Under Cyber Attack

White clouds formed a circle with blue sky in the middle. It looked like a swimmimng pool for angels. Below it lay the Houses of Parliament. Powerful sun burt back those clouds. London sweltered in a heatwave. Hundreds of tourists walked across Westminster Bridge. Arches painted green supported them. Some came from East Asia, others from North America and some from elsewhere in Britain. White boats carried visitors along the River Thames, past a dramatic statue of Boudicca and her daughters, followers of a forgotten godess. A spaniel paused and sniffed at another dog's scent trail.

A pair of young men stood on the parapet. One was filming the other. The man being filmed said "hello everyone and welcome to my YouTube channel. I'm Kaden Owen. Here's where I share the best bits of my days, weeks and years with you. I love the fact that I'm creating a record of special moments to share with you. Thank you for stopping by."

Older people sometimes said "put your phone down and live in the moment." For Kaden and his friends making these videos hieghtened the moment. It made them pay attention to light, sound and mood. Replaying these videos could be an anchor, a reminder of good times when things were difficult.

Tarmac felt sticky under their feet. Big Ben pointed skywards like a stone rocket. Kaden looked down on water the colour of milky tea. His stomach felt like an accident in a chemical factory. It was too late to back out. He thought ahead. In a few weeks time he planned to jump out of a plane, abeit with a parachute and an instructor on his back. Looking down on the Thames, in the present, Kaden thought this couldn't be any worse, could it? He swung his legs over the parapet and launched himself into clear air. He was drumming up publicity for his YouTube channel. It felt terryfying. Then it was exhilerating. Next he struck the water.

No sooner did he hit silty water than a powerful current siezied him. He tried to fight it but stood no chance. Kaden bobbed up, perolously close to a boat full of tourists. He screamed louder than he though he could. Kaden swallowed water. He spluttered. Father Thames swept him downstream, well beyond where he had intended to scramble ashore.

Elsewhere in London

In a taxi, Brenda Willmer winced and moved her right leg, hoping to find a more comfortable spot for it. A crutch lay across the back seat. Up ahead, two coaches carried tourists. Their engines sounded loud yet gentle, like old ma tiger purring to her cubs. A man on a bicycle peddled by with a backpack full of pizzas.

Seventy-nine year old Brenda was travelling to hospital due to a cyst on a hip joint. There had been a long form to fill in before she went. On reaching a question about blood pressure she had thought "filling in this form will send mine through the ceiling."

As she passed a busy cafe, a news bulletin came over the taxi's radio. "Reports are coming in that YouTube star Kaden Owen has been pulled out of the Thames. He seems to have attempted a publicity stunt that went wrong. Mr Owen is alive but we've got no further details at the moment."

"The boy's an idiot," Brenda said to her driver. "He was on about Nelson's Column last week. According to him it commemorates Nelson Mandela!"

"His heart's in the right place," the driver answered back. "He's got a skydive lined up for next month. He's doing it to raise money for Cancer Research."

Brenda shuddered at the thought of skydiving.

"I didn't have you down as one of his followers," said the driver.

"I don't follow him but I've got a grandaughter who does."

"Ah, I see."

Up ahead, a driver sounded his horn in anger, against whome Brenda couldn't tell. They drove past long rows of shops and crowded pavements. Here stood an expensive hotel, there a car showroom. At last they reached a hospital. Its walls were mostly windows. It could have been a mirror for a sky godess. There were ques of cars and taxis in front of it. Two women in hijabs walked by. Brenda's taxi reached the hospital's entrance. She thanked her driver and paid him. Soon after that, she found herself waiting in reception while leaning on her crutch. She took a seat. Hospitals held many memories for her.

Two young men came in. One of them had somehow been soaked in water from head to foot. He didn't smell very sweet. His T shirt stuck to his flesh. A towel hung from muscular shoulders. Tattoos swirled on his right arm. The other looked anxious, and guilty too. He had stayed dry. Heads turned as they entered and approached the reception desk. Brenda didn't like to stare but the drenched man looked familiar.

Then he gave his name to the receptionist. "Hello, I'm Kaden Owen," he announced.

Brenda thought "if only my grandaughter was here." She felt tempted to give him a piece of her mind but managed to stop herself.

One patient was a twelve year old boy who had fallen off his skateboard and hurt his right knee. Brenda smiled at him saying "when I was your age I had a similar injury. I got it falling out of a tree. I suppose I was a bit of a tomboy. You'll get over it. I did." Brenda recalled that Kaden often performed stunts involving a skateboard on his YouTube videos.

Something was changing, Brenda felt sure of it. The receptionist had gone tense. Painted fingers clattered on a black keyboard. Deep furrows appeared on her brow. A screen that should have displayed appointments was blank. There was a door with a window in it, leading out of the reception area. Through clear glass, Brenda saw someone running. Raised voices reached her eardrums.

"How could..." That voice was lowered before she could hear more. ...

"Any one of us," a different person answered. ...

"Told them and told them," a third voice bellowed.

The second voice asked "or shall I?"

Brenda's mouth went dry as a Martian canyon. She clutched plastic arms on her chair so that wrinkled knuckles turned white. Then she thought that others might need her and tried to calm herself. She had been in difficult situations before; perhaps she hadn't lost her touch altogether.

Sunlight bounced off plate glass, dazzling Brenda and making her turn away. Then the receptionist called for everyone's attention.

"I'm very sorry ladies and gentlemen," said she, "but our computers have all crashed at the same time. Our I.T. people are working hard to fix the problem. Please bear with us. Of course we'll keep you informed of any developments."

One man shouted "I've waited weeks for my treatment already! You'd better fix this quickly!"

