclists fly past, delivery orders strapped to their backs. On the Ormeau Road, GAA top clad students stand outside the Rose & Crown, occasionally straying into the path of traffic. Here, the night’s darkness is softened by the constant flow of car head lights. Shop windows spill light out onto the street, hiding some of the desolation. She can hear laughter coming from the Hatfield, just loud enough to cover the shouts from the alleys behind.

As she turns up University Street, the signs of life begin to disintegrate. All the offices are closed up, and the cars much less frequent. She watches two junkies trying desperately not to break into a sprint as they duck behind an abandoned building. They try to keep their composure, before one of them says, “Fuck it, c’mon.”

Soon after, she arrives on Lawrence Street; home to the flat where she can confine herself for days at a time. The paint stripped door finally relents after she performs the intricate set of movements that allow the key to turn. A pile of mail greets her on the floor. None of it is ever addressed to her.

Walking upstairs, past the intoxicating smell of aftershave that lingers from the apartment on the bottom floor, she wrinkles her nose. Turns out brothels don’t smell like women trying to allure customers. They smell like men covering up their guilt.

Inside now.

The claustrophobic nature of the flat is a comfort. It’s the expansive nature of outside that suffocates Kate. Once her senses have acclimatized to the familiarity of home, she turns on the single lamp that illuminates the living room and kitchen. It bathes the cramped flat in an orange glow. The colour changing, wi-fi controlled bulb is one of the few items that resembles anything approaching decoration. Her noise cancelling headphones grip like a soothing vice, relieving the pressure inside her skull. As always, she makes use of the only comfortable chair that her home can offer.

The knock-off Xanax Kate bought on the dark web sits on the table just in front, neither beckoning or rebuffing. Just existing.

A simple fact. A complicated choice.

Ten-hours of looped rainfall play through her headphones like a comforting lullaby. Every so often, the colour inside Kate’s flat shifts.