The End of Men(89)

November 7, 2026

I think I’ve got it. I don’t know how this happened. I just got a call from the hospital. They told me Mum’s been admitted to the hospital with lung disease. I didn’t even know she was sick, she seemed fine. They said I should come and visit her. I asked the woman if that would be okay and she went yeah, yeah, you’re immune, right? But I’ve not felt right since last night. I thought it might just be a cold or something but I feel like I’ve got the worst flu in the world. I’m shaking. My heart’s hammering in my chest. One minute I’m boiling and the next I’m so cold I can literally put my back to the radiator and feel it burning my skin but I’m still cold. I’m going to rest now. It’s getting harder to type. Can someone go to the hospital in Romford please? My mum’s name is Michelle Ahern. She’s on the High Dependency Unit in Ward 7. Someone go and tell her I love her please.



After that the blog went dark. The idea of this man has been weighing on me. This man who, by the sounds of it, died all alone. His mum in the hospital, no siblings or friends that he mentions, just slipping away in the dark with a plea for someone to tell his mother that she’s loved.

It was surprisingly easy to find the records about who he was. I found the death records for November 2026 in the area around Romford General. Sure enough, Michelle Ahern died from advanced lung failure on November 9, 2026. She had no next of kin listed.

I found her address through the electoral register and then managed to ask around her neighbors and find out Daniel’s address. I lied and told them I was an ex-girlfriend who wanted to see the place he died, which was ethically dubious but earned me his address, a comforting smile and a slice of lemon drizzle cake “for the road.” If someone came to my door and asked for the address of their ex-boyfriend, I’d call the police, but maybe people are nicer in Essex than in Crystal Palace.

And that’s how I’ve ended up here, outside Daniel’s block of flats. I thought about trying the ex-girlfriend shtick again but I don’t think the residents of Islington will go for it. I ring the buzzer for the flat next to Daniel’s and tell the woman who answered that I’m looking for Daniel.

“Oh, love, he’s dead.”

“Oh no, I didn’t realize.”

She pauses. “I mean, it can’t be much of a surprise now, can it.”

“Is there someone living in his flat now?”

“No, there’s—look, just come up. I’m not going to have a full conversation over the intercom.”

The woman, Poppy, takes one look at me and relaxes. I’ve been told before I look unthreatening. It’s a useful trait for an anthropologist.

“Come in,” she says and gestures to the sofa. “Cup of peach squash?”

“I’d love one.” I can’t stand peach but Genevieve didn’t raise me to be rude and the more you say yes, the more people tend to tell you.

“So Daniel died in November 2026?”

“Yeah, he lasted ages. I remember seeing him a few times. For months he would dart out and go to the corner shop and come back with sweets like a kid looking all furtive. Then he got more confident. He’d go out all day.”

“I read his blog. He sounded sure he was immune.”

Poppy sighs. “Daniel was a cocky shit. RIP and everything, yeah, but he thought he was the bee’s knees. Of course, he went back to normal thinking he was immune. Idiot.”

“What happened when he died?”

Poppy wrinkles her nose at the memory. “The smell is how we realized. It was like nothing you can even imagine. We couldn’t even breathe in our own flats. I called the police and they called the coroners and they called the body people and eventually they broke his door down and took him away.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“I don’t know, but Cheryl who lives upstairs thought she heard one of them say it had been at least two weeks. It was gross.”

I take the squash and drink the tiniest sip possible. “No one helped him, then?”

Poppy’s eyes narrow. “What, like it was our fault that he died of the Plague? Have you seen the state of the world?”

“No, no,” I say, desperately backtracking. “I mean he didn’t have any family, friends, that kind of thing. His mum died around the same time as him.”

“Aw that’s a shame. Nah, I never saw anyone come to his flat once everything kicked off. Must have been loads of people like that though who died on their own. Makes you sad to think about it.”

Poppy says this in a voice that suggests she doesn’t intend to think about it anymore. I thank her for her time and make my way out. Just as I’m about to exit the front door of the building she pops her head around the stairs and calls out to me.

“Hey, lady. What’s your name?”

“Catherine.”

“Who did you lose?”

“What?” She comes down the stairs.

“I said, who did you lose? Who in your family died?” I’ve never been asked this before like this.

“My husband, Anthony, and my son, Theodore,” I say quietly. The shock of the question has brought tears to my eyes.

“I like to ask, so you know they’re not forgotten,” Poppy says. “You remember them and now so do I.” She pats me on the shoulder and goes back upstairs. I leave the building and walk quickly down the road weeping hot, hiccuppy tears. It is the kindest thing someone has done for me in months.