"Me too!" cried a woman.

"Please!" said the receptionist, "we're doing all we can."

That man got up. He marched towards the receptionist, across an oatmeal carpet. His hands became fists. She raised a hand to red lips and took a step backwards. Brenda pushed her crutch forward. He tripped over it, flung his arms out and stopped short of falling flat on his chest. He just missed a potted peace lilly.

"I think you should be a little more understanding," Brenda suggested. "This isnt easy for any of us. I've been in pain for weeks but I'm going to wait. All the staff here will be feeling under pressure. Try not to make things worse. I know what I'm ..."

She was distracted by loud coughing and spluttering. It came from Kaden Owen. His skin began turning blue and not only on his tattos. Brenda forgot everyone else and fixed her attention on Kaden alone. He was gasping.

"Are you all right mate?" his friend asked.

Kaden vomited before he could answer. Brenda got up, ignoring the pain it caused her, and hobbled over to Kaden. Everyone's attention was on them. She touched his forehead. It felt like a boney radiator. This was a fever.

"Have you got a pain in your chest young man?" Brenda asked.

He nodded. Fear struck her. She knew these symptoms. Brenda hastened to the reception desk, past brown chairs. She winced and caught a wiff of disinfectant. The receptionist's back was to her. The older woman pressed on a bell button.

"How dare you interrupt at a time like this?"

"Its Kaden," Brenda replied. "Please listen. I'm a retired nurse so I know what I'm talking about. I think Kaden's suffering from secondary drowning."

"What's that?"

"It means water entered his lungs and caused inflamation in them," Brenda explained. "That makes them fill up with fluid and stops the patient from breathing. It can be fatal. Call a doctor and ask for oxygen."

Behind her blond wood desk, the receptionist grabbed her black phone and made a call. When someone answered her face showed concern and then frustration.

"She says she's a retired nurse!" the receptionist shouted down the line. "What if she's right? Then it would be an emergency wouldn't it."

Whoever she was talking to shouted back. Brenda didn't catch every word but feelings were clearly running high. It was a cry of horror that alerted Brenda. She spun round and saw a group of people gathered around Kaden.

One of those people shouted "help! Help! He's not breathing."

Brenda lowered herself down onto the oatmeal carpet, ignoring a stab of pain from her hip. Kaden lay on his back with his eyes closed. He was motionless, like a fledgling hit by a storm. Brenda felt for his pulse. There was none. She checked his airway, then placed one of her hands on top of the other and pressed on his chest over and over again. For a second time the receptionist phoned for help. Brenda drove rescue breaths into Kaden's mouth, then resumed chest compressions. Other people stared at them in horror. Friends and relatives held each other tight. One woman murmured "no, no, this can't be happening." Others had to sit down on brown upholstery. Some couldn't approach for the others around Kaden but their muscles tensed. Mothers gripped their children's hands, then took them outside.

Brenda never knew how long she spent battling to save Kaden. Time seemed to stop. Her biceps felt as if they might burst. Sweat dripped off her nose. Two flies crawled up the outside of a window. A man's voice came to her but she attempted one last rescue breath.

That man called out louder, "stop! Stop!" She felt his hands on her arms. He helped her to unsteady feet, then guided her to a chair. There was a stab of pain as she sat down. It felt like a hot needle in her marrow. She gasped.

"I'm sorry lady," said one of the doctors, "but he's gone."

"But he can't be! He's twenty-four. He's no older than my granson!"

"I'm so sorry. I'm sure we all are."

There was a grim silence. Two paramedics entered reception, carrying a streacher. They heaved Kaden's body onto it, covered his face and carried him away. Kaden's friend looked bewildered. He needed more time to process this tragedy. Nevertheless he followed the paramedics. The receptionist began to cry. Everyone else remained silent.

The doctor broke it first. He stood by Brenda, then asked "where did you learn rescusitatiom? You did a good job so please don't blame yourself."

Brenda explained that she was a retired nurse. The receptionist turned pale, her legs started to wobble and she gripped her counter to stay upright. A peace lilly on her desk drooped in unusual heat.

The doctor spoke again. "Can I have your attention everybody? This wasn't an accident, it was a cyberattack. Whether that's by a criminal gang or a hostile state we don't know as yet. Obviously we'll keep you informed. I've got to go now, goodbye."

Brenda thought "an enemy state. Could that mean Russia?"

She thought back to her youth. Back then, some people had looked to the then Soviet Union as a socialist paradise. Others were more cynical, even then. Brenda had never been a radical socialist. Having said that she had felt confident that, as time went by, society would become more egalitarian. When the Soviet Union collapsed she had dared to hope that this planet would become a more peaceful place. Today that trend seemed to have been reversed. Brenda remembered a socialist magazine than she used to subscribe to. Today her remaining copies were wrapped around oniments in her loft. She remembered prominent figures from days gone by, iconic then but now forgotten by everyone under thirty.

Computer screens were blank, like bodies with no souls. The receptionist approached Brenda as she might have a sleeping lioness.

"I-im so sorry," she said. "I tried to get some help, I really did."

Brenda replied "it was this blasted cyberattack that killed him. But for that a doctor would've been free. Don't blame yourself for that."

Close by, a tear fell and left a dark stain on that oatmeal carpet. Brenda thought of Kaden's parents and shook with rage on their behalf, even though she had never met them. People gathered round and attempted to comfort her. Their tones were gentle yet strong. Then a siren on an ambulance drowned them out. Brenda's next thought made her stomach turn over. How was she going to tell her grandaughter what had happened? Brenda had broken bad news before, but not usually to one of her own family. Recounting Kaden's death would be the hardest thing she had done for years. She would just have to do her very best.

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