Pandemania

Beyond the rolling hills of crocus, past the mahogany park benches at the communal grounds, a commotion unfolded on a prominent housing estate.

Shouting roused Mark Robinson from his Monday morning slumber. He scrambled upright, grabbed his notepad, and prepared for action. Twenty-nine days into a national lockdown and only three hundred words written, Mark had almost given up.

On the steps to number thirty-four, Katherine Smith was having a stand-off with her husband.

'He's been stealing food out of Becca Hansen's fridge again,' Mark whispered to Tony Becker, number thirty-three, also watching the couple. 'I wonder what else he gets up to when no one is watching…'

Katherine shoved her husband off the step.

'Not hard to believe she's on her third husband, is it?' Mark laughed.

With every inch of his generous belly visible under a stained white T-shirt, Thomas Smith shoved his wife back.

Mark winced. 'They're probably fighting over soap,' he said. 'Everyone else's washing their hands every ten minutes, yet he's walking around like a national health hazard. Disgusting.'

Sirens whined. Mark's beady eyes, set deep beneath a neglected unibrow, absorbed every second of the arrest. 'Fascinating,' he whispered and jotted down another idea on his notepad.

Since the start of the lockdown, Mark had been determined to solve the mystery of the neighbourhood. Something made ordinary residents behave erratic. Like Thomas Smith. His job as an investor and his wife's esteemed position at the local hospital had earned them the most prominent house on the street. Two sports cars were on proud display in the driveway.

Mark had still witnessed Thomas repeatedly sneaking out of Becca's house with food smeared down his shirt. Perhaps his wife also had taken complete control of his life in lockdown.

Yesterday, Mark found his wife had confiscated all the toilet rolls in the house. 'If you need loo roll, you have to see me, and I'll give you the appropriate amount.' Her obsession with toilet rolls was as frightening as the new diet everyone was now instructed to follow. '24 grams of carbohydrates is all you're getting, Mark!'

Katherine Smith was taken away in a blur of flashing lights. Mark's focus stayed with Thomas Smith. Now only in his underpants, he paced the width of his driveway.

'Do you think we should call someone?' Mark said to Tony Becker. 'He seems to be losing it.'

Tony rushed over to his flowerbeds to tend to them.

Mark nodded. 'Good idea. Best not draw his attention.'

Jenna Jenkins, number thirty-one, galloped down the street, returning from her morning run. Blonde, slim, in tight-fitted, minimalistic running gear - even the postman turned to look.

'Here comes trouble…' Mark said to Tony. 'You keep working on those flowers, mate. Don't let her see you.'

The blonde stopped to stretch, spotted Thomas, and homed in on the new bachelor.

'I wouldn't go there, Thomas…' Mark muttered. Yesterday she was snogging Chris Wood, number thirty-seven. The week before she'd been living with Gareth, who suddenly perished during a pool party. The ladder had vanished, and Gareth swam until all his energy drained. Mark bawled like a baby when he found his grave. Gareth had been a pillar of their little community, always willing to help his neighbours.

Jenna ran her hands up Thomas' rolls.

'This one's a definite bunny boiler,' Mark decided. Every man Jenna set her eyes on seemed to go insane or missing. Victoria Blank, number thirty-five, appeared to agree. She came to a halt beside her postbox to glare at the couple.

Mark felt sorry for Victoria. Every time he saw her, she had yet another cat. Once a month, the animal welfare officers visited and cleared them all out, but she needed the furry company. Mark made a mental note to find her a new husband (hers had sadly perished in a freak kitchen fire).

He tipped his head to her. 'Good morning, Victoria, dear. How are you today?'

She rocked back and forth for a moment, turned on her heels and walked back inside to her cats.

'A sensitive soul, that's all,' Mark surmised. He scribbled another note in his pad, confident there was a way to solve the mystery of Victoria Blank.

Satisfied he had enough for today, Mark made one last sweep of the neighbourhood and froze. He sucked in a section of his untrimmed moustache and savoured the last bit of his morning porridge. A burglar neared number thirty-eight. Draped in black from top to toe, the criminal tiptoed alongside the garage door. Mark opened his mouth to call out but closed it again as the burglary alarm reverberated.

'Yes, I've spotted him as well, Victoria,' he said. She'd appeared on her steps, a cat pressed to her chest. 'I wouldn't worry too much. The Hawkins' had most of their stuff repossessed last week anyway.'

They were good people but didn't seem able to stop producing children. Their food budget was larger than the local primary school's. Mark would also swear on a stack of bibles that their youngest twins had inhuman features, an eerie green glow. Yvonne Hawkin was obsessed with the supernatural and spent most of her time peering through the telescope.

Mark giggled to himself. 'You won't find - '

'Mark, are you listening to me?' His wife's quick footsteps approached the study. 'Don't tell me you're on that stupid game again talking to your stupid characters. Playing Sims is not research! Come and help me weigh out the pasta. We're on the last bag.